Roswell Fanatics

<center>Chapter 43</center>

His breath swept across her skin, gently ruffling the hair at the nape of her neck. She liked it. She liked it all; just being there with him. A shiver ran down her spine, even though his breath was warm.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, Liz.”

She didn’t open her eyes. She was frightened, too frightened, to meet his gaze, to look him in the eye. She knew that his eyes would belie his words, would belie the sweet, lovely whisper that held nothing but empty promises.

His lips grazed over her skin, lightly, slowly. She let out a shuddering breath, his mouth making her shiver, making her insides churn with longing. Afraid, she squeezed her eyes tighter shut. She had to tell him.

Now.

“Liz…” he breathed out. His voice was laden with unspoken words, unuttered feelings. He barely bothered to hide the yearning, the desire with which he spoke.

His hand caressed the slight swell of her stomach. There was something different in the way he touched her – reverence? pride? – when she finally decided to face her fears, opened her eyes and looked up at him. She held her breath; she became aware of a change in the weather, a change she had known would come. A change she had believed she could ward off by keeping her eyes closed. The sun, mere seconds ago warming her naked skin, now hid itself from her view. Did it dread the clouds looming at the horizon? She shivered. The light breeze that before had brought forth the scent of fragrant, red roses, now blew more persistently, more heavily, and carried the suffocating smell of death, fire and blood.

She knew something was wrong before she felt it, before she registered the slow travel of a hand down her body. Max’s hand – the hand that had caressed her stomach – was moving downwards, crossed her stomach, dropped between her thighs.

He jerked his head up. She knew what he’d felt. He realized what it was when he stared at his blood-stained hand in horror.

His eyes… they changed even more swiftly than the weather had, contrasting emotions flitting through them in a matter of seconds. There was pain. There was sadness. There was shock and even pity, but, most of all, there was a blazing anger, threatening to consume her.

Tears welled up but stayed beneath the surface of her eyes. Suddenly, it was immensely difficult to breathe. She tried to reach out for him, but her arm was heavy and unwilling to cooperate, or maybe, she couldn’t touch him because of the growing distance between them. His mouth – it had fallen open moments ago – was forming words. She couldn’t hear them. It was silent around her. Deadly silent.

Her heart bled as she called out to him, but even her own voice seemed to be soundless. Trembling, she noticed a light glow in the distance, a haze of orange and red that violently contrasted with the gray sky and the black smoke that circled around it.

Meredith.

The girl’s face flashed before her eyes.

She tried to draw a breath, but the air was too thick. She tried to swallow past the hard lump in her throat and coughed, her hands flying to her stomach, trying to ease the nauseating pain.

Church bells rung in the distance, and the sky darkened rapidly. The moon ducked between the dark clouds of smoke and only the fire’s light managed to chase away some of the darkness.

She cried out Max’s name, but again, her voice was smothered by the utter silence around her, only the sound of the church bells rippling through the air.

<center>***</center>

Germany, June 1943

Liz jolted awake, a desperate cry on her lips. Her heart pounded erratically, its beating sound drowning out her deep breathing. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks. Uncontrollable sobs tore through her body. She was a mess. A crying, quivering, sweat-drenched mess.

“Elizabeth?”

She gasped sharply, her lungs burning, and felt Mother Veronica wrap her arms around her.

“It’s okay, my child. It’s okay.”

Through her blurred vision, Liz could see the kind, old eyes that were trying so hard to comfort her. She shook her head helplessly. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “He hates me. He hates me.” Trembling in the abbess’s arms, she closed her eyes, trying to fight the tears. “He hates me,” she iterated, her voice bland.

“He does not,” Mother Veronica stated and, for the briefest of moments, Liz felt bitter anger rising in her throat at seeing those understanding eyes, that wise face. What did she know?

“He hates me,” she repeated and brushed at her cheeks, trying to get rid of the tear streaks while defying Mother Veronica to tell her otherwise.

Mother Veronica was quiet for a while, silence slowly stretching out between them. Liz briefly felt strangely victorious – hadn’t she just proved the world that she was wiser than the old woman? – but the gloating feeling disappeared quickly, evaporating in mere seconds and soon, it was gone, almost as if it’d never existed at all. She didn’t know anything. She hadn’t proved anything to anyone.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mother Veronica finally asked.

Liz shook her head. No, she did not. Or did she?

Mother Veronica must have detected some of the hesitation flickering in her eyes, for she didn’t pull back. Instead, she asked, “He… was he the father of…?”

The salty lump in Liz’s throat grew and she tried to bite back the tears – she did – but they swum in her eyes nevertheless. “Yes,” she admitted with a sigh. “He was. Or is.” She frowned. “Was,” she corrected herself, then sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know.”

A gentle smile slipped upon the abbess’s lips as she wiped away some of Liz’s tears. “In your heart,” she said, “he is. Tell me, this boy… does he have a name?”

Liz’s gaze danced over the nun’s face, then dropped to the blankets, at the contours of her legs. “Max,” she finally told Mother Veronica. “His name is Max.”

“Ah,” Mother Veronica sighed. “Max. Do you love him?”

Without hesitation, Liz gave her head a light nod. “I do.”

“And he loves you?”

This time, Liz’s voice was less confident when she replied. “He told me he did, but--”

“Did you believe him?” Mother Veronica interrupted her kindly.

“That was before…” Liz’s eyes darted through the room helplessly, as if the words she was looking for were hidden somewhere behind the closet, or under the desk. “It was before… everything.”

“But did you believe him?” Mother Veronica prompted.

Liz was quiet, unsure what to say.

The abbess caressed Liz’s forehead with her hand and brushed some of her tousled hair out of her face. “Did you?”

“I did,” Liz finally whispered. “I did.”

Mother Veronica drew her lips in a loving smile, and her barely visible, dark green eyes that lay so deeply embedded in the wrinkles around them smiled as well. “Now, dear,” she said as she stared down at Liz, “I may not be acquainted with love very well. In fact,” she admitted, “I’ve never been in love at all. I do know, though, that God’s made sure that there’s someone out there who loves you. There’s a person for everyone. And, from what I’ve heard, you’ve already found yours.”

Frowning lightly, Liz tilted her head back and met Mother Veronica’s eyes. “How do I know?” she wondered. “He hates me. They seized him because of me. I let our child die. He cannot love me. Not anymore. Not truly.”

As she slowly got up, Mother Veronica straightened her habit. “If your love ever was true, then it can’t die, Elizabeth. It won’t die.” She slanted a wistful glance at the crucifix above the door. “Please,” she pleaded, “do tell me… how does it feel?”

Taken back by the nun’s question, Liz blinked. The self-pity she was wallowing in dispersed as other emotions replaced it. “It feels…” she started and mused silently. “It feels amazing. It is warm and sweet, and hot and rough. It is free and yet… so very demanding…”

Liz laughed quietly at the contradicting words leaving her mouth. “It’s hard to describe,” she apologized for her poor description. “It can… it can make your stomach go crazy with nervousness, and, at the same time, it can make you feel at peace. It’s sweet and gentle, and… comforting. It’s a lovely ache and I…”

Liz trailed off, unsure if what she was saying made any sense at all. “And I miss it. I… I’m sorry for not being more helpful,” she apologized with a remorseful smile.

“Oh, but your answer did help me,” Mother Veronica countered gently.

The wistful gleam was still in her eyes, and Liz couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “Do you regret it?” she asked hesitantly. “Do you regret saying your vows?”

Mother Veronica shook her head with a smile. “How could I?”

Biting on her lip, Liz gave her shoulder a light shrug, unsure what to say.

With a smile, Mother Veronica smoothed Liz’s hair and straightened her back. “I love the Lord,” she said, her eyes smiling, letting some of her limitless kindness shine through. “I love the sisters. All of them. And you, dear. I love doing what I do. It’s what I do best.” She was silent for a while as her pensive eyes gazed at the crucifix once again. “I think that it is better this way. I believe that He deserves my undivided attention and love.”

The abbess’s words had silenced Liz, and she nodded weakly as a strong feeling of love, a powerful awareness of her admiration for the woman swept through her. “I admire you, Mother.”

Mother Veronica snorted out a quiet laugh which seemed to relieve the tense atmosphere in the room, and then smiled doubtfully. “You should not,” she whispered. “You should not.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered, untouched, even long after Mother Veronica had left.

<center>***</center>

I love you! I love the world! Oh God... I'm so... goofy...

Many, many hugs,

Stefanie

<center>Chapter 44</center>

Germany, June 1943

“Take off your coifs.”

The nuns looked at each other, shocked, and Mother Veronica drew a sharp breath. “You cannot ask us to do that.”

Glaring at her, the SS officer – whose moustache reached all the way up to his ears – raised one eyebrow. “I’m not asking you,” he said, spitting the words out in a deliberate slow manner. A malicious grin played around his lips, and he looked down at the abbess in mockery. “I’m ordering you.”

Liz shot a hesitant glance at Agnes, who didn’t seem nervous at all. It surprised Liz, but then again, Agnes didn’t have anything to hide. Liz watched as Agnes followed the example of some other nuns and removed her coif.

Agnes gave her a reassuring nod, her dark curls bouncing slightly. “It will be okay,” she mouthed soundlessly, flashing Liz a slight smile.

With trembling fingers, Liz lowered her coif, long locks of her blonde-dyed hair slipping in front of her face. She tried to brush them away, but her hands shook too much and she was afraid the soldiers would notice.

“This is a disgrace to our monastery, sir,” Mother Veronica protested, her voice trembling with rage. Her jaw-line was hard and Liz noticed how the abbess had to bite down the words she really wanted to say.

A look of anger flitted over the officer’s face. “You are to take off your coif now.”

He narrowed his eyes when Mother Veronica didn’t move, deliberately showing she didn’t intend to take off her coif any time soon. His hands yanked down her coif roughly, revealing the sleek gray tresses of the abbess’s hair. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, putting deliberate emphasis on the last word to take her pride away.

Huffing, trying to show how much he despised them, the officer let his gaze sweep over the nuns’ faces. Liz’s heart pounded erratically, slamming against her ribcage in a loud, rapid rhythm. She was dead. She was as good as dead.

A quick gesture of the officer’s hand ordered his men to walk down the line and do their job. This was it. This was the end. Her end.

She clenched her hands, pressing her fingertips into the clammy palms of her hands. Cold sweat ran down her back, and she tried to control her rapid breathing.

They would be able to tell. They would notice her at first sight.

A soldier stood still before her, his suspicious eyes wandering over her face and resting on her nose. They then drifted to her hair, the dry, tangled hair that had been sticky and impossible to handle since the day it had first been dyed. The man raised his hand and tugged at a tendril of her hair, wrapping it around his finger.

Finally, he walked past her and moved on to Agnes.

A small sigh of relief escaped both hers and Agnes’s lips, and Liz gulped down her fears. Feeling Mother Veronica’s worried gaze on her, she threw a glance in her direction and flashed her a small smile.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed the soldier that had previously inspected her, nodding his head. Agnes gasped when the man yanked at her arm and dragged her out of the line.

The SS officer gave Mother Veronica a significant, haughty smile and let his eyes go over Agnes’s face and hair.

“You’re making a mistake,” Mother Veronica hissed out between gritted teeth. Anger flared up in her eyes, the icy blue in them melting, becoming a dark, fiery shade of blue. “She isn't a Jewess. She isn’t.”

The officer let out a scornful snort. “Then she had you fooled, Mother. It’s obvious.” His hand tilted Agnes’s head to one side, his fingers tracing a slow path towards her nose. Agnes was trembling, fear, hatred and uncertainty equally present in her stance. “Just look at her nose,” the officer said, his hand then moving on to Agnes’s hair, letting his fingers slide through the dark curls. “Or her feet. She has all the characteristics. This is a Jewess. I cannot believe you haven’t noticed.”

“She’s a Christian,” Mother Veronica countered, hatred carefully wrapped around her voice. “A good Christian.” She gave the officer a significant look that showed she had a very different opinion when it came to him and his beliefs.

The officer gave his head a light shake in the direction of the door, lowered his hand from Agnes’s face and stared at his men. “Take her.” Returning his attention to the abbess, he meaningfully gazed down at the woman whose head barely reached his shoulders but whose wisdom exceeded his by far. “You have not heard the last of this.”

