The studio was cramped but buzzing with a quiet energy that Maria found stifling. The sound of Frau Lulu's voice filled the room, firm and unyielding as she spoke into the microphone, passionately explaining their cause. Maria sat beside her, feeling out of place, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She wasn't sure why she had agreed to come—this was Frau Lulu's fight, her mission to rally support for the Hyssop Homes project. Maria's role seemed more symbolic than anything else, a figure of purity to lend weight to Frau Lulu's words.
As Frau Lulu spoke of the councilors' supposed admiration for Maria and their shared determination to "cleanse" Stuwerviertel, Maria felt a pang of unease. She glanced at the host, who was patiently trying to reach the microphone, she could tell he was trying to interject. His hand moved subtly toward Frau Lulu, attempting to retrieve the microphone, but the old woman was relentless.
"...and with Sister Maria here," Frau Lulu continued, her voice rising as if to block out any interruption, "we are confident that this city will see the light—"
The host finally succeeded in pulling the microphone away. Frau Lulu's mouth continued moving for a moment before she realized it was no longer within her grasp. She turned to him with a look of mild outrage, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"Frau Lulu," the host said politely but firmly, "thank you for your input. Now, let's hear from Sister Maria."
The microphone swung toward Maria, and she froze. She had been so focused on Frau Lulu's speech that she hadn't prepared herself for this moment. The host smiled encouragingly, waiting for her to speak.
Frau Lulu gave her a nudge. "Go on, dear," she whispered, her voice still brimming with the confidence that Maria herself lacked.
Maria took a shaky breath, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat as she leaned forward toward the microphone. The host and Frau Lulu both watched her intently, the weight of their expectations pressing down on her.
Her voice, soft and tremulous at first, filled the room. "To all the residents of Stuwerviertel," she began, the word "sinners" catching in her throat before she consciously replaced it, "God would never turn His back on you."
Her eyes briefly flickered to the microphone as though it might judge her for what she was about to say. She forced herself to continue. "No matter how many sins you have committed, His mercy is endless. He sees you, hears you, and loves you. There is always a chance for redemption, for forgiveness. Please... don't forget that."
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Georg leaned back in his chair, the faint crackle of the radio filling the otherwise silent office. His pen hovered above the ledger, its ink beginning to blot as the familiar voice spoke again. He tilted his head, his brows furrowing as he listened.
"I am not against the residents of Stuwerviertel," the voice declared, firm yet gentle. "On the contrary, I pity them."
Georg let out a derisive scoff, shaking his head as he turned another page in the ledger. "Pity," he muttered under his breath, the word tasting bitter. He tapped the pen against the wooden desk, his eyes narrowing as though the sound of her voice itself was an affront.
"She doesn't need to feel pity for me," he muttered, his tone laced with quiet irritation. "What would she know about it?" His eyes fell back to the ledger, but his concentration was broken, her words lingering in his mind.
He leaned back in his chair. "If anyone deserves pity," he said quietly, almost as if to himself, "it's her."
"I want the residents of Stuwerviertel to know," she said, "that they will always be prayed for by me."
Georg's hand froze mid-sentence, the nib of his pen pressing into the paper as the voice on the radio continued, calm and unwavering. His grip on the pen tightened, his knuckles whitening as he suddenly dropped it onto the desk with a clatter. "I don't need her prayers!" he said sharply, his voice echoing in the quiet room. He pushed his chair back abruptly, the wood scraping loudly against the floor.
"She should pray for herself," he continued, louder, as though she might somehow hear him through the radio waves. "She's the one who needs it."
He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers pulling at the strands in frustration as he paced the room. The nerve of her—speaking so piously, as if her words were some divine gift. He stopped in front of the desk, glaring at the radio as if it were her.
Lowering his hand, he leaned heavily on the desk, his breathing uneven as he muttered, "Who does she think she is?" The faint sound of her voice persisted in the background, each word grating against his nerves.
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As Maria leaned back into her seat, her palms rested lightly on her lap, the faint tremor in her fingers betraying her nerves. The host's voice cut through the studio's faint hum, sharp and curious.
"Sister Maria," he said, leaning forward with a glint of intrigue in his eyes, "do you have a message for the Captain of Stuwerviertel?"
The words hung in the air like a challenge, the studio suddenly feeling smaller, as though the walls themselves leaned in to hear her response.
Maria turned her head slightly, catching the older woman's intense gaze. Her lips parted as if to protest, but the host had already shot Frau Lulu a pointed look and raised his hand as if to silence her. For a moment, it seemed as though he might physically clamp a hand over the woman's mouth, but Frau Lulu quieted herself, huffing under her breath but refraining from further interruption.
Beside her, Frau Lulu's sharp whisper broke the tension. "Be tough. Be firm."
Maria shifted in her seat, her mind racing as she searched for the right words to say, something that wouldn't betray the whirlwind of emotions she felt.
"I would say that..." Maria leaned closer to the microphone, her voice steady but quiet, her heart thudding in her chest.
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Georg stared at the radio beside his desk, the faint static between words filling the otherwise silent room. His hand, resting on the desk, curled into a fist as he leaned forward, his brow furrowed in mounting frustration.
"Out with it already," he muttered, his voice low and simmering.
When the pause on the broadcast dragged a moment too long, he stood upright, his expression twisting with impatience. "Did she lose her tongue?" he spat, the words sharp and bitter as they echoed in the empty office.
His gaze bore into the radio, as if sheer will alone could force her to finish her sentence. She had already said too much, enough to make his blood boil. How could she now falter?
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"I..." Maria's voice wavered, the microphone in front of her seeming to magnify the weight of everything she wanted to say but couldn't. Her fingers twisted in her lap as her vision blurred slightly, tears threatening to spill.
Why didn't he reply to her letters? Why had he let her pour her heart out onto paper, only to leave her words unanswered? Why hadn't he told her that he had returned here in Austria, that he wasn't going to stay in Italy as she had been led to believe? Why had he never come back for her?
Her throat tightened as she thought about the way her world had crumbled when she learned he was engaged to another woman. And then the cruel irony—he had abandoned that woman too, choosing instead to live in Stuwerviertel, a place so far removed from the life they had once dreamed of together.
But none of these questions escaped her lips.
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Meanwhile, Georg's glare deepened as he stared at the radio, his patience worn to a thread. The silence stretched unbearably, his anger swelling with every second. "Out with it!" he growled at the lifeless device, his hand slamming down onto the desk. "What are you waiting for?"
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Finally, Maria leaned closer to the microphone, her voice soft but steady. "If you want to find me," she began, her words heavy with restrained emotion, "I'll be waiting for you." She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat. "And... I can talk to you whenever you want. I have... plenty of things to say to you."
Her voice lingered in the air, trembling yet resolute, as if daring the invisible presence on the other side of the radio waves to respond.
Beside her, Frau Lulu shifted in her seat, her brow creasing with concern. She leaned closer to Maria, her voice a near-whisper. "But, Sister..."
Maria didn't look at her, her gaze fixed somewhere distant, as though trying to see through the microphone, through the airwaves, and into the heart of the man who might be listening.
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The voice on the radio continued, gentle and unwavering. "I will offer you many words of comfort," she said, her tone almost pleading, as though trying to reach someone lost in the darkness.
Georg clenched his fists at his sides. Then, as if rejecting the very notion, he began to pace around the room, his boots echoing against the hardwood floor.
"Words of comfort?" he muttered bitterly, shaking his head. "As if I'd ask for that."
His movements grew more erratic, his frustration barely contained. But the voice continued, oblivious to his turmoil. Georg let out a sharp exhale, storming to the window to put distance between himself and the radio. He gritted his teeth, refusing to listen further.
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Maria's voice remained soft but resolute as it resonated through the microphone. "If you want," she said, her hands gripping the edge of the table for support, "I will help you find God."
Beside her, Frau Lulu stiffened, her expression turning into one of alarm. "Sister, no—" she began, but the host, his patience already frayed, swiftly clamped a hand over the old woman's mouth. His other hand gestured urgently for Maria to continue, his silent encouragement urging her forward.
Maria, oblivious to the commotion beside her, drew in a breath and pressed on. "I am extending my hand to you," she said, her voice trembling with sincerity. "Whenever you're ready, I'll be here, waiting."
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
"So that was what you want," Georg yelled at the radio, his voice echoing through the empty office. "You want me to go to the convent, cry at you like some repentant sinner," he spat, his voice rising with every word. "So you can plaster photos in the newspaper and claim your victory!"
He stopped abruptly, glaring at the radio as if it were her. His hand shot out, finger pointing accusingly. "No," he hissed, then louder, "No! Not over my dead body!"
With a sudden burst of rage, he swiped at the radio, sending it crashing to the floor. It landed with a loud thud, the delicate inner workings cracking audibly as it came to rest in pieces. The room fell silent except for the sound of Georg's heavy breathing, his chest heaving with anger as he stared down at the shattered device.
Georg continued his tirade, pacing around the room with unbridled fury, so consumed by his anger that he didn't notice Marie de Sachelles enter his office. She stood by the door for a moment, worry etched across her face as she observed him ranting at the broken radio on the floor. "If it depends on me," he shouted, glaring at the shattered device, "she will never perform a miracle!"
Marie stepped forward quickly, her heels clicking against the floor, and reached for his elbow, pulling him away from the remnants of the radio. "Captain," she said firmly, her voice cutting through his rage, "calm down."
He turned to her, startled by her presence, his breath still uneven. She guided him toward the chair behind his desk, her hand steady as she gently pressed him to sit. "Calm down," she repeated, her tone softening. She knelt slightly to meet his eyes.
"I hate that nun too," Marie said, her voice quiet but pointed. Her words hung in the air, a sharp and deliberate echo of his own anger.
Marie paced the room now, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I only give that nun respect," she said, her voice rising, "because of the habit she wears. Because hitting a woman like her is the same as hitting God. But one day—" she turned sharply to Georg, her eyes blazing, "one day she'll show up in regular clothes, and I swear I'll hit her. I'll hit her so hard she'll regret everything she's ever said about you, about Stuwerviertel, about everything!"
Georg leaned back in his chair, watching her. The fury in her voice filled the room, and for a moment, it felt as though she had taken his anger. He didn't want Marie to hit Maria—he thought of Maria's face and the quiet resolve she always carried—but he said nothing. Perhaps Marie, too, needed to let out her anger.
"Nobody can stop me," Marie yelled, throwing her hands up as if daring someone to try.
Georg sighed, running a hand down his face. "What a dreadful day," he muttered. He rested his elbows on his desk, the weight of everything pressing on him. "As if Elsa's return wasn't bad enough, now I have to put up with her too."
Marie stopped pacing and turned to face him, her brows knit in frustration. Georg looked up at her, his eyes distant. "I can't think of that nun," he admitted quietly, "without... without feeling something rise up in me."
The words hung heavy between them, unspoken truths left to linger in the air.