separating duplicate copies of the forms. Standing, she thrust one set toward Kristine. “You don’t want to miss your train, Frau Schlick.”
Kristine folded the papers deliberately, placed them in her purse, and closed it with a snap. But her anger evaporated when she turned back to her daughter. Kneeling, she scooped Amelie into her arms, smothering her with kisses. Amelie, blue eyes wide, clung to her.
Kristine squeezed her eyes shut, memorizing the feel of the muscles in her daughter’s arms as they wound round her neck, of the warm and tiny body, heart beating wildly, pressed against her own.
“You must go, Frau Schlick. You’re upsetting the child,” Nurse Braun insisted. She pulled Amelie’s arms from Kristine’s neck.
For one wild moment Kristine thought to grab Amelie and tear from the center, running, running with her forever.
“This is the best plan, I assure you. Shall I call for help?” the nurse threatened.
The plan—yes, the plan. I must stick to the plan—for Amelie. Kristine whispered into her daughter’s hair, “I will love you forever—as long as I have breath, and beyond.” Kristine knew Amelie could not hear her, but she knew with all certainty that the girl understood her heart.
Kristine stood, pushing Amelie away, and signed that she must go with the woman. But Amelie didn’t want to go. She struggled, her eyes large in alarm, reaching for her mother. “You must go, my darling.” Kristine straightened her arms, increasing the distance between herself and her daughter.
Frau Braun pulled Amelie by the waist. The child cried out inpanicked, guttural yelps. The nurse called for assistance. An orderly appeared and swept up the kicking Amelie, hoisting her none too gently beyond a door that closed with a resounding click as the latch fell into place.
Kristine could see nothing for her tears but Frau Braun’s grim-set mouth. She could not hear or comprehend what the woman was saying to her. All she could think was, Amelie! My Amelie!
Love for her Amelie drove her from the office, down the hallway, and into the street. Distraught, but desperate to know the plan would be carried out and her precious daughter safe, she slowed her steps. She’d not walked a full minute when the explosion came from behind her.
Jason had watched Kristine kneel before Amelie at the door of the clinic, tuck something inside the neck of the little girl’s dress, and press her forehead against her daughter’s. They communicated something between them through their fingers, a sign Jason could not understand. A perfect picture—mother and child.
Jason turned away, feeling an intruder into such intimacy. He’d waited for Kristine to exit the building before signaling the all clear to his coconspirator. The resistance group was so secret, so tightly woven, that he didn’t even know who’d set the bomb, who proclaimed loudly that they’d called the fire department, who blocked the roadway with delivery carts and a faked bicycle accident, further delaying the firemen who’d been sent to the wrong address.
He didn’t know the name of the woman who argued vehemently with Frau Braun and the medical staff in the courtyard, or from where the sudden influx of pedestrians came to rescue the remaining children from the burning building. He didn’t know who stole away in the smoke and confusion, a child-sized bag bundled beneath his arm.
Jason held no part in the resistance, and his peripheral contacts were there one day and gone the next. But he’d dug up and shared enough Nazi dirt to make friends with those who knew people who knew people who made things happen. He trusted his “friends of friends” to do their job, and concentrated on badgering the medical staff for a story—how could such a thing happen and why weren’t they more responsible with their equipment and didn’t they realize the children could have all been killed and the detailed spelling of names. Confusion reigned as he ordered
Kristine folded the papers deliberately, placed them in her purse, and closed it with a snap. But her anger evaporated when she turned back to her daughter. Kneeling, she scooped Amelie into her arms, smothering her with kisses. Amelie, blue eyes wide, clung to her.
Kristine squeezed her eyes shut, memorizing the feel of the muscles in her daughter’s arms as they wound round her neck, of the warm and tiny body, heart beating wildly, pressed against her own.
“You must go, Frau Schlick. You’re upsetting the child,” Nurse Braun insisted. She pulled Amelie’s arms from Kristine’s neck.
For one wild moment Kristine thought to grab Amelie and tear from the center, running, running with her forever.
“This is the best plan, I assure you. Shall I call for help?” the nurse threatened.
The plan—yes, the plan. I must stick to the plan—for Amelie. Kristine whispered into her daughter’s hair, “I will love you forever—as long as I have breath, and beyond.” Kristine knew Amelie could not hear her, but she knew with all certainty that the girl understood her heart.
Kristine stood, pushing Amelie away, and signed that she must go with the woman. But Amelie didn’t want to go. She struggled, her eyes large in alarm, reaching for her mother. “You must go, my darling.” Kristine straightened her arms, increasing the distance between herself and her daughter.
Frau Braun pulled Amelie by the waist. The child cried out inpanicked, guttural yelps. The nurse called for assistance. An orderly appeared and swept up the kicking Amelie, hoisting her none too gently beyond a door that closed with a resounding click as the latch fell into place.
Kristine could see nothing for her tears but Frau Braun’s grim-set mouth. She could not hear or comprehend what the woman was saying to her. All she could think was, Amelie! My Amelie!
Love for her Amelie drove her from the office, down the hallway, and into the street. Distraught, but desperate to know the plan would be carried out and her precious daughter safe, she slowed her steps. She’d not walked a full minute when the explosion came from behind her.
Jason had watched Kristine kneel before Amelie at the door of the clinic, tuck something inside the neck of the little girl’s dress, and press her forehead against her daughter’s. They communicated something between them through their fingers, a sign Jason could not understand. A perfect picture—mother and child.
Jason turned away, feeling an intruder into such intimacy. He’d waited for Kristine to exit the building before signaling the all clear to his coconspirator. The resistance group was so secret, so tightly woven, that he didn’t even know who’d set the bomb, who proclaimed loudly that they’d called the fire department, who blocked the roadway with delivery carts and a faked bicycle accident, further delaying the firemen who’d been sent to the wrong address.
He didn’t know the name of the woman who argued vehemently with Frau Braun and the medical staff in the courtyard, or from where the sudden influx of pedestrians came to rescue the remaining children from the burning building. He didn’t know who stole away in the smoke and confusion, a child-sized bag bundled beneath his arm.
Jason held no part in the resistance, and his peripheral contacts were there one day and gone the next. But he’d dug up and shared enough Nazi dirt to make friends with those who knew people who knew people who made things happen. He trusted his “friends of friends” to do their job, and concentrated on badgering the medical staff for a story—how could such a thing happen and why weren’t they more responsible with their equipment and didn’t they realize the children could have all been killed and the detailed spelling of names. Confusion reigned as he ordered
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