With those words, he turned on his heels and walked out of the room, leaving all of them in a state of incomprehension. Liz swallowed once, her head hurting. Something warm ran down her hands and, getting rid of the haze that veiled her mind, she looked down at them. Her hands were still clenched, blood slowly seeping through her fingers. She opened her hands slowly, relieving the strain they were under and noticing the flaming red imprints of her fingernails in the palms, noticing the ragged skin.

It reminded her of her dream, of Max’s hands, and an intense feeling of guilt arose inside of her. She held her breath and bit down on her lower lip as she tried to fight the sensations threatening to swamp her.

Again, she had gotten off scot-free.

It hurt her. It killed her. Agnes had not deserved this. She had. She should be the one on her way to a camp, or worse.

All Liz could think about was the look on Agnes’s face, the panic shimmering in her eyes.

It should have been her.

<center>***</center>

Poland, July 1943

Max wasn’t quite sure how the lump of bread had ended up on his machine’s workbed, but it was there, and that was all that seemed to matter. He had devoured it before he had been even started contemplating saving it for later. The hunger usually came at night, when he had time to lie still and feel it, be aware of the heavy void pressing down on him. He should've saved some.

He noticed Trevor watching him with a curious expression plastered on his face, and guilt washed over him. He should’ve saved some bread for his friend. The breadcrumbs that stuck to his fingers suddenly were flamingly hot and he quickly wiped his hands at his uniform. Trevor eyed him funnily and Max bit down at the self-loathe he felt.

During work that day, Max felt even less at ease than usual. It was as if someone was watching him, but when he tilted his head and regarded the people around him from beneath his lashes, all he could see was working prisoners. At times, he would meet Trevor’s curious gaze and he would be reminded of the mysterious lump of bread. How had it ended up on the workbed of his machine? Had someone left it there?

When the unpleasant feeling of being watched crept upon him once more, Max looked up and – instead of regarding the workers as he had done before – he regarded the guards. He found one of them watching him, a grim expression on the guard’s face. A sharp sense of recognition shot through Max, but he was unable to connect the guard with a situation in his past.

It bothered him until late in the afternoon, until there was a change of guards and the guard with the familiar face was relieved.

<center>***</center>

Germany, July 1943, Independence Day

It was odd, walking in the monastery’s gardens without Agnes by her side. The roses they’d planted early last spring filled the air with their sweet fragrance, but without Agnes she couldn’t find any satisfaction in the smell or the glistening dew on the roses’ petals.

Even though the summer had begun, the weather had been quite gloomy for days. Storms had come and gone and heavy rains had fallen, had kept her awake until deep into the night. The smell of wet earth and the fresh leaves still hung in the air and though it somewhat put her at ease, it was slightly unsettling as well.

She bent down and put her fingers around the stem of one of the roses, just below several thorns. The flower seemed to open up to her, the petals reaching for the sky. She shook the stem lightly and the dew on the petals slid down to the flower’s heart, gathering in its calyx.

Her reflection shone in the tiny drop of water, deep, endless eyes surrounded by a pale, empty face staring back at her. It unnerved her, and she jerked her hand up. The thorns slid through her skin until she had reached the bottom of the rose’s bloom and pulled it off the stem. Her hands bled. Once more, they were covered in blood.

She slowly sunk to the ground, feeling slightly dizzy. Her throat suddenly seemed very dry and breathing had become a difficult task. She still held the bloom in her hand, the already red petals coated in an even darker shade of red. Fisting her hands, she crumpled the bloom, crumpled it until it was dry and fragile and all its beauty was lost.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her hands quivering. Sunlight seeped through thick, dark clouds and fell upon her upturned face as she finally looked at the sky and cried. And - as she cried - the warning stance of the windmills’ wings in Holland warned the resistance for expected razzias. In Poland, a puzzled Max Evans found yet another piece of bread on his machine’s workbed.

And in Boston, while America celebrated its independence, little Amanda Fraser fought for hers. Alan Fraser held his wife’s hand as she cried out in pain and tears sprung in her eyes. Amanda’s slightly muffled cry finally drowned out Tess’s heavy breathing, and the woman smiled in incomprehensible bliss, the biting pain long forgotten.

Tess was the first one to hold Amanda, the first one to kiss her head and to count those tiny fingers. Alan took her next and held her close to him, laughing as the small thing made yet another sound and wiggled in his arms.

For a moment, the entire world seemed right and a raging war was unimaginable.

For a moment.

<center>***</center>

Thank you all so much for your feedback! I just wanted to drop by and tell you I've made a little plan of the labor camp because I started to confuse myself. I based it upon what I remembered seeing in Terezín and what I've heard there. There are women in the camp, but I forgot to put them on the plan , so just... well... imagine there are women barracks called barracks D, all right?

Just go here

So.. Basically this is it. It's not much and I can only hope it's historically correct. It's pretty hard to find any reliable information on this. I've looked up some things about Terezín, and used that, but this... most of it is my imagination. I've intentionally declined to name the camp and I try to keep my details vague, because I'm so afraid I'll slip up and make a mistake...

That being showed, said and done, I hereby present to you:

<center>Chapter 45</center>

Poland, August 1943

Max felt the guard’s gaze on him again, the blue eyes he knew were framed with long, blonde lashes. Almost every morning, he would find a lump of bread. He had learned to eat it slowly, making sure no one would see him, and share some with Trevor. The guard had yet to speak to him, but seemed hesitant to do so.

The question who the guard was, and why he seemed so familiar had been bothering Max for the past few weeks. Every time he would look up at him, a pang of recognition would ripple through him, but his mind was clouded and too foggy to recall the person. The answer would lie on the tip of his tongue, but the more he would think about it, the vaguer his memory would get.

Daring another glance at the guard, Max noticed how he was talking with another guard – a nice guy, but cranky in the mornings – and how they nodded and finally split up. The guard limped ever so slightly, dragging his right leg a little. Alarm bells rung in Max’s mind, telling him that this was significant, that it was a part of the answer to his question, but Max couldn’t figure it out for the life of him.

He returned his attention to his work – the monotone routine of handling the machine – and therefore the sudden feeling of a hand on his shoulder startled him.

“Evans, right?”

Max whipped his head around, looking straight into the pale eyes of the mysterious guard. Swallowing lightly, he nodded, a feeling of dread and excitement spreading in his stomach. At last. At last he'd find out who the guard was, and what his connection with Max was. From the corner of his eye, he saw Trevor watching them, interest undeniably written over his friend's face.

“Come with me,” the guard commanded him, his voice deep but slightly reassuring. Max nodded, still at loss for words, and simply followed the man, the limp in the guard's walk even more evident now.

He followed the guard into a small office situated just outside the factory, dreadful scenarios and anxious thoughts tumbling in his mind. The guard, who, Max assumed, had a higher ranking than others, opened the door to the office and let Max enter the shady room.

Standing there, feeling quite helpless, Max wiped his sweaty hands at his uniform and studied his surroundings. The SS guard soundlessly closed the door behind him, startling Max out of his concentration when he suddenly shoved back a chair.

“Please, sit,” the guard said, then cleared his throat.

Max did as he was told – he wasn't really in a position to object – and twiddled a little with his thumbs.

The guard sat down opposite of him, and Max got a better chance to study the man’s features. A faint pull tugged at his memory, but still, he could not place the face.

“Mr. Evans…” the guard started, taking his cap off, but then hesitated briefly. “You wouldn’t mind me calling you Max, would you?”

Shaking his head, Max listened with a rapidly increasing feeling of curiosity.

“Max… I owe you a lot,” the guard started, pensively scratching his chin. His eyes shimmered emotionally, then dropped to gaze at his hands on the large, wooden desk. He coughed and momentarily closed his eyes. “Probably more than I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

Max frowned in confusion. He could not remember the man, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m Edwin,” the guard told him. “Edwin Klein. You saved my life once.” He was silent for a while, steadfastly staring at Max. “At the front; in Russia. Don’t you remember?”

Max’s stomach constricted tightly as the memories rushed back at him. The blood, the cries, the groans… He gazed up at the blue eyes he had recognized, the thick blonde lashes. “I remember,” he said, and had to scrape his throat. He hadn’t spoken in hours, and his throat was unbelievably dry.

“Would you like some water? Something stronger, perhaps?” Klein queried, a worried expression marring his features.

Max nodded eagerly, favoring Klein with a grateful smile. “Water, please.”

Standing up, Klein straightened his uniform and took a crystal can filled with sparkling water. He filled one glass with water, took another bottle out of his cabinet and felt the second glass with a yellowy, shiny liquid. “Cheers,” he said as he handed Max the glass with water.

Max nodded in agreement and raised his glass slightly. “Cheers.”

Klein sat down in his chair again and, after gulping down some of his drink, put it back down and tapped his fingers on the desk. “You must be wondering why I summoned you here.”

Wiping the water off his mouth with his greasy hands, Max nodded, still rather hesitant to speak up.

“Well…” Klein started, but trailed off, twirling his pen in his hand. Then, as if he suddenly remembered where he was, and, more specifically, with who, he stopped the pen, preventing it from twirling further, and looked up, his eyes meeting Max’s in sincerity.

“I want to thank you, Max. Ever since Russia, I’ve been longing for a way to do so. Now you are here, and I am here, and I can help you.” Noticing the way Max’s eyes lit up, Klein hurried himself to weaken his words. “Not too much, of course, but I can try to make a difference. I’m sure you’ve noticed the bread,” he said, and shared a conspiratorial smile with Max.

“I have,” Max agreed, nodding. His mind was reeling. “Can you get me out of here?” he asked hopefully. “Please?”

Klein let out a short, derisive snort and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. The Sturmhauptführer would notice for sure. I can try to get you to work for me, though.” He was quiet for a second, trying to gauge Max’s reaction, silence stretching out between them. “Would you like that?”

“I would,” Max nodded, hoping he did not sound too eager. Thinking about Trevor, he continued, “I have a friend… would it–”

“I cannot,” Klein rudely cut him off. “I’m risking a lot by helping you, Max. You ought to realize that.”

“I do, sir.” Max hung his head slightly, humbly, then raised his eyes. “Thank you.”

“I wish I could do more,” Klein spoke, “but I can’t. I’m close to no one in this camp, Max.”

“But.. You have your own office, your own house,” Max countered weakly, hoping that Klein would help Trevor as well. “You must have some power.”

Edwin Klein nodded pensively, his open expression closing some. “Still…” he said, placing his cap back on his blonde head. The silver eagle on his shoulder shone in the sunlight coming through the windows. “There are eight guards with higher ranking than mine.”

“There are plenty guards with lower ranking than yours,” Max pointed out, determined to help Trevor, but aware he should stay on Klein's good side. He'd find a way to help Trevor later. He stood up, somehow sensing their conversation was over.

“I’ll contact you later,” Klein said, standing up as well while looking around his office. Smirking in dismay, he dragged his finger over his desk, showing the layer of dust on his fingertip to Max. “There’s plenty of work to be done around here. I take it you know how to use tools and such?”

Max’s lips twitched up in a hesitant grin. “I can use them. Don’t expect any masterpieces, though.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Klein said, shaking his head with a smile. “I don’t want you to make anything. I was thinking you could fix several things.”

Walking towards the door, Max rubbed his hand over his bald head. Then, doubtfully, he turned around. “Would it be possible for me to contact my family?” Liz’s face flashed before his eyes, rapidly followed by his mother’s.

Klein visibly hesitated. “I don’t think that…” his voice died away as he stuffed his hands in his uniform’s pockets, noticing how Max’s face had fallen. “I’m not sure,” he finally continued. “Officially, I should in no way privilege you. But…” there was an utter silence as Klein searched for the right words, “I guess I can try to let your family know you’re all right.”

Smiling widely in gratitude, Max nodded humbly.

“You cannot tell anyone about this,” Klein warned Max just before he left. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do, sir,” Max nodded dutifully. “Thank you.”

Edwin Klein tipped his finger against his cap and smiled grimly. “You’re most welcome, Evans.”

Max regarded the guard a little longer, then, suddenly aware that he was staring, he leapt off the raised platform in front of Klein’s office and walked down the courtyard in a lighter mood than before. The sun beat down on him, but couldn't match the brightness of Max's smile. A guard in the distance glared at Max as he crossed the courtyard and gestured wildly at the factory, motioning that he needed to return to his work.

Back in the factory, not much had changed. The sounds, the light, the smothering heat… it was still the same. Trevor eyed him funnily, though, and Max could sense the eyes of other inmates on him as well; he could feel their scorching stares on his back.

