The knight clutched in her hand, she looked down at the gardens below the window, as if Dietmar might be rushing toward her. The vegetable garden reminded her of the one at Dietmar’s house, except almost everything was brown, dead now that winter had come.
One day she and Dietmar would find each other. One day soon, she prayed.
She wanted to sing softly, invite music into her tiny room to ease the aching in her heart, but she would have to wait until the Terrells were gone. They thought her stupid, and she preferred it that way. Instead of talking to them, she reserved her voice for the privacy of this space where they’d set up a cot for her, the day after a woman visited them and apparently said they should.
When Herr and Frau Terrell were gone, for hours and hours at a time, she’d sing songs that Mama taught her long ago. At night, after her chores were done, she’d sit on her cot and gaze out at the moon over the gardens and trees, hoping that Dietmar could see it wherever he was as well. Hoping that perhaps he was sleeping in the forest beyond the cottage.
She never slept on the cot. Each night, she’d crinkle up her blanket on the rug and sleep with her head under the canvas, between the wooden legs. It reminded her of a canopy made for a princess.
There was a knock on her door, jostling of the knob. “Open it, girl!” Frau Terrell called.
Brigitte crept out of the closet and turned the lock.
The woman barged inside, pointing at the door handle. “No. Lock.”
She kept her eyes focused on the frayed edges of the rug.
“Come along,” Frau Terrell barked, reaching for her wrist. Then she yanked her forward. Brigitte followed, afraid the woman would drag her down the steps if she didn’t comply.
Downstairs, Frau Terrell pointed at two eggs in a yellow-and-blue bowl on the counter before handing her a woven basket and scooting her toward the door. As if Brigitte should know where to find the eggs.
She waited another moment for the woman to point her toward the henhouse, but Frau Terrell had returned to washing potatoes in the sink. Brigitte slipped out the door, grateful for the opportunity to roam outside.
The air was crisp, cool as the Elzbach River used to feel streaming between her toes. The breeze brushed over her skin, and she closed her eyes along the lane, savoring its breath.
Sing, it said to her.
But she couldn’t sing outside, in the language forbidden here. She’d have to wait until she was safely locked in her room again, the Terrells gone.
A mangy dog stepped up beside her, sniffing the plaid pinafore that the lady from town brought for her to wear. Brigitte stopped to scratch his ears, and he followed her as she ambled across the pathway toward the pasture, between piles of dried leaves and footprints embedded in the dirt.
From her window she’d seen Herr Terrell digging in these gardens. He was younger than her father and a strange sort. He wore a brown cardigan and trousers when he gardened, and each morning he greased his black hair back, as if he were going to a party instead of to work outside.
Frau Terrell wore a straight gray skirt every day when she left the house, under her checkered coat. Her hair was always combed into a neat knot above her collar, a lump on the back of her head.
The Terrells came and went from the house as if they hadn’t a care. As if they didn’t know that on the other side of the water were men trying to hurt them all.
No one was digging in the garden today, but as Brigitte neared the edge, she saw two men building a wall from a pile of bricks and pail of mortar. Neither of them looked at her or the dog as they drew close.
She ignored them as well, until she heard their voices.
Instead of the language in England, they were both speaking German. They talked in whispers about how far they were from the channel waters. One man wanted to cross back over to Germany on an undersea boat. The other man preferred to wait out the war right here.
One of the men sounded like her father, and her heart raced as she stepped toward him. But it wasn’t her father; she could see it now as he picked up a brick. His nose was all wrong, his hair too long.
What if these men were like the ones who took Papa away? What if they would hurt her too?
Her mind screamed for her to run, but her feet froze on the path. And then it was too late. One of the men had already spotted her. He tipped his hat and said something to her in English.
She glanced back toward the cottage. Frau Terrell would be angry if she didn’t hurry back with the eggs. And this man seemed kind enough. Perhaps he could tell her the location of the henhouse.
“Wo ist das Hühnerstall?” she whispered.
His eyes grew wide, and she knew instantly that it had been a mistake to use her voice. Dietmar had told her not to speak in German. She should have listened.
“Dort drüben,” the man replied, pointing to his left.
“Danke.”
He asked where she was from, and she told him from a house along the river. Then he asked about her family.
“Girl!” Frau Terrell shouted from the garden.
The dog scampered away as Brigitte turned toward her.