photographers to capture the burning building and the frightened but safe children from every angle.
Before the fire brigade finally arrived in force, a crowd of genuine locals had gathered, further blocking access. By the time hoses were pulled from the truck and turned on the blaze, the building had been gutted, the heat so intense there was no hope of entering.
Kristine Schlick, eyes wide and hair wild, ran from child to child, from nurse to orderly to nurse again, searching for Amelie—crying and screaming for the daughter she’d only just left behind. She played her part well, but Jason knew it was more than acting.
It was all Jason could do not to grab her, comfort her, tell her that Amelie and the other children with secret places to go had been safely spirited away. But he could not, dared not even speak to her for fear of giving everything away. Instead he sent photographers to capture on film the nearly hysterical, grief-stricken mother. And all the while he invented good copy for the news story that he prayed would rock Berlin and New York.
11
R ACHEL WAS HORRIFIED when she read the heartbreaking story buried on page five of the morning paper. The story outlined the bungling phone call that first sent firefighters first to the wrong address, and lauded heroic locals who’d appeared from the streets to rescue most of the children when the medical center’s ancient boilers exploded. No bodies had been recovered. The intense heat had prevented firemen from entering the building until everything inside was in ashes. Four-year-old Amelie Schlick and two others from the greater Berlin area were presumed dead. Case closed. A memorial service for the three children would be held Sunday morning after services.
Rachel would never have agreed to the explosion, never have risked such danger. Her stomach churned for Kristine’s sake. If only she could place Amelie in her friend’s arms once more, or at least assure her that her child was safe. But she could do neither, and there was no proof that all was well. She dared not contact Jason for fear she was watched or that her phone—or his—was tapped. She, and therefore Kristine, could only wait.
Amelie remembered the strong hands that had wrenched her from her mother’s neck, her mother’s arms. She knew that the man in the white coat had shut her in a room with other children. She was intrigued by the children—most bigger than she. But she wanted her mother. None of the other children had mothers. Where were all the mothers?
When the pungent smell and vapory cloud began to fill the air, grown-ups had thrown open the door, picking up children and pulling them from the room into the burning hallway. Amelie had been frightened by the chaos and the eyes of grown-ups filled with terror. She’d cowered back, behind a crib, into the corner.
The man in the white coat returned. Through the rungs of the crib she could see his mouth making shapes, could see his features distort, see him cough in the growing smoke and heat. But he looked so mean, so angry—like her father when he was frustrated with her. She didn’t want the man to see her, to touch her again. Amelie shut her eyes tight and made herself as small as she possibly could, curling into a ball beneath the crib.
She didn’t see when the strong hands jerked her out, banging her head sharply on the bottom of the crib. She yelped in pain. And then the hands dropped her to the floor. Their owner stumbled backward. Different hands grabbed her up, tucked her beneath a blanket so tight she could barely breathe.
The hands carried her, bumping her up and down as they ran. Her head throbbed. She tasted the sticky blood oozing from the gash on her forehead. And then everything went dark.
Rachel received a note, scribbled across a napkin, with the Sunday morning coffee delivered to her room. Three words had never meant so much.
Safe and well.
She accompanied her father to the Sunday-morning memorial service
Before the fire brigade finally arrived in force, a crowd of genuine locals had gathered, further blocking access. By the time hoses were pulled from the truck and turned on the blaze, the building had been gutted, the heat so intense there was no hope of entering.
Kristine Schlick, eyes wide and hair wild, ran from child to child, from nurse to orderly to nurse again, searching for Amelie—crying and screaming for the daughter she’d only just left behind. She played her part well, but Jason knew it was more than acting.
It was all Jason could do not to grab her, comfort her, tell her that Amelie and the other children with secret places to go had been safely spirited away. But he could not, dared not even speak to her for fear of giving everything away. Instead he sent photographers to capture on film the nearly hysterical, grief-stricken mother. And all the while he invented good copy for the news story that he prayed would rock Berlin and New York.
11
R ACHEL WAS HORRIFIED when she read the heartbreaking story buried on page five of the morning paper. The story outlined the bungling phone call that first sent firefighters first to the wrong address, and lauded heroic locals who’d appeared from the streets to rescue most of the children when the medical center’s ancient boilers exploded. No bodies had been recovered. The intense heat had prevented firemen from entering the building until everything inside was in ashes. Four-year-old Amelie Schlick and two others from the greater Berlin area were presumed dead. Case closed. A memorial service for the three children would be held Sunday morning after services.
Rachel would never have agreed to the explosion, never have risked such danger. Her stomach churned for Kristine’s sake. If only she could place Amelie in her friend’s arms once more, or at least assure her that her child was safe. But she could do neither, and there was no proof that all was well. She dared not contact Jason for fear she was watched or that her phone—or his—was tapped. She, and therefore Kristine, could only wait.
Amelie remembered the strong hands that had wrenched her from her mother’s neck, her mother’s arms. She knew that the man in the white coat had shut her in a room with other children. She was intrigued by the children—most bigger than she. But she wanted her mother. None of the other children had mothers. Where were all the mothers?
When the pungent smell and vapory cloud began to fill the air, grown-ups had thrown open the door, picking up children and pulling them from the room into the burning hallway. Amelie had been frightened by the chaos and the eyes of grown-ups filled with terror. She’d cowered back, behind a crib, into the corner.
The man in the white coat returned. Through the rungs of the crib she could see his mouth making shapes, could see his features distort, see him cough in the growing smoke and heat. But he looked so mean, so angry—like her father when he was frustrated with her. She didn’t want the man to see her, to touch her again. Amelie shut her eyes tight and made herself as small as she possibly could, curling into a ball beneath the crib.
She didn’t see when the strong hands jerked her out, banging her head sharply on the bottom of the crib. She yelped in pain. And then the hands dropped her to the floor. Their owner stumbled backward. Different hands grabbed her up, tucked her beneath a blanket so tight she could barely breathe.
The hands carried her, bumping her up and down as they ran. Her head throbbed. She tasted the sticky blood oozing from the gash on her forehead. And then everything went dark.
Rachel received a note, scribbled across a napkin, with the Sunday morning coffee delivered to her room. Three words had never meant so much.
Safe and well.
She accompanied her father to the Sunday-morning memorial service
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