But - what in fact had changed most - was him, and the burning hope inside his chest.

<center>***</center>

<center>Chapter 46</center>

Germany, August 1943

The monastery’s gardens were empty. Painfully so. Occasionally, an early bird would fly up and cross the garden with several flaps of its wings, but other than that, the world around her was utterly, perfectly quiet. A light fog hung just above the ground, carefully wrapped around the dried-out roses, hovering just above the yellowy grass.

She was glad the summer was nearly over. The smothering heat had scorched the plants and not much of the garden’s beauty was left. Sighing, Liz laid her head back to the cold wall she was leaning against and closed her eyes whilst taking a long, deep breath. The air was thick, tense, charged with the heat of what was sure to become yet another warm day of summer.

“She doesn’t blame you, dear.”

Liz's sigh was the sole thing giving away she had heard Mother Veronica’s voice. She opened her eyes slowly, hesitant to meet the abbess’s eyes.

“I know,” Liz finally admitted. Her throat was dry and speaking hurt. “But I do.”

“It’s not your fault. None of this is,” Mother Veronica countered gently. She took one of Liz’s hands and enclosed it in her own. Even though it was still fairly early in the morning and the sun had far from risen completely, a sheen of sweat already covered the woman’s forehead. “You could not have stopped them.”

Liz’s eyes wandered over Mother Veronica’s features, raking over her face but omitting to look in her eyes. “I could’ve told them I was Jewish,” she whispered quietly. She heaved a sigh, wishing she could just blow the feeling of guilt out of her system; right along with her breath.

“It wouldn’t have helped, Elizabeth,” Mother Veronica rationalized, her voice soft but persistent. “You know that.”

Liz dropped her gaze to the ground, to the green lines of moss between the tiles, to the dark stains on the stone. “I know,” she admitted, moving her feet over the moss, watching as she wrested the plant from the ground and dragged it over the tile. It left a wet, green trail in its wake. “ I know,” she repeated her previous words, “but I feel as if they seized her because of me.” She looked up at Mother Veronica. “As if they seized her because of my presence.”

Mother Veronica shook her head in denial, a slight smile stretching across her lips. “Of course not, sweetie. No one knew you were here,” she reasoned. “Your presence didn’t make any difference. They would’ve taken Agnes either way.”

Swallowing with difficulty, Liz ducked her head in shame. Nothing Mother Veronica told her could make her see things otherwise.

“You know…” Mother Veronica began slowly, leaning back to the wall as well. The soft, pensive tone of her voice caught Liz’s interest, and she looked up in surprise. “When I was little,” the abbess said, “I had an older sister. Her name was Rebecca. We were always fighting, but God…” Mother Veronica gave Liz a sad smile, “God knows I loved her.

“On my eleventh birthday, we went to the pond. It had frozen for two nights, and Rebecca was confident we would be able to skate on the ice.” There was a painful pause when Mother Veronica took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Liz looked at her curiously. She placed her hands between her back and the wall and leaned against them. The rough material of the stones scraped over the flesh of her palms and she moved her hands over the wall slowly, finding some distraction in the pain, the sense of dread inside her stomach increasing quickly.

“I fell through the ice that day,” Mother Veronica continued after a long silence. She opened her eyes slowly, raising them to the cloudless sky. Her otherwise so light and open eyes now were dark, closed off and unreadable. “She tried to get me out,” she continued, “ but she… she sunk through the ice as well. She drowned.”

Mother Veronica pushed herself away from the wall with a lot of effort and it was evident she didn’t quite know what to do. “I lived.”

Uncertain, Liz regarded the abbess. “I’m… I’m so sorry…” she whispered, her heart achingly throbbing for the strong woman in front of her. “I had no idea.”

“I don’t like to talk about it,” Mother Veronica admitted. “For a long time, I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t died… like Rebecca had. I felt incredibly guilty.” She gazed at Liz for a second. “Useless, too.”

Her hand reached inside the pocket of her habit, and when she lifted it again, her hand was closed. “Here,” she said quietly, taking Liz’s hand in hers while opening it.

She laid a cool, smooth stone in Liz’s hand, its form strange, almost tear-shaped. Looking up in wonder, Liz sought out Mother Veronica’s eyes.

“My mother gave it to me,” the abbess explained quietly, her face taking on a hint of nostalgia. “I was thirteen. I cried myself to sleep every night. Like you, I blamed myself. I blamed God. I couldn’t believe in Him. Not after what He had allowed to happen.” She paused briefly, staring at some point in the distance.

Gazing up in Mother Veronica’s face, Liz followed the wrinkles in her face. It was a confusing maze of creases and bends, but in the end, all wrinkles led to the blue, tear-filled eyes. Seized by sorrow, Liz slightly hung her head. Why, she didn’t know. Perhaps to show the abbess her respect. “Why… Why are you giving it to me?”

“I don’t need it any longer,” Mother Veronica answered, smiling through her tears. “I’ve found my goal. I know why I lived. There’s a plan, Elizabeth. A plan for everyone. I’m confident that mine was to help the sisters.” She closed Liz’s fingers around the stone. “And you, Elizabeth. I lived to help you.”

She flashed Liz another trembling smile, and it pained Liz to see her strong facade breaking down. “Thank you,” Liz whispered uncertainly, her voice hoarse.

“Thank you.” Mother Veronica reached out and stroked Liz’s cheek with the back of her hand. “When my mother gave it to me, she told me to hold on to it until I was ready to let go of the past.” Quietly, Mother Veronica’s lowered her wrinkled hand. “She said I had to find out what the Lord had planned for me. I have. Now I’m giving it to you, and I’m telling you the same thing. Hold on to it until you’re ready, Elizabeth. Promise me you won’t give up.”

Speechless, Liz hastily shook her head. “I won’t,” she vowed solemnly. “I won’t give up, Mother.”

The abbess visibly sighed - her chest heaved up and down slowly - and a relieved smile crossed her face. “Good. Keep it until you’re ready to believe in God again, dear. Whether it’s your God or mine… Just keep it until you believe again,” she said, laying her hand above Liz’s heart, “until you believe here, in your heart.” She smiled caringly, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Until you believe in love again.”

<center>***</center>

Germany, September 1943

Alex held Isabel as she cried, her tears wetting his blouse. “It’s all right, honey,” he whispered, smoothing her hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. “He’s all right. Max is all right. They said he was all right.”

Giving her head a small nod, Isabel gasped for air right before another strangled cry passed her lips and she started trembling again. “I wish… he was here,” she whispered in between of her sobs, clinging to her husband. “I wish… I wish he came home… now… right now… ”

“We all do, Iz, we all do. But he’s fine. You have to believe me when I tell you he’s doing all right.” Alex looked down, meeting her eyes, red and puffy from crying so long. He caressed her flushed, tear-streaked cheeks lightly, favoring her with a reassuring smile, then kissing her forehead. “Please, believe me.”

“I do,” Isabel said brokenly, her voice tear-garbled and desperate. “I do… I do, and God, I want to, but I… I want him back, Alex. I just… I just want my brother back.”

“I know, honey,” Alex sighed, and cradled her close to him, rocking her back and forth lightly. “I know.”

<center>***</center>

Poland, September 1943

“Here,” Klein said, handing Max three sets of steps. The wood was wet, dark and rotten. The steps looked as though they might collapse any second. “Can you make some new sets? These won’t stand much longer.”

Max studied them for a moment, then took them from Klein and turned them in his hands. “These steps…” he started slowly, frowning as he was immersed in thoughts. He dropped them in disgust the second he realized what their purpose was. “You took them from the gallows, didn’t you?”

Klein regarded him with surprise. “Yes. We need some new ones. Can you make them?”

Shaking his head, Max wiped his in saw-dust covered hands at his uniform. Klein had given him a new uniform several weeks ago, and already, it was streaked with grease and other dirt. “I can’t,” he said, his voice filled with disgust. “Of course not. I’m not going to –”

“Evans,” Klein interrupted him, the tone of his voice harsher than before. “If you’re able to make them, you will. The Sturmhauptführer ordered me to have you make them. You will make them.” His eyes, blue and piercing, scrutinized Max’s face. “Need I remember you that you are in no position to object?”

Startled, Max shook his head, surprised by the guard’s fervent reaction. Over the weeks, he had grown rather close to the man and had almost forgotten the seriousness of the situation. “No… of course not,” he stammered, a light frown marring his features. “But I… I can’t make them knowing –”

“You’ll make them,” Klein succinctly ordered him. “You’ll do as you’re told, Max, or our agreement is over with. You’ve been given a chance, Evans. Don’t throw it away. There’s no way I can explain Reisen why I let you refuse to make the steps.” His blue eyes darkened as he straightened his uniform’s jacket. “It’s not just your life that’s at stake here.”

Deferentially lowering his gaze, Max nodded, desperately trying to breathe. It seemed in vain, though. It was nearly impossible to get any air past the hard lump in his throat.

“Good,” Klein spoke. “I expect them to be ready by Monday.” He pivoted on the heels of his boots and breezed out the room, leaving Max alone with the sets of steps. The same sets of steps on which Nicholai, Kain and Petrovich had stood before they’d been murdered. The same sets of steps on which many prisoners before and after them had stood, impatiently awaiting their death.

With a muttered curse, Max rose and walked over to the window. The weather had changed rapidly in little time. A week ago, the sun had shone brightly and the mercury had reached the twenty-five degrees with ease. The weather was much colder now, with thick, woolly clouds crossing the sky and hiding the sun from time to time. He squinted lightly, straining to see one of the guards marching.

He had no choice.

He realized that.

It was either this, or going back to the factory again, without the little advantages working for Klein brought him. Swearing under his breath, Max scratched his head.

He didn’t have a choice.

<center>***</center>

AN: two days ago, on the 4th of May, we remembered the victims of the Second World War. At eight o’clock in the evening, everyone in the Netherlands was silent for 2 minutes and afterwards, important people (like the Queen and the prime minister) laid flowers in front of the national monument.

A 16-year old girl read a poem she’d written about the Second World War. I thought it was very beautiful, so I decided to look it up today and translate it for you. It sounds better in Dutch (the words are just… more beautiful…) but I think that, even in English, the poem manages to retain some of its beauty.

Just scroll down if you’re not interested.

Verhalen

Doffe diamanten op de wang van de grijze
Zij weet de schaduwen van de donkere nacht
Een blik van vroeger uit troebele ogen

Het verhaal van de adelaar
Het verhaal van het afscheid zonder afscheid
Het verhaal over het niet meer zingen op straat

De schaduwen van de donkere nacht
Het verhaal over een afscheid dat nooit een afscheid is geweest.

Altijd

De stilte.

Anke Kraster, 16 jaar, Oostwold, Groningen

Stories

Lack-luster diamonds on the cheek of the gray
She knows the shadows of the dark night
A glance of the past from troubled eyes

The story of the eagle
The story of the goodbye without goodbye
The story about the no longer singing on the streets

The shadows of the dark night
The story about a goodbye that has never been a goodbye.

Always

The silence.

<center>Chapter 47</center>

Poland, January 1945

The Sturmhauptführer’s office was large, but scarcely decorated. The few paintings adorning the walls – including a portrait of the Sturmhauptführer himself – and a large, wooden work of art hidden in a dusty corner of the room were the only things contributing to a somewhat homely atmosphere.

“Not much,” Trevor commented disapprovingly as he swept his gaze through the room, “for a man so powerful.”

Max nodded his agreement, but kept quiet until Klein had closed and securely locked the door behind them. “It’s a little bare, yes.”

Picking up the photoframe from the large, wooden bureau, Trevor snorted and showed Max a smiling Sturmhauptführer, flanked by a kind, blue-eyed woman and three laughing children. “A perfect little family,” he sneered, then lowered the picture to the bureau, letting it hit the desk with a loud thud. “I wonder if they know…”

Glancing at the large clock on the east wall, Klein took off his cap and ambled over to a closet at the back of the room. “Trevor, keep your mouth shut,” he admonished him, then nodded at the closet. “Give me a hand with this.”

The closet merely creaked in protest as they pushed against it, and didn’t seem to budge at all. Throwing their weight against it, they pushed a second time. The closet moved slightly, until at last it revealed the door that would lead them out of the camp, towards freedom.

