Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(67)

“Will you promise to look after my babies should the worse come to the worst?” the barn owl asked. Sometimes, babies must be raised by other mothers. It happens. Saga and Freya promised that they would. The barn owl kissed her children and flew off into darkness, the glittering cloth clutched in her beak.

In the morning, the good citizens of Almany woke to see a banner flying beneath the country’s flag: “Resist Tyranny!” The next morning, there was a new message: “You Are Stronger Than You Know.” And then another: “You Are the Hope.” Each time, a little seed of courage took root. Like planting acorns. Not all of them rise into oaks. But some do. And in time, that is how you get a forest.

The citizens of the kingdom were frightened. They burned the messages lest they be thought to have written them and punished. But as I said, ideas do not burn, and some began to think about the words stitched in such fine thread. Perhaps they were stronger than they had realized.

The king was more determined than ever to put a stop to this impudence. He sent the hunter into the village. “Who has been hiding these traitors?” the hunter demanded. The people cast their eyes downward, afraid. “There will be no more food until they are found and delivered to me.”

When word reached Freya and Saga in the forest, they were heartbroken that the people should suffer so on their account. That night, they gathered a sack of acorns with a new message: You are not alone. The following morning, the baker cried out in joy at discovering the sack. He ground the acorns into flour and baked enough bread to feed everyone in the village. The message was whispered with each slice: You are not alone.

The hunter was furious. He turned to the rooster: “Speak to the birds. Find out what they know and report back to me.”





KLEINWALD, GERMANY.


FALL 1940–SUMMER 1941

The news about Karl spread quickly through the town. He had been found wandering on the road thirty miles from Kleinwald, filthy, disheveled, starving, and half out of his mind. If he had any memory of where he had been since the day of the battle, no one knew because Karl wasn’t talking.

“They say he doesn’t speak at all. Not one word.”

“I heard he saw something so terrible it ripped the words from him.”

“A case of hysteria.”

“Ach, hysteria. Shameful. German men, German soldiers, are above such womanly afflictions.”

“They gave him a medal, I hear.”

“And what of the grave? An empty box buried in the ground is a bad omen.”

“He’s like a living ghost.”

“If you ask me, it would have been better if he had died at the front.”

Sophie thought of cool, confident Karl. It seemed impossible that he could be broken by war. From her window, she tried to steal a peek but the curtains were drawn. She wanted to go straight over but her mother wouldn’t allow it. “They need time. Let them be.”

The sky threatened rain as Sophie rode out to the forest. She’d continued to hope for a letter from Nobody, but again today, there was nothing. As she climbed down, she was surprised to see Hanna, who had returned from Poland only the night before.

“Hanna!” Sophie said, running to embrace her friend.

Hanna smiled wanly. “Have you kept the tree company all this time?”

“A bit.” She wanted to tell Hanna about Nobody’s letters, but they had more important matters to discuss.

Hanna circled the old oak, trailing her fingers across its crags and bumps as if reading it. She stooped to pull a last stubborn wildflower from the dirt and brought it to her nose with a deep inhale.

“How was the train ride?” Sophie asked. She had never traveled farther than Bremen and certainly had never traveled overnight.

Hanna plucked a petal and rubbed it between her fingers. “Long.”

“And Poland?”

“Cold.”

Sophie had expected Hanna of old. Blunt, outrageous, full of wild stories. But this Hanna was subdued, as if her mind were still traveling somewhere.

“You taught them German?”

“Some.”

Sophie did not know if she meant she taught only some German or only taught some of them German. Hanna gathered the plucked petals and shoved them into the earth. But the damage to the flower had been done.

“I should return your book.”

“Did you read it?”

“Some.” Hanna turned to Sophie, her eyes fierce at last. “What’s the use of stories? They’re made-up things. They’re pretty lies.”

“Oh no, that isn’t true! A story is … well, it’s a love letter! Sent from the present or the past to the future.”

“I don’t even understand what that means.”

“It’s as if you send a letter from your heart: Here is what I feel, what I’m trying to understand—about life, about being alive. And you send it out into the future, not knowing where it will go or who might receive it. You just have to trust that someone will receive it. It is an act of faith. An act of love.”

“You have more faith in the world than I, Sophie.”

“Don’t say that, Hanna,” Sophie begged. “The world needs us to believe in it. That’s the only way any magic ever happens.”

“Magic is just another story we tell ourselves.”