Author's Note: Alright, there will be an epilogue and this will be it. Thank y'all for the comments once again! I am so sorry I haven't been able to respond. Usually by the time I post these chapters, I am wiped out and needing to get to sleep in case my daughter wakes up teething. Here's hoping I'll actually get sleep tonight! Love y'all!
Christmas 1946
Germany, British Occupied Zone
I'm dropped off at the crossroads in the middle of a steady snowfall. The walk to the town is brief, wind tunneling along the lane hemmed by looming trees. All the leaves are long gone. I come to a stop in the near empty street. The rubble has been cleared away and gutted buildings boarded up against the specter of winter.
Even nearly two years out, echoes of war haunted the derelict stores and threadbare faces of the natives. America was rife with the trauma of those violent years as well, we merely pretended the elephant wasn't in the room. I hitched my knapsack higher on my shoulder and edged down the sidewalk, keeping to the curb. My gaze shifts to the ground as I feel the eyes of an older woman on me as she passes. She whispers to the young girl at her side and they scurry down a nearby alleyway.
The people here are haggard, thin and suspicious. However, there is no hostility in their grey countenances. Just shadows of exhaustion. Nothing like my father had prophesized, angry at us for returning to the scene of the crime. My mother hadn't taken the news well. She had managed to get both of us home only to have us leave once more.
But Joe had insisted on traveling with us.
"Who is Leon?"
I hesitated before entering my room. He was standing on his remaining leg by the open window. The letter was fluttering in his fingers with the light summer breeze.
"What are you doing?" I breathed, letting the suitcase from my Tennessee trip drop to the hardwood floor.
Joe leveled me with a glare, "The other one is in German."
"I know." I swallowed hard, a creeping heat humming at the back of my neck.
"Ruth, what happened in Austria?" He held the letter with tense fingers.
I held my breath, my eyes zoned in on his hands. I was terrified he'd crumple up the paper or tear it in two. With a sigh, I settled onto the edge of my neatly made bed.
"What do you think happened?"
Joe snorted in disbelief. He sat hard into the desk chair and studied the letter.
"Is he dead?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you keep these things? He asked you to send them."
"I know, I'm getting them to his mother." I rub my hands together, "Actually, I was going to tell mom and pop about it tonight."
"You aren't planning on mailing them to her, are you?" He shakes his head with a heavy exhalation, "Is he worth it?"
"Yes." I breathe.
"Are you going alone?"
"Florence is coming as well."
"Two women in war torn Germany. That sounds genius." He grabs a crutch propped up on the desk nearby, "The only way mom and pop will take this is if I go too."
My gaze shoots up to him from his feet. The hard lines around his mouth soften and he shrugs.
A man steps into the doorway of a bakery. The front window that no doubt once displayed baguettes, croissants and loaves of bread now only contains empty baskets. My finger twirls nervously around the end of one of my braids. I have gathered my hair into two. I look like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. I feel just as lost.
Despite my trepidation, I pause anyway.
"Excuse me- Entschuldigen Sie…" I bite my lip as he narrows his sickly green eyes on me, "Frau Wagner?"
His shifts his weight from the doorframe, blowing out a column of smoke as he tosses his cigarette butt to the snowy cobblestones. He gestures with a sharp nod down the street, not taking his eyes from me.
"To the end of the street. Then left."
"Thank you." I mumble, trying to ignore the feel of his stare on my back.
It was stupid of me to leave by myself like I did. But I felt like this was something I had to do alone.
I tugged the heavy red flannel shirt over my bare shoulders. In my slacks and boots, for a moment I felt like we were still at war. The utilitarian style of the past few years had been easy to adopt after days of rough travel through Europe. However, Florence had insisted on her red lipstick.
I paused in the Spartan parlor of our hotel rooms. The night before, I had left Florence and Joe talking over a bottle of schnapps. When I had awoke a few minutes before five, I found Florence had not come to bed.
Florence had fallen asleep on Joe's chest on the sun stained chaise longue by the broad windows. Joe had an arm over his eyes, his other hand resting between her shoulder blades. Florence's long white arm was draped down across his torso, a cigarette smoldering dangerously between her fingers. Quietly, I tip toed towards them and stumped the smoke into a nearby ash tray.
Tucking a short note onto the table next to them, I picked up my knapsack and ventured out into the city streets of Hamburg.
I stop in the middle of the street in front of a multistory town house. It occupies the entire corner with a large fenced yard, covered in snow. I can see through the rod iron-gate that the front brick walk has been shoveled. The gables of the home arch upwards in an alpine style, the walls cream and trimming cranberry.
He seems so very real here. My breath comes fast as I envision him as a child on the single swing, reading books in the shade, riding a bike into the street where I now stand. I try to imagine what he could have been had our youth not been stolen by power crazed, murderous men. I stir from my thoughts, my brain sparking with memory. I can see his face as clearly as though it was only yesterday and not over a year since I last saw Leon.
Swinging my knapsack around, I unhook it open and tug out the book. Paul's letter is tucked into the cover. My feet are glued to the pavement. From here, I am anonymous. I don't have to explain to a bereaved mother why her second son is dead. From here, Leon could be alive. I can still hope. Perhaps not knowing is the best thing.
I open the gate, it swings away with ease. Edging up the steps, I lay the book by the double doors. I straighten and take a step back, eyeing the iron front knocker. It isn't too late. I pivot away.
The gate clangs shut. I gape numbly through the snowfall. His trench coat is open and I can see his left pant leg pinned up at the knee. He uses one crutch like my brother. His face is thinner, giving prominence to his cheek bones. He could use a haircut. I step out onto the brick walk, my eyes not leaving his face. He stares at me as though he is in a dream. Leon blinks, his mouth parts and brow furrows. He lets out a heavy breath that turns to mist in the frenzied air. His potent stare has not lost its gravity.
"Hello." I say quietly, stopping an arm's length from him.
He doesn't speak, just continues to look at me. His eyes sweeps the length of me. For a moment, I am embarrassed by my rough appearance. Between my braids and flannel, I certainly do look like a coal miner's daughter. After getting a clearer idea of how he grew up, I feel shabby.
"I didn't know if anyone was home-" I begin but pause, biting my lip, "No, no that's not it. I was scared to knock."
I receive only silence and the chilled arctic blue of his gaze. I swing my open bag around once more and dig into it.
"I know things are hard over here right now so I didn't come empty handed." I babble nervously, pulling out a can of beets, "I thought your family could use these, I have quite a few more here as well. It was heavy to bring but I didn't mind…"
Leon moves forward till he is standing directly in front of me. Peering down into my face, he lets the crutch fall into the snow. With his hands free, he braces his cold palms against my neck. As he leans forward, he rests his nose against my forehead. My eyes close. I grip his wrists.
"So," He finally whispers, lacy ice melting at where our brows touch, "You've come to me."
"I hope that's okay." I can't think of anything else to say, my thoughts short circuiting.
"I was trying to find a way to come to you as soon as things settled down." He scoffs lightly.
He breathes in sharply through his nose; eyes drifting shut and fingers tangling up into my hair.
"My stranger in a strange land," He breathes, his mouth an inch from mine, "My Ruth."