Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(78)
“Daria says you ghosted her.”
Miles and Daria had exactly two dates but beyond the lust, they had nothing to talk about. “Like you said, she’s not exactly valedictorian material.”
“It’s not funny, Miles. She’s still a human being.”
“We hung out. It didn’t work. End of story. Since when are you so Team Daria?”
“It’s not cool, Miles.”
He feels defensive and angry. “I feel like this isn’t about Daria?”
Chloe’s head swivels his way, her mouth open. She snorts, shakes her head. “Were you always this much of an asshole and I just never noticed?”
“I don’t know. Were you always this judgmental and I never noticed?”
They are fighting. They never fight. Chloe jumps up, brushes leaves from her jeans. “Grow up, Miles.”
“I already have two moms.”
“And one less friend,” she says, and stomps off across the meadow.
Miles waits exactly twenty-four hours before he breaks down and texts her. Hey. Can we talk? This time, he will tell her the truth—that it was her he wanted to dance with at the party, her he has always wanted to kiss, but there was so much at stake and Daria was the less terrifying choice. He wants to say that he’s sorry and that he wishes he could have a do-over and go back to that moment on the steps where, instead of chickening out and going inside, he would take her hand in his and say, Hey, you wanna blow this Popsicle stand, go get some slices? He will ask her, “What would you have said if I asked to kiss you?” And “Do you think we could work?” He will say all of this. He will finally confess all the things he’s been afraid to say for so long.
He doesn’t get the chance. She leaves him on read then and every other time he texts. By the end of the week, Miles stops. He waits but she never reaches out. Thanksgiving rolls past. Christmas and New Year’s. It becomes a strange form of grief, mourning a romantic relationship that never quite happened and a friendship that was everything to him. Then all hell broke loose in the world and everyone was forced into isolation. But in a way, Miles already felt isolated, adrift from the person most important to him.
KLEINWALD, GERMANY.
SUMMER 1941
They are careful about coming to the garret, varying their arrivals and departures so that no one becomes suspicious. The space is hot and dusty but the windows afford them a perfect view of the streets below and the village beyond. And they are on the top floor; if the Gestapo comes, they’ll have time to hide their work before anyone makes it up the five flights of steep, winding stairs. Egon provides their best cover by giving art lessons. On those days, the easels are set up. The paints and brushes laid out. Egon walks behind the students, encouraging and correcting. When the students have finished, Egon ushers them out the door with a cheery “Keep practicing!”
Then the real work begins.
The loose floorboard is pried up and the tools of their trade brought out. There are wood blocks. Inks—black and indigo. Photographs. Knives for smoothing. Bowls of coal soot from the oven to smudge around the edges of the paper to make it look old. A stiff, fresh passport will arouse suspicion; everything has to be perfect, but it can’t look like it’s trying to be perfect. The balance means the difference between life and death. There is a photoengraving machine that Karl has crafted from parts scavenged from the scrapyard. “Herr Ohlsen used to build radios from parts he found there,” Sophie tells them. And in this way, she likes to think that he lives on. Hanna works the sewing machine. With a jeweler’s precision, she runs the needle over the paper, making the necessary perforations to match the originals.
“Who knew those dull Wednesday night meetings learning to sew would pay off,” Hanna whispers to Sophie later on their walk home, arm in arm, as they pass the shops with the red-and-black flags in the windows. Sophie squeezes Hanna’s arm and all is said between them.
Sophie’s steady penmanship puts the finishing touches on each document. There are so many documents that have to work in communion: not just passports and identity cards but birth certificates, marriage licenses, baptismal records—anything that might be needed to prove that a person is who they say they are, anything that can be used against them.
Leon is the one who figured out the perfect way to remove a particularly tricky blue ink stamp from an official document. “Don’t use bleach. It will turn the lettering yellow and give you away.”
“How do we remove the ink from the document, then?” Hanna asks.
Leon pushes his eyeglasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Nothing is permanent.”
“Leon, it’s not the time for philosophy,” Karl says. The hour is late and they are tired and edgy. Twice he’s certain he’s heard the scuff of storm trooper boots on the stairs.
“I wasn’t being philosophical. When I worked for Herr Kravitz at the cleaners, he taught me how to remove even the most impossible stains. Lactic acid. It lifts them right out. Even ink. It’s just chemistry.”
“Can you get us what we need?” Egon says.
Leon is smug. “Leave it to me.”
Within days, Leon is concocting chemical baths and lifting blue ink like a magician. Sophie stands beside him, marveling at the disappearing act, that an identity could be wiped clean and started fresh. Egon is the true artist among them. His hand-drawn stamps are impeccable, impossible to distinguish from the real thing. He has been a forger for nearly two years and, Sophie learns, Egon Wagner is not his real name.