It was a small passage, dark and musty, and never before had it been used. Klein had learnt about its existence two weeks ago, when the Sturmhauptführer himself had told him about it. According to him, the tables had turned, and Germany was slowly but surely losing the powerful grip with which it had ruled over Europe. Therefore the Sturmhauptführer had confided in him, telling him to use the passage as a way to escape the camp when needed.

Offering Klein his hand, Max smiled weakly. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you for everything.”

Klein refused to take Max’s hand, though, and opened the door to the secret passage. “Not yet,” he grumbled. “I’m going with you, make sure you get out safely.”

Aghast, Max shook his head. “We can’t ask you to do that. You’ve done enough for us as it is, Edwin.”

“Oh no. I want to see this through,” Klein refuted firmly, his blue eyes shining. They sparkled vividly, with a brightness Max couldn’t recall seeing before, and for a second, Max was sure that Klein was doing it for the adrenaline, for the rush of excitement and the thrill of danger. “Besides,” Klein continued in a softer voice, “I need to make sure I’ve repaid my debts.”

“You could come with us, sir,” Trevor advised Klein. “It’d be better. Your army’s losing ground.”

“I’m not leaving this camp,” Klein objected, a slight frown marring his features. “I won’t abandon my men.”

“But sir… it really would be better,” Trevor insisted. “I’ve heard the Russians are closing in on you.”

“Be that as it may,” Klein spoke, “I won’t leave. Period.” He opened the door with slight effort – its hinges were rusted and badly oiled – and ushered them into the passage. “It’s time for you to go. I’ll go with you up to the fence; from there on, you’ll be on your own.”

Max nodded, wincing as Klein closed the door behind them and the light disappeared, leaving them alone with the cold, the darkness and the silence. There was a clicking sound and, several seconds later, the flame of a small torch lit up their surroundings. The walls of the passage were wet and dark and in the distance, Max could see a couple of rats fleeing from the torch’s light.

It was hard to grasp the fact that they were actually leaving the camp. Klein had come up with the idea. He reasoned that, on New Year’s Day, most of the guards would either be home to celebrate the holidays with family and loved ones, or simply drunk as hell. Only a small number of guards were supposed to guard the camp that day, and they, too, would probably pay less attention than usual.

And now, one hour away from sunrise, they were creeping through an underground passage, their fingers digging in the sand, their knees muddy and wet. They were nearing their freedom.

A small door already loomed in the distance, the light of Klein’s torch quickly chasing away the darkness that shaded it. “We’re there,” he said, his voice strange and hollow as it broke through the utter silence. “There’s a village several miles away from here. Go west – if needed, split up.”

Max nodded and noticed Trevor doing the same. “Thank you, Edwin. For everything you’ve done for me… us. I think you’ve more than repaid your debts.” Max pulled Edwin in a short but tight hug, and then traded a significant glance with Trevor. “Let’s go.”

He opened the door quickly, no hesitation evident in his movement, even though his insides were churning with uncertainty. It was still dark outside, he noticed, but there was a tiny streak of orange visible in the east, where, barely behind the horizon – or so it seemed – the sun resided. The snow that had fallen yesterday still covered the Polish hills and lit up brightly whenever the search lights of the camp grazed over it.

He and Trevor ran swiftly for several minutes, their labored breathing and the scrunching of snow beneath their feet the only sounds disturbing the peaceful silence. Every step led them further away from the camp, from the hideous factory and the foul smell in the cabins. Every step led them closer to freedom.

Then, suddenly, Trevor was shot. Max couldn’t really see how it had happened, but first, there had been Trevor’s cry and, a split second later, as Max turned around, the sound of the bullet being fired had rung through the air. For the shortest of moments, both of them were too bewildered to move. The pain in Trevor’s eyes was evident as he winced, his mouth slightly open as he gasped for air.

Trevor lifted his hands to his chest as he slowly fell on his knees, snow immediately soaking his uniform. Max merely blinked, still unable to grasp what had just happened.

Something - a bullet, he assumed - hit the snow just beside him and seconds later, he heard the sound of it being fired. The watchtower loomed ominously in the distance, and he could make out several guards with guns.

“Trevor?” he hesitantly questioned as he sunk to the ground. “What… Show me your wound, Trevor. Show it.”

Trevor’s lower lip quivered uncontrollably as he let Max remove his hands from his chest. “I… don’t… I…” There was a long silence as he tried to gulp down some oxygen, his breaths shallow, wheezing and desperate.

With a worried frown, Max studied his friend’s wound, unaware of a third bullet tunneling its way into a patch of snow several inches away from them. The bullet with which Trevor had been shot had hit him in his back and had gone right through him. It had probably torn his lung tissue apart; that explained the difficulties Trevor had with breathing. “You’re going to be all right,” Max whispered thickly as he laid Trevor down in the snow and took his friend’s hand. “We’re going to get through this. I’ll carry you. We’re going to find that village and then… then, my friend, we’re going to drink and eat all we can…”

Trevor gasped, a sheen of cold sweat glimmering on his forehead. “Go,” he rasped out, his eyes begging Max to leave.

“I can’t,” Max countered in a pained voice. “I won’t.”

Jerking his head lightly, Trevor’s eyes pierced Max’s. “Go,” he demanded. “Please…” he struggled to gasp down some air, his breath hitching in his throat, then making a high, wheezing sound as it left his throat. “Just… go…”

“I’m not leaving you,” Max resisted, started when he noticed Trevor’s eyes glaze over. “You have to hang on, Trevor. You have to hang on.”

Trevor jerked his head to the side again – Max assumed it was meant as a shake of his head – then squeezed Max’s hand tightly. “Go now, Max…” he breathed out. “Now.”

Hesitating for several seconds, Max nodded, knowing there wasn't anything he could do for Trevor. “I’ll... I’ll miss you,” he croaked, his lips dry. It was difficult to voice his feelings, and he cursed himself for not being more eloquent. “Don’t let them get you.”

“They… they won’t,” Trevor said, a lopsided smile gracing his lips a last time. “I’ll be long gone by then.”

Both knew he was speaking the truth. Max stood up and then, feeling miserable and indescribably cowardly, he ran. After some steps, he hesitated and turned around to regard his friend just one more time. He knew he had made the wrong decision the second he felt something hit his stomach. It was a nauseating feeling but, strangely enough, it didn’t hurt as badly as he had expected it to. At least, not the impact of the actual bullet. The pain afterwards was worse.

Far and far worse.

<center>***</center>

Germany, January 1945

She jolted awake in the early morning, her heart beating erratically, tremors running through her body. With the memory of his voice still fresh in her mind, she struggled to sit upright, her body covered in a cold sheen of sweat.

A pained sigh flew over her lips, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she angrily wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks. She had dreamt about him again, but that wasn’t the main reason she had awoken this early. There had been something different in this dream. There had been some… hidden truth to it, and somehow, she was still trying to deal with its aftermath, her heartbeat far from calm, her thoughts drowned out by a painful throbbing.

Liz attempted to push the blankets off her body, but, when they put up a struggle by wrapping themselves around her legs, she finally resorted to kicking them off her. She inhaled deeply, several times, letting cool air rush over her heated body as she tried to find some peace in her disturbed mind.

Max.

She could feel his gaze, his burning eyes, as she slid off her bed and slipped into her habit. The rough material scraped over her naked skin, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was getting out of the small, stuffy room, away from her bed and her dreams.

On bare feet, she sneaked into the monastery’s gardens, the whistling of several morning birds welcoming her. The ground was cold, too cold for her feet, but she could barely register it as she wandered aimlessly, searching for something she couldn’t phantom, for something she couldn’t remember having lost.

In the east, the sun slowly started to rise, its light weak and inadequate to warm her cold body. Her toes wriggled in the sand, wet with dew. Tears of the morning, her mother had used to call it. Tears of the morning… of the mourning…

The morning wept, and, as she swayed on her legs, she wept as well.

Swallowing with difficulty, she closed her eyes, dizziness overcoming her. She fought it, though, and pressed her numb fingers against her forehead. The church bells rang – the sound was too loud to her ears – and relentlessly indicated that the early mass would start soon.

She refused to go.

Slipping her fingers in her habit’s pockets, she sought out the stone Mother Veronica had given her. When she found it, she fished it out of her pocket and regarded it as it heavily laid in her hand. It didn’t gave her the comfort she was looking for. It couldn't offer her what she needed.

In one fluent motion, she threw it away, her eyes following its course until it hit the large oak tree in the middle of the garden and slid to the ground. The satisfaction she’d expected to feel, stood her up.

She didn’t want to forget. She didn’t want to leave her past. It was a part of her, and she had to live with the consequences of being who she was. She would never forgive herself, she decided. Never. And never again would she believe. Why, for what reason should she? If God existed, then He was cruel, and enjoyed watching her suffer. If she believed, then she would have to forgive Him as well and that, she realized, that was something she’d never be able to do.

<center>***</center>

AN: Schatz is German and would literally mean ‘treasure’, but it is used as ‘love’ or ‘darling’ as well.

I had troubles writing this chapter. There was a lot to be told, and I found it difficult to describe everything that had happened. I hope… that it at least is somewhat pleasurable to read. Thank you for everything!

Love,
Stefanie

<center>Chapter 48</center>

Germany, September 1945

The confrontation with Karl had been painful. Not only had it reminded her of her anger, but it had also reminded her of all she had lost. He was sorry, he had told her, and he longed to put the past behind them. The bit of selfish remorse evident in his eyes had infuriated her, hot tears of anger burning in her eyes. She had spat him in his face, angry, powerless, just like she had spat him in his face all those months ago.

She had ran away from him and his words, but they had hurt her more than she would ever admit. The pain over losing her child had lessened, just slightly, but meeting Karl again had dug up all those buried feelings, had ripped apart the layer of isolation she had so carefully built around her pain. Fresh, vibrant pain had sliced through her, but she had somehow managed to bite it down roughly, not ready to deal with it just yet.

She had not expected to meet Karl when she had visited her mother, but then again, nothing had been quite the way she had expected it to be. As it turned out, her mother had grown rather fond of George Petersen’s brother, Heinrich Petersen. For Liz, it still was rather difficult to understand how her mother could love anyone else than her husband. Her mother’s guilt-ridden face and her slightly flustered cheeks had showed Liz that she hadn’t really wanted, and certainly hadn’t expected it to happen, either.

Liz had been furious – beyond furious, actually – and she still was. She couldn’t understand how her mother could have betrayed her father in such a profound way.

But, in the end, her mother’s betrayal didn’t seem to matter. Not any more. Jeffrey Parker was dead. As a widow, Nancy Parker was fully entitled to have a relationship with Heinrich Petersen. The revelation of her father’s dead didn’t change how Liz felt about it, though. In fact, the harsh certainty of her father’s passing and the love evident between Heinrich and her mother seemed to make the pain rawer and more real.

Breathing out a small sigh, Liz narrowed her eyes as she struggled to peer through the late afternoon’s dusk. The silence around her gave her plenty of time to think over what had happened in the past few months. Here, on the Jewish graveyard, it seemed as if time had frozen the second she’d left home.

The town had changed a lot: the Allies had bombed their town, and quite a few houses were partly destructed. The church had lost its tower, the library its west wall and the school its gymnasium. But the graveyard hadn’t changed. And the willow tree… the willow tree had made it through the war. It stately stood out against the rapidly darkening sky as its branches waved on autumn’s light breeze, yellowing leaves rustling. In the distance, the darkness of the sky blended with the orange and reddish tints of the setting sun. The sinking of the sun was beautiful, and, only then and there, did she realize how much she had missed home, how much she had missed her old life, her old school, her family.

The weight of the stones in her hand was the only thing assuring her she wasn’t dreaming. She really was back – she really was there. The war really was over. Closing her fingers around the two stones in her hand, she remembered herself why she had gone to the graveyard. She needed to say goodbye. She would give him her stone, even though his body was somewhere else… perhaps in a foreign country, hundreds of miles away from her. She would give him her stone, and she would try to forgive herself.

It wouldn’t be easy, but she owed Mother Veronica that much. The abbess had given her her stone back: when she had woken up on the second day of January, it had lain upon her pillow, just beside her head. The significant way Mother Veronica had looked at her during breakfast that day had verified Liz’s suspicions. She had been seriously tempted to throw it away once more, to fling it into the lake’s water just to watch it sink and hit the lake’s bottom. Now, she was glad she hadn’t and she admired Mother Veronica more than ever.

