November 14, 1943

Dear Dandelion,

Last night was the longest night of my life, but we survived, and here I am, putting words down on paper to prove it. I see my hand. I see the pen and the ink. I feel the page, but still I cannot believe.

I cannot believe how calm my hand is... how steady.

But that is the only the smallest of things. It's as though my body — my hands and my feet — have taken over completely, and the rest of me — my head and my heart — they are left behind somewhere. I wonder when they will catch up. Perhaps after a good night's sleep.

Yes, I think I should sleep well tonight, Cosima. I think I should sleep very well.

As I said, the last twenty-four hours have been the longest of my short life, and so I don't know where to start in what I'm about to tell you.

After I set the cat's corpse beneath the mattress upstairs, I returned to the basement with a forced smile. I fed Aishe her dinner and I spoke of a wonderful country called Switzerland. I asked her if she'd ever heard of it. She shook her head no.

"Well, it is surrounded by beautiful mountains!" I said. "And every city has a chocolate factory, and so every morning the air smells like fresh chocolate, and instead of baguettes and cheese for lunch, little children eat chocolate croissants and chocolate cakes, and then they eat chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert! Can you believe that?!"

And she believed me, bless her heart. She believed every word I said. She listened with wide eyes and when I asked if she liked chocolate, she nodded her head, whispering a soft, "Jah."

"Perfect! It's all settled then. Tomorrow we will leave for Switzerland!"

At that, her joy turned to fear.

"Oh, but don't worry," I said quickly. "Look, I'm writing a letter right now, and we will leave it for your mama, so that she can find us when she gets back."

She sighed.

"Would you like to help me write it?"

And she did help me, Cosima. She sat on my lap and dictated what she wanted me to say. And when she was through, she even signed her own name.

"Oh! Very pretty!" I said as I set her back onto her feet.

I folded up the letter and sealed it in an envelope, and I left it up on the desk, prominently displayed against the wall.

"There!" I said. "There's no way she can miss it now. And when she comes to Switzerland we can buy her all the chocolate she can eat. Does your mama like chocolate, too?"

"Jah."

"Perfect!"

I kneeled down in front of her and held her by the arms.

"Now, Aishe, listen to me for a moment. I have something important to tell you."

She looked into my eyes. She is so trusting, Cosima. Too, too trusting.

I took a deep breath.

"Have you ever seen a rat before?" I asked her.

She nodded.

"Well, unfortunately, there are rats in our bakery, and people don't want to buy bread from us anymore. So tonight — maybe — some men may have to come to kill all the rats, do you understand?"

She nodded.

"And they will have dogs — loud, barking dogs — but you don't have to be scared because they are just looking for the rats, okay?"

She nodded.

"And whatever you do, you shouldn't shout or cry — no matter how scared you are — because then the dogs get confused, and they can't find the rats very well."

"And you can't cry either?" she asked. "Even if you're scared?"

"That's right," I said. "I can't cry, either. Even if I'm scared."

I swallowed and smiled.

"The most important thing is for you to stay here and don't come out and be as quiet as you can so that the dogs can do their job. Can you do that?"

But even as I said it, my voice began to waiver. I stood up then and turned away, afraid that she might sense some fear. Children can always sense these things, Cosima.

"Good," I said. "The quieter we are, the faster they can do their job."

When I turned back she was already laying down in her nest of blankets.

She fell asleep quickly, perhaps more quickly than usual. I wondered if it had anything to do with the letter on the table. I cursed myself for not having thought of it before. My letters to you have been such a comfort, and I have left Aishe alone all this time.

Is it wrong to lie to a child? It can't be any more wrong than lying to myself.

I watched her sleep for a while, then I moved to the desk, sitting on top of it with my legs tucked up. I pulled the window open just a crack so that I could see out into the dark street.

The street sounds had an eerie clarity about them. I swear I could hear all the rowdy rumblings at Le Chiot, though it was down on the corner and out of view. I heard men's voices bounce from the storefronts across the street. I heard cars roll past. I heard a muffled sneeze from the depths of someone's home. I heard a woman's laugh and a whisper, then footsteps on the cobblestone.

