It's You (21 page)

“How is it going?” I ask Craig, giving Bruiser’s ear another scratch. Bruiser thanks me with slobber all over my wrist.

“Good. And you?”

“Great.”

“You look happy.”

“I am.” I feel the bubble of anticipation rise, and warm me. I’m dying to tell him about Berlin. I want him to be excited for me. But he might not understand. He might not know I don’t do things like this. I don’t travel and jet around having adventures. If I travel, it’s to a conference. I sit in meeting rooms and look at PowerPoint presentations and take copious notes. “Your aunt Edie has inspired me.”

“Has she? How?”

“I’m going to go to Germany.” I hesitate. “This Sunday.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“I know.” I smile shyly. “It’s just for six days. I fly back in Saturday so I can spend Father’s Day with my dad before returning to work Monday in Scottsdale.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, an expression I can’t quite read. It’s only there a moment and then it’s gone. “I guess we’re just going to
miss each other. I head to Italy Wednesday for a wine and food expo in Tuscany, but I won’t be back until after you’re in Scottsdale.”

I’m disappointed, and I don’t even know why. We hardly know each other. We’ve just had dinner once and talked a half-dozen times. “You’re going over on your own?”

“No, Chad will be there, too, along with his girlfriend. He’s planning on getting married after the expo. He was trying to keep the wedding a secret but he had to tell a few people to make sure they’d be there. Like her kids. And family. Sounds like they’re all going now, and I’m happy for them.”

“You like her?”

“Love Meg. She’s amazing. She used to work for us. I already think of her as family.”

“She’s not the one . . .” My voice drifts off. I don’t finish the sentence, not sure how to ask if she’s the one he’d had the affair with.

But Craig knows what I’m asking and he nods. “She is.”

“And it worked out?”

“True love wins.”

True love wins. I used to believe that. I don’t anymore.

My heart does a funny little flip and my breath suddenly catches. “I’m happy for them,” I say, a catch in my voice because I’m jealous, and a little bit angry. I wanted the happy ending. Deep down, I still do. “It all sounds so romantic.”

“So what’s taking you to Germany?”

Nothing nearly as romantic as a wine expo or a Tuscany wedding. “Just have an itch to travel.” Bruiser nudges my hand with his face, demanding more attention. I rub beneath his chin, and then around his fat jowls. He’s practically panting with pleasure. “It seemed like a good time to do something new and adventurous before I’m back to being Dr. McAdams, scary dentist lady, again.”

He grins. “You’re far from scary.”

“I’ll tell my patients that.”

“So Sunday . . . you’re gone.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I take you to dinner before you go?”

“Um . . .” I look past Buster’s big wrinkly face with the jutting canines and feel my insides wobble. Craig is so appealing in so many ways. If I lived here instead of Arizona . . . if I hadn’t lost Andrew . . . if Andrew and I’d broken up instead of him taking his life . . .

“Your aunt Edie wouldn’t approve,” I say, stumbling onto the first excuse I can think of.

“Aunt Edie isn’t the one asking you to dinner.”

“I know, but . . . but . . .” I can’t find the right words. I don’t know how to tell him how desperately afraid I am of him, of men, of me, of life, of love.

I trusted Andrew. I trusted him to love me and protect me, just the way I loved him, and protected him.

And he broke that trust. And in the process, he broke me.

My mouth opens, closes. I shrug. “I like you,” I say simply.

“Good. I like you. So dinner tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night is Friday. It’s bingo night. I’d hate to miss it.”

His blue gaze searches my face intently. I’m not sure what he’s looking for but after a moment his expression eases, and the corner of his lips lift. “In that case, I won’t try to persuade you to join me for dinner, as I’d hate for you to miss something you enjoy so much.”

He’s letting me off the hook gently, teasing me, and I’m grateful. He’s a kind man. A really good man.

But Andrew was, too.

And Andrew still hurt me. Badly.

• • •

A
t home, I change into shorts and a T-shirt and my shoes and go for a run.

I run and run, feeling as if wolves and monsters are at my heels.
But there are no wolves or monsters on my heels. It’s just my heart crashing about my chest, thumping wildly. I’m scared.

