He had pondered turning in Josep numerous times. Only his concern that Gisela would mourn for the man caused him to hesitate. He could comfort her in her grief, but would she recover from another loss?

Nein, the situation demanded that he proceed with care.

And he had been unable to locate Frau Cramer. He balled his single fist in frustration. The woman had disappeared from the face of the earth. Not uncommon these days, but he had hoped to bring the best of news to Gisela tonight. Before Josep got the chance to play the hero.

Before Kurt lost the music forever.

He came to the bombed-out apartment building. The bodies he had helped lay in a row this morning reposed under their coats.

For a while, he paused in front of them, silent, his mind abuzz with ideas to impress Gisela. He tossed each away like the morning trash. Until one idea came and refused to leave.

He didn't relish the idea of ransacking the dead. To him, it resembled stealing far too much. But then he imagined Gisela's face when he brought home more ration coupons. Perhaps the dead woman had coupons for extra milk for the kinder. Gisela would run into his outstretched arm and kiss him on the cheek.

He rummaged through the pockets of the old couple that took in Bettina and Katya. A few cards, partially used.

He came to the bodies of the woman and three of her children. They hadn't found the others. As he reached into the pockets of the coats that covered them, he diverted his eyes from the children's bloated faces.

Just little kids, full of life, full of promise.

What are we doing here? Is this what I gave my arm for? What Hitler demanded of them? And all for what?

He sat back on his haunches and went to rub his right arm, the pain in it growing in intensity. Nothing but air met his hands.

Off in the distance, the air-raid sirens screamed their warning yet again. How many did this make today? He had lost count.

The cards he pulled from the children's pockets would be able to supplement the meager bit of milk the girls were allowed each day.

At least one small victory for him in Gisela's eyes.

Mitch sat on the hard kitchen chair, swirling water in his coffee cup. The walls of the small room closed in on him. In the living room, Gisela reclined on the couch, her head back, mouth open. At least she had given in to sleep. Light from the marble-based lamp spilled onto her hair, which shimmered gold.

He wanted to bang on the wobbly table. Why hadn't they been able to locate her mum? More than anything, he wanted to erase the worry and fear clouding her eyes. She stooped like an old woman. Was this what war did to them?

The sagging front door opened and Kurt stepped inside, peeling off his brown officer's coat and hanging it on the peg. He scanned the living room, a glint touching his cold eyes when he found Gisela.

He sat beside her and she stirred. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Mitch detected very little sincerity in his words.

Gisela sat upright, searching Kurt's hard face. "Do you have news? Did you find Mutti?"

He shook his head.

She slumped.

"But I did come home with a good thing." He reached inside his shirt pocket.

Mitch wandered into the living room.

Kurt pulled out a handful of ration cards. "Extra milk for the girls."

A smile, small but there, lit Gisela's face. "Oh, Kurt, danke. This is so good. I've been worried about them since they were sick. They will have a few extra calories at least. When Ella comes for them, they will be more than just bones." She brushed her lips against Kurt's angular cheek.

Mitch's stomach boiled. His words slithered from between his teeth. "Where did you get them?"

A muscle jumped in Kurt's jaw.

Gisela waved him off. "I don't want to know. I don't care. This is the best gift I have ever received. Better than any Christmas present. Only Mutti coming home would have topped this."

Mitch turned and stomped back to the kitchen, choosing to sit in the chair with his back to the living room.

Gisela may not have cared to know where the ration cards came from, but Mitch had an idea. If she ever found out, she would be horrified to know that Annelies and Renate drank dead children's milk.

TWENTY-NINE.

Gisela waited in the long bread queue with Audra, clutching her purse strap like it was cemented to her hand. The patent leather of the rectangular-shaped pocketbook was scuffed and scarred, but its cargo was precious. It held the extra ration coupons Kurt had procured.

A look of triumph had hardened his angular features. He had grabbed her around the waist and twirled her around the living room, whooping. Mitch had tried to sour the moment, but she wouldn't let him. At this time, she needed good news and relished in it.

The extra coupons came in very handy today. The twentieth of April. Hitler's birthday.

They had been told they were to be given an eight-day ration. And it appeared as if that was the case-a tin of vegetables, a few ounces of sugar, and a tiny bit of real coffee. What a treat that would be. And with the extra coupons, they would have even more.

Audra shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "You must be eager to return to America."

Gisela nodded. "Though I will miss Josep very much."

"But you won't go to England?" Audra sounded almost insistent.

"Why do you ask?"

"You're from America. That's where you want to go. And England is so cold and rainy. Maybe we could go to America together."

Gisela shrugged. "Perhaps." A movement across the street caught her eye. There stood a young boy, no more than thirteen years old, not yet grown, not yet matured, holding a rifle as large as himself. His drab brown uniform hung from his shoulders and his pants legs dragged on the ground. He had cinched a rope around his waist to hold up his trousers. A shock of yellow-blond hair stuck out from under a cap with a hatband that buckled at the bottom.

Today the artillery sounded closer than ever. She and Audra didn't want to be out, standing in line, waiting for food. But it couldn't be helped. They had to eat. They had taken to cooking on the old wood stove in the bas.e.m.e.nt. They resided in the shelter these days, to save energy from running up and down the stairs during the almost-continuous air raids. No one minded the mice and the spiders as much as they once did.

