As light approached morning, shellfire, which by then had been relentless for days, came to a dead end, and the eerie stillness that remained for several hours became even more unnerving. Sporadic sniper shots, short exchanges of gunfire, and terse Russian voices finally broke the silence. Then in the hours after that, amid the dust and smoke and smells of Berlin burning, there were the cries of the wounded, an occasional single gunshot, and more Russian shouts. Trucks and tanks groaned through the streets, avoiding the rubble of bricks that littered the streets but not always avoiding the unclaimed dead Germans who had fallen there.
The girl eventually stopped sobbing of her own accord, Rosalind being too tired to try and console her. She had her own life to think of. She had done her part for Germany, and she had now resigned. The quiet weeping of the girl did not evoke feelings of pity, but rather it grated on her already threadbare nerves. Rosalind had lost one of her shoes in the scramble of the building blasts and the sudden scattering of terrified Germans, and she had kicked off the other one. From sharp broken fragments, her feet were torn and bleeding, her uniform streaked with old blood and ash.
The girl, whose name Rosalind couldn’t remember, began sobbing once more while she reported the scenes on the street below: old men and young boys pulled from their homes and shot by Russian soldiers. Rosalind listened, imagined the horror on their faces, and at one point could hear the pleading.
Seized finally by sleep, she dreamed of her parents stepping out of the rubble, then woke abruptly to several rounds of bullets tapping at their building and the crashing of doors below them as they were kicked open.
“We have to get out of here!” said Rosalind, feverishly alert again, the girl woken also and dazed, the night returned. “We must make it to the west of the city.” The door of the apartment was smashed in before they had a chance to move. Firing bullets into the air as they entered, two soldiers shone torchlights into their faces. Behind their lights they were faceless, and only their helmets and their voices told her that the Russian reign had begun.
Women screamed from another floor, and a child began shrieking, the noises spiraling upward through the stairwell.
Adjusting to the light, Rosalind could see the men better now, aware of the fury and brutality of their gazes. The older one walked around them, kicking at chairs and smashing in cupboards, and mindlessly knocking over a dresser containing china and glass in what seemed an aimless search.
“Are you Nazis?” the older soldier shouted at Rosalind in German.
She was thinking of her parents. They had likely died quickly at least. And she would die slowly.
“Nazis are gone!” said the young girl desperately, in place of Rosalind, whose voice had frozen.
The soldier repeated this in Russian to his younger comrade. “Natsistov net.”
The younger one then lifted the young girl up from the floor and pushed her toward the back of the unit.
“No, no!” she shouted. “Please . . .”
The young girl was then dragged forcibly out of sight. Rosalind saw this peripherally, her eyes barely leaving those of the soldier who had addressed her. The young girl’s begging turned to screams in a room behind her.
Rosalind could feel the baby kicking again, as if he were part of the fight. As if he were eager to help her.
The soldier looked at the bump in front of her, exposed now without the apron. He had wide and slightly crooked lips, but the yellow eyes, under the meager light in the center of the room, were what she remembered most.
There were only muffled protests then from the room behind them, and a kind of whine that dogs make when they’re left alone.
“Ubiraysya!” he said.
At first she wasn’t sure if she understood, but he pointed the rifle toward the door.
“Get out!”
She wondered if it was a trick and he would shoot her in the back. There was little choice. She stood up and walked from the room, counting the seconds as she did this.
She walked steadily down the darkened stairs and did not turn her head once to look through open doorways. She stayed close to buildings in the dark, tripping on broken things, and headed to the southern part of the city. She saw that there were others escaping the city, too, while Russians were otherwise occupied with revenge.
Rosalind was going home to the river. There was nowhere else now. Berlin would shortly fall, and the past lives she helped save had counted for nothing.
Present-day 1945
Stefano holds her on the sofa. She is sobbing, and Georg’s blood is on her hands. Events from the previous evening are blurred. She remembers Stefano carrying her inside, remembers clearly her own ghoulish appearance in the bathroom mirror, but before that, at the river, there are only patches: images of Georg’s hateful expression, the cold water, and painful, crushing hands around her neck.
“You must stay here,” Stefano says in his odd accent, the words soft and lazier now, less German.
“I will go tomorrow and see if he is all right,” he says. “They will put him in the hospital, but just give it time for things to die down.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Russians reacted; they thought they were being attacked. But they have promised me they will look after him.”
“You speak Russian,” she says, suddenly remembering.
“Enough to make it this far,” he says, and she wonders what he means by that. Something about the words he used sounded familiar. When Georg ran out of the door, Stefano shouted something else apart from “Stop.” She wants to ask him about it, but her thoughts are still frantic. She is thinking of Georg in the back of the truck, wondering if someone is stopping the bleeding, or if they have killed him, because it is easier. She should be there with him. She knows what to do. She stands to move away, but he pulls her back down to the sofa and puts his arm around her again.
“Georg will say things he shouldn’t. He will tell them he killed Russians, and that he wants to kill again. They will put him in prison.”
“He will be safe,” Stefano says, as if certain. She wants to ask him why he is so sure, and why he is going into the town and not talking about leaving on the train.
She lies sideways on the sofa, and Stefano gets her some water. Monique hangs crooked on the wall. The portrait has been removed in a rush, then replaced. Stefano comes back beside her and is rubbing her back; he is good at taking care of people, but she does not want him touching her. Not anymore. She is being punished, she thinks, for turning her attentions from Georg, for thinking only of herself. And she can see the truth now. That Stefano is not who he says he is.
CHAPTER 25
ERICH
Erich wonders if his instincts are failing him. He misjudged Stefano. The sight of him with Rosalind, someone Erich has grown to detest, makes Erich feel deceived. Perhaps it was merely something a man has to do, something Erich himself has done. But the disturbed grave, he feels, is more than just a coincidence. If Monique was found, then Erich might also be found.
He walks to the pharmacist. It is too early yet to be open. He rings a buzzer at the door. Elias comes to the door in an undershirt and trousers, white chest hair showing, surly, until he sees who it is; then his shoulders seem to widen, and he becomes attentive.
“Come in,” says Elias, then locks the door behind Erich. He is more wary and formal with Erich than he is with his other customers.
He reaches behind the counter, takes out a package, and passes it to Erich. The package is smaller than usual. Elias can see that Erich notices this.
“Things are getting harder to come by,” he says. “Is your daughter improving?”
“She will survive.”
“And the other one, the soldier?” He is referring to Georg.
Erich pauses. “I will need more of the other, too.”
“I’m not sure I can supply that for much longer,” Elias says, and this time he doesn’t look at Erich. Elias’s manner is different from usual. He keeps moving his hands around the counter nervously, looking for places to land them on.
“We no longer have access to the original manufacturer, and the stolen supplies are all dried up,” he continues. “Our underground chemists have had to improvise as you know, and these drugs are not as reliable as they were . . . Everything is getting harder to source.”
Erich says nothing. Yesterday this would have bothered him slightly. Today it is unacceptable. And Elias, who has read the silence, recognizes this also.