“I’m fine. I don’t need—”
“You will be dining with me. You must be presentable.” He softened his tone a bit. “It is better for you. You will feel better.”
“All right,” Yona said, but she didn’t move, and neither did Jüttner.
“Is it really you, Inge?” he whispered after a moment.
She looked up at him and met his gaze. She could see him searching her unusual eyes, confirming what he already knew. “It is,” she said, and his gaze traveled once more to the dove on her wrist. “My name is Yona now.” He stared at her wrist but didn’t acknowledge her words.
“Go. Clean yourself up.” It was an order, and Yona found herself walking away, down the hall.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the washroom, where she’d bathed in a deep, white clawfoot tub, leaving a ring of dirt behind, even though she tried to wipe it away. Wrapped in a white towel, she opened the door to find a chair sitting just outside, a cream day dress draped over it. She lifted it carefully, examining it with wonder, for she’d never worn anything like it. The fabric swirled like a waterfall and was impractical in every way, but as she retreated back into the bathroom and slipped it over her head, she found that it fit almost perfectly and fell to the floor, covering her knife and her ankle sheath neatly. Still, in something so feminine and foolish, she felt naked, exposed.
Her hair was still wet when she walked into the sitting room a few minutes later. Jüttner, still in his full uniform, was pacing with a frown, and he jumped when she entered. “I’ve brewed us some coffee. Do you drink coffee? And I’ve fetched us some biscuits made by my housekeeper, Marya. She comes each day. She will launder your things for you tomorrow. You will sleep in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.” He seemed to realize he was babbling, for he quickly clamped his mouth closed and gestured to one of the sofas, which was so stiff it looked as if it had never been sat upon. “Inge, join me. Do you take cream?”
Yona shook her head as she crossed the room and carefully sat down, the many layers of her dress swishing as she did. As he poured her a cup of steaming black coffee and then fixed one for himself, with generous splashes of cream and sugar, she marveled at the casual decadence of it. Most of the people in this town likely hadn’t seen cream or sugar since the start of the war.
His hands shook as he raised his cup to his lips. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Neither did Yona, and so she bought time by taking a sip of her own coffee. It was like nothing she’d ever tasted before—smooth and black and fragrant—and she coughed, choking it down. She’d only ever had pale acorn coffee in the woods.
“How did you know who I was?” he finally asked. “After all these years?”
She searched his face. She wanted to hate him for what he was now, but she couldn’t stop her mind from spinning back, back to a different time, a different place. Even his scent, cedarwood with a touch of lavender, triggered latent memories. She tried to push the familiarity away, but it was impossible. “I have never forgotten.”
He looked away, and when he turned back a few seconds later, his eyes were wet. “One of the other officers told me he’d seen someone with eyes like yours, the right age…” He paused and shook his head. “I never imagined it could really be you. I thought he was crazy. So many times in that first year, after you disappeared, your mother swore she saw you. But she was always wrong.”
The words sent a stab of pain through her heart. In her foggy recollections, her father had been distant and removed, but her mother’s face had shone with warmth. Once upon a time, Yona had been loved. “My mother.” She said the words carefully, tasting the strangeness of them on her tongue. “Is she still in Berlin?”
Jüttner’s expression turned hard. “She died two years after you were taken. The doctor said it was grief, a broken heart.”
Tears stabbed at Yona’s eyes. “I’m very sorry,” she said, and though none of it had been her fault, she felt the heavy burden of responsibility.
“But where were you, Inge?” Jüttner asked after a minute, his voice cracking. “Where have you been all these years?”
His voice had fallen to a desperate whisper. “My name is Yona now,” she told him again, and again, he seemed not to hear her. “I was taken by a woman named Jerusza.”
He studied her, digesting this, his features twisting in confusion. “And she took you here? To Poland?”