The breeze that before had moved the willow tree’s branches, now attempted to move her, rushing over her cold skin, her tear-streaked cheeks. Without the heavy clothing of her habit, she felt naked and cold, and strangely vulnerable. She missed the monastery and the nuns, but she didn’t regret leaving the monastery. She never would.

Brushing her hair out of her face, she decided it was time to move towards her father’s grave – she wasn’t superstitious, but she was reluctant to be on the cemetery in the dark. It was only then that she noticed the two shims in the distance, bending over a slightly stooped tomb-stone.

When she recognized one of them – Isabel Evans, Max’s sister – she waited doubtfully, uncertain what to do. What was Isabel doing there? If she remembered it correctly, Isabel had no Jewish relatives, acquaintances, friends or whatsoever. Hesitantly, Liz neared Isabel just slightly until she was close enough to hear the voice of the man that was with her. He was tall and dark-haired and though his expression was somber, his face looked really kind.

Part of Liz was frightened to walk up to Isabel, dreading her reaction. After all, Max had been seized because of his involvement with her and Isabel was bound to hate her. The rest of Liz was foremost curious, though, and it anxiously awaited an affirmation of what had happened to Max.

Uncertain what to do, she lingered a little longer, then decided to stalk off before Isabel would catch sight of her. The frightened part of her made her leave the Jewish cemetery in a hurry, and she slipped her stones back into the pockets of her jacket. She’d return to the cemetery the next day, she decided.

A confrontation with Max’s family was something she should try to avoid.

<center>***</center>

Boston, United States of America, October 1945

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked hesitantly, shifting Amanda in her arms.

Alan nodded confidently. “Of course it is! I can’t run the store on my own, and you have so many things to worry about… the house, Amanda… We need to hire someone, honey.” He stuck the paper on the shop window with some adhesive tape, then walked outside to see if the text was readable.

Tess followed him slowly, her hand grabbing the comforter Amanda had spit out. “But Alan…” she glanced away briefly, pausing to coax Amanda into opening her mouth in order to replace the comforter, “can we even afford this?” She looked down at her slightly protruding stomach, then her eyes doubtfully darted back to Alan’s face. “We’ll need an awful lot of money to take care of them.”

Alan’s lips curled into a loving smile and he ruffled Tess’s hair in adoration. “Don’t worry about that, mein Schatz. I’ve got it under control.” He gave her a light kiss on her lips, then turned his attention to Amanda, stroking her round cheek with the back of his hand. “Daddy has it all worked out, hasn’t he?”

Smiling despite of her doubts, Tess carried Amanda back inside, gasping playfully as Alan’s arm circled her waist and he kissed her neck lovingly. Amanda spit out her comforter once more, but neither Tess, nor Alan, really noticed.

<center>***</center>

Boston, United States of America, November 1945

She awoke in the late afternoon, feeling tired and lost. She had barely slept at all after arriving in Boston. She simply had been unable to close her eyes in the darkened motel room. Perhaps it had something to do with the size of the motel bed, which was far too large for her petite figure. Maybe it was the sound with which the bed would creak whenever she would turn that kept her from giving in to sleep’s compelling lure. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way she felt: disillusioned.

He had told her so much about the United States. Together, they had fantasized about escaping Europe, about getting away from his duties, her fears and their bad memories. She had always imagined America to be rich, and the Americans, they were supposed to be friendly. Up until now, everyone she had met had either called her names or had ignored her, merely because of her German accent.

Of course, she had felt as an outsider in Germany, even after it had been defeated, but she had always had her mother with her. She had been familiar with the traditions and customs of the country and she had spoken the language fluently. Now, she was alone, a small human being in a big city, in an even bigger country. And she was scared. Very scared.

No one could help her now.

Liz slowly pushed herself up in a sitting position, her muscles stiff, her cheeks wet. She would dream about him at least four days a week, and no matter what happened, she would always end up crying. When she had said goodbye to him… when she had placed the stone upon his grave… she had expected the pain to be less raw… less evident. She had been wrong. Not much had changed.

She had thought that being far away from Germany would soothe her, that living his dream would somehow bring her a sense of satisfaction.

It didn’t. Again, she had been mistaken.

She was living his dream on her own, and everything – whatever she did, said or saw - reminded her of that.

Through the thin walls of the motel room, she could hear a screeching sound when a rusty shower knob was turned and the sound of water hit the floor of a shower cabin. With a sigh, Liz slipped out of bed and grabbed her clothes. It was time to explore the city a bit. She still needed to send her mother a postcard and, even though she was tired, she knew she wouldn’t sleep any time soon.

<center>***</center>

AN:
Kommen Sie aus Deutschland? = Do you come from Germany?
Jah = Yes
Und Sie? = And you?
Liebchen = dear/love/sweetheart
Komm doch mal her = Oh, come here
Süßen = sweetheart

Idstein is a German town that indeed does exist (I’ve been there!), but I’ve decided that in my story, it is a different Idstein than the Idstein that really exists. I don’t think that the real Idstein has a Jewish graveyard and stuff. I just couldn’t come up with a German name for Liz’s hometown.

Hope the German is all right. It is somewhat similar to Dutch, but still very different… If anyone notices a mistake, please tell me? I only know what I’ve learnt at school, and that ain’t much…

Without further ado, I hereby present to you:

<center>Chapter 49</center>

United States of America, Boston, November 1945

“Excuse me? Sir? Sir!” Liz tapped the tall man in front of her on his shoulder whilst taking hurried steps in order to keep up with his large ones. “Sir?”

All of a sudden, the man stopped and, not having expected this, she lightly bumped into him. With mortification, she glanced up at him. “I’m so sorry,” she hastily apologized, paying close attention to her accent. “I didn’t…”

“That’s quite all right,” the man smiled, his eyes twinkling gently. “Don’t worry about it.” He was silent for a second, and Liz marveled at the kindness in his face.

“Can I help you?” he finally queried.

“Yes, actually,” Liz paused momentarily, forming the English sentence with some difficulty, “I was hoping you knew if there a job market is here.”

The man gave her a wide smile, and she noticed he was trying to stifle a laugh. “Kommen Sie aus Deutschland?” he asked her in fluent German.

Surprised, she nodded at him. “Jah,” she answered in German, a frown showing her bewilderment. “Und Sie?”

“Born and raised,” he grinned, and extended his hand. “Alan Fraser – a pleasure to meet you.”

She took his hand and shook it lightly. “Elizabeth Parker,” she introduced herself, “but most people call me Liz.”

“Liz,” he nodded. “What part of Germany do you come from? Berlin?”

Shaking her head, she let go of Alan’s hand. “No, I’m from Idstein.” Alan looked slightly puzzled. “Near Frankfurt?” Liz tried again, and this time, Alan nodded understandingly.

“How did you know I was German?” Liz asked curiously, and a little bit embarrassed. “Is my English that terrible?”

Alan laughed, obviously amused with her question. “No, not really. It could be worse. But you have an accent,” he said in flawless English, “and the order in which you place the words is quite horrible… something typically German.”

She smiled somewhat embarrassed. “This is my first week in America,” she confessed, attempting to speak English once more, a blush crawling up her neck. “I’m learning still how… to speak English.”

“You’re doing a fine job, Liz,” Alan complimented her kindly, his eyes sparkling, the deep tint of their green reminding her of the water in the monastery’s pond. “Now… you were looking for a job market?”

Nodding, she wiped her sweaty palms at her skirt. She felt slightly awkward talking to this perfect stranger, especially in English. She desperately wanted him to like her, even though she had no idea why. “I am,” she assented.

Alan was quiet for a while, his facial expression pensive. “How would you like to work in a bakery?” he offered, and she didn’t miss the hopeful tone in his voice. “The pay won’t be very big, but the work isn’t hard and you could eat and sleep in our house.”

“I could?” Liz asked, a bit surprised. “I… ehm… I would like that, sir.”

Smiling widely, Alan placed his hands upon her shoulders. “That’s great! You’ll get along perfectly well with my wife,” he said happily, “I’m sure. Oh, and you’ll love Amanda. She’s our daughter,” he added in a rush, pride clearly visible in his eyes, his stance, his entire demeanor.

And, while she walked towards Alan Fraser’s bakery, she noticed she no longer felt as lost as before.

<center>***</center>

United States of America, Boston, May 1949

Boston was beautiful in the spring. The air was heavy with the scent of fragrant roses and the rain that had fallen overnight. Liz wandered slowly, aimlessly, through the streets of Boston and finally into Boston Common, Boston’s park, just looking for a way to spend her Sunday morning. It was Paris’s birthday, and somehow, she felt as if it was a day the Fraser-family should spend alone, without her. She had grown extremely fond of Amanda and Paris Fraser – Amanda had, in fact, captured her heart with a single smile – and though she liked spending time with them, she knew she wouldn’t stay with the Frasers forever.

Her aspirations exceeded working in a bakery, and that was exactly what she had told Alan. He had reacted more understanding than she had expected him to, encouraging, even, and had lent her money so that she could afford the education needed to become a teacher.

A child’s laughter reached her ears, and she smiled despite of the sadness sweeping through her. She sat down on a little white bench in the middle of the park, her eyes downcast. Robin would have been about Amanda’s age now. Four years old. Able to talk, walk, play…

Sometimes at night, when she was reluctant to go to sleep and face her nightmares, she tried to imagine what their child would have looked like. She never was able to conjure up Robin’s face – it changed every time she tried to picture it – except for Robin’s eyes. Robin’s eyes would be like Max’s: large, light and trusting. The golden amber of the irises would gleam in the moonlight streaming through her window, and she would hold Robin. She would hold her child until she had managed to cry herself into a light, numb slumber and, at last, fell asleep.

Liz sniffed quietly and shivered, pulling her wool coat tighter around her body as she tried to sink deeper into it. All of a sudden, two hands went around her face and covered her eyes.

“Guess who?”

Slightly started, she gave a little scream and swiped at the hands shielding her eyes. The familiarity in his voice gave him away, and gamely, she answered, “Matthew?”

Matthew McKenzie, a young man in his early twenties, groaned in disappointment, and his hands slipped off her face. “How could you tell?”

She shrugged a little indifferently, but had to smile anyway. “No one but you would do something this… childish…”

He huffed and, taking on an offended air, he sat down next to her.

“But that’s okay,” she added playfully and patted him on his arm. “I like children.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, and Matt, who just happened to be her neighbor, scratched his eyebrow, a tuft of his blond hair falling before his eyes. He brushed it away, annoyed, and then looked up at her in sheer admiration.

“Go out with me Saturday,” he implored, his blue eyes beseechingly staring up into hers. “Please.”

Smiling faintly, she evaded his gaze. “Matt…” she begun hesitantly, but he cut her short.

“Please? Don’t make me beg?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “You are begging, Matthew,” she pointed out, avoiding his question. He had asked her out before, and always, she had tried to let him down gently.

“Please, Liz,” he pleaded. “Just once. Go out with me just once and I’ll prove you I’m worth the trouble.”

She felt her resolve weakening. The man she loved was dead. He wouldn’t come back. He wouldn’t give her the love, the warmth, the children she dreamt of.

As she shyly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she gave her head a hesitant nod. “All right. But just once,” she warned him, though his joyous shout-out drowned out her words. She ducked her head embarrassed when she noticed people looking at them, and, despite of herself, she felt a smile slipping upon her lips.

<center>***</center>

United States of America, Boston, May 1949

Tess looked utterly satisfied by the time she carefully put the pin in Liz’s hair. “You look heartbreakingly beautiful, Liz,” she commented. “Really.”

Liz smiled feebly. The woman in the mirror smiled back at her, several tresses of her dark hair escaping the pile of hair on the back of her head. “Thank you. I really appreciate it, Tess.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Tess laughed. “I’m just so glad you’re going out tonight! Finally Alan and I will have the couch to ourselves!” When Liz didn’t reply, nor laughed, she frowningly added, “That was a joke, Liebchen.”

“I know it was,” Liz answered miserably. She raised her eyes and looked at Tess’s reflection. “Do you love Alan?”

“With all my heart,” Tess replied, no doubt evident in her eyes as she met Liz’s darker ones in the mirror. “Why?”

Liz glanced down, at her manicured hands and the thin, silver bracelet Tess had lent her. “Can you imagine loving someone else… after having loved him?”

Sighing in wonder, Tess took a step back and sat down on the edge of her bed. “What a difficult question,” she said, then ran her hand through her hair. “No…” she finally answered. “I don’t think I can.”

