She squeezed my hand. “Let’s just worry about getting you safe. I need to go back before I’m missed. Ansel has been keeping me close these past few weeks.”
Of course he would. In his bones, he had to know the war was ending, and he wanted the comfort of his wife by his side.
She kissed my cheek and went out into the fledgling spring sunshine to rush back to Ansel. The sun bounced off her perfect crown of blond plaits, bathing her in golden light.
Jonas, apparently used to navigating by stealth, managed to get me from the cover of the woods to the road that would lead to the French border. I spent the next two hours in the cab of a rickety truck Jonas drove, with each bump jostling my broken arm.
Not many months before, the French border would have been guarded by German soldiers, but now, fresh-faced American boys took their place. Jonas stopped the truck a half mile from the border. I was going to have to walk the rest on foot, so that neither Jonas, nor his ancient pickup truck, would be seen.
Such a distance seemed interminable with the extent of my injuries, but I forced each ragged breath in and out of my body.
Once I crossed the border into France, I would be safe.
Safe from Ansel.
Safe from the Reich.
Safe from the specter of my own ancestry.
I thought about life in France with Metta and the baby. Would she want to stay there until the baby was born? Go somewhere else that hadn’t been ravaged by war? We’d be starting over, but it would at least feel less like starting from scratch.
I held up my hands at the border and surrendered myself as a refugee. I soon found myself in the hospital tent of a camp for displaced persons. The American medical staff was attentive and kind, despite my accent and country of birth. I’d expected cool indifference, but my nationality didn’t seem to matter to them so long as I had injuries to treat. When I was well enough to be questioned, I was ushered to a young American lieutenant, William Patterson, who walked with a pronounced limp. Lamed during the war, no doubt, but he hadn’t accepted discharge home. He believed in his cause, that much was certain.
He rattled off a list of questions, which I answered as best as my substandard English would allow. He surprised me by slipping into more than passable German to clarify when I fumbled.
“You must think me very feeble,” I said, feeling the heat prick in my cheeks. “Languages were never my strong suit.”
“Given your background, I would expect mathematics and science would be more your cup of tea,” Lieutenant Patterson mused in German.
“Exactly right,” I agreed.
“What information do you have for us?” he asked. “The American government will be grateful for whatever you have to share.”
I passed over the paper that Metta had taken from Ansel’s desk. I hadn’t even taken the time to read it, but it certainly piqued the lieutenant’s interest.
“Who did you say this paper came from?”
“It’s my brother-in-law’s. My sister took it from his desk.”
“Why didn’t she come with you?” he asked.
“She wanted to make sure I wasn’t found,” I said. “Her absence on top of my being at large might have resulted in her husband organizing a proper search. She wanted me to get away.”
“A kind sister,” he observed.
“The very best of them,” I said.
“Well, you’re welcome to stay in this camp for the duration of the war,” he said. “I’m sure we can arrange for it.”
“I can share whatever information I have about the air force,” I volunteered. “Anything at all.”
“That’s generous of you,” he said. “We may take you up on that. God willing, this whole mess will be over soon and we won’t have need for it.”
“Whatever I can do to help, please let me know,” I said. “I do want to be of use.”
I felt as though I were echoing my early days in prison, though this time I didn’t think my life was on the line.
Lieutenant Patterson offered me a smile, and I was escorted to a bunk in a crowded gymnasium.
This would be my home until the end of the war, and the foundation on which I would have to rebuild my life.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ANSWERS FROM ACROSS TOWN
BETH
June 10, 2007
Encinitas, California
We trudged to the back garden to sit under the massive canopy that the staff had installed. It gave the residents a much-appreciated respite from the oppressive Encinitas summer sun. Mrs. Patterson had come for the day. Despite the constant ache in his spine, Dad had ensured Mrs. Patterson’s chair was completely shaded and that she was comfortable before he took his own seat. I’d been hoping for something to keep me at home. An urgent call from my department chair. A burst water pipe at my apartment. Anything to avoid having to admit the truth.
“What were you able to find, my dear?” Mrs. Patterson asked once they were finally settled. She’d come to visit once more last week, reveling in sharing stories about Metta with Dad. Her brown eyes were bright with anticipation. She scooted toward the edge of her chair.
Kimberly came out with a tray of pink lemonade and paper cups. She patted my shoulder and retreated into the sanctuary of the air-conditioned house.
“Nothing,” I said honestly, handing Mrs. Patterson one of the paper cups full of the sticky pink liquid. “James and I reran all our searches with full proper names, but nothing. No record of a baby born at the right time. No death certificates. No references in newspapers. The only thing we saw was a register that listed Ansel as missing in action and presumed dead.”
“That’s more than I ever found,” she said. “I confess I’d hoped you’d be able to dig up more. But after all this time, I didn’t suppose it was all that likely.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” I said, handing Dad some lemonade and sitting with my own. It was a lovely garden, and even Dad with his exacting standards had to admit they did a great job making the best of a small space.
“Don’t apologize, Bethie. You worked hard. It may be that we’re not meant to know,” Dad said.
“How long did you look for them after?” I asked. I felt a weight in my heart knowing we’d likely never learn their fates.
“I looked for Metta for a full year after the war,” Mrs. Patterson said, her eyes fixed on a distant part of the garden as she recalled the past. “I wrote letters just like your father did. I’d just met the man who would become my husband, an American lieutenant, and he even got leave to take me back to Berlin before the Soviets locked the place down. Their apartment looked untouched, but their neighbors hadn’t seen them since Ansel was moved to the front. They assumed he was killed in the line of duty and didn’t question anything. People were all too busy rebuilding their own lives to worry about missing neighbors. There were just too many for anyone to pay any real heed.”
“They were terrible times,” Dad agreed. “We all had to work so hard to get entire towns and cities up and running again that details—and people—sometimes got lost in the reconstruction.”
“What then?” I asked Mrs. Patterson. “Did you give up?”
“Hardly, my dear. It was ten years before I stopped my search. But you see, that charming young Lieutenant Patterson begged me to come back to America with him and be his wife just as soon as he was discharged. I’d been looking for her for a solid year at that point and was no closer to finding her than I was the day I crossed over the border and threw in my lot with the Americans. I was a widow and an orphan. And in my heart, I knew I wasn’t a sister anymore either. William was all I had.”