It took him weeks to understand that he asked Emilie to do the impossible. He wanted her to let go of her husband’s memory. To accept that he was dead. To move on. It was a foolish thing to expect. He knows that now. Her death proved that. There is no moving on from this kind of loss.
It was Emilie’s letter, however, that began the work of patching him back together. Max is shattered. He may always be. But he finally has the answer he wanted, and that is enough for today. Tomorrow. A lifetime perhaps. Max has memorized the words, but he reads them every evening at 7:25 anyway. It is the moment when the fire broke out, the moment when he lost Emilie. He unfolds the letter and turns his back to the setting sun so he will have light to read.
Max,
I’m so sorry I don’t have the courage to say this in person. But I imagine you sitting somewhere in one of those straight-backed chairs that you prefer, spectacles on the end of your nose (yes, I realize you don’t wear spectacles but this is my fantasy, so you must suffer through as I see it), sifting letters and sorting them into piles. I imagine you lifting this one from the stack. To be honest, I hope that your breath catches in your throat or that your heart beats a little faster. And I know it has taken me ages to come to that conclusion. But you must forgive me. My heart isn’t whole. It has been broken and badly put back together. Yet the truth is that I want you to lean forward a bit when you see your name in my handwriting. I want that. And it’s only now that I realize I need it as well. I need you.
So my answer is yes. It’s that simple. Yes, you can have my heart, all that’s left of it, at any rate. There’s a part of me that will always belong to Hans. There is nothing I can do about that. But it’s a part of me that lived a long time ago and now resides in distant shadow. All that I am today is yours. My heart is no great prize. I am scared and selfish and years away from being young. But I will be waiting for you on our return flight. Please come find me any day or night or anytime that you are not guiding us home with your strong and sure hands. In the meantime wear this. It’s not the key to my heart—we are too old for sentimental gestures—but it is proof that I trust you with it.
Yes, I will be your wife if you will still have me.
Emilie
The first time Max read the letter he didn’t have the courage to take her necklace from the envelope. But he wears it now, tucked beneath his uniform. Emilie gave him everything she was capable of giving. More than he deserves. He has the letter and he has her key. And now he is the one who will hold memories and mourn her loss. Max will carry her the way that she carried her first husband. She will be the beautiful, painful wound that will never entirely heal.
THE JOURNALIST
August 10, 1937, Frankfurt, Germany, 9:15 a.m.
Gertrud steps into her own kitchen. It is filled with morning light, and the windows are open. A bee buzzes at the screen. She can hear the neighbors talking about road conditions and rationing. Leonhard is still in the driveway, pulling bags from the car. He calls to them and they answer back, but he sounds older since the wreck. There is a coarseness in his voice that wasn’t there before. This trip aged him, and for the first time since they married he looks two decades older than her.
Gertrud’s mother sits at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea, her focus on the morning paper and its blaring headlines. There, in black and white, is a photo of the Hindenburg in all its blazing, horrific glory. Gertrud blanches at the sight. It has been months and she still can’t look at the pictures or read the articles.
She stands there for a moment waiting for the absurd panic to subside. She listens. Waits. And then, when she is certain that she can speak without her voice trembling, she says, “Mother,” and to her ears she sounds like a child.
“You’re home!”
“Where is he?”
Her mother rises from the table and reaches for her. She wraps Gertrud in warmth and comfort and then speaks slowly into her ear, “There is something I need to tell you.”
Gertrud grabs the counter for support and her mother realizes her mistake. “Egon is fine,” she says in a rush. “Absolutely fine. You can go to him in a moment. But you must know something first.”
“What?” Leonhard stands at the kitchen door now, a suitcase under each arm.
Her mother places a finger over her lips and nods toward the neighbor’s house. They are quiet now. Listening, perhaps.
“The Gestapo,” her mother mouths the words.
Leonhard sets the bags down carefully. He pushes them away with his foot. “What about them?”
“The crash has been all over the news for months. And they are concerned.”
They lean toward one another like the legs on a stool, their whispers no louder than the bees at the screen.
“Why?” Gertrud asks.
“They have visited several times. The Ministry of Propaganda is worried that you have been telling a version of events that they do not approve of.”