And when it was quiet, I heard only air, a presence of space, a claustrophobic openness that was enhanced by the low white clouds.

Looks like snow, I thought. We'll never make it.

I reached for the pistol in my pocket. I still had not replaced the bullets. I held the thing in my lap. The metal barrel and trigger were cool, but the wooden plates on the handle were warm. And the way the thing fit into my hand, it's like it was designed to be seductive.

What good is this, anyway? I thought. What good is it?

I lifted it up, my hand on the trigger, the barrel pointed at the wall. I hated the way it felt. It was heavy; much heavier than it looked.

I tucked it back into my pocket.

I sat like that a long time, until finally exhaustion won out, and I drifted off despite my anxieties. The thing that woke me was not the dogs, if you can believe it.

No, the thing that woke me was a much smaller sound. A delicate sound.

Flick, flick, flick.

I sat up straight. I heard it again.

Flick, flick, flick.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lighter. I touched the top of it and it was warm. I clasped it in my palm, certain that if I squeezed it tight enough, it would be silent.

No sooner had I squeezed the lighter in my hand, that the radios turned on.

Yes, Cosima, I say radios, because they both turned on at the same time, and our tiny room was suddenly flooded with two songs at once; one in French and the other in English; one upbeat and full of horns, and the other a melancholy tune over swelling strings.

I froze. I looked at Aishe, but she had barely stirred in her sleep.

I turned the radios off before they could wake her.

And that's when I heard them — not the dogs, not yet — but the whispers. Orders to move this way or that. Orders to be quick. Orders to be quiet.

It was the Gestapo, Cosima. I knew it by their harsh tone, by the jingle of the metal chain leashes in their hands and the tap, tap, tap of paws on the streets.

The moments after that are a blur, Cosima. I can't be sure exactly what I did, I moved so fast in the dark.

I remember the shadows on Aishe's face. I remember the way she watched me as I closed the door on her.

"No crying!" I whispered.

But I don't remember moving the shelving into place. I don't remember taking off my coat. I don't remember how I managed to scale the stairs so fast and in the dark, all the while hearing those dogs bark and bark until their howls gargled like hisses.

I don't remember hearing the glass break, but at some point they broke the windows, reached in and unlocked the door.

It all happened so fast, Cosima. One minute I was down in the basement, and the next I was upstairs in my nightgown, taking a deep breath and launching into the most important performance of my life.

My only hope was that dog's could be as easily lied to as children could.

"Just what do you think you are doing?!" I shouted as I turned on the bedroom light.

"Cut the act," Dupin said, arriving on the landing. "Where is she? We know she's here."

"For the last time! There's no one here! Can't you leave me in peace?!" I said, covering my chest with my arms.

"We got a tip. We know she's here."

Though he spoke calmly, behind him the dogs went wild, pulling their leashes this way and that. Their wet noses ran along the wall, along the floorboards. Their ears stood erect and their mouths hung open, their long pink tongues hanging out in ecstasy at the scent.

"Impossible. From who?" I said.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Dupin said.

The dogs dragged the officers toward Mae's room.

"There's no one here!" I shouted.

Dupin grabbed my arm. He dragged me down the hall.

"We'll find out soon, won't we?" he growled.

I resisted, of course. I had to.

"Let go of me! You'll find nothing here!"

But he held me still at the door to Mae's room. The dogs scratched and clawed at the bed. The officers ordered them to heel, then looked at Dupin for direction. Dupin flicked his chin, and one officer pulled out an enormous knife; a knife as big as my father's — the one he used to skin game sometimes.

"What's wrong, Mademoiselle?" Dupin said, watching my face closely. "Are you scared?"

The officer raised the knife up over his head, and holding it with two hands, he brought it straight down into the foot of the mattress. The other watched on with the dog leashes clutched in his fist.

"Non," I said. "But it's a waste of a good mattress."

