“We need to check in,” Papi said. His wool overcoat hung loose on his frame. His face looked haggard in the shadowy light, but he also seemed strangely energized, more talkative than he had been in months. “Where do we do check in?” he asked aloud, before flagging down a representative with a flashlight, who pointed to a thick cluster across the field.
They pressed through the crowds and finally reached a red-faced woman carrying an armload of materials. “Yes,” she said, consulting her papers. “Rose Zimmer, you are 163, and Gerhard Zimmer, 171.” She thumbed through and pulled out two stiff placards with strings attached. “You must wear these around your neck. Attach the corresponding tags to your luggage. In a little while, we’ll walk to the platform in groups. You two are in the same one, group C, 151 to 199.”
“They’re together,” murmured Mutti. “Thank God.”
“You can see the posts now with the placards,” the red-faced woman continued. “You should make your way to your group soon.” She looked past them. “Next,” she called.
They moved to the side. Mutti put the placard around Rose’s neck, freed her hair from the string. Gerhard put on his own. The string was itchy against Rose’s skin. She yanked at it.
“You must leave it,” Papi warned. “You don’t want it to fall off.”
Rose nodded, silent. What would happen if it did fall off? Would anyone know where she was supposed to go? What if she were separated from Gerhard?
Mutti pulled at the shoulders of Rose’s plaid coat, inspecting the seams. “This isn’t all that big. I hope it’ll still fit you in a few months’ time.”
“That’s all we need,” Papi said, and Mutti nodded fast.
“Of course,” she said. “Mausi, I packed my blue scarf with the birds that you like. And Gerhard, there’s a diary for you. It’s leather-bound, a fine book, and I want you to fill it with lots of details from your English adventure.”
“Thank you, Mutti,” he said. “I promise I will.” Why did he get the diary? What was Rose supposed to do with a scarf? She had always thought it pretty, but on her mother, not herself.
Gerhard looked so mature, so serious, that Rose couldn’t help but say: “I would have liked a diary instead. I’m old enough.”
“Really? You want one now?” Gerhard said. “When have you ever wanted a diary before?”
“Just because you have one doesn’t mean I can’t,” Rose said.
“Please, children,” Mutti said, burying her face against Papi’s overcoat.
He barked: “For heaven’s sake, not now.”
Gerhard was murmuring, “I’m sorry, so sorry,” and Rose was sorry too, but she felt chilled into silence. She was terrified of what she might say: I’m not leaving, I’m not.
Mutti turned back to Rose, her face mottled and flushed. “I’ll send you one tomorrow morning, just like Gerhard’s. First thing. How does that sound?”
Rose nodded in assent. Why had she ever asked for it? The hollow feeling in her stomach was expanding by the moment. She couldn’t imagine wanting to write anything down.
“It’s time,” they heard a man call out. “Line up. Please check your number and make sure you are in the correct line.” Representatives were waving big signs attached to sticks listing groups of numbers. The numbers swam in the dim light. The four of them, Gerhard carrying his suitcase, Papi carrying Rose’s, made their way through to their group.
Their names were checked off again, this time by a man so short that Rose nearly mistook him for a child. Papi handed Rose’s suitcase to Gerhard, clapped his son on the back. “Write a letter as soon as you arrive—even before you arrive. And take care of your sister. I am counting on you.”
“I will. I promise,” Gerhard said. Rose didn’t want to hear it. She moved closer to her mother, slid her hand into hers.
“We will take care of each other,” Gerhard said, wiggling his eyebrows at his sister, and for the first time that night, Rose felt a slight leavening.
“I only wish they were going to be in the same house,” Mutti said.
“It can’t be helped,” Papi said.
“I know,” Mutti said with desperation, “I know.”
A ginger-haired girl ahead of them in line clung to her father. She looked about Rose’s age. “I won’t go,” she cried. “I won’t.” Rose watched her.
“You are very brave,” Mutti whispered close to her ear.
“I’m not crying,” Rose said. This was a statement of fact. She felt too numb to cry. Mutti and Papi said it should only be a few months, six at most. She knew precisely four words in English: toilet, day, jam, and yes. How was she supposed to live with a family she didn’t know? How would she talk to them? Who would take care of her? What would happen when she got those cramps in her legs at night that only Mutti knew how to make go away? She had seen a picture of the couple she was going to live with, and they looked very stern. They had no children. But they must be good, Mutti had said. For they are taking you in.
I can’t go. I won’t, she wanted to cry. But she needed to make Mutti proud. “I am glad for your scarf,” Rose whispered, flinging herself at her mother’s hip. “I truly am.”
“I know you are. You are my brave strong girl,” Mutti said with unaccustomed fierceness.
All too soon the baby-faced man who headed their line cupped his hands together. “We need to go to the platform. Please, remain orderly.” The crowd surged forward as he strode down the line, assessing. “Carry your own suitcase and remain in line!”
Gerhard gave Rose her suitcase, who strained to lift it.
“Why can’t he help her? How in the world is she supposed to carry that?” Mutti asked Papi.
“Charlotte,” he said. “She has to.”
Rose struggled, her arms shaky with effort, but she managed. Her nose stung from the cold; her chest felt hot. As the lines wound through the field and to the platform, Mutti walked beside her in silence, holding her hand. Neither wore gloves. Mutti’s fingers were slick with sweat, entwined with her own. “Look,” Mutti said, “see the moon?” It was a bright inhospitable shard, emerging through the knitted clouds. “You will see the moon in England, and I will see the same moon here in Vienna. You see? We will not be so far away from each other.” Rose gripped her mother’s fingers tighter, said nothing. She did not want to think about the moon in England.