Vogel stood up and gave the salute, which Berkel returned.
Vogel left, and Berkel sat back in his seat and waited a few minutes before going to the basement. He knew exactly where her file was and went right to it. It felt light in his hand—a life’s work summed up in a few lines he’d read so many times that he didn’t actually need to look at them anymore. She’d said she was leaving. She was still here. What did she need crutches for? His other cases were going to have to wait.
January had been warmer than expected, and her car was almost freed from its bondage. John was exercising the best he was able to when Franka returned with the firewood. She kicked the slush off her shoes before shouting to him, announcing her presence. He appeared a few seconds later.
“Just a few more days, and then we’ll see how your legs are. You’re through the worst of it,” she said.
“Thanks to you,” he answered before going outside to drag the firewood in. She pulled the sled, piled up with wood, inside. He did his best to help her, but as usual, she ordered him to sit down. She sorted through the firewood, tossing the driest pieces in the basket by the fire. It was the twenty-first of January. The six weeks she’d insisted on him wearing the casts would be up in four days, and then he’d be gone, never to see her again. She’d be just one more face who’d drifted into his life, then out of it. He made his way over to her and began sorting through the second pile of wood she’d not gotten to yet. The fire was crackling orange, the evening drawing near.
“What are you going to do after I leave, Franka?”
“I’m not sure—look for a job most likely.” She continued sorting through the wood. “There’s always going to be a need for nurses, especially with a war going on.”
“Nurses with a history like yours?”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy to get a job, but chances are they’ll be so desperate—”
“Have you ever thought about getting out?”
“Of where, the Black Forest? I did already—I lived in Munich.”
“No, not the Black Forest—Germany. Have you ever thought about getting out of Germany?”
She put down the two-inch-thick branch she had in her gloved hands. “Of course, but where would I go? Germany’s all I’ve ever known. And even if I had somewhere to go, how would I get there?”
“I have to leave in the next few days. You could come with me.”
“To where, Philadelphia?”
“I wish. I won’t be going home for a while, but I could get you across the Swiss border. You could start again. Someone with skills like yours is always going to be in demand. You’d get a job, and you’d be safe.”
“Getting across the Swiss border isn’t just a case of presenting your papers while the boys in the Gestapo wish you a pleasant vacation. The border’s closed. There’s no guarantee we’d even make it.”
“I know about the border. It’s going to be tough, no doubt about it, but what have you got to stay here for?”
“John, I’ve lived here my whole life. What do you mean by asking that? This is my home.”
He struggled to his feet, cursing under his breath as he followed her into the kitchen. She went to the stove to sort through another pile of firewood she’d brought in. He sat down in the kitchen chair two feet from where she was kneeling.
“Why don’t you think about it at least?”
“What am I to do in a country where I know no one and have nothing?”
“You could be free. You could start again.”
“In Switzerland?”
“If you want, or maybe even in America. I could petition to get you a visa.”
“How are you going to get a German citizen a visa in the middle of the war?”
“I have some powerful friends. If my father couldn’t get it done, my boss sure as hell could.”
The light outside had all but faded to black, and Franka stood up to light the oil lamp.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. What are you so afraid of?”
“I’ve never been to America before. You’re the only American I’ve ever known.”
“I must warn you that not all Americans are as fabulous as I am.”
“Are they all as sure of themselves? You’re so confident about getting across the border, but you can’t even walk.”
“My legs feel good. You said that they were healing well yourself. I can’t just sit here waiting when I’ve got that film. I have to deliver it to the consulate in Switzerland. I have to try.”
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You can’t go anywhere yet. You can’t walk.”
He stood up. “Let me show you. I can do more than walk. Come with me.” He held out a hand to her, the crutches propped up under his armpits.
“What are you doing?”
“Just come with me.”
She took off her gloves and threw them down but didn’t offer him her hand. John shrugged and motioned her to follow him into the living room. He went to the radio, flicking it on. A news program in English came on.
“What are you doing?”
“Wait a few seconds,” he said as he began to cycle through the channels. “You’re always in such a hurry.” He settled on a music station. “I can do more than walk,” he laughed. He lifted his arms, and the crutches fell to the floor with a clatter. “May I have this dance, Fr?ulein?”
“You’re being ridiculous. This is dangerous.”
She took his hand, aware of the fact that she was still wearing her old woolen coat. He brought her body into his, their faces inches apart, one hand on her waist, his other together with hers. “I was quite the dancer once,” he said.
He rocked back and forth on his feet, just able to keep his balance. His body was rigid, and she doubted he’d be able to balance without holding on to her.
“I can see that,” she laughed. “You’re very much the graceful mover.”
“I call this the ‘buffalo with a broken ankle.’”
He was perhaps six inches taller than she. Neither spoke for a few seconds, their faces illuminated. The song ended, and she broke away.
“Is our dancing over for the night?”
Franka heard the sound of a car pulling up the hill outside. Her insides collapsed.
“A car,” she whispered. “Get to the hiding place.” The crutches were on the floor. Franka got them for him, and he made for the bedroom without a word. He closed the door behind him and laid the crutches on the floor beside the loosened floorboards as he lifted them up. The car’s engine died, the headlights dimmed, and she heard the sound of the door opening. John slid into the hole under the floorboards, his backpack at his feet, his Luftwaffe uniform inside it. The darkness of the hole consumed him.
Franka took a few seconds to respond to the rapping on the door. John’s coffee cup was by the fire. His book. No other signs he’d been here. They’d been careful. All of his belongings were with him under the floorboards. She took a deep breath and went to the door. A howl of wind came just as she opened it. Berkel was alone.
“Heil Hitler,” Berkel said through the scarf over the lower half of his face.
“Heil Hitler,” she replied. She noticed her hand trembling and pulled it back down to hide it in her pocket.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Franka?” he said, taking his scarf off.
“Of course, Herr Berkel, please come in.”
He brushed past her and wiped his feet on the doormat before taking off his black trench coat. He handed it to her without looking, though he must have seen the coat hooks just inches from his face. He was wearing the full uniform of the Gestapo, complete with medals for outstanding service in defense of the Reich. She hung up his coat. He had already gone into the living room and was looking around the old place as she caught up with him.
“Amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “How long has it been, eight years? The place hasn’t changed, except for the lack of pictures on the wall.”
“It could be eight years.”
“A lot of memories.” He took off his black hat.
“Yes, indeed,” was all she could manage.
“So aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee?”
“Of course, how rude of me.”