The officer stabbed at the mattress several more times with a focused and hungry smirk on his face. When he reached the head of the mattress, he tore the pillow away, plunged the knife in, and then, rather than pulling the thing out, he dragged it toward the foot of the bed, tearing right through the middle of the mattress, dragging a trail of feathers and cotton along with it.

When he finally pulled the knife out, he examined it's tip. A feather was stuck to it, caught up in the sticky red blood on the the blade. The officer smiled.

And even though I knew, Cosima, even though I knew it was only the corpse of a cat, I could not help but hate him.

"I don't understand," I said. "There's nothing there!"

"Your dedication is admirable," Dupin said. "Turn the mattress!"

The officer did as he was told, and when the mattress was tipped onto it's side and pulled away from the frame, the dead cat's corpse was revealed.

I only hoped they wouldn't examine it closer, wouldn't realize the thing was still half-frozen.

"What is that?!" Dupin shouted.

"It looks like a cat," the officer said.

"A cat?! A cat?!"

"It must have come in from the cold," I said.

Dupin dragged me through the entire house after that! He held fast to my arm as they tore anything and everything from the shelves. They opened the ovens and the icebox and they threw the contents onto the floor. But all the while the dogs fought against them, barking wildly, pulling them back toward the stairs, until finally Dupin let loose and kicked one square in the ribs.

It yelped in surprise.

"We are not looking for a cat, you stupid piece of shit! We are looking for a little girl!"

The other officers charged Dupin, one shoving him hard against the shoulder. He reeled back against the wall, releasing my arm.

"Hey!" the officer shouted. "What do you think you're doing?!"

I took a step away.

Dupin didn't answer. He shrugged his shoulders and straightened his coat.

"It's time to go," the officer said. "There's nothing here."

"She's here!" Dupin shouted. "I know it!"

"Then you stay."

And just as fast as they had arrived, the dogs were gone.

Dupin turned to me.

"Don't you think for a moment that this is over. Tell Bijou I'll be back."

"D'accord. It's my pleasure."

But I didn't tell Bijou, Cosima. I had intended to, of course, but life is full of unfulfilled intentions, isn't it?

I went back up to the bedroom and sat in my bed. I dared not go to the basement, not right away. I waited until I saw the smallest hint of sun outside my window, then, before it got too bright outside, I ran down the basement, gathered up our things — our coats, the gun, the lighter, some food, and yes, of course, your letters — and I opened up the suitcase from which Aishe had unfolded herself all those weeks ago.

Much to my surprise, she climbed in before I even had the chance to ask her to. Apparently, this was a ritual she was used to, and if our situation hadn't been so urgent, the realization might have been horrifying, but in that moment, it came as a relief.

"It won't be long, I swear," I said.

She nodded her head, and pulled the top down on herself. If she could have, I think she would have zipped herself in, too.

The bakery was in shambles and I didn't care. I stepped right over the shards of glass at the front door and right out into the gray morning.

When I arrived at Le Chiot, it must have been close to six-thirty in the morning, but when I opened the door, there was still a handful of patrons, most of which were soldiers in various states of disheveled intoxication. There were a few women, too, some with dark circles under their eyes, and others just as drunk as their soldier friends.

But when I looked to the back of the room, there was no Bijou.

I stepped to the bar and asked the bartender.

"It's late," he said. "She left about two hours ago."

"Two hours?" I said. "When do you think she will be back?"

He shrugged his shoulder. "Not for a long while, I assume."

That's when I realized how little I actually knew about the woman. I didn't know where she lived. I didn't know how to reach her. I didn't even know her real name. I had always assumed this is just how things were done, for everyone's protection.

But as I stood at the bar, holding that suitcase, surrounded by Nazis, I wondered who was the one being protected.

"Alright, well, if you see her, tell her… sorry about the mess."

He nodded his head without looking at me.

I turned around at exactly the wrong moment, Cosima.

I turned around just as one particularly drunk soldier raised his head up from where he had laid it on the table. He face was red. His hat was off. His companion leaned her chin on her hand and dozed next to him.

He blinked several times, adjusted the eyepatch that had slipped up to his forehead. His good eye landed on my face and he smiled.

"Arianne!" he shouted. "The prettiest girl in all of Alsace!"

The woman next to him also woke up, her eyes shooting open.

"What brings you here at this hour?" he said.

"I came to speak to Bijou," I said. "I really must find her."

I tried to step away, but he stood up, moving faster than a drunk should, and his arm landed heavy across my shoulders.

"Nonsense."

Then he noticed the suitcase.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes."

"Oh, really?"

"A little trip, that's all."

"To where?"

"To my home town," I said.

I don't know why I said it. It was the first thing that came to my mind.

"And where's that?"

"Rosheim."

"Rosheim?!" he said. "Schütze Le Blanc is from Rosheim, isn't he?"

"I don't know," I said, realizing my terrible mistake. "I have to go."

"But the buses won't leave for hours. You'd better stay here and have a drink with me and my friends… ehm, friend."

At that his companion smiled and waved, but I could see she wanted nothing to do with me.

"Oh, no, I couldn't," I said. "I really must find Bijou before I leave."

"Nonsense," he said, reaching for the suitcase.

I did my best to hold onto it, Cosima, but he was much stronger than me, and I didn't want to cause a scene.

He carried it to his table and pulled up a chair for me. I didn't know what to do, Cosima. He sat the suitcase down on the other side of the table. There was no way to reach for it. I could only hope that he'd fall asleep again soon.

"Rosheim," he said, his voice nostalgic.

"You've been there?" I asked.

"Once, yes," he said. Then his eye lit up.

"Oh, no," his companion said. She rolled her eyes. "Here it comes."

"Did I ever tell you the story about this?" he said, pointing to the eyepatch.

"Non," I said. "Of course not."

"Well, when I enlisted in the SS, when I was going through training, my commander told me that I had the best sense of smell in the whole company."

"I don't understand," I said. I kept one eye on the suitcase.

"Because I love food so much! You know that! I love food so much, so every afternoon while we were out in the quad doing our training exercises, I could smell what they were cooking up for us in the kitchen. I could smell it in the air as if someone had written it out like a menu."

"Uh-huh," I said, barely able to make sense out of his sloppy words.

"I'd say, I smell beef, carrots, and porridge! And do you know what we'd eat that night?"

"Beef, carrots and porridge?" I said.

"Hurry up and get to the point," the woman said, lighting a cigarette.

"Anyway," he went on. "I was so good at it, that eventually my training officer started calling me Le Basset, can you believe that?! Le Basset?!"

He laughed wildly at his own nickname. I looked at the woman and she shrugged.

"Come on," she said. "No one wants to hear this story."

"Arianne does, don't you?"

He looked in my direction, but his eye was far from focused. He was getting tired.

"Oui," I said. "Please go on."

"So then, since I was already Le Basset, some of the guys started to joke, 'I bet you can smell a Jew! I bet you can smell a communist! I bet you can smell a fairy!' And of course, it wasn't true, Arianne. It was all just a joke. But whether it was a joke or not, it kind of became my job."

"What?"

"Sniffing out those types," he said. "You know, undesirables."

"I see," I said.

He sat up then and squinted at me.

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

"What's that?"

"You're thinking, what does this have to do with Rosheim?"

I swallowed hard. I looked away.

"Actually, I wasn't thinking much of anything," I lied.

"Well, I'll tell you. After a few years, I was put in charge of the apprehension of deserters. Now, I know that no one believes that I can smell such people, but the name Le Basset didn't hurt my reputation, and let's just say I have a certain sixth sense about these things."

"You aren't even making any sense," the woman said, leaning once again onto her palm. "Get to the point."

"I followed one such deserter all the way from the eastern front to you know where…" he said with a mischievous smile.

Goosebumps rose up on my neck. It was starting to sound familiar.

"I followed him all the way from Russia to Rosheim, and boy, was he a clever one. He really took his time, zig-zagging his way across Austria. And I nearly lost his trail twice, but in the end, I got to Rosheim not much later than he did."

"Wow," I said.

"Yes! And perhaps it was all meant to be, because by the time we caught up with him, he had led us right to his front door, right to his family, which you know, saved us a lot of paper work for later."

"His family?"

"Yes."

At that moment I became two people, Cosima. Or rather, I was split right down the middle. Half of me wanted to stand up, back away, make my exit and never step foot in that place again. The other half of me was slowly boiling with questions, sickening questions that burned the back of my throat like bile.

"What was his name?" I said. "The deserter?"

"You know what? I don't even remember!"

"And this deserter? He did that to your eye?"

"Non," said the woman. "He did it to himself! Le Basset. Give me a break!"

"Shut up! You are ruining the best part of the story!"

He turned his good eye back to me and he leaned close.

"This," he said, pointing to his scar. "This was not the little fairy; this was the father."

"The father?"

"Yes, the little fairy was a coward, as most fairies are, and so he made a run for it as soon as he saw me. Just like that, right into the vineyards, abandoning his own family. Naturally, I pulled my gun. I aimed it... and I was about to shoot..."

He watched my face, playing the story for the most suspense possible.

"And then?" I said.

"And then the father hit me in the arm with the barrel of his rifle. My gun fell to the ground and slid away. And that is when I grabbed his gun! I grabbed it right out of his hands, that bastard! I had tracked that little fairy all the way across Austria! For weeks! Only to lose him again in some vineyards? No, sir! I grabbed that rifle right out of the old man's hands and I pointed it right at his face, and I said, "I hope your fairy son was worth it!" and that's when I pulled the trigger...pow!"

I jumped, but the other woman just rolled her eyes.

"You killed him?" I whispered.

"Non!" he said, falling over onto the table in a fit of laughter. "Non! That god damn rifle backfired right into my eye!"

The woman puffed on her cigarette, speaking in a flat tone, "And you fell to the ground, howling like a dog. Jah, jah, I've heard it a million times and I still don't know why it's so funny?"

"It's funny because my name is Le Basset!" he said. He looked at me. "Get it? Le Basset? I howled like a dog?"

"Oui," I said. "Oui, I think so."

Beneath the table, I saw the suitcase stir. I knew I had to get Aishe out of there, and I knew I had to do it fast. But the questions had to be answered.

I leaned forward.

"And the old man?" I said. "What happened to him?"

"The old man? Well, let's see, while I rolled on the ground, completely useless, my colleagues took care of him... and the woman, too."

"Took care of them?"

"Yes, you know, took care of them."

"And the deserter, did you ever catch up to him?"

"Non, I was rushed to hospital and by the time I got out, well, the trail had gone cold. I don't do much tracking these days. Not with the bad eye. In some ways, it's the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, now I get to stay in Strasbourg... far from the front... eat chocolate croissants every morning... and look upon this lovely face every night. At least I've still got one eye for that, right darling?"

He reached for the woman's hand. She didn't pull away.

"Always a silver lining, right?" he said, looking into her eyes.

"Right," she said. "That's right."

While he was distracted, I stood up, grabbed the suitcase and backed away, certain that with every moment I was turning a paler and paler shade of white.

"What's the rush?" he said. "I talked your ear off and didn't even offer you a drink. Please stay for one drink."

"Non, non. I really have to go. Someone is waiting for me, I think. Someone I haven't seen a very long time."

"Then, at least let me help you get a taxi."

"Non, non, that's not necessary," I said.

But he grabbed the suitcase from me one more time and he led me out into the cool morning. And as we walked to the main avenue it started to snow.

"Would you look at that?" he said with the whimsy of a child. "First snow of the year!"

"Yes," I said. "It's beautiful."

But it wasn't beautiful, Cosima. It was a death sentence.

"What do you have in this bag?" he said, shifting it from one hand to the other.

"Presents," I said. "For my family."

"What kind of presents? Anvils?"

"Porcelain for my mother," I said. "An almanac for my father."

I didn't mention my brother. Somehow I couldn't.

"Well, it certainly feels like it."

A taxi rolled up to the curb, and I took the suitcase from his hand.

"I'll take it from here," I said, unable to face him. "We must be gentle with the porcelain."

"Right, of course."

"Merci," I said as I hoisted the suitcase into the back seat.

"Hey, don't stay away too long. I think I'll die without your croissants every morning."

"Somehow, I think you'll survive," I said.

He closed the door and waved as we pulled off. He waved warmly, as if we were old intimates from our schoolhouse days. Of course, he had no idea how intimate we really were. What is more intimate than death, after all?

In the back seat of the taxi, I dared not open the suitcase. No, I dared not even touch the zipper, horrified that if I unzipped the thing, I'd also unzip myself, and all of my screams and tears would uncurl themselves, and we'd both be exposed. No, despite our discomfort, we had to keep it zipped up for a little while longer.

It was only after we arrived at the bus station, only after I had two tickets to Rosheim in my hand, that I carried the suitcase to the bathroom, unzipped it and pulled Aishe up into my arms, whispering my praise at her bravery.

"You never have to get into that suitcase again," I said.

I pulled my own hat over her hair, and I wrapped my own scarf around her face. And when we sat down on the bench outside, no one paid us much attention. And when the bus pulled into the station, we climbed on it, hand in hand — just like that.

And that is how I returned to Rosheim, Cosima; on an ordinary bus, on a snowy November morning.

Aishe slept with her head in my lap, but I could not sleep. I knew that returning home was a risk, but it was a risk I had to take. Laurent was still alive; I just knew it. And before I could leave to Switzerland, I had to return home, if only briefly, to find any clue as to where he might have gone.

But as it turns out, I didn't have to look very far.

No, as Aishe and I approached the house, as we walked up the hill, there were signs everywhere. There was the shovel, stuck in the ground and standing straight up, snow gathering on the handle. There was the axe, tangled up in the twisted branches of a vine, and next to it were other vines, each one hacked into or mangled or laid out in shreds on the ground.

And then, closer to the house, there were two crosses made of scrap wood. They stood, side by side on the top of the hill, just like two neighbors come to welcome us home.

I knew they were graves right away, and I knew who had dug them.

I was so captivated by those crosses, that I didn't notice the barbed wire that had been carefully laid across the road. That is, not until it got caught around the toe of my shoe. I shook myself free, picked Aishe up in my arms, and stepped carefully over it.

And when I had set her down on the other side, we were standing right at the threshold of my house. The door was open, just a crack, but no lights were on.

"Stay here," I said to Aishe.

I stepped forward, with one hand in my pocket and the other on the door. I pushed it open.

Inside, the house was dark.

"Laurent?" I whispered. "Hello?"

I took another step into the entryway, and another, until the entryway opened up into the kitchen, and that's when I heard it — the cocking of the hammer.

I turned slowly to find myself at the barrel end of a rifle, and at the other end was Laurent.

"Who are you?" he said.

He was almost unrecognizable, Cosima. His hair had grown out in wild, tangled patches that were dark with oil and stuck to his forehead. His cheeks and mouth were hidden behind a beard that was matted and frayed. He was thin, as thin as a scarecrow that had lost all its straw. His clothes hung from his bony frame.

And when he spoke he spat.

"Who are you?!" he said again. "What are you doing here?"

But his eyes, Cosima, I'd recognize his eyes anywhere.

"It's me, Laurent. It's Delphine."

"Bullshit!" he spat. "Delphine is dead!"

"See with your own eyes," I said. "I'm right here."

"It's a trick!" he said. "It's a trick! Go away you devil! I don't believe you! I don't believe you!"

He screamed with his whole body, leaning forward on his tippy toes, tears in his eyes.

I took a step away. This man before me, he may have had Laurent's eyes, but maybe he wasn't Laurent after all, at least not the Laurent I knew.

"D'accord!" I said. "D'accord! I'm leaving."

"Wait!" he said. "Don't move!"

I froze.

"How do I know you won't come back again?"

"I won't," I said. "I'll leave right now and never come back."

"But how do I know?" he said, emphasizing the last word. "How do I know this isn't another one of your tricks?"

I didn't know what to say to that, Cosima. I stammered.

"Because... I promise," I said.

"Liar!" he shouted. "You're already dead and dead girls don't make promises. Only devils make promises."

And that's when it happened, Cosima. That's when he pulled the trigger.

I hardly would have known, had it not been for that delicate little sound — the sound of his finger on the trigger, the sound of him pulling it again and again.

Click, click, click.

But the rifle wasn't loaded! He would have shot me but the rifle wasn't loaded!

Angry — indignant! — I knocked the thing from his hands. It slid beneath the kitchen table.

He lunged at me then, knocking me to the floor. He pinned me onto the ground, with his hands around my neck. He shouted about devils and tricksters, his tears and spit dripping onto my face. I struggled beneath him, I punched at his arms and ribs, but I could not match his fury. I could not even call for Aishe. I could not even warn her to run.

I couldn't breathe! The edges of my vision faded to black. The world was tunneling into darkness, and at the end of it was Laurent's wild, hissing face.

I was desperate. If I didn't stop him, I knew he would kill me.

I fumbled in my pocket. I pulled out the pistol. I grasped it in my fist.

I swung my arm, landing a punch right under his chin. His whole head flew back at an awful angle, and he fell off of me, landing in a slouch against the wall. And he stayed like that, unmoving for so long, that I thought I had broken his neck.

I scurried away, gasping for air and rubbing at my own neck. I pointed the pistol at him, even though it wasn't loaded.

But he just sat there, staring with his eyes wide open, though what he was staring at, I couldn't be sure.

I stood up, the pistol trembling in my hands. My knuckles ached from the hit.

"Laurent?" I said. "I'm no devil."

He didn't look at me. He looked far off, as if he could see right through the walls, as if he could see all the way to Switzerland.

"I'm no devil, you hear me?" I said. "I'm your sister, Delphine. And I'm alive. And you're alive, too."

"Non, non!" he shouted, grabbing at his hair with his fists. "Non! It's a trick!"

"Look!" I said. "I can prove it!"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out his lighter. I prayed that it would work, just this once.

"Look!" I said, holding it up. "It's your lucky lighter, remember?"

He looked at my hand but not into my eyes. I flicked the top of the lighter, but it only threw sparks.

Flick, flick, flick.

"It's a trick," he whispered between tears.

"Non! Look!"

I flicked it one more time, and the flame erupted suddenly, quietly.

Everything became still save for the gentle movements of the flame in the air. We both became still, not moving, not breathing, both of us transfixed by it's glow.

I watched his eyes. I watched his confusion melt away in the face of the flame, until finally he looked at me and he smiled.

"Delphine?" he said.

"Oui."

"You're not dead?"

"No more than you are."

He touched himself then, clutching at his own chest.

"No, I'm not dead."

Just then, Aishe pushed open the door. It squeaked and we both turned toward her.

"Who is that?" Laurent said quietly.

"This is my friend, Aishe," I said. "We are going to go to Switzerland. Do you want to come with us?"

"To Switzerland?"

"Oui."

"To Switzerland?" he repeated, looking away.

He stood up, leaning against the wall, then he turned away from me, with his hand on his forehead.

"I don't know," he said with his back to me. "Let me think about it."

"Sure," I said, watching him go.

"Let me think about it. Let me...think..."

He climbed the stairs — slowly, deliberately. I tracked his movements with the pistol, until finally he disappeared on the landing. I listened as he went to his room and closed the door behind himself.

Aishe and I were left in the entryway. She grabbed my hand and I winced. She was hungry. And so we sat at the dusty kitchen table and we ate the few snacks that I had.

That's when I noticed how filthy the house was. There were broken wine bottles everywhere, and plates full of rotten food. There were leaves blown in from the wind. There were old newspapers and books strewn about. I would have started cleaning right then and there, but I had a strong instinct to remain quiet.

I took Aishe to the bookshelf in the sitting room, and I showed her where the storybooks were on the bottom shelves. Then I laid myself out on the sofa, my muscles trembling in aftershocks of horror. I clutched that pistol to my chest. I reached up and hid my face beneath the crook of my elbow, and I cried the most silent tears I've ever cried, careful to not let Aishe hear.

I cried myself to sleep, one half of my heart crying out in grief, the other half in relief. I was finally home, and yet, I was the furthest from home I'd ever been.

I shivered and shivered until I fell asleep.

I dreamed awful dreams; awful not because the dreams were bad, but because they were happy; awful because you were there, and my parents, too; awful because I could almost hear your voices, could almost see your silhouettes walking through the house, could almost smell the bonfire in the distance, could almost taste my mother's cooking and my father's wine; awful because I could see my father's shadow standing at the radio, his hand on the dial; awful because when turned to me, he didn't say a word, he only smiled, turned the radio on, and then walked away before I could speak to him.

I woke up calling his name.

"Father!" I said, sitting straight up on the couch.

Aishe looking at me, with her bottom lip turned out.

"Bad dreams?" she said.

"Oui," I said.

The radio was on, Cosima, if you can believe it. The radio was on, and though the volume was low, I could make out the English lyrics just barely... something about stars.

"Aishe," I said. "Did you turn the radio on?"

She shook her head.

"Then who did?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, how long has it been on?" I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders again.

I stood up. I walked to the radio. I meant to turn it off, but in my haze, I turned the volume up. I looked at the dial and it was set to the BBC French service. Of course, I knew the station frequency very well.

"Crush every rose," the singer crooned, "hush every prayer."

I thought the song sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

"Break every vow, do it now," she sang on.

I found my hand lingering on the volume knob. I turned to Aishe, but she was already back at her play.

"I know I can't go on without you, shake down the stars."

I whispered the last line to myself, just as the announcer came in over the outro.

"Alright my loyal listeners," he said. "That is our last song for tonight's dedications. That one comes from Dandelion to her beloved Hans, and if those names don't sound familiar to you, then you haven't been listening to the show for the past week, have you? Yes, it's the same Dandelion who has been sending out those dedications every night this week, bringing new meaning to the word, 'loyal,' am I right? I just hope this Hans bloke, whereever he is, appreciates what he's got. That was 'Shake Down the Stars' by Ella Fitzgerald, dedicated to Hans with one more note: 'Dear Hans, It's been so long since I've seen your face, but I have great news. Let's just say I will see you soon, so please wait for me — signed, Dandelion.' Oh, well, isn't that just sweet? And on that note, thanks for tuning in. You can find us here again tomorrow night..."

I turned the radio off. I stepped back with my hand on my chest. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe.

Was it really you, Cosima? Was it really you? Are you really alive? And are you really coming, after all this time?

Shake down the stars, that's what the song said. And in hearing it I have realized that I haven't seen the stars in years. I have been hiding from them this whole time!

But tonight, sitting at my desk, in my old room, I have pulled open the window despite the cold. The snow stopped hours ago, and so, even from where I sit, I can see the stars. I can see all of them, and I know you can see them, too!

All is not well here, Cosima. No, things are far from well. But Aishe is asleep, Laurent is quiet, and we are all safe, for the time being.

Of course, I will wait for you, you stupid girl. I have never stopped waiting for you.

However, I must admit, I'm afraid that you will hardly recognize me. I hardly feel like the girl you once loved. At the moment, I hardly feel anything at all, save for a distant hope; a hope as distant and as unwavering as the stars, that someday soon, I will see your face.

Perhaps I will feel more like myself in the morning. Perhaps my heart will finally catch up with me then.

I love you, Cosima. Please don't be shocked when you see me, or this house, or the state of my family. Please love me back as you always have.

Exhausted and elated,

Delphine