“I’m not sad,” she said, but something had changed since Monique had arrived to interrupt their summers. He was less inclusive toward her, less giving of information.
Georg grabbed her suddenly around the waist, forcing her to drop the bike. He swung her around until she was dizzy, until she was smiling again. He could do that. Change you and turn the mood. Rinse out the bad and make things good again. He kissed her goodbye. Not a long and lingering kiss but a soft and gentle one at the edge of her mouth, his arm still wrapped tightly around her.
He released her moments later and ran home. She stood there smiling a little, watching him, her ponytail frayed from the activity. She picked up the bike again to wheel it toward the house.
Monique was his match, and they shared an enthusiasm that often excluded Rosalind. Her cousin could keep up with Georg, and Georg liked that, but Monique was too immature to be anything but his young accomplice, Rosalind decided. And Monique would never appreciate him like she did.
Present-day 1945
Several yards into the shallow wood, Rosalind turns right toward a thick clump of trees to enter a hidden path that the three of them used years ago. The entrance is dark and narrow and can easily be missed, and a dense canopy of trees conserves the smell of decaying leaves. People could die in here, she thinks, in the thick growth, and no one would know.
Fifteen yards westward along the track, the pathway veers toward a private area of the river, to a small wooden platform extending from the embankment. They would lie here often, in the sun, side by side. Just near the ramp, and nestled into the trees, is a small hut with a gabled roof, not high enough to stand in. It was their secret place once, where they would sit and dream and plan. In a small space, between the hut and the platform, and no larger than a bedroom, is a flat area of mud where several stumps of wood are placed in a circle.
On one of the stumps, Georg sits staring at the barren ground where a fire pit used to be, his elbows resting on his knees. Rosalind sits on the stump closest and watches him. The late-morning sun hits the top of Georg’s hair, turning it gold, and his green eyes glisten. He is still beautiful, she thinks. When he finally notices her, there is a lack of recognition not only with her but also with the world at large. Something is wrong today. He appears doleful and teary.
“What is the matter, Georg?”
She reaches to take his hand, but he draws back out of reach to wrap his arms tightly around himself.
“I have to go back,” he says, frowning as he attempts to organize his thoughts. He has gone from looking very young to very old in the space of time it takes to frown. “The men . . . They can’t do it without me. The Russians are creeping in from all sides. We’ll be finished.”
“Georg, the war is over. You are safe now. The men are safe now.” Though she is doubtful this is true. Most of the men are likely dead.
“She is probably with them,” he says.
Rosalind swallows and briefly closes her eyes. She must be strong.
“Do you remember, Georg, when we were small? We would creep out early in the morning to watch the sun rise. Do you remember?”
He doesn’t respond, though he is calmer now. She reaches again for his hands and pulls them toward her.
“Georg, do you remember the fire?” she says. “Do you remember singeing your hair with sticks of fire to make us squeal and squirm? . . . You do remember, don’t you?”
He clenches his hands slightly, and his eyes rest on her hands; she is hopeful just for a second, before he looks up at the trees. She has lost him again. It is the moments of connection that she waits for.
She bends down to kiss him as she leaves, though he will not feel it, does not even know she exists. She is shaking slightly. It could have been worse. Sometimes it takes much longer to settle him from his memories.
As she returns to the wood, she sees someone running in from the clearing on the far side and heading toward the river’s edge. She steps carefully out from the trees onto the embankment to see who it is.
A small boy crouches over the river, searching for something in the water. He has clothes that are stained and torn in places, and a face that hasn’t been washed in days, perhaps much longer. His hair is dark and sticks out from his head in badly growing clusters as if at some point previously it was roughly hacked with scissors.
Hooked over one arm is a woven basket, and he searches across the river to the other side before he starts to whimper and places the backs of his fists against his eyes.
She is moved slightly at the sound of his cries, like she would be for a wounded animal. She steps toward him and bends to touch his shoulder.
“Michal!” says a forceful voice behind her, and Rosalind turns her head suddenly to face the gaze of the stranger’s frightening black eyes. The boy in the meantime has jumped up and away so that he is out of her reach.
Rosalind looks from the dark man to the boy and back again, momentarily stunned by the intrusion.
“I’m sorry,” says the stranger, who has seen the effect on her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. He led us on a chase.”
“The boy is yours?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It was you in the house last night?”
“Yes,” he says. “Did you see us?”
“I saw something.”
“I hope we didn’t frighten you.”
She doesn’t respond. Erich said he would get rid of them, and she is confused that they are still here, these beggars.
Erich appears from the woods to stand just behind the stranger, as if they are on the same side. Her eyes pin on Erich, who matches her own rigid expression, before they move back to the stranger.
CHAPTER 9
STEFANO
The woman is staring with eyes that bore deeply into his core before they dart suddenly back to the boy. He feels as if he knows her. She is the face of so many. She has thin limbs and a sprinkling of freckles on her exposed forearms and face. Her hair, hanging in a limp ponytail, is a dull blond, her eyes a pale, crystalline blue. None of her features he considers particularly striking, yet together they blend into something pleasing to the eye. It is perhaps the feline, graceful way she wears these traits that makes this so.
She looks once more at the boy before stepping away with a wary backward glance. Stefano watches her leave in a dress that is oversized, her smallness accentuated by the apron ties around her tiny waist.
In the brief moment that they were connected, Stefano could sense the hostility, and perhaps fear as well, as she gripped hard at the edge of her apron during their encounter. Though it is difficult to know for sure if she was frightened. Women in this country are good at hiding things. Not like his sisters and his mother, who would show anger with their eyes and fists, and joy with their wide smiles and open arms.
She came from the direction of the thick riverbank trees that appear uncharted, and he is curious at what is beyond there.
“She is Rosalind,” says Erich once she has quickly disappeared from view, “from the house next door.”
“She looked troubled.”
“She is not as fragile as she appears. She can take care of herself. Best to avoid them.”
Stefano is slightly intrigued by the missing information but turns his attention back to the boy, who is poised to run again.
“Michal, come back to the house!” says Stefano.
Michal looks down at the basket, though he is not really looking; he is avoiding the questioning that he knows is about to ensue. Stefano can see that his legs are trembling.
“Are you looking for something?”
Stefano turns toward the murky brown river so unlike his shining gem in Campania. Willow trees continue to watch them from the other side, pointing their shaggy, twisted fingers at a small boat with a noisy motor that whisks the water into tan-and-white foam. He waits for it to pass before stepping closer to the boy. Insects buzz at the clumps of grasses growing at the base of the embankment, and the smell of rotting leaves dampens the crisp air.
“What is it? Why did you run?”