Liz turned around and looked at her sadly. “I don’t think I can, either.” She was silent for several seconds, a pensive frown marring her face. “I need to talk about this… will you listen?”

Tess smiled and stroked Liz’s cheek. “I’m here,” she replied lovingly. “I’ll listen.”

“His name was Max,” Liz begun, somewhat hesitantly. She hadn’t talked about Max in years, and speaking his name made the pain over losing him rush back to her. “He was an Aryan, like you. I’ve known him since I was little.” She swallowed with difficulty and tried to avoid Tess’s eyes. The compassion she was bound to see in them would surely make her cry. “I loved him. He loved me… I think he did. He helped me during the war, but I got pregnant, and we fought. And I was so angry with him, and he was furious with me. He… got caught… I didn’t, but lost our child. He died and I… didn’t…”

“Oh, Liebchen…” Tess whispered and reached out to embrace Liz. “Komm doch mal her…”

Liz willingly let herself be hold, tears swimming in her eyes. It was with carefully hidden tear-streaks she later descended the stairs.

Matt didn’t notice.

<center>***</center>

United States of America, Boston, June 1949

“Oh, that one!” Amanda exclaimed excitedly whilst staring through the shop window. “The red one, Liz!”

Liz leaned forward to look through the window and followed the direction in which Amanda had pointed. “The red one?”

“Oh no, no, wait!” Amanda took some steps and then pointed at another car. “I like that one better, Liz! It looks like daddy’s car! See?”

Smiling, Liz studied the happy expression on Amanda’s face and then stared at the blue car. “It does,” she admitted. “How about that yellow car, over there?”

Amanda didn’t give the car a second glance but simply scrunched up her nose. “With the doll in it?”

Liz laughed and shook her head. “Forget it. Stupid question.” She threw her hair over her shoulder and, as she took Amanda’s hand, she cheerfully said, “The blue one it is.”

While the man behind the counter wrapped the present up, Amanda pulled at Liz’s arm. There was a mischievous gleam in her light blue eyes, and she motioned for Liz to lean over. “Do you know what mom and dad got me?” she whispered excitedly in Liz’s ear. “Meccano? Will I get Meccano? Please?”

Liz couldn’t keep a smile from her lips. “You curious little thing!” she exclaimed as she straightened, and ruffled Amanda’s blonde curls. “No, I have no idea what your parents got you. And even if I did, there’s no way I’d be telling you.”

“No?” Amanda pouted disappointedly, and Liz could feel something tugging at her heart.

With a determined shake of her head, Liz pinched Amanda’s cheek. “No, Süßen. I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Oh,” Amanda breathed out slowly. “Well… Just six more days, right?”

“Seven,” Liz corrected her laughingly. “But they’ll be over before you know it, Mandy.”

Amanda proudly beamed up at the man behind the cash register. “And then I’ll be five years old!” She showed the man her right hand and counted her fingers. “Five!”

The man and Liz traded an amused look and before leaving the store, Liz gave him a smile. Life was good. She wasn’t complete, but she was living. Her past with her still – it was a part of her she’d never be able to let go, would never want to let go – but she was all right. She had done well for herself and the times she wondered if she deserved the life she was living were scarce.

<center>***</center>

United States of America, Boston, September 1949

“I had a great time tonight, Matt,” Liz said quietly as she pushed her hands farther into her coat’s pockets. “Thank you.”

“Me too,” Matt agreed, but there was something off about the way he smiled. “Except for the time you called me Max.”

Horrified, Liz stared up at him. “I called you Max?”

Matt smiled sadly. “You did. But it’s all right. I understand. It’s just…” he was quiet for a while as he searched for the right words to say, and an awkward silence stretched out between them. “I’m just afraid I’ll never be good enough. You can’t let him rule your life, Liz. You have to try and let him go.”

“But I did!” Liz defended herself, tears stinging her eyes. “I did let him go! I’m here with you now, aren’t I? I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t let go of him.”

“You think about him every time we’re together,” Matt accused her. He raked his hand through his blonde hair, his eyes taking on a helpless look. “He’s still with you, Liz. I can’t compete with him! I can’t compete with a memory!”

“He’s dead,” Liz bit out. “How can a dead man compete with you, Matt?”

Her words silenced him, and he slightly bowed his head. “Just try to let him go, Liz,” he implored. “I’m not him. I’ll never be.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she refuted, still slightly annoyed, but foremost hurt. She snorted lightly and turned her head. “Good night, Matt.”

“Nite, Liz,” he said, and when she heard the disappointment in his voice, she hesitated. Should she apologize? Swallowing, she turned around, ready to tell him she was sorry, but he was already walking down the street, into the night.

“Matthew?” she called out. “Matthew, wait!”

He expectantly turned around, his eyes meeting hers questioning.

“Good night,” she said, kinder than before.

Matt smiled adoringly, and she could see his eyes sparkle in the light of the street lamp. “Good night,” he, too, called out, and blew her a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded, and followed his lonely figure until he had rounded the corner, and the street was once more deserted and quiet. With a sigh, she opened the front door and hung up her coat. It had been relatively warm outside for late September, and she hadn’t really needed it.

“Liz?”

Tess almost ran out of the living room, her blonde curls bouncing up and down as she entered the hall.

“Hi Tess,” Liz greeted her absentmindedly, trying not to show her chagrin over what had happened. She pulled the pin out of her hair and shook her head just slightly, letting her dark hair flow down. “What’s the matter?”

“Somebody called for you,” Tess excitedly informed her, waving her hands animatedly as she spoke. “He was German, and he said he knew you, Liz.”

“German?” A strange sensation rose in Liz’s stomach and she wasn’t sure she liked it. The only thing she knew was that she hadn’t felt it in a very long time. “Did you get his name, Tess? Did he tell you his name?”

“He said his name was Evans,” Tess told her, her rounded eyes vibrant. Liz’s breath hitched in her throat. “I didn’t get his first name, though.”

Liz desperately tried to calm her wildly beating heart, but it seemed in vain. Evans. Could it have been Max? How could he have found her? Through Maria? Her mother? She felt her knees weakening, and reached for the wall for support.

Evans… Maybe it had been Roger…

The realization put a damper upon her effervescent feelings. Of course it had been Roger. It couldn’t have been Max. Not Max. Max was dead.

Max was dead. Max was dead. Max was dead. She repeated it to herself several times, then took a deep breath. “Did he give you his number? Will he call back?” she asked Tess.

Tess shook her head, sending blonde curls awhirl. “He asked me if he could speak to Elizabeth Parker – in very broken English, actually – and I told him you were out, on a date.” Tess narrowed her eyes pensively as she tried to recall the exact course of the conversation. “He asked me how you were doing, and I said you were doing fine… Then he wished me good night and hung up.”

For a second, Liz was certain her heart would beat its way out of her chest. It pounded furiously, pumping her blood through her veins, making her slightly dizzy. Evans… Max? Max Evans?

She desperately tried to push back the hope that was crawling up inside of her, grasping at the bits and pieces of information Tess had so willingly offered. Evans… Not Max… It couldn’t be Max.

“He… he won’t call me back?” she stammered out in wonder. “Never?”

“Well,” Tess mused, “he didn’t explicitly say that. He didn’t say he would call back, but he never said he wouldn’t, either.”

Liz let her eyes fall closed for a second, trying to gather the incoherent thoughts that were being led astray by – what she was sure was – false hope.

“Does this mean anything?” Tess curiously queried. “Do you know a man called Evans?”

While Liz understood why Tess was being so probing – it was the one and only connection to Liz’s mysterious past – she couldn’t help but be slightly irritated by her curiosity. “No,” she lied, though she knew Tess was well aware she wasn’t telling the truth. “It doesn’t mean anything at all.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she knew she had to leave before they would fall. Running up the stairs, she tried to leave Tess and the phone call behind, but soon came to the conclusion she could only succeed in shaking off Tess.

<center>***</center>

All righty… Now I’m going to be super evil and tell you I have no idea when I’ll update again. Unfortunately I’ll have my finals next week and though I wish I could tell you I don’t have to study for them at all, I can’t. *sigh*


Love you!

Stefanie

P.S. Something from Max’s point of view in the next chapter(s), I promise!
P.S.2. Hi cherie! Great to have you here! You know I’m a huge fan of your writing!
P.S.3.

Dee wrote:Sure he might be broken in spirit or maybe missing a couple of limbs but as long as he's able to crawl, hop, hobble, slide or creep to Liz's side it's all good, lol.

Oh, and Isabel wasn't on the Jewish cemetery because of Max. Max was Christian and therefore he'd never be buried on a Jewish cemetery. No, she was there for an entirely different reason... one that's difficult to explain, but I hope it will all become clear later.

AN: A BIG thank you goes out to Nan and {o}, for they were so sweet to help me with the Polish. I hope the German’s correct as well. Mmm… it’s getting really multi-lingual now, lol.

Polish:
“Krystyna” = name, Polish version of Christina (I really love this name…)
“Nie, nie…” = “No, no…”
“Ostrożnie. Wciąż jesteś słaby.” = “Careful. You’re still very weak.”
“polsku” = “Polish”
“Poczekaj,” = “Wait,”
“Pójdę po Andrzeja,” = “I’ll get André.” (André is the Dutch version of Andrew, I think)

German:
“Ah, Sie sind wach! Sließlich!” = “Ah, you’re awake! At last!”
“Wo” = “Where”
“Mein Freund…” = “My friend…”
“der Krieg” = “the war”
“Bist du das?” = “Is that you?”
“Bitte… antworte mich…” = “Please… answer me…”

<center>Chapter 50</center>

Poland, March 1945

The rich sound of Liz’s laughter made the corners of his lips twitch up, curl into a happy smile. He reached out for her, slowly, his fingers sliding over the smooth skin of her upper arm with ease. Suddenly shy, she ducked her head and looked up at him from beneath those long, thick lashes of her, her gaze challenging, tender love carefully wrapped around her desire, barely attempting to hide it from him. She raised her hands in one, fluent motion and traced the line of his nose, the soft pads of her fingers skating over his face – his cheeks, his forehead, his lips…

His eyes fluttered closed, his eyelids heavy, but when he opened them again, with as much ease as with which a butterfly would fly in a hurricane, Liz’s warm brown eyes were replaced by another set of eyes – less dark and less expressive than Liz’s. His eyes slipped shut once more, even though he desperately tried to keep them open. The feeling of hands upon his face was there and hadn’t left him since he’d slipped out of his dream world, but the hands weren’t Liz’s – definitely not Liz’s – and they touched him tentatively while cool water trickled down his forehead and ran down his temples.

He blinked slowly, at loss. The face before him was unfamiliar, and though he could read the concern in the eyes staring down at him, he felt ill at ease. “Liz?” His voice was hoarse and barely audible, even to his own ears.

The woman to whom the face with the inquisitive eyes belonged shook her head. “Krystyna,” she said while pointing at herself. She then began rattling in a language Max vaguely recognized to be Polish, and though he picked up a word or two, he was unable to understand her.

Krystyna, who very likely had noticed the look of confusion on his face, repeated her words at a slower pace, and still, Max couldn’t get what she was trying to tell him. He closed his eyes tiredly, but was startled by the pain that raced through him the second he tried to inhale deeply. It left him out of breath, and when he desperately gasped for air, more biting pain sliced through him.

With worried eyes, Krystyna gazed down at him, trying to calm his breathing with her gentle touch. He coughed, the air whooshing painfully through his throat, his throat’s tissue dry and sore. Closing his eyes, he made a weak attempt to still the rapid pace with which his heart beat and tried to suppress the burning coughs rising up in his throat. It seemed in vain, though, and he felt as though he was going to burst. Suddenly, there was something cool pressing against his lips, and drops of water slid past his lips.

Krystyna’s soft voice interrupted his confusing train of thoughts. “Nie, nie…” she whispered quietly when he tried to sit upright, and she gently stroked his forehead, “Ostrożnie. Wciąż jesteś słaby.”

“Nie?” he echoed confused, repeating the single word he did understand. No? He dug deep into his mind, but his memories were scarce and vague, so it was in a mixture of Polish and German that he said, “I don’t… I don’t speak polsku.”

