“Michal, you must stay here!”
The boy looks fearfully toward the sounds.
“You must agree, yes?”
The boy nods.
Stefano walks outside the front door and searches for movement in the windows of the adjacent property. There is no sign of life within. The house is silent, cold. Its message says, Stay away. Beside the front door leans a bicycle, and he knocks lightly on the window beside the door and checks the woods behind him. When there is no response from inside, he peers through the glass. The house is neatly furnished, crocheted covers over polished furniture, and a starched tablecloth edged with lace.
On the far wall is a photograph of a woman with dark hair, wide-set eyes. The portrait, illuminated by the window nearby, seems to leap out from the dullness of the room. The subject appears to look quizzically at the lens, as if she were curious as to why she has been chosen, with lips that are pressed humorously together as if she has just been told the reason also.
Rosalind appears agitated as she steps hurriedly down from the stairs in the center of the room. She stops to think of something, hooking the fingers of her hands together. Stefano raps on the glass, and she turns sharply to spy him through the window before looking back up the stairs behind her. She walks toward the front door and pulls it open with a sense of urgency or frustration.
“What do you want?” she says, her tone something other than receptive.
“I heard a scream. Are you all right?”
She stares at him before dropping her eyes to his feet. The sweet, doughy scent of baking escapes the open doorway.
“Yes, everything is fine here.”
He turns to leave.
“Where are you from?”
“Northern Italy.”
She looks away. She is too anxious to look him in the eye.
“I don’t give to beggars. There isn’t enough.”
“My name is Stefano, and I am not a beggar. I fought on your side for much of the war, but I’ll be on my way,” he says, turning to step away. He does not like what she has called him. He has never asked for charity.
She looks at his face. She is observant at least to see the change in his expression from one of concern to one of disappointment.
“I meant no insult,” she says.
Stefano turns back, then moves to leave a second time.
“How long are you staying next door?” she asks.
“A few nights.”
“Why here?”
He shrugs. “I thought the track would lead to the river, to wash. And then I saw the house. It looked abandoned.”
She looks at him briefly to check his sincerity.
“Is Erich there still?” she asks quickly.
“He has to work. He says he will be back later. He is taking me to the train on Friday.”
She bites her top lip.
“You should leave before he gets back. There is nothing for you here.”
She closes the door.
CHAPTER 10
ERICH
Erich has thought much about the Italian by the time he reaches town, and he wonders about providence, something he never truly believed in till now, and the timing of Stefano’s arrival. The Italian could be the catalyst that will move time forward for Erich. With the help of Stefano’s cardinal, escaping Europe seems a very real possibility, and the idea excites him.
But there is the question of mistrust and resentment that Erich recognizes, that Stefano can’t fully disguise. Erich does not take this point lightly and knows he must change this if he is to gain help. Erich has changed others before, steered their fates and expectations, but this may not be as easy. He does not have the power of Germany’s backing. Stefano’s trust must be earned with small things, gifts and hospitality.
Today there is a small market operating in the center of the square. The locals are returning to normal business. Most of the stalls look bare and dismal, and remind him of the ghettos he visited, with Germany now turned on its head. There are tables with books, photo frames, cutlery, and farm tools that widows will have no use for. Not just that their men are not there to work, but the fields are destroyed or reclaimed or without crops to harvest. Most of the market offerings are simply for trade—food, salt, spices, paper, soap, as well as basic items, are better than currency. There are handmade linens and prints and other nonessential goods that are unlikely to sell as before when tourists from other parts of affluent Germany used to visit these towns and find such items quaint. The lack of quality in the stalls is not the only difference between before and now. Several army trucks pass through the town regularly, as the Russian unit assigned to the area has based itself in a church on the outskirts of Dresden. One truck is parked in the street.
The sight of the truck makes Erich cautious rather than nervous. He has seen people taken from the street. He has heard accounts of bullying. He has seen it up close. But it is part of war, he justifies. The Germans were no better.
He disappears into the post office to pretend to examine the photos of missing persons on the wall. Some in groups with faces of the missing circled in red; some that a professional photographer has taken; and others grainy or battered from rough confinement in a wallet. Several faces he recognizes.
He hears the roar of an engine and then the sound of it fading. He looks from the window, then steps back out to the street to proceed briskly toward his next destination. Just ahead are an old man with a walking stick and a teenage girl who wears a headscarf. By the state of their worn and soiled clothing, they are beggars, carrying their possessions—possibly their only ones—wrapped up in a sheet. A young local girl walking behind them pulls the beggar’s scarf from her head to reveal her shorn hair, and scabs where she has badly scratched her head. The assailant throws the scarf on the ground, spits on it, before hurrying past them. She does not want foreigners here, the ones she was taught to hate, the ones who were placed out of sight in the camps.
The girl is indifferent to the treatment and picks up her scarf. She is used to it. They are Jews, from the reaction by the locals, who have continued to reject them here, still immersed in the fear of association. But Jews aren’t Erich’s concern. Not anymore.
At a grocery store the owner knows him, and they have a conversation about the Russians as usual. He loathes the conversation, but it is something he has to put up with to fit in, to continue here. They have run out of fresh loaves, but they have several small rolls from yesterday. He agrees to these, plus a portion of pork, cheese, and some vegetables that are close to turning. The price of meat is usually much higher than the quality, and he wonders how much of the good stock she keeps for herself.
“Anything else?” says Erich.
The owner retrieves a package of Russian cigarettes from the front pocket of her apron and places them on the counter. “I have these if you are interested.”
Erich wonders what she has traded to acquire these.
“I am.”
“You have coupons for all this?” she asks, knowing from his previous purchases that he doesn’t.
“I have something better as you know.” He opens his hands to show some gold and silver rings.
She inspects all the items, then takes two of the gold rings.
“Only one,” he says.
“For all this?” she says with an incredulous edge.
She is aware that he is hiding from the Russians, but while he has something to trade, she is unlikely to give him up, and she still has Hitler’s Germany running through her veins.
She pulls out a bottle of vodka from beneath the counter.
“Two and I will throw in this,” says the woman.
She is a businesswoman, and a good one it seems, but she is also a survivor like him.