Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(127)
“Hey, what’s up?” Miles says. His voice is still croaky with sleep.
“Hey.” She sounds upset.
“You okay?”
“It’s about Mormor.”
Miles is afraid she’s died. He doesn’t know what to say so he does what Mom Lisa would do—he waits.
“I called her. I was afraid to but … I told her everything we found on the mystery. About Kleinwald and Die Eichel. I told her that I know about the baby and the adoption even though Joyce would freaking kill me for doing that. I told her I love her and that I just want to know what happened. I want to know the real her.” On the other end, Miles can hear Chloe sniffling. He is patient, which is its own form of love. “Miles. She spoke.”
* * *
It takes them a few days to arrange the call and recording through a network of phones and laptops. After a few minutes of satellite delay, Miles, Chloe, and her grandmother are all connected. A long snowy wave of hair curls across Mormor’s shoulders. Her face is as weathered as Mama D’s precious globe. Her eyes, even through the screen, are a striking sea-tossed gray. She reminds Miles of an ancient goddess.
Chloe presses record. “Whenever you’re ready, Mormor.”
Chloe’s grandmother had agreed to tell Chloe the truth, but only once. Now the old woman looks into the camera. She speaks slowly but her voice is steady.
“You would like to know the truth. It’s a slippery thing, truth. Like your hands when they are bloody and you wish you could grasp just one thing to make you feel solid. I think I am ready to tell that story now. A darker fairy tale than before. If I am bloodied in the telling, so be it. Those are the only stories worth telling anyway. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start over. To begin, my name is not Greta Andersson. It is Hanna. Hanna Schmidt. And I am a murderer…”
KLEINWALD.
DECEMBER 22, 1941
I remember the exact color of the sun. Funny the little things you don’t forget.
It was pale as skimmed cream. A December sun. From my window, I watched it lowering in the afternoon sky. I watched the phantom moon rise along with my dread.
I couldn’t fasten the skirt of my uniform. “It’s too tight,” I said. I was three months gone by then.
“Here. Let me help you.” Sophie looped a length of yarn through the buttonhole. She was clever in addition to brave. She’d pulled her hair up on both sides with a pair of silver combs. It made her look like a film star.
She smiled at me. “There. Your coat will hide it.”
I squeezed her hand.
She squeezed back. “I’m afraid, too.”
Downstairs, my parents listened to Goebbels’s speech on the radio, praising Hitler. So loyal they were. Many times in the years to come, I wished that I could look into their eyes and ask them how they had lost their minds.
We walked toward the solstice festivities carrying collection cans for the war effort. We were actresses, you see. Playing a role to survive. The night was cold and clear. The town was so beautiful; it hurt to look at it. The sweet little roofs under a dusting of snow. No blackout order had been given. The lamps along the bridge and castle were ablaze. After so many nights without, it seemed impossibly bright, an exultation of light. Everyone streamed toward the solstice tree, a magnificent fir decorated with candles and tinsel. All were in a festive spirit. Werner climbed up beside Baron Wilhelm and wrapped his scarf around the statue’s bronzed neck. “He’s shivering! Here—let’s have the flask! He needs a drink!”
He took a nip and poured a bit across the statue’s lips. Fr?ulein Volker marched over to admonish him—he was never one of her favorites. But all the boys were laughing and egging him on and there was nothing she could do but tsk for show and march off in disgust. I heard many years later that he had been blown apart by a grenade in Belarus.
Klara had put on rouge, which she insisted was just her natural blush.
“Natural Max Factor,” Hedy grumbled to the others, and for just a moment, the mood was lightened. I can still see them as they were that night. So full of joy. I do not know if any of them repented. I do not know how many of them survived to repent.
The men had built a bonfire. They stacked wood and paper. Anything that would burn. It all burned the same. Karl was there. He saw Sophie across the square and his expression transformed from worry to adoration. They were deeply in love. I remember feeling jealous that the two people I loved most could love each other in a way that was not mine to know.
“We can’t stand gawping, Sophie,” I chided. The Barbarian. That is what Sophie’s mother called me.
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Sophie said. We moved among our neighbors, who dutifully emptied pockets and change purses into our rattling cans. Sophie and I could sense each other’s nerves as if we shared one body. My mind was a downed wire. I could not keep still. I, who was usually so calm. Sophie put her hand over mine. To calm myself, I went over the plan: During the singing of “Exalted Night,” while everyone was distracted, we would slip away under the pretense that we had forgotten to bring the cookies we had baked that afternoon. Karl would offer to help us. Once we were a safe distance from the town square, we’d steal away to the forest on foot. But what is it they say about the best-laid plans?
I was close enough to hear the men talking.