I’m scared if I reach forward I’ll lose what’s behind me.

I’m scared if I stop being angry with Andrew I’ll stop loving him.

I’m scared that everything will change and I’ll forget who I was with him and become someone new. Someone different.

I won’t be Andrew’s Ali anymore. I won’t be his girl. I’d become someone else’s girl and I’m not ready for that. Because Andrew needs me. His ghost needs me. I’m all he has left.

Edie

T
oday was bridge. Bill is my partner again, and I’m glad, not just because we usually win, but because I want to talk to him about Alison.

I want her to come over tonight. I need to talk to her. I need to make her understand that Franz was a good man. I’m not sure she believes me. I’m not sure she knows the risks he took, and the things he did.

Bill promises to send her a text. He says she’s good about responding to texts and he’ll tell her to come see me tonight, or in the morning.

I tell him I want her to come tonight, if possible. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, worrying.

He asks me if I’m feeling okay. He says I seem agitated.

I
am
agitated.

She must come see me tonight. I insist.

Ali

A
fter my run, I shower, dress, and grab something from the fridge that I can eat at my computer. There are so many things I want to look up, so many things I want to learn before I go on Sunday.

I check the weather.

I check the distance from the airport to the hotel.

I check the currency (euros) and exchange rate. (Doesn’t favor us.)

I read about the city and top attractions and I’m not surprised that nearly all have something to do with World War II.

The Third Reich Walking Tour.

Hitler’s Berlin.

The Holocaust Memorial.

But there are also other tours and museums. The Potsdam palace tour. The DDR Museum. Checkpoint Charlie Museum.

It’s going to be interesting. I need to get some travel guidebooks. Make a list of everything I want to see. Make proper notes so I remember the important things.

I do so love my lists and notes.

I’m online researching Edie’s Berlin, wanting to find her
husband Franz, and if he was a member of the German Resistance, he should be here. It ought to be easy to find him. I search for Franz Stephens but there is none. Maybe his last name isn’t Stephens. I should ask her. I’ll ask tomorrow.

I continue reading, and the names of Edie’s friends pop up. Adam and Claus and Peter and so many others, but still, no mention of anyone who sounds like her Franz, at least, not among the notable German Resistance.

There is a Fritz, numerous Hanses, Wilhelms, and Heinrichs, Dietrichs, Axels, Rudolfs, Eugens . . .

A Roland, Theodor, Ulrich . . .

What I need is her Franz’s full legal name, and his birth date. It’d help to know about his family, where he was born, where he’s buried.

Tomorrow when I see her, I’m going to take my notebook, my computer, and find out everything.

• • •

I
arrive at Edie’s apartment just before nine the next morning, but she’s not happy with me. I’m not sure what’s wrong but she won’t even let me inside her apartment. She stands in the doorway, blocking my entrance, shaking her head at me, her lips moving silently, as if forming words, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I don’t know what’s happening.

“Are you upset with me?” I ask.

Her eyes are pink. Deep circles form purple smudges beneath her eyes. She looks at me as if I’m an utter disappointment.

“Edie.”

• • •

I
waited for you,” she says. She’s trembling slightly. “You were supposed to come. And I waited for you.”

“When?”

“Last night. Your father said he’d text you. He said you would come and I was sure you’d come, too.”

“I didn’t get a message.”

She lifts a hand, flaps it at me. “So go away. I don’t want to talk now. It’s too late—”

“Why is it too late? Did something happen?”

“I’m too upset now.”

I’ve seen her stiff and angry and frosty. I’ve heard her be sharp. But I’ve never seen her like this. She looks frail and faded, as if she’s aged ten years overnight. “I honestly didn’t get a message, Edie, or I would have come. I promise I would have. You know how much I like you—”

“Don’t make up stories. You don’t like me.”

“Oh, but I do, Edie.” I give her a faint smile. “I’m not sure how it happened, but you’ve grown on me.”

Her pink-rimmed eyes water. The tip of her tongue appears and touches her upper lip. “I stayed up late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought something happened to you.”

Oh, Edie.
I move forward to hug her but she steps back, putting distance between us.

