Germany, British Occupied Zone
January 1947

The chill from outside permeates the halls of the municipal building. Removing my mittens, I keep my hands in my pockets. I finger a slip of paper, waiting for a British Tommy to stop and check my traveling permit. Despite the number of people I see drifting along the corridors, its deadly quiet. The occupying British forces are hungry too.

The second winter after the peace is proving to be more difficult than the previous one.

I'm vaguely aware of how the rest of the zones were doing. Germany has been cut up like a pie and the pieces divvied out to the victorious Allies. The saying went that the Soviets got the food, the French got the wine, the Americans the scenery and the British got the ruins. The more I read about the ordeal, the more I see the roots of another power play taking hold in Europe. This time, the key figures are the Russians and Americans. It seems a game but is actually only barely restrained blood lust of the powers-at-be.

I sniff, shifting on the bench. A mother and child wrapped in raggedy coats stop at the door across from me. The little girl has to be five years old but her emaciated face makes her seem younger. I think of little Elya back home. He's ten but looks seven or eight. He's a slender boy to begin with but the aftermath of the war was taken its toll on him. Leon slips him his own share of dinner at times, complaining that he isn't feeling well enough to finish it. It's the only way Elya will take it from him. Even for a child, his staunch sense of pride is unrelenting.

I am restless. I stand and make my way out the wide front doors into the city. Hamburg is a frozen shell. The people shuffle about in their threadbare layers, British soldiers longing for home with hollow eyes watch them numbly on street corners.

My gaze is drawn to the other side of the street. An old man, hunched over and grasping his fists to his chest, is hobbling down the sidewalk. He lets out a racking cough that sounds as though it will split him in two and topples over. I make a move to cross towards him but he is swiftly surrounded by a group of concerned citizens. A couple soldiers watch nearby unfazed. They have been ordered to maintain a strict non-fraternization policy and follow it to the letter. They couldn't approach to help even if they wanted.

"What happened?"

I pivot toward the stairs to see Leon gazing across the street. He makes his way down to the sidewalk on two crutches. Tipping his iron grey, trilby hat to the side, his eyes swing over to me. I purse my lips and shrug.

"Was it another one?" He guesses coming up alongside me.

I nod wordlessly. Since being in Hamburg for the day, we have seen multiple people dropping in the streets from starvation or cold. Or both. He gives me a swift kiss on the temple before I pull my toboggan over my braids. We make our way towards the lorry stop.

The snow starts to fall again. It has been relentless since I arrived in Germany over a month ago. These short weeks have felt like a lifetime. I rest my back against his chest where we stand on the corner, focusing on the rise and fall of each breath.

"Don't worry, we'll be home soon."

His breath is warm in my ear. I close my eyes. There have been times I have wondered if staying behind was the right thing to do. I wonder if taking on the physically and morally starved ruins of this country is worth it. Leon subtly brushes his nose across the side of my neck and I cannot think of anywhere else I'd rather be.

Ruth is ripe. Like the trees in the courtyard that bear apples in the autumn. She is golden. Leon wonders at how quickly such a deadly winter has fled both from his country and from the woman he loves. In June, the new currency brought life to veins of their world.

It's been a month since the economy has slowly begun to reanimate. Three since Ruth told him the news. She didn't have to say a word. He had guessed it.

Picking up the pitcher, he pours it over the back of her head. The frothy trails of soap snake down to the back porch and onto the grass. Leon wrings the water from her dark hair before folding the towel around her shoulder over the strands. Ruth stands, her dress loose. It's hard for him to look at her sometimes. She had lost so much weight since arriving in December. He is thankful that their diet has been steadily improving.

She lifts her delicate arms over her head and runs the towel over her hair. There is the beginning of a tell-tale slope between her hip bones and the end of her ribs. Leon reaches out and lays a hand flat to her abdomen.

"If it's a boy," She comments with a grin, "He'll be Paul."

Leon swallows the tick in his throat, "Yes. That would be good. And a girl?"

"I don't know."

"How about Frances?"

"Frances?" She furrows her brow, "For whom?"

"For A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." He scoffs, "I should think that you would have known."

"For a character in a book?"

"Stranger things have happened."

"This is true."

Ruth laughs lightly and lays her hand over his contemplatively, both of their gazes resting on the future.