The bag was ready, and she hefted it onto her shoulders. It was heavy, but she’d carried more. With a last look around the room, she realized that she’d likely never see it again. The mundane suddenly became precious. The faded wallpaper was now a wonderful tapestry, each piece of furniture now the keeper of the precious jewel of memory, her old hairbrush on the dresser a family heirloom to be cherished and passed on to the next generation. This was where they’d spent that last summer with her mother.
The living room offered no escape from the feelings bombarding her. She saw her father there sitting in the chair by the fire, her mother laughing at one of his corny jokes. And Fredi. Fredi playing with his trains on the floor, his legs still sturdy enough to walk, and his heart strong, as it had remained until the end. Franka took a step toward the door, feeling the cold breeze on her face. John was standing by the car. She knew she had only seconds now. The dark patches on the wall lingered, and the cuckoo clock went off for the last time. It was eleven o’clock. She paced back to the bookcase. The pictures were in a box on the bottom shelf. She thought to take it but decided otherwise, reaching in to scoop out the dozen or so black-and-white photographs of her family she’d taken off the walls. Franka took one last look around and made for the door.
John took his place in the passenger seat as Franka sat behind the wheel. The car sputtered a couple of times before starting. Franka made her way down the hill, her foot on the brake as they went. The beams of light from the car jutted through the dark, illuminating the way for perhaps twenty yards in front. The tires clawed at the earth for traction, and the car rumbled down the hill.
“Do you know what road to take?”
“For the first few miles, yes, but you’re going to have to help me after that.”
John took out the map and a tiny flashlight from his pocket. The paper lit up in circles of greenish white as he ran the light across it. Exhaustion was setting in, but Franka dismissed it as a triviality. Sleep was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
They proceeded in silence for hours, the car trundling along at less than twenty miles an hour. John stared through the windows in every direction, his gun in hand. The tracks they took ran in general tendencies, sometimes meandering to a halt where the trees had grown back, and they would have to back up, unable to turn around on more than one occasion. The forest seemed determined to retake the roads encroaching into it. Ways that she remembered as a child were impassable now to all but the hardiest of trekkers. The human world seemed to ebb away as they delved farther into the forest. It was a welcome feeling—an escape.
Franka broke the silence as they came to what seemed like another dead end. The blackness of the trees seemed to envelop them. It was almost five in the morning.
“Can we go any farther?” Franka said.
“Perhaps, if we go back. The map’s not clear.”
“Where are we now?”
“I think Bürchau is dead ahead, down the hill in front of us.”
It had been several years since she’d visited her great-uncle here. In years past she would have shouted out greetings to the farmers who lived there as she passed by on her bike. But the National Socialists had eradicated any sense of trust among the people they claimed to be protecting. Trust bred free speech, and that was the thing the Nazis feared most.
“It’s tiny,” John said. “Not more than a few houses thrown together. Do you think there are any guards there? Any military presence?”
“Hard to say. We’re deep in the frontier zone. This whole area is crawling with soldiers.”
John was just able to open the door. The trees were only inches away on either side. The track they were on had not likely seen a car in years, if ever. He bustled through the tree line until they were overlooking the houses below, pockmarked on the hills. The moon and stars lit the slanted roofs. Nothing was moving, and no lights from the houses pierced the perfect darkness. He turned and made his way back through the snow, six inches thick.
Franka had turned off the car and was sitting in the passenger seat.
John clambered back in. “Nothing’s moving down there. No lights, no guards. It seems safe.”
The features of her face seemed to blend one into another in the darkness.
“Can we trust your uncle?” he asked. “We can’t afford to be complacent.”
“Hermann never leaves the house, and I know where he leaves his spare key.”
“When was the last time you checked for it?”
“Nineteen thirty-eight, and I guarantee it’s still there. I’ll speak to him in the morning. You stay hidden. We don’t need anyone to know you’re with me, even Uncle Hermann.”
They got out of the car. They spent a few minutes covering it over with branches and leaves, until it was difficult to make it out in the dark. They were under no illusions—if someone happened down the path, they’d see it. They slipped on their rucksacks and moved in silence past the tree line and into the snow.
Franka led them through and stopped at the top of the hill overlooking the hamlet below. John crouched down beside her. The night was still thick around them, but nothing was moving in Bürchau. It was just as she remembered it, untouched by the National Socialists. It was heartening to see the lack of their flags and posters. It was as if they didn’t know about this place. Fifty people lived here back when she had last visited, and she doubted many had left. She motioned for John to follow her as she began to descend the hill. The snow came up to their knees. It took them several minutes to negotiate the two hundred yards or so down.
A dog barked in the distance as they reached the bottom of the hill. John crouched as he moved forward. Mimicking his movements, Franka lead them down the hill to Uncle Hermann’s house. Aunt Lotte had died back in the 1920s. Franka’s father had said it was from a broken heart, from mourning the deaths of her sons lost in the Great War.
Franka held a finger to her mouth and reached under a flowerpot to the right of the wooden front door. John nodded to her, and she slipped the key into the lock. The door opened with a gentle creak. Franka stopped for a few seconds to listen. The house was exactly as she remembered it, worn down and old. Franka led him up the stairs. A portrait of Aunt Lotte stared down at them. The carpet on the stairs was threadbare, graying in the middle from a thousand footsteps. They kept to the side, but still it creaked. The door to Hermann’s bedroom stood at the top of the stairs. They could hear the unmistakable sound of the old man snoring. She led John past the bedroom and down to a door at the end of the hallway. She placed her hand on the doorknob as if it might shatter under her touch and turned it with the same care. The room was dusty but otherwise clean, the bed still made.
“This was my uncle Otto’s bedroom,” Franka whispered. “We can rest here a few hours.”
“What about your great-uncle?”
“I doubt he’s been in this room for fifteen years. I’ll deal with him. We’re safe here.”
John took the bag off his back and placed it on a chair in the corner. The curtains were drawn, the light of the morning not yet drifting through. He pushed the curtains back a chink and surveyed the houses below. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, but they had to rest. Nowhere would be safer. The long hike to the border was just a few hours away. Weeks of lying in bed had rendered him weakened, and exhaustion was spreading through him. He motioned for Franka to take the bed and got down on the floor.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“It wouldn’t be proper. I’m fine on the floor.”
“We need sleep. The bed is the best place to get it.”
She took off her boots and lay on the bed.