“And yours will be too,” I said. “We haven’t many Bavarian farmhouses in Southern California, but you’ll have yours. And you won’t have to wait for spring. You can have a riot of blooms in winter if you want. Yellow buttercups and blue columbine to your heart’s content. Edelweiss too, if it can stand the heat.”
“You make it sound as though you live in a fairy kingdom instead of another country.”
“Oh, it’s not always paradise, but you’ll never be in want of sunshine again.”
“That seems close enough to paradise for me,” she whispered.
She pulled me close for another kiss, slow, lingering this time. Then she straightened my uniform jacket once more and looked at me, ensuring I looked tidy enough for a rigorous inspection.
“Go now,” she said. “Win this war and make the world a better place.”
“I’ll be back,” I vowed. “Whatever your troubles are, we’ll figure them out together. I’m not going to leave you here in the rubble.”
“It seems foolish to dream of such things, Max. But just this once, I will allow myself to hope.”
“Then I know I’m doing something right.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FORGED IN FIRE
JOHANNA
March 1940
Berlin, Germany
“We can refashion Johanna’s gown, Mama. It’s fit for a countess, after all. Or better still, yours. It was simpler.” Metta’s face turned lily-pad green as the salesclerk showed us her assortment of ready-made gowns. Clearly she had cold feet, but her reaction was one of the strongest I’d ever seen. And it wasn’t just with dresses. Every aspect of wedding planning drew out the same response from her to the point where Mama chose not to notice it anymore.
The store was one of the poshest spots in Berlin, but the strain of the war was already starting to show. There hadn’t been new inventory in ages, as textiles and textile workers were needed for outfitting the troops. “Or I can wear my good brown wool suit. Most of the girls are wearing something nice they already own. It sets a good example of frugality.”
“You will have a gown, my dear,” Mama proclaimed. “Johanna may have a daughter who will want her gown, and mine has yellowed terribly. You need your own.”
Mama held her tongue about not having the wedding in a church. The regime had little use for religion, and a high-ranking official like Ansel could not be seen doing anything that contradicted their philosophies. But Mama had her limits. If she was going to see Metta married to this man, she would have her in a proper gown. It was an extravagance in wartime, but Mama would not be refused.
“But, Mama,” Metta protested.
“Let her have this,” I said, placing my hand on hers. “She hasn’t any other daughters to marry off, and she can afford to do this for you.”
“Very well,” she said, exhaling slowly and shaking her head.
“Just try to act like you’re having fun,” I said, brushing a kiss on her temple. “A daughter should enjoy shopping for her wedding dress with her mother. None of this will matter once you’re on your way down the aisle.”
Metta changed from garish green to ghostly white in the flutter of a songbird’s wing, but she seemed to gather her composure just as quickly. “You’re right,” she said, screwing on a smile that seemed as sincere as the ones painted on the mannequins’ faces throughout the shop.
“How about this one?” Mama had passed by the clerk to look through the rack herself and now held up a gown with meters and meters of Brussels lace. It was a little old-fashioned, but few of us had the time to pay attention to the latest trends—if indeed fashion was still evolving. As far as I could tell, most everyone was either in uniform or simply wearing the most practical pieces from their existing wardrobes until they were threadbare. The gowns that clung so artfully to the mannequins were relics in a museum that honored a gentler time. They were tributes to a grace and beauty that was quickly being sacrificed on the altar of efficiency and utility.
“It’s rather a lot, don’t you think?” she replied.
“It’s your wedding,” Mama insisted. “You don’t need to be understated.”
“It would swallow her whole,” I said, coming to Metta’s defense. Metta barely came to my shoulder and was about as big around as a quilting needle. “She’d do better with something with clean lines.”
Mama replaced the gown, mollified by my justification. She didn’t want to skimp, but neither would she have Metta look ridiculous. In the end, I found an oyster-colored satin gown with simple lines and tasteful embroidery, and beading at the shoulders and waistline. It was modest and plain enough for Metta’s tastes and elegant enough to satisfy Mama. Best of all, it wouldn’t need alterations, which we had precious little time for with the wedding a week away. We added a veil and Mama even conceded the satin slippers in favor of a pair of more sensible shoes that could be worn with a good suit.
Metta looked distant as the clerk wrote up the order.
“Are you all right, dear?” I asked, keeping my voice low, so Mama and the clerk wouldn’t hear.
She blinked furiously for a moment, and her smile reemerged as she returned to the present. “Fine,” she said. “Of course, I’m fine.”
“Pre-wedding jitters?” I asked. She’d always been the shy sort; I suspected the idea of standing in front of a roomful of people was more terrifying to her than the permanence of marriage.
“That must be it,” she said, taking my hand for a moment and squeezing it. “I’ll be fine.”
I bit back the reassurances that she didn’t have to go through with it. Each time I’d waltzed near the topic, it had only served to cause her to retreat further within herself. She’d completed her course at the so-called bride school the week before, and she’d gone from reserved to positively shadow-like during her stay with me. There had been far fewer late-night chat sessions than I’d hoped for and far more quiet evenings where she begged off to bed early on account of a headache. She grew paler and lost weight during our two months together, when I’d hoped the opposite would happen.
I couldn’t bear the hypocrisy of offering up a comforting lie, even for her sake. The marriage was as good as done. The only hope I had was that the war would claim him and leave her free.
God forgive me for thinking it.
And God spare her from Ansel’s cronies if anything were to happen to him.
I tried to think of something I could say that would ease the nerves she endeavored so diligently to conceal, but everything sounded contrived and trite in my head. I claimed her hand in mine once more.
“I love you, sister. To the moon and stars. Husbands, children, and even wars can’t change that.”
Her face crumpled for a moment, but she stoically willed the tears away, and pulled me into her arms. She regained her composure and drew me to a quiet corner where we couldn’t be overheard.
“You must promise me something, Jojo,” she whispered, no more than a couple of centimeters from my ear. “Stay safe at any cost. Dark times are coming. Darker than we can imagine. The moment you see trouble for yourself, do whatever it takes to get out.”