“You’ve gone back again, haven’t you? About seventy years ago?”
She shifted in her chair. After she found out what happened to Brigitte, she’d ask Chandler to speak with Evan about moving forward with this story. Or if Evan did call her directly, she’d try to convince him herself.
She slipped the letter to the bottom of the stack. “Good for Brigitte for fighting back against the evil the best she could.”
“I wonder if the Terrells ever discovered that she was working against them,” he said.
“If they did, they would have tried to silence her for good.” The Terrells or Lady Ricker couldn’t have let her live, especially after the Germans lost the war. Traitors were killed, and Brigitte knew the secrets that could convict all of them.
There would be some sort of grim relief in knowing Brigitte escaped from the Terrells’ abuse, yet in her heart, she hoped Brigitte had survived this, even thrived. For Mr. Knight’s sake.
Lucas poured cream into his coffee. “Her resilience is exemplary.”
“She kept thinking that Dietmar was coming for her.”
“And he did.”
She looked down at the next letter. “Where did you go?”
MARCH 1942
Herr rarely comes now, but a box of food arrives each week from Breydon Court, along with L.R.’s letters. At least he doesn’t let us starve.
Frau seems to think he will love her forever, but Herr loves her as much as he loves the hoe he left in the shed. Both are useful to him. For now.
I fear what will happen when he has no need for her or me anymore.
SEPTEMBER 1942
The letters stopped coming for several months, so I had no paper to write. But then a letter. And a week later, another of Hitler’s men.
Lothar ate. A lot. And he stayed much too long before he went wherever these men go.
After he left, I had to scrounge for berries and nuts and what was left in our garden since nothing remained from our box.
Lothar also came into my little room before he left, late at night. But he wasn’t like Roger. Instead of shaking me, he slithered up to my cot and touched me. Where no one should touch.
When I screamed, Frau ran into the room. I didn’t think she would help, but she coaxed Lothar to leave. Said he could come back in a year or two.
Then she locked my door. I heard them laughing on the other side.
She thinks I still don’t understand much English, but I understand the important words. From now on, when the men come, I will sleep with my cot against the door. And wish I had Roger’s gun.
OCTOBER 1942
Herr finally came, and he was angry. The postman directed Frau to town.
Herr said she shouldn’t have registered for coupons there. Frau said if she hadn’t, both she and I would have starved. And frozen to death since he’d forgotten to send matches for our fire.
Wood and water we have aplenty, but food is scarce, the boxes coming infrequently now. At least with Frau’s coupons we have something to eat. And with the matches we are warm.
I tried to follow Frau to town once but realized I couldn’t go. Can you imagine? Frau has new clothing, but mine is tattered and stained, like I’ve been digging through cinders. And I smell worse than Roger on that night we came to this place that can hardly be regarded as a home. The people in town would run me out, as if I were a wild cat.
Bombs fell last night, not far from here. I looked outside for flames, like I’d seen back in Breydon Court, but there was nothing except black.
Were Hitler’s men dropping bombs nearby? Or was it the British, trying to bomb our house?
Herr says Germany is winning the war, though we have no other news of it except when Hitler’s men come.
I pray the good men win.
I pray they let me go free.
I pray I never have to talk again.
DECEMBER 1942
Today I turned thirteen.
I took Dietmar’s knight into the forest and sat on a log by the river, surrounded by the company of birds. I pretended to eat cake and toast myself with wine. Pretended I was back home under my father’s magnolia tree, wishing like Cinderella that everyone I loved was celebrating with me.
It’s been more than two years now since Dietmar and I left home. I can no longer remember Papa’s face, but if he were here, he would toast to my thirteen years. He would say he was proud of me. And Dietmar would carve me something special to commemorate the day.
Dietmar’s not coming for me. I know that now. And even if I ran from here, I wouldn’t know how to find him.
If he’s still alive, Dietmar would be fifteen. A man.
I pray that my friend is safe, wherever he is. That he’s warm and fed.
That someone celebrated his fifteenth birthday with him.
JANUARY 1943
The wind changed again today, blowing from the east.
And I think, perhaps, that I’ve found a new friend.
Chapter 34
Breydon Court, January 1943