Gisela had thought about taking the girls with her this morning, then decided to leave them at home with Mitch. The choice was easy. Out here, no one was safe. The Luftwaffe had been all but wiped out and the Allied planes met little resistance. The air-raid sirens didn't always sound.

She couldn't risk having Mitch go out. He drew too much unwelcome attention unless he pretended to have lost an arm. And then he wouldn't be able to carry as many provisions. With eight days of rations, perhaps they would have enough for the duration. The next time they had to venture out, maybe the skies would be quiet.

Though the wait was lengthy, the queue picked up speed more than other days. Today women hurried home, their precious bundles hidden beneath their coats.

Explosions rocked the ground and rang in Gisela's ears. She shivered and hugged herself. "That sh.e.l.ling is so close. Right in the middle of city by the way it sounds."

Audra nodded. "When will the Americans come?"

Since the death of President Roosevelt, Frau Mueller had been pulling out her battery-operated radio and listening to the BBC for a short time each night. They both knew the Americans wouldn't come. "Sixty miles away and they are letting the Red Army do all of the work. With the Russians, we trade one bad thing for another."

The women around them murmured in agreement. A tall, thin lady shook her head. "The Soviets are already at Seelow Heights and Baruth. It won't be long now."

Suburban Berlin. Mere kilometers away. No, it wouldn't be long now. Not long at all. And then what would happen to them?

Another loud explosion shook the ground. Oh, for it to be still for a moment. Often it felt like they were on a ship on the ocean, the land under their feet always swaying.

Every few minutes, she glanced at the very young man nearby standing guard. If only she could help him. The n.a.z.is robbed him of his childhood-and likely, his life.

Audra shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the worn-through toe of her brown lace-up shoes stuffed with paper. "Josep gave me some of his rations yesterday. He said a beautiful woman like me shouldn't be so thin."

Gisela turned her attention from the boy-soldier. Why on earth would Audra tell her such a thing? "That was kind of him. He is a good man." A good man who made her heart flutter in a much different way than falling bombs made it pound.

"I notice the way he looks at me. He thinks I don't see him, but I do. He has invited me to meet his family in England when the war is over."

Gisela tapped the heel of her oxford on the pitted pavement. He had never spoken such words to her. Had he turned his sights on Audra? Did he stay to be near her?

Everything was crumbling around her. All of these days and no sign of Mutti. Gisela struggled to hold out hope for her. Now Mitch was interested in Audra.

Her heart shattered like the panes of gla.s.s during Kristallnacht.

By the end of the war, she would have nothing left.

They spoke no more as they waited their turn. At last they reached the counter and presented their coupons and their money. As they exited, they clutched the precious packages to their chests, unwilling to lose even one crumb.

The boy with the rifle remained rooted to his spot. As anxious as she was to get back to the girls, the young man intrigued her. She broke off course and headed toward him.

A fat tear rolled down the child's sunken cheek.

Gisela handed him her handkerchief. "What are you doing here?"

"I was told to stand here. I have to shoot the Soviets when they come." His entire body, head to toe, trembled, his voice high and clear.

Her temperature rose a few degrees. How could those n.a.z.is recruit children to fight a lost cause? It was one thing to draft old men like her father, but this . . . "Are you scared?"

He straightened his spine and clutched his weapon so his knuckles turned white. "I am not."

"Do you want to kill people?"

"Ja." But the tremor in his voice exposed him.

"Why don't you go home to your mutti?"

"Because the SS will hang me and shoot Mutti. I don't want anything bad to happen to her."

If the boy stayed and shot at the Soviets as they entered the city, he would die for sure. Gisela scratched her forehead. Either way, the kid was doomed.

"What is your name?"

"Jorgen."

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"What are you going to do, Jorgen?"

"Stay here, build my trench, and fight the Russians."

At thirteen, this boy hadn't begun to live life yet.

"The Red Army will be here soon." His words were brave, even as his gun slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. He hurried to retrieve it, and his hand shook when he reached for his weapon.

Another loud burst of artillery rang through the air. Gisela's head pounded and her ears buzzed. She grabbed Jorgen by the hand. "Let's get out of here."

"What on earth are you doing?" Audra shouted at Gisela, but she chose to ignore Audra. She couldn't close her eyes to the boy with the face of trust and innocence.

So much like the faces of her cousins.

The threesome ran through the streets of Berlin, around the wreckage, over heaps of rubble, Gisela clutching a package of food in one hand and with the other pulling Jorgen behind her. When she turned to him, he held to that menacing-looking weapon.

"Drop it. Drop the gun."

He shook his head.

She had to make him obey her. "Get rid of it or we'll get shot."

Again he shook his head.

Gisela's heart pounded in her chest, her lungs ready to explode. "Drop it."

At last he flung it away. They continued to run. She pulled harder on Jorgen's arm to keep him going. "We are almost there." Another round of artillery fire crackled not far from them.

Audra pulled ahead of them. "Keep going. Come on."

Nothing had ever looked as beautiful as the war-scarred building where seven frightened people huddled in the lower level. Counting Audra and herself and now Jorgen, that brought their total to ten.

Gisela pushed Jorgen up the steps. Once inside, they paused, hands on their knees. Her breathing and heart rate refused to slow.

Mitch clattered up the stairs to greet them. "Who is he?"

"This boy, a mere thirteen-year-old child, stands guard on the corner by the grocer, ready to shoot the Russians when they arrive."

"Tell me you didn't."