BPOV

I am still in hospital in Berlin, nearly a month after the liberation. I am slowly gaining strength, but the doctors tell me I will walk with a limp for the rest of my life. The Red Cross are doing everything they can to find my brother. I have received a package from my old neighbours in Amsterdam, and from Alice's. Our passports are here.

But I will not leave for England until I find my brother, or know for certain that he is dead. My eyes prickle at the thought of my Jacob being dead. Nobody knew, not even Alice, that I cried in the dead of night for him, for my father. I sat shiva for Daddy for the seven days, although he has been dead longer than a week, tearing a rend in my hospital gown, refusing all food, not for the practice itself, but for Daddy. He died in hunger and in pain - I will suffer a little longer for him. I pray for his soul, that he is happy now. The hospital finds me a Rabbi, and he reads the Torah for me. On the last day, Emmett brings me a hot meal, before leaving me in my silence. It upsets me that the traditional shiva cannot be observed - they can find no persons to make up the minyan to perform the services. But I sit it, and I pray, and I hope that Daddy is happy now, with Mummy and Rebecca. Perhaps they have met Grandmother, who died before this horrid war. She was my favourite storyteller when I was a child. I would climb into her lap, and she would slip me boiled sweets, or, on rare and great occasions, a slice of candied orange peel. And while I sucked my sweets or chewed my orange peel, she would tell me stories. Stories of Moses, stories of Rebecca, stories of Isaac and Jacob. My favourite was the story of Noah and his Ark, with all the fabulous exotic creatures spending all that time on the Great Flood. But the stories I liked best were the stories Grandmother would tell me of her childhood, Grandfather and my father, when he was small. I would look at my Daddy, and I couldn't believe that my Daddy would have been so naughty. And then, other times, when Daddy would play with me, tickling me until I screamed and wriggled, and I could well believe it.

And then Jacob. I don't remember him as a baby - I was still only one. But I remember him learning to toddle, and running after me, shrieking with laughter as I kicked a ball for him, taught him to tie laces, button his coat, and put his socks on. And then, when he got taller than I did, he'd pick me up, and run away with me, and we'd both be laughing. And then the occupation came, and I was only 13, and he was only twelve. And suddenly Daddy didn't laugh any more, Mummy didn't sing, and every knock on the door would mean frightened glances and being told to hush. And suddenly, Jacob and I had to grow up, and grow up pretty damn fast. Suddenly, I had to be brave and Jacob had to be braver. And when we moved to the ghetto, and then we were taken to the camps, it was like Jacob and I had to be the parents, because everyone was so silent and scared. And when they tore me and Jacob apart, and I screamed until somebody punched me and kicked me, and screamed at me in German to be quiet.

And then, on the day shiva ends, Emmett brings me news. He bursts into our ward, and some of the more highly-strung patients cry out in alarm. He apologise, and rushes up to to me.

"Emmett -"

"Hitler is dead! The Nazi's have surrendered! Isabella, it is over! Tell them! Tell them all!"

And so I translate, in a shaky voice, the news we've been praying for for years. Emmett helps me up, into a chair, and I go into Alice's ward.

"Hitler is dood. De Nazi's hebben overgegeven. Het is voorbij, Alice." Alice's eyes widen, and her face lights up.

EPOV

If only I could complete Bella's happiness. If only today was the day that I could tell her that we've found her brother, and he's alive. But nobody even seems to have heard of a Jacob Cohen. After arriving in Auschwitz, he seems to disappear. Plenty of people can say he was in Auschwitz. But not one person knows what happened to him. I have to tell her that night that the trail is going cold. But for now, while she laughs with Alice, I can't. I can't say it. How could I tell her that we believe her brother will never come back to her? How could I put into words what the Red Cross fears - that Jacob Cohen has become a statistic - one of the growing death toll of innocent people who died at Nazi hands? "Unaccounted For" becomes "Presumed Dead" quickly. And I am scared that Bella won't be able to take any more bad news. No, for now, I will let her have her happiness. Let her celebrate with Alice, let her revel in the knowledge that there are no maniacs with guns coming after her now. Let her be happy.

I put my dilemma before my brothers later that day.

"What do I do? If I tell her, it'll destroy her happiness. If I don't tell her, she'll hate me for keeping it from her."

"Why do you have to be the one who tells her?"

"The Red Cross thinks it'll be better coming from me, because we know each other. I don't know her that well, for heavens sake."

"Yes, but you talk all the time. You're basically thinking about offering her a place to stay in England."

"Edward, do you know everything? Seriously, do you have 'abilities' or something?"

"No, Dad wrote. He wanted to know who she was and so on. It's fine with them, by the way. And they'll take Alice and Jacob." He doesn't add 'if' and I'm grateful. I don't want to tell Bella the 'if', I don't want to tell her the 'maybe'. I can't be the bearer of bad news.

But I have to.

She's back in bed, very pale and very tired.

"Emmett, sit down," she says, warmly, finding a smile from somewhere. I ignore the chair, and sit on her bed. She looks surprised, but doesn't throw me off.

"Isabella, I have to tell you something. And I'm not much for tact, so I'll have to just say it." I take a deep breath, and take her hands. "We - the Red Cross - haven't been able to find your brother. Nobody can remember meeting him in Auschwitz, or any other camp. The trails gone cold. I'm sorry, but the Red Cross will declare him presumed dead in a week."

"No. Emmett, tell me this isn't true. I can't have lost him too. He can't be dead. He must be alive!" Her eyes are huge, her face grey now, lips parted. And for the first time, I see tears in her eyes. "Emmett, he can't be! My Jacob isn't dead!"

"Isabella, I'm sorry. There are so many people. It may be that we just haven't found him yet. He could be alive. They're going to try the Polish hospitals too. Isabella, look at me! If he is alive, I will find him for you. If he is alive, I will get him back to you. I give you my word. I swear."

"Why would you do this for me, Emmett?"

"Because you are brave, and strong, and unbeatable. Because you deserve his life. Because you are the bravest person I've ever met, Isabella, and I want you to be happy, because you deserve it. You don't ever cry! Not you, don't you dare cry! They aren't worthy of your tears. Be brave for a little longer. I am going to find him for you."

She cried a little, then dried her eyes. She said she was tired, and she wanted to sleep. So I left her, knowing I should never have promised I'd find him because it's a promise I cannot keep for sure. But I will try my hardest. Even if it is bad news, perhaps it will be closure for her, to know for certain.

"Did you tell her, Emmett?" The voice makes me jump.

"Bloody hell, Jazz. Yes, I told her." I rub my hands over my face, as if I can scrub away the image of Bella crying. It was so wrong watching her cry. Like watching a train wreck, in slow motion. It was almost frightening, seeing her cry, because Bella never cried. Jasper puts his hand on my shoulder, and doesn't ask any questions. He's learnt that I'll talk if I want. "Help me find him, Jazz. Help me find her brother." He agrees, and we go to bed.

Sleep evades me. All I see are her tears, all I hear is her begging me to tell her it isn't true. I get up, go outside, and look around.

I see ruins. I see the bombsites of Berlin, the rubble of old explosions. And in the grey dawn, I can see the ghosts. One grey figure seems real, almost. The mist seems to be swirling around him. When he speaks, his accent is familiar, although his English is flawless.

"Are you the Red Cross?" It takes me some time to realise he's real, and talking to me.

"Yes. Well, I work for them. I'm a British soldier."

"I am looking for my sister. I was told to come here, that she may be in Berlin. I was told to talk to the Red Cross when I arrived."

"I'll see what I can do. Why don't you tell me her name?"

"Bella - Isabella Cohen."