“Poczekaj,” the woman answered, a light smile grazing her lips. Max could not help but notice how beautiful she looked when smiling, how her light, gray eyes seemed to smile along with her lips. “Pójdę po Andrzeja,” Krystyna continued, and Max nodded meekly whilst he tried to figure out the meaning of her words. Poczekaj was a word he’d heard before, in the labor camp. It meant ‘wait’… the rest of the sentence made little sense to him.

Krystyna smiled once more before she got up from her place beside the bed and left the room. It gave Max the time to take in his surroundings. The room he was lying in wasn’t very big or luxurious. The drapes were partly drawn and looked old, their flower-print slightly faded and blurred. The windows were small and residues of adhesive-tape were obvious remnants of the war. It looked as though the windows were no longer darkened.

Would the war be over?

Max blinked, and his vision tilted slightly when he tried to focus on the headlines of the newspaper Krystyna had very likely been reading before he had awoken and had drawn her attention. They were in Polish, though, and the more he tried to understand them, the less comprehendible they seemed. His head throbbed painfully, and he closed his eyes in surrender when the pain seemed to go straight down his body, making his stomach clench in disquiet.

“Ah, Sie sind wach! Sließlich!”

A man with a round face, a round nose and a round stomach – it seemed as though everything about him was round – entered the room, his arms spread widely.

He spoke German. Max would’ve sighed in relief, wouldn’t it have hurt him so badly. “I am,” he assented with difficulty, his vocal chords still not entirely co-operating. “Wo… where am I?”

“With us,” the man grinned, his large nose gleaming in the little sunlight filtering through the dark orange drapes. “I am André,” he said in heavy accented German, “and this is my wife, Krystyna, but I believe you already met.”

Nodding weakly, Max distended his eyes just to keep them from falling shut. “Krystyna,” he repeated, grimacing when a wave of dizziness washed over him. “I know.” He cleared his throat, but paid for it dearly, another splinter of pain being stung into his already tense nerves. “How… Why…” he stammered, fumbling with the words.

“You were hurt badly,” André said, and Max’s befuddled mind slowly came to the conclusion that the accent was Dutch, or Flemish. “Polish soldiers found you in the snow, bleeding. You were lucky, kid. A friend of mine brought you here.” Krystyna seemed to understand exactly what her husband was saying, for she nodded, her face bearing the gentlest expression Max had ever seen.

In a hurried, frightening rush, the images and memories came back to him. Their attempt at escaping, the snow, the bullets…

Trevor.

“Mein… Mein Freund…” he muttered, his thoughts incoherent. “Do you know… is he…?”

André frowned, his blonde, bristly eyebrows drawn in a tight line, and shook his head. “I don’t know… I haven’t heard anything about a second man. Was he with you?”

Max answered with a simple nod that showed the devastation he felt, and he pushed aside the feeling of loss sweeping through him. It rooted deep inside of him, though, and that moment, he knew he’d never get over it. “Is… the war… der Krieg… is it over?”

With a wistful laugh, André moved to sit down beside the bed in which Max was lying. “Not quite yet,” he said, “but we’re winning, kid. We’re winning. Now, tell me… what’s your name?”

Max’s eyes fell closed for a second time, and he forced himself to keep them open. “Max,” he answered, mustering all his strength to stay awake and focused. “My name is Max Evans. My family… I’d like to… Is there any way I can reach them?”

“Are they in Germany?” André queried, and when Max nodded, he determinedly shook his head. “Then no, you cannot reach them. We’re lucky that this part of our country is freed. They’re still fighting elsewhere, son.”

“Oh,” Max breathed out laboriously as he bit down the pain. “I need… I need to see them…”

“You can’t,” André persisted. “It’s too dangerous to go back to Germany. Besides, you’re in no condition to do so. It’d be suicide to leave.” He gestured vaguely at Max’s stomach, and wrapped his arms around Krystyna in a loving manner. “We didn’t go through all this trouble just to have you giving your life away, Max.”

Krystyna added something in Polish, but it didn’t quite reach Max. He drifted off on the deep timbre off André’s answering voice, and Liz immediately was back with him, her smile contagious.

“I missed you,” she whispered, but she danced out of his reach when he raised his arms and tried to touch her.

Max smiled sadly. “I missed you, too.”

<center>***</center>

United States of America, Boston, September 1949

The swan graciously slid over the translucent water of the pond, its head high up in the air, its delicately curved neck ridiculously thin and fragile. A light autumn breeze blew through her hair. It stirred swaying stalks of grass and rustling branches, carried forth the smell of a fresh morning filled with new promises.

Time seemed to be crawling. Nine days had passed since the mysterious phone call, but to her, it felt as though eternity had come and gone – several times. Had it been Roger? Why had he called her? Where had he gotten her number? Could it have been Max? Was God playing an evil trick on her?

She sighed listlessly, unimpressed by the beauty all around her. A dragonfly flickered in the sunlight. It flittered aimlessly above the pond, its gauzed wings just barely touching the surface as it danced above the water, free, careless.

The telephone the Fraser-family shared with four other families had rung twice after she had heard about the phone call that had changed her life so drastically. It hadn't been Max. Now, more than a week after the phone call, she was beginning to wonder if she was reading too much into it. Of course, she did only know three German men called Evans – Max, Roger and their father – but maybe the phone call hadn’t been so significant as she initially thought it had been.

Liz brushed her hair out of her face and got up from the small, white bench. The silence in the park was gradually being replaced by laughter and cries from children, and she was in no mood to linger there any longer. She wandered through Boston’s streets, telling herself she should write her mother; it had been weeks since she’d last corresponded with her.

The house was awfully quiet when she entered it. It seemed empty and lifeless without Paris and Amanda’s laughter, or Alan and Tess’s playful banter. Alan had gone to the synagogue, while Tess had decided to take the kids out for a picnic. She had invited Liz to go along, but Liz had gracefully declined the offer, determined to spend some time alone.

Now that she had her time alone, she didn’t know what to do. Everything seemed so pointless. Her relationship with Matthew was falling apart, being kept together by sheer will power alone. Aunt Caroline, who had promised to visit her in the fall, had suddenly decided not to come. Kyle was getting married. Everyone around her was moving on, but somehow, she couldn’t do so. She couldn’t find her way.

She closed the door behind her, quietly, and was slowly unbuttoning her jacket when the shrill sound of the phone rang through the flat. Her heart stopped momentarily, and her breath froze, hitched in her throat. A split second later, she had thrown open the door and was stumbling down the stairs, her shawl in one hand, the banister in her other. Out of breath, she picked up the phone, steeling herself for another disappointment.

“Hello?” she breathed into the phone’s mouthpiece. The person on the receiving end was quiet, and an awkward silence stretched out between them.

“Can I help you?” she then asked and nervously, she twirled the telephone’s cord around her finger. She could hear him breathing… “Max?” Her voice trembled lightly, and she pressed the phone harder into her ear, wishing she could hear what he was doing, what he was thinking. Was it Max? It had to be Max. “Max… is that… is that you? Bist du das?”

More silence ensued, and the only things she could hear were his heavy breathing and her thundering heart. It was Max. She knew it was him. It had to be him. No one else had ever made her feel like this… or did she just feel this excited because she believed it was him?

Jeanette, the woman who lived beneath them, walked into the hallway whilst wiping her greasy hands at her apron, a curious expression on her face. Liz twirled the telephone’s cord tighter around her finger, her skin turning a yellowish shade of white because her blood's circulation was cut short. “Bitte,” she pleaded in a broken whisper, tears stinging her eyes, “please, Max… Antworte mich…”

There was another long silence, and at last, it was ended by an annoying beeping. He had hung up. Liz incredulously stared at the receiver. He had hung up, just like that. She was painfully aware of Jeanette’s probing stare when she laid the receiver down. She was painfully aware of her own tears, running down her cheeks that burned with anger, regret and shame.

She was painfully aware of the love she thought she'd banned, but obviously, still harbored.

<center>***</center>

--- The ending for this story is drawing near… It is not quite ended yet (of course not!) but I strive to finish it in a couple of weeks. Thanks for reading, you all, and for nominating me, which means more to me than I’ll ever be able to express. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, despite of the abundant use of foreign languages and such…

Love,
Stefanie

Extra big thank you to {o} for explaining the difficulties of the Polish language!

AN:

German:
“Es ist schön gut,” = “It is okay,”
“Mein Gott” = “My God”
“Es tut mir leid,” = “I’m sorry,”
“Warte… bitte…” = “Wait… please…”

<center>Chapter 51</center>

United States of America, Boston, October 1949

“I guess that what I’m trying to say is…” Liz sighed and dared a glance at Matthew, “I like you – love you, even – but… not the way you expect me to… not the way you want me to, Matt.” She chewed on her bottom lip while trying to suppress the self-deprecating feelings rising inside of her.

Matthew met her gaze, but was the first one to break it, too, to look away when he couldn’t take it any longer. “I see. Well, I’m…” he started slowly, but faltered. He scratched his eyebrow in discomfort and avoided her eyes by staring at the floor. “I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t see this coming. I did. And I’m…” he swallowed laboriously, obviously having a hard time comprehending it all, “I’m… I’m glad you told me. If this is how you feel…”

“It is,” Liz assented, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t expected it to be this difficult. She hadn’t expected to feel this… low… “I love you, Matt, and with all my heart, but I’m not… I’m just not in love with you. Not anymore. I’m not… I’m not sure if I ever were.” He leveled her gauging look with a hurt one of his one, and she was shocked by how vulnerable he seemed. “I’m sorry,” she added quietly, her eyes downcast. “I hadn’t meant for this to happen.”

“I know,” he said, and tilted his head slightly, his blonde hair falling before his eyes in the most alluring way possible. “I know, but that doesn’t make the pain any less.” He gazed down at her in an almost humble way, though his lips were drawn into a bitter grimace. “I’m sorry, too, Liz. For not being who you wanted me to be.”

Liz’s mouth fell open, and she indignantly shook her head. “That is not what this is about, Matt. If you think that’s–”

“It is, Liz,” he cut in, his blue eyes demandingly keeping hers locked in his gaze. “Don’t you see? You’ve never given me a chance. Not truly.” He stared at her daringly, as if challenging her to counter his words. “I’ve never had a real chance,” he said after a brief silence, then took his hat from the coat rack and left. She wanted him to slam the door shut, or to scream, curse even, but he didn’t. He just left, quiet as ever, his otherwise so vibrant eyes now dead and empty.

She staggered slightly, absorbed in self-pity and pain, and leaned back to the wall, laying her head against the cold stones. Tears of misery sprang out of her eyes. For the first time in America, she truly hated herself. It was a familiar feeling – one she hadn’t missed – and, as the self-deprecating feelings rushed through her, she wondered why she was still alive.

<center>***</center>

United States of America, Boston, October 1949

The more time passed after the second phone call, the more insecure Liz started to feel. If it had indeed been Max, then why hadn’t he told her he was all right? Why had he hung up when she’d nearly begged him to talk to her? Slowly but surely, she was going insane. She thought she saw Max everywhere; at school, in the park, in the mall…

And now, two weeks after that second call, she felt as if she had to let him go. She couldn’t let him rule her life, not anymore. She didn’t eat and didn’t sleep, and at school, she had a hard time concentrating on the children around her. Several people had already commented on how tired she looked, and Tess and Alan were getting worried.

Max… she wasn’t even sure what he looked like anymore. There were times that she could see him right in front of her and remembered every mole, every freckle, every line in his face… but most of the times, he was nothing more but a faded memory – a very fondled one, though.

She kneeled down near the pond and emptied her bag on the ground. Several ducks quacked excitedly when they noticed the bread crumbs spread in the grass and almost immediately wobbled her way. Liz threw some bread in the water, the ducks’ enthusiasm stirring her own. A duck right beside her quacked loudly – in fright? – then flapped its wings and flew up.

She held her breath, startled, not noticing how the wind lifted the crumbs in her hand and blew them upon the water’s surface.

There was a reflection in the pond’s water. The water’s waves rippled the image just slightly, but there was the unmistakable outline of his face, the deep warmth of his eyes – right in front of her. Was he standing behind her? Was he? Would he disappear the second she’d turn around?

With distended eyes, she leaned forward ever so slightly, and briefly touched the water, the coolness sliding through her fingers. His reflection wavered for a moment, but when she pulled her hand back and the waves she’d created calmed, it almost immediately returned.

Her heart was beating furiously, and she closed her eyes in pain – God, the pain… She could feel herself trembling, a shiver running down her spine and, with a lot of effort, she forced herself to open her eyes again. He was still there… hadn’t moved since she’d first seen him. Was it him? Could it be him? Was he really there?

