"You didn't want to sit out there with that gun."

"I don't want to be in trouble. I don't want to get you in trouble."

Gisela rubbed his back, afraid he would pull away. He didn't. "The Russians will be here in a day or two. Then it won't matter. It will be over and you can go home to your mutti. That is a gift I don't have."

His shoulders relaxed and the grimacing mask he wore melted away. The hard soldier persona left and he was a boy again.

"Now, come and dance and have a little bit of fun."

Gisela grabbed him by the hand and led him to the makeshift dance floor. He moved like a wooden toy soldier, but when Annelies and Renate fell to the floor in a puddle of giggles, a smile raced across his face.

Kurt came to her side and held out his hand. No smile crossed his hard features. "I am afraid I cannot hold you properly, but would you care to dance?"

And what could she say to that? Turn him down and hurt his feelings? He made the best of his disability and she didn't care to crush him. No matter how uncomfortable he made her. "I don't dance well."

"Neither do I, so it will matter not if I step on your toes."

She acquiesced and he pulled her a little too close to himself for a ballroom dance. They moved across the concrete floor, a cross between gliding and stumbling. Audra and Mitch sailed past them with pro-like grace.

Gisela shivered. She didn't glance into Mitch's chocolate eyes. To see his love for Audra written there would be worse than the pain from her blisters.

THIRTY-ONE.

April 23 Frau Mueller bounded down the wood steps to the house's bunker, no doubt spilling much of the precious water she had risked her life for at the public pump. Her round face was red and she was breathless.

She set the bucket on the concrete floor and drew in several deep breaths. A tendril of gray hair had come loose from its pins and curled across her cheek. "You will never believe what I am to tell you."

Gisela sat forward, antic.i.p.ation tickling her toes. The barest of hopes ran through her. "Tell us."

The rest of the cellar denizens, old and young, chimed in, each straining forward.

"She is going to tell us that she has arranged for a gondolier to row us around the ca.n.a.ls of Venice." Katya's blue eyes gleamed in delight.

"Nein, not that." Frau Mueller's face returned to a more normal color. "Everyone at the pump was talking about it. The streets are abuzz because the government has been holding out on us. They have warehouses full of food-meat, vegetables, milk powder, flour, sugar-whatever you can imagine. People are running to get some before the Russians take it all."

Mitch scrubbed the dark stubble on his cheek. "By get some, you mean without coupons or paying? Looting?"

"Call it what you want. If we don't get it today, the Russians will dig in while we go hungry. Better we have it than them."

Before Gisela could utter a word, Kurt grabbed her wrist with a bit too much force and pulled her to her feet. "We volunteer. As a soldier, I will get preferential treatment. Gisela will help me carry the provisions." He had, so far, refused to burn his uniform.

She pulled herself from his grasp and stepped back. "Nein. The SS will kill whoever loots."

Kurt's face hardened and he straightened his shoulders. His icy stare gave Gisela a chill. "They won't shoot an officer who gave an arm to the cause. No one is safer on the streets than I am."

She couldn't verify that statement. And she didn't want to risk it. "We have enough for a few more days. By then, this will be over and the store shelves will burst."

"We don't know that." Frau Mueller sat on the bed with a thump. "The Red Army will take retribution on us and leave us with nothing."

Audra stood. "I will go." She gazed in Mitch's direction, almost as if she hoped he would stop her.

Which he did. "No women. Just men."

Gisela grasped the lapel of her gray sweater, her hands sweaty. "Nein, not you. They will hang you on the lamppost."

He steered her to the side, away from the eight pairs of ears. "I've not done a thing all war. Nothing. Nothing brave or heroic. Nothing for my country. The least I can do, the very least, is provide food for a group of women and children."

She wanted to shout at him that he was stealing. Yet she had taken the dead woman's coat and shoes. And he had taken the beer for her foot, and she had said nothing. The government stole from them this entire war.

"Hitler has been holding out, leaving his citizens to die."

"If they find out you're British, it'll be worse for you."

"Worse than hanging as a deserter?" He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingertips light as a breath. "I'll go with Kurt." With that, he turned away.

Gisela hated the thought of him out there. He may have given his heart to Audra, but hers continued to long for him.

With each pa.s.sing minute, the report of machine-gun fire grew ever closer. The Soviets penetrated into the suburbs of Berlin. They were a few short kilometers from the heart of the city. Not much of it remained.

Mitch scanned the scene around him. Frau Mueller had been right. Hordes of people-the brave, the hungry, and the crazy-streamed from their cellars toward the shops and warehouses. They carried bags and baskets, like he and Kurt did. Others pushed prams, minus the infants, in hopes of returning with a stockpile of supplies.

They joined the almost-festive throng. The sky might have been black with smoke, but the people had something to look forward to for the first time in many days.

"Audra is a beautiful woman." Kurt clapped Mitch on the shoulder.

He didn't answer.

"She is very gentle and caring. You have seen her with the kinder?"

"Ja. She is nice."

"She would be a fantastic wife for you."

Mitch stopped in his tracks. "Wife?" The same as Gisela had said.

It wasn't Audra's green eyes that had chased away his nightmares. It was Gisela's amber ones.

"Ja. She is devoted to you."

"I heard you. You want Gisela for your own." He turned to face his foe. In that moment, he knew his heart. "So do I. She is the one I want to be my wife."

Kurt stopped short, balling his fist. "I will never let you take her from me."

If he wanted a fight, Mitch would give him one. He clenched his hands and stepped forward. "You never had her."

The German swung. Mitch ducked and he missed. With all his might, Mitch punched Kurt in the stomach. He doubled over and Mitch threw an uppercut.

The crowd halted and gathered around, cheering. Fists flew. Mitch didn't think. Just swung. Kurt connected with his eye, the pain blinding him for a moment.

Kurt's disability didn't hamper his fighting ability. Mitch had to give it everything he had. His arms grew tired. His face throbbed. Kurt got him in the gut. A second pa.s.sed before he was able to catch his breath.

All for a woman.

His father would hate what he was doing.

A man stepped forward from the crowd. He pushed Mitch and Kurt apart, though both continued to lunge at each other.

"You should be fighting the enemy, not each other. What shame you bring on your country."

Kurt relaxed. Mitch only dared to let his guard down a bit. He stayed prepared for another round of fisticuffs.

With one push, the man separated them farther. Mitch stumbled backward, fighting to maintain his balance. "Gisela." His breath came in spurts and sweat dripped down his back.

"Ja." Kurt also huffed.

"We have to get the food."

Kurt nodded. Mitch picked up the bags he had discarded without thinking. He set a brisk pace in the direction the crowd streamed. If Kurt followed, he followed. If not, all the better.

Mitch pushed the fight aside, though his eye swelled and his vision blurred.

In his imagination, he couldn't have dreamed up a more surreal scene. Children sat crying in the rubble. Elderly men roamed the streets with aged guns. Women, old beyond their years, mourned over corpses in the streets.

As they approached the warehouse, the crowd picked up its pace. Ten-year-old boys, pregnant women, and teenaged girls sprinted ahead of them. In the opposite direction, in no less of a brisk pace, a similar group darted past, their carts and bags laden with b.u.t.ter and sugar. One woman, her face worn but radiant, dragged a rucksack behind her.

The throng pushed and shoved in a desperate bid to get their hands on the precious rations. The frenetic atmosphere that charged the air seeped into Mitch's veins. He must reach those food stