I continued to hold my breath, and could tell that Santana was still holding hers as well. Our hearts beat like one, and it was almost like they were trying to maintain a hurried drumming rhythm in unison. I could feel her trembling in my arms. I knew that she wasn't afraid for her own life—that wasn't like Santana. She was praying that they wouldn't lift the blankets because she didn't want them to find me, not because she didn't want them to find her. Somewhere in her mind, she had a picture of Hans as a little boy or a young man, protective of his mother just as she was protective of me. Sometimes she saw herself in that picture and sometimes she didn't; sometimes she saw how she died to protect my life, sometimes how she allowed herself to be caught so that I could escape. And sometimes, some few and scarce times, she dared to imagine herself standing by us, a wide and joyous smile spread on her lips, gazing at us, her family, the only reasons for her happiness and will to live. She cherished that picture, of the three of us together, and thought of it as an alternate ending to our story when times seemed hopeless, the way they did now.
Sometimes she wondered if our stories had been written before we were even born; if our fates had been decided long ago and would not change despite our countless, desperate efforts. I remembered how she told me once of other storytellers besides Hans Christian Andersen, like the Brothers Grimm, who collected European folklore as well as wrote their own. She confessed that she much preferred Andersen to the Brothers Grimm, because his stories ended with happily-ever-after's and theirs, for the most part, ended tragically. She wondered who had written our stories, if they really had been written and then made into reality. She whispered that our author seemed much more like the Grimms than Andersen—we were given happiness, every time, only for it to be snatched away. Sometimes she dared to hope that our author was in fact like Andersen, and that, like Andersen's characters, our author wrote our hardships so that they could be later rewarded with a happy ending. That was the course of every life, was it not? Every person had his hardships, and some, the lucky ones, were rewarded with a happily-ever-after. And those people, those who had faced and defeated the obstacles that their authors had created, and only then arrived at this place of complete bliss, they're the ones who truly appreciate it, who soak in it and hold onto it desperately in hopes that it'll never slip away. They're the ones who turn into Hans Christian Andersen storytellers, and who write the happy endings of their own characters. How we hoped that our author had received his happy ending, and that consequently, we would also receive ours.
At the moment, it certainly seemed like our author's life had ended tragically, and that he wanted revenge on his author and therefore wrote many other tragic endings to many other lives. The soldiers moved some items that were on top of the blankets that were covering us, and Santana and I lay completely frozen, praying that our body outlines wouldn't be noticed from above the blankets. I couldn't feel what was going on above us because Santana was on top of me, but from the noises, I could guess that they were checking inside the bags for any weapons or grenades. Some part of me knew that they weren't expecting to find the three of us, but I knew that if they did, they would either shoot us on the spot or arrest us. They were ruthless Nazi soldiers. Rolf was one of a kind. They would not be so kind as to let us escape.
My face was damp with silent tears, and I could feel some pressure being applied on us as they patted the thick blankets, as if to feel if there was anything suspicious hidden under them. Santana's breathing hitched, and I closed my eyes and wished for us to disappear, to be transported to another road, or another country, or another world. I knew that they were going to lift the blankets. I knew that they would find us, and all I could think about was how my baby would grow up without a mother and without a loving family.
"We're not hiding any weapons, I assure you," I heard Rolf say, and the patting on Santana's back stopped. I was astonished to hear how calm he sounded—his skilled acting and his ability to keep a clear head had saved our lives more than once already.
There was silence outside the car. I felt anxious beyond words, the same kind of anxiety and terror that I had felt when I discovered that Herr Eberhardt had taken Santana. When everything fell apart and our makeshift paradise was shattered. How naïve we were to believe that it would all last, that we could make a safe escape with Hans and never look back at the world we so hated.
Finally, I heard the voice of who I assumed to be one of the soldiers. "You're German," the man said. My body tensed. A young German man who was not on duty was more than suspicious.
"I am," Rolf replied serenely, and again I was amazed at how relaxed his voice was. He really was so different from the boy I met at the gate on the day I first saw Santana. Time and war had turned him from an innocent teen into a pensive man.
There was another short pause. "Why are you not in uniform, then?" another man asked, and I could sense the skepticism in his voice.
"I've been allowed a short leave," Rolf answered, not one quiver evident in his confident voice. "I was serving in Tschenstochau when a few Jews in the ghetto obtained some firearms and shot at me. I've been instructed to return to Berlin and make a full recovery there, after which I will be reassigned to a local unit."
"I do not see any injuries," one of the soldiers challenged.
"My injuries are in a place I wouldn't care to reveal to you, nor is it your job to know a fellow German's business. I'm afraid I'm expected in Berlin in four days, so your hindrance is quite ill-timed." I felt Santana's silent release of air, and I knew that the same thought was passing through both of our minds—Rolf was a genius.
There were some shuffling noises on the road, and then the sound of a gate creaking open. Someone closed the trunk, and Santana and I were left in complete darkness once again. We didn't dare move or make a sound until the automobile was rolling down the road again, away from the blockade and away from the looming danger.
We cried for a bit as the car bumped up and down on the rough path. I didn't know if they were tears of grief, or of fear, or of relief, or of all three. Whichever it was, it took us a few minutes of firm hugging and untidy kisses and soft avowals of love to calm. When we did finally turn tranquil, we lay in silence, our hands weaved together and our faces buried in each other's hair.
"Santana?" I asked hoarsely after a few minutes of quiet.
I felt her lift herself up on her elbows, although I couldn't see her because it was completely dark in the trunk. She kissed my chin briefly and then hummed a note of question.
"If you could write somebody's life," I began slowly, thinking out my words, "anybody's life, how would you write it?"
She was quiet for a minute or so, and I assumed that she was imagining several story lines in her mind and trying to pick which one to tell. "He'd be a young man, born into a loving family who cherished their every moment with him and dedicated their lives to make his a happy one." She paused, resting her chin on mine and kissing my lips for a short moment. "He'd be a good student, but even if he wasn't, his parents would love him just as much as they would if he were, and they wouldn't be angry with him. He'd have a pleasant and handsome face, and he'd be the kind of boy to ask others of their wellbeing and be genuinely interested in their answer. He'd love sports, and he'd have a lot of caring companions, and maybe even a girlfriend who loves him just as much as he loves her. He'd attend a university, where he'd learn to do what he loves, and he'd be very successful with his work after graduation. He'd marry his girlfriend and have children, and he'd bring his children to his parents' every few afternoons. He'd watch affectionately as his parents played with their grandchildren, remembering how they'd play the same games with him when he was his children's age. He'd be a very, very happy man." She stroked my hair gently.
"And how would his story end?" I asked, knowing that this wasn't just any story she was telling, but the one of our son.
"His parents would die of old age, and he'd bury them side by side. He would be downcast, because he loved his parents dearly, but he'd also be comforted by the knowledge that they were still together in some way. He'd have reached all of his goals in life, and when the time comes for him to part, when he's very old and has grandchildren of his own, he's content, and feels like he's lived his life to the fullest. He would have no regrets about his past actions."
"I like that ending," I said softly.
Santana kissed my lips again. "I will be a Hans Christian Andersen storyteller even if my storyteller was a Grimm."
I smiled sadly, squeezing her hand lightly. "I know."
We were silent until the automobile slowed to a stop once again. Our bodies tensed and we desperately tried to hear what was going on outside, fearing that this was another blockade and that this time we really would be discovered.
We heard footsteps approaching the trunk, and then sunlight crept through the blankets once again. We stayed completely frozen, but the items on top of Santana were lifted off and someone threw the blankets off of us.
The sun was so bright that I couldn't see at first, and I panicked, thinking that we had been discovered. "It's just me," I heard Rolf's voice, and both Santana and I let out tremendous sighs of relief. "I was concerned that you would not be able to breathe."
We nodded, and Rolf offered Santana a hand, helped her out of the trunk, and then proceeded to help me as well. He led us to the backseat, where we lay down again, this time Santana on the bottom and I on the top, and situated ourselves until we were comfortable for the long ride still to come.
It took us the entire day to finally arrive at Liegnitz. We had to hide in the trunk a couple more brief times because of blockades and when we crossed the border into Germany's annexed territories, but none of these times proved as frightening as the first, because the soldiers did not think to search the trunk.
By the time we reached Liegnitz, it had been dark for a couple of hours, and I felt far too exhausted despite the fact that all that I did the entire day was lie down. We were taken to another safe house, and much like Feliks and Halina, this family treated us with much care. I was surprised to see that they had two adolescent children, and wondered if I would have been willing to let my house serve as a safe house when my children's lives were on the line. As important as it was to me to save others' lives, I thought that, if I were in their place, I would've put my children's safety before anyone else's. Which made me all the more thankful to this couple for risking their and their children's lives for us.
Our driver had stayed with us the night, but his job was finished, and he set off the next morning about an hour before our new driver arrived. We thanked our previous driver deeply, for putting his own life in jeopardy and for remaining composed during every blockade. There were so many people that we owed our lives to—it was so incredible that people like the ones who helped us still existed in times like these.
I was not in a good state. I felt guilty for coming apart several times a day, for constantly needing to be cared for by Santana, and for seemingly acting as if I was the only one hurting. I knew very well that Hans's absence hurt Santana just as much as it hurt me, that she was as much a mother to him as I was, but every time that I thought about the fact that I had no clue as to what was happening to our son, I was not able to hold it together, and once again had to be comforted and calmed by Santana. It pained me to know that Santana was holding all of her emotions in so that I could let mine out, and I wished that I was as strong as her, and that I could comfort her for a change, which seemed to happen so rarely.
I was finally beginning to understand why she was angry with me immediately after we escaped. I knew now what it felt like to constantly be in danger, to constantly feel like you're going to be caught and killed. I knew that hopeless feeling, I knew the part of me that believed that I would not survive. And I also knew the part of me that still had hope, that still had dreams and plans for the future. I knew how important that part of me was, and I knew what it was like to hold onto it like you're holding onto your life. I understood now that every one of the prisoners in the camp had that part of them, too, and how that part of them was shattered as they were being led to the gas chambers because of us, because we escaped and left them all to die. I wondered if some of them still had some wild hopes that they would survive the lethal poison, or that at the last minute, an Allied country would invade the camp and save them all from their imminent deaths. I wondered what was more painful—still having pointless hopes or having no hopes at all. Either way, both those with hopes and those without have been killed because of us, and the guilt of that knowledge was almost too great to bear.
After we spent the night at Liegnitz, we were driven to Grünberg, where we spent another night, and after that, we were taken to a small town called Lübben, where we were to stay one last night before our arrival in Berlin. By the time we arrived in Lübben, I had no more tears to cry, and that night, I confessed to Santana my newfound understanding of the anger she felt the day we escaped.
She was quiet while I spoke, her head on the pillows and her arms wrapped around me protectively. She remained silent after I finished. She was staring up at the ceiling as if deep in thought, and I waited for her response, worried that my understanding of the situation was still not quite correct.
"You're right, but only for some people," she said finally, her voice quiet and serene. "Some people, well… Some didn't have that part of them that had hope anymore. Some were waiting for the day that their numbers would be called to the gas chambers. Some deliberately disobeyed the guards so that their lives would be cut short. Some had lost hope so long ago that they became lifeless, sort of functioning bodies without thoughts and without feelings. Some felt like they had nothing to live for anymore, nothing to hope for because they had lost everything and everyone who was dear to them. But some, like you said, never lost hope until the last moment of their lives. Simka was like that."
"And you?" I questioned and looked up at her to see that she was still gazing at the ceiling.
She was quiet for a few moments, considering her words. "I was one of those who had nothing to hope for because I had lost everything. I thought about the possibility of the camp being invaded, of us being saved, but that thought didn't ignite any excitement or even happiness in me. I kept thinking, 'Where am I going to go even if I'm saved? What will I do? Who will I do it with, because dying is better than living alone with the ghosts of your past.' I felt like it was pointless, and I felt like even if I were released, I might have killed myself instead of them killing me. Life isn't worth living if you have nothing to live for."
I pondered her answer as I absentmindedly stroked Santana's neck. I had never felt a feeling such as the one she had just described. Even when times were the most hopeless, I still had my family back home, and I had her.
"But then you appeared," Santana continued, an affectionate smile spreading on her lips. I chuckled warmly. "You were so different than anybody I had ever met before. I remember being amazed at your innocent, childlike enthusiasm, because I hadn't seen anyone act like you did in such a long time. You were so loving, so caring. On the first day we met, I cried because you asked me of my mother, and I was utterly incredulous when you held me like we had known each other for years. I was filthy, starved, and not in the least attractive, but none of those things mattered to you. I should've known then that it was only a matter of time until I would fall in love with you."
I smiled tenderly and placed a gentle kiss on her neck. We were quiet for a little bit, each lost in our own thoughts and nowhere close to sleep. After a few minutes, I said softly, "Do you think we'll have a Hans Christian Andersen ending?"
She licked her lips and bit her bottom one, and I could see that she was on the verge of tears, just as I was. She inhaled deeply, turned her head, kissed me delicately, and said, "I hope so, Britt. I hope so more than anything."
That morning, we left for Berlin. During the drive, we tried to think of possible ways for us to hide in Berlin, since it was the most dangerous city for us to be in at this time. Rolf listed some names of people he knew, but he was not too confident that any of them would be willing to hide fugitives. Santana hadn't ever lived in Berlin, and therefore could offer no one who would help us. I knew that it was up to me, and I knew very well that there was only one household I could approach with this request. My parents' apartment was too dangerous—that would be the first place they'd look for us, if they hadn't already. A tremor of panic passed through me as I imagined some callous Nazi soldiers interrogating my parents, maybe even threatening to take their lives if they were lying about their knowledge of my whereabouts. So many people had been killed because of me. I desperately prayed to God that my family was not among those people.
We arrived in Berlin after nightfall. I told our driver the address of my parents' closest friends, Nikolaus and Johanna Furst, and he drove us through the dark streets until we arrived at their apartment complex. We thanked him as we had all of our previous drivers, gathered our belongings, and headed up the creaky stairs of the building.
It occurred to me that over a year had passed since I was last here. What if they had moved? What if we were about to knock on a Nazi official's door?
Those thoughts had no place at the moment, because this was truly our only way of remaining hidden in the capital of Nazi Germany. We cautiously walked up four flights of stairs until we were standing in front of the door that I had seen so many times. To my great relief, Nikolaus and Johanna's names were still written above the doorbell, and I rang it, hoping that we weren't waking anyone from their sleep.
There were some noises inside the apartment, and light footsteps approached the door. I took notice in the fact that they were light—Nikolaus and Johanna did not have children of their own, and yet these footsteps could not possibly belong to an adult.
The door swung open to reveal a young girl. For a moment we just stood there and stared at each other, a mix of joy and relief and love apparent in both our eyes. Then she ran to me and wrapped her small arms around me, crying, "Brittany!"
"Anna," I hugged her so tightly I could've broken one of her bones. All of my memories from her early childhood and my adolescence came rushing back, and only at that moment did I realize how much she's been missing to me. "Oh, Anna. How I've missed you."