She reminded herself to breathe – it amazed her how hard it was for her to just heave her chest – and repeatedly she tried to swallow down the salty lump in her throat. Then there was that hand upon her shoulder, his hand, and she knew it was him. She knew it was Max.

Her world tilted.

With blurred vision and trembling limbs, she pushed herself upright, hesitant to turn around. She didn’t know how she eventually did turn around. Perhaps it had been his hand that had made her turn, or maybe she’d done so on her own accord, unable to drown her curious desire in her fears any longer. In the end, it didn’t really seem to matter, for the confusion was instantly swept away by the abundance of memories, warmth and pain that washed over her.

Max’s eyes shone – unshed tears glimmering in the bright sunlight – and the few changes in his appearance made her wonder if she seemed as familiar to him as he did to her. And still, she marveled, so much was unfamiliar, so much had changed. He was different in so many ways… the way he touched her – as though she might break the second he held her too roughly – the way he looked at her… his entire stance had changed, from the way his shoulders squared to the way he stood.

Carefully, he reached for her face, and she made an honest attempt to smile, but failed miserably. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she didn’t even try to stop them. He wiped some of them away with his thumb, in tender caresses.

“Hey,” he whispered, and hadn’t she felt so confused, so pained, so loved and so utterly miserable, she would’ve laughed over his simple, but sincere greeting. She only managed to snort, though a weak smile shone through her tears when she looked up at him.

“Mein Gott,” she breathed, all coherent thoughts lost the second he had touched her, or perhaps even before that, when she had first seen him. There were so many things she wanted to say, even more things she needed to say… she just didn’t know where to begin.

“Liz,” he said as he desperately hard tried to smile.

She noticed how stubbornly he kept fighting his tears. “Es ist schön gut,” she whispered, and reached out to stroke his cheek, his chin. Tentative fingers brushed over roughened, stubbly skin. “Es ist schön gut, Max…”

Several tears escaped the corners of his eyes. He blinked rapidly, tried to keep them from falling, but the second she stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around him, he knew it was a battle he had lost. “I missed you,” he confessed softly as his arms encircled her slender and pulled her closer. “I… I thought about you every day, Liz.”

“Me, too,” she said, laying her head against his chest. “Why didn’t you say something? On the phone?” She could feel his body stiffen, and with curious eyes, she looked up at him.

“I… I was afraid,” he admitted, slightly abashed. A blush rose to his cheeks, and he furiously wiped at them – to remove both the tears and the blush. “To hear your voice… I feared you had moved on… I feared you wouldn’t want to see me.”

He was quiet for a while, and she knew there was something he wasn’t telling her. There was something in the way he held her that told her so. He had been afraid, yes, but there had been more to it.

“Es tut mir leid,” he croaked, reverentially moving his fingers over her forehead, her cheeks. “I’m sorry about everything, Liz.”

It was so amazing to be in his arms again, that she briefly forgot about the secrets he was keeping from her.

It was unbelievable to breathe in the scent she’d thought she would never again smell. It was incredible to see the face she’d thought she would never again lay eyes on. It was heaven and beyond to lose herself in the eyes she’d thought she would never again find back.

Liz sighed briefly – the movement spread relaxation through her entire body – and she took one of his hands in her own. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered, momentarily closing her eyes to just… feel… “About the things I said… did. If it hadn’t been for me, you –”

Max laid his finger on her lips, silencing her. “It doesn’t matter, Liz. It’s in the past now. Let’s not slice any old wounds open.” His eyes sparkled goldenly in the sun’s light, and Liz wondered briefly how she had survived without him.

“So…” he drew a deep breath and slid some of Liz’s hair behind her ears. “What is her name?”

Liz looked up at him in confusion, her brows slightly furrowed, her lips parted. “What do you mean?”

“Our daughter,” he prompted, “what is her name?”

She staggered lightly, feeling as though she’d been punched in the stomach. “Our daughter?”

Max’s eyes clouded, and his delighted expression fell. “You will let me see her, won’t you?” His hands grabbed her shoulders and he intensely stared into her eyes. “Liz, I’m her father. I understand that you moved on and that she thinks… he…” his eyes blazed with hurt and anger, “is her father, but I deserve to see her, too. I’m her real father.”

Shaking her head in a helpless manner, she withdrew herself from his arms. She had no idea how to tell him, but she knew she had to. “I don’t… We don’t have a daughter, Max.” The devastation was easily readable in his eyes, and the hurt and confusion almost killed her. “Our child died,” she whispered. “It died before it was born.”

“No,” he shook his head wildly, fury and incomprehension replacing the pain on his face. “No. We have a daughter. I saw her. I saw you with her! Why are you lying to me?”

His grip on her arm tightened, and slightly scared, Liz pulled it back. “She is not mine,” she said slowly, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. “She is not mine, Max.”

“Then how… where…” Max’s eyes darted across her face, skated over her eyes, her tear-streaked cheeks, then lowered to her stomach. “You didn’t…” he swallowed, gulping down the pain, “…did you?”

His eyes were darker than before, lack-luster shades of brown replacing the gold-green of his irises. “You did,” he concluded, even before she had had the chance to answer. He shook his head angrily as he took a step back. His hand slid off her arm, leaving whitish blotches on her reddened skin. “I can’t believe you.”

Liz shook her head, the ability to speak suddenly lacking her, her throat clogged with emotion. “No, Max,” she begun, but he was already walking backwards, away from her. “Max, warte, bitte…” She started to follow him, but he raised his hands as if he were to protect himself from her. “Max… bitte,” she begged, tears streaming down her face, “bitte…”

He was deaf to her pleas, and ran.

Uncertain what to do, she watched him go. Her knees buckled, and, confused, she crumpled to the ground, the grass leaving dark, green smirches on her khaki skirt. Around her, the ducks quacked, obviously as confused as she was. She laid her arms upon her knees, her head upon her arms, and wept for him, for the lost years, for Robin…

She wept until the sun had risen completely.

<center>***</center>

AN:

Liebe Liz, = Dear Liz,
liebchen = love, darling, sweetheart…

<center>Chapter 52</center>

United States of America, Boston, October 1949

Liz wasn’t certain how exactly she’d gotten through the last six days. For, as the days began to shorten, and the nights stretched out into a seemingly endless blur of darkness and her fears, her insecurities grew, as did her anxiety. It was nearly impossible to find Max in a city as big as Boston. She had visited some motels in the suburbs in the hope that he’d be staying there, but there were far too many motels and she had far too little time to visit all of them.

Colleagues at school worried about her, commented on her paleness, and even the children seemed to notice her restlessness. Sighing, Liz ascended the flight of stairs that led to the front door of their apartment. The phone rang, though, just as she had fished her keys out of her book bag, and her breath hitched in her throat. She flew down the first steps of the stairs, her hand grazing over the banister’s rough, somewhat splintered wood. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest, alive and healed, but it plummeted down into her stomach – old wounds reopened – the second she heard Jeanette pick up the phone, greeting her brother-in-law.

It took her a little while to recover from the disappointment and it was several minutes later that she entered the hall, threw her bag on the ground and shoved it into a corner. Amanda’s giggles filled the living room, and Liz could hear Tess humming softly while cooking dinner.

She drew a deep breath, ran a hand through her tousled hair and plastered a smile upon her face before she left the hall. “Hey little one,” she said, playfully ruffling Amanda’s hair. “What’s up?”

Amanda looked up, shock and something that resembled embarrassment easily readable in her rounded, blue eyes. “Nothing,” she squeaked, and her hands flew behind her back.

Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, Liz crouched down beside Amanda. “What have you got there?”

“Nothing,” Amanda squeaked again, and she crept backwards, shielding whatever it was she was hiding by puffing out her chest.

Liz caught sight of a tiny plastic arm, and her lips twitched upwards in amusement. “That isn’t a doll, is it?”

Fervently shaking her head, Amanda kept her hands behind her back. “Of course not! Dolls are for… for…” her forehead wrinkled in thought, and she bit on her lower lip.

“Ah, it is a doll,” Liz persisted gamely after glimpsing a pluck of brownish hair. “Are you playing with a doll, Mandy?”

Amanda’s façade crumbled, and she dropped the doll in her lap. “Yes,” she admitted, ashamed.

Folding her legs beneath her, Liz sat down beside her. “I thought you hated dolls?” Liz queried curiously, wondering what had made Amanda change her mind.

“Not this one,” Amanda took the doll in her hands and smoothed its long, brown hair back, then smiled up at Liz. “Mr. Max gave it to me.”

Liz’s heart lurched into her throat. “What?”

“Mr. Max gave it to me,” Amanda repeated obediently, moving to sit on her knees, her large eyes sparkling with excitement. “He is really nice, Liz!”

Swallowing difficultly, Liz scrambled to her feet and stumbled towards the kitchen. “Tess?”

Tess spun around, startled. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but a few, blonde curls hung loose, framing her surprised face. She recovered quickly, though, and threw the wooden spoon she’d been holding upon the kitchen table. “I hadn’t heard you enter,” she apologized and pulled back a chair, a sympathetic smile dancing upon her lips. “Sit down, liebchen. There’s something I need to tell you.”

Liz did as told, grateful she could relieve her quivering legs. “Was he here?” she asked, her voice hoarse and dry. Panicked tears stung her eyes, and she felt her heart skipping several beats. “What did he…”

“Shh… Calm down, liebchen,” Tess gently broke her off, caressing her cheeks, and sat down on the chair beside her. She held a folded paper in her hands, turned it slowly, then carefully handed it to Liz. “He wanted you to read this.”

Liz hesitantly stared down at the letter, confusion clouding her mind. “What does it say?”

Tess shook her head and gave her shoulders a slight shrug, her hand reaching out to squeeze Liz's. “I don’t know, Liz. He wanted you to read it.”

Liz’s eyes darted through the kitchen, skimmed over the opened closets and the dirty pans, rested upon the damping soup. Her hands were trembling, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to read Max’s note, whether she wanted to know what he had to tell her.

Slowly, she finally unfolded the note, her anxiety growing by leaps and bounds when she recognized his handwriting.

Liebe Liz, she read, and she momentarily squeezed her eyes shut to fight the tears welling up in them. Sucking air through her teeth, she gathered all the courage she could muster and read on.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I cannot tell you how much I miss you. I cannot express how much I hate myself for doing what I did, for making the choices I made. I won’t ask you to forgive me. I’m leaving Boston tonight.

If you wish to see me again, meet me at seven, underneath Boston Common’s old oak tree. I want to know, Liz, and I want to listen.

This note… I hesitated a long time before writing it, thinking that you might find it cowardly of me to not tell you this in person. I wrote it anyway, and why, I would not know. Perhaps because it felt right. Perhaps because this time, you will be the one to decide whether or not we will meet.

Whatever your decision is, Liz, I want you to remember that I truly loved you, and still do.

I hope to see you one last time before I leave.

Love,

Max

With shaking fingers, Liz brought the note closer to her face and read it again and again, until her vision blurred, and the letters seemed to dance across the paper, Max’s immaculate handwriting unrecognizably distorted.

At last, she laid the note down on the table, oblivious to Tess’s probing stare. “Did he… did he say anything when he was here?”

Tess guiltily looked down, at the hands she’d dropped in her lap. “I hadn’t meant to let him in. He kept trying to apologize, but I… I called him names for hurting you… but he looked so broken, Liz.” Her blue eyes met Liz’s apologetically. “He nearly cried. I couldn’t let him stand there, so I… I let him in. He told me to give you the letter, and when he saw Mandy, he gave her the doll.”

“That… That was all he did?” Liz stammered, staring at the kitchen’s wall, dumbfounded. “That was all?”

Brushing a ringlet of her hair out of her face, Tess furrowed her brows. “Well… yes. He asked Amanda what her name was, and they spoke briefly, but then he left.”

Liz closed her eyes for a moment, until she’d scraped the shattered pieces of her heart together. She shoved the kitchen chair back and with a pained, little smile, she reached out to hug Tess. “Thank you, for everything,” she whispered, then pulled back and walked towards the hall, kissing Amanda before slipping into her coat. “Don’t wait for me for dinner.”

Just before the door fell shut, Liz could hear Tess wish her luck. She stood still for a second, took a deep breath and walked towards Boston Common.

<center>***</center>