“I’m not a child,” she says sharply. “I don’t need to be placated.”

“I wasn’t trying to placate you.”

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Berlin. And Franz.”

Her expression is impassive.

“I’ve booked a trip,” I add. “I’m flying to Germany on Sunday, going to Berlin, and I want to visit all the places you wrote about in your diaries and I thought you could help me. You know Berlin so well and I thought maybe you could tell me where I should go, and what I should do—”

“My Berlin is gone,” she interrupts. “It was destroyed in the war.”

“Not everything was destroyed,” I say. “And a lot of new building is happening, lots of redevelopment since the reunification of Germany in 1990.”

“There’s a hundred places you could go. Why Berlin?”

I look into her face, her expression guarded. She’s suspicious, but also curious. But at least she’s listening to what I’m saying.

“I don’t know how to explain it, and I’m not sure anyone will understand it, especially as I don’t really understand it, but you’ve made me want to see Berlin. You’ve made me want to know about Franz and your friends.”

“But they’re gone. They’re all dead.”

“I know. But when you talk to me about him . . . about them . . . they seem so real. They seem alive. Your stories make them live again.”

• • •

E
die lets me in.

We get to the kitchen and she pours me a cup of coffee, and together we sit down at her small round table, my laptop open in front of us. I get on the Internet and type in Berlin. I click on images, and photos pop up documenting the Third Reich.

Edie stiffens. She doesn’t like the black and white images of Berlin dressed and draped with swastika flags and generous swathes of bunting, or the photos of crowds lining the sides of the roads, and the goose-stepping SS and the tanks.

But the photos of the Berlin parades capture the buildings and the squares and the places she knows so well.

“That,” she says, tapping the screen, “is Brandenburg Gate, and the ornate building on the far right of Pariser Platz is Blücher Palace, the US embassy. It’s where I worked in the chancery. I was supposed to assist one of the officials for a week but I ended up
getting hired full-time when they realized I was fluent in four languages, and passable in Russian.”

I click on another photo that is of Blücher Palace in the rain and Edie studies the image intently. “That’s where I worked. That’s where I went every day for two years.” She looks at me, eyes clear, bright. “There was no American ambassador at that time. Ambassador Wilson was recalled in 1938 in protest over Kristallnacht. I was still studying at the Hoch during that period, but I wasn’t happy in Frankfurt. I wanted to be in Berlin. To me, everything important seemed to be taking place in Berlin.”

“But wasn’t Britain already at war with Germany? Didn’t that scare you moving to Berlin?”

“Britain and France didn’t declare war on Germany until after Germany invaded Poland, in September 1939, and the US didn’t enter the war for almost another two years, so being an American, especially an American working for the US embassy, meant I was quite protected. Quite safe.”

Edie is talking again about the old American embassy in Berlin, and the other embassies, and how they were once in the Tiergarten area but were forced out as the Tiergarten was emptied and bulldozed for Germania.

She’s talking so fast I can barely keep up with her. “What is Germania?” I interrupt.

“Hitler’s vision for Berlin . . . his dream capital that was absolutely hideous.” She shudders. “Thank goodness it didn’t happen, but so very many beautiful old buildings were demolished to make room for this futuristic capital. Such a shame. Although, with all the raids on Berlin, I doubt many of those beautiful buildings would have survived the bombing.”

“What was that like? The bombing?”

“Frightening, at first, and then merely mind-numbing, because like
everything else, one gets used to the sirens and the blackouts and the dashing to the shelters. There were some nights, near the end, when I was just too exhausted to race to the shelter. Better to die in my bed.”

“Franz let you do that?”

“Oh, no. Never when he was at home. But he was rarely at home during that last year, always being sent here and there on secret missions. I’d be alone for weeks at a time, and it was in those long stretches that I’d just . . . give up.”

I look into Edie’s face, seeing the deep wrinkles, the high protruding cheekbones, the eyes that look more gray than blue this morning. Her skin is so thin you can see the faint blue veins beneath and yet she still has a steely core. I can feel her resolve. “I can’t imagine you ever giving up.”

“We spent years hungry, and cold. Everything was rationed. Everything was a struggle, but for me, the blackouts were the worst. The blackouts were suffocating. You step outside at night, and there’s not a single light anywhere. No car lights, no street lamps, no gleam of light from a building. If the moon was obscured, or if there should be fog or mist, I’d feel absolute panic. The danger was real, too. In the pitch-black night that lasted until dawn, you’d fall into holes, run over other people on the sidewalk or street, trip over debris, because you couldn’t see anything. Absolutely nothing. You could put your hand out in front of your face and not even see your fingers. It was that bad. And with the bombings, the city landscape was constantly changing. One day there’s a building on the corner. The next, there’s just a ruined building and a hole yawning in the middle of the street.”

Her voice fades and she stares at my computer screen with a picture of a burned-out building. “I don’t want to see that.” Her voice quavers. “Take that away.”

I close the laptop. “You kept no diary during that time?”

“Oh, no, I did. But it disappeared during the early spring of 1944. The building next door to ours was destroyed in one of the air raids and Franz insisted we move to his sister’s for a bit. I didn’t want to go, but he was worried about my safety, and so we packed a few things. Locked up the place.” Her voice fades. “And that was it. We never returned to our home again.”

“Why not?”

“Terrible things were happening in our neighborhood. Franz thought it was too dangerous. He thought if I stayed there I might get involved.”

“So where did you go?”

“The Adlon for a month, and then to friends. We bounced from place to place for a while, waiting, waiting for the war to end so we could go home.”

“But you never did go back.”

“No.”

“What happened to everything?”

“I don’t know. I doubt the building survived the war. Berlin was bombed many times between November 1943 and March 1944. I think there were sixteen or seventeen air raids. And then later, after the war ended, the Russians ransacked or confiscated everything they could get their hands on. Where we lived in the Mitte ended up in the Russians’ hands, and once the wall went up, it was impossible to get in, or out. I tried to visit with Ellie in 1978 but the wall was up. We couldn’t get the necessary visas to go to the other side.”

“I can’t imagine staying in Berlin with all the air raids.”

“I suppose I could have gone to the country more, gone to Franz’s family more. Many of the wives did just that. They went to stay with relatives outside the city, where it was safer, but I hated to leave Franz alone.”

“Yet he had his assignments . . . you said he’d go off for weeks and leave you alone.”

“But Franz was all I had. There was no other family—” She breaks off, looks down, and fusses with the lace doily beneath her coffee cup. Her hand trembles as she turns it. “Well, Franz had his family, and his younger sister liked me, but his mother wasn’t sure about me. I don’t think she trusted me. I don’t think she believed I was a good influence.”

“And the Adlon . . . it stayed open throughout the war?”

“It did. It was one of the few that survived, through the war.” Her expression softens. “I so loved the Adlon, too, and yes, it was a splurge, but it was also the center of everything. Drinks and dinners before the war, and then even during the rationing, you could still go there for a civilized meal. For conversation.”

She’s quiet remembering. “It was, perhaps, the only civilized place left in Berlin in 1944. During my last year in Berlin, during that final summer of 1944, the Adlon remained the center of everything for those like me, who were married to prominent Germans—”

“Nazis?”

Her shoulders twist. “If you weren’t a ‘loyal’ Nazi, you were gone. Dead. So for those who were officers or who’d been aristocrats, the Adlon was a refuge from the war. It was one of the few places one could go for hot water and a telephone. I could leave a message there, too, and during the People’s Court trials in August 1944, it was my only connection to Berlin when I was in Switzerland.”

“When did you go to Switzerland?”

“In July.”

“But wasn’t the attempt in July—”

“Yes. Which is why the Adlon was so vital. Those calls to friends and from friends were my only real way of knowing what was happening, versus what the German propaganda machine spit out. And what the German propaganda machine spit out—just like the People’s Court—was lies. They both operated under the
principle of controlling the country, the people, with fear, and terror. If you are aggressive enough . . . violent enough . . . you will control the masses because most people buckle to fear and intimidation. They can’t help it. Fear is destructive. Corrosive. One doesn’t want to hurt, or be hurt. One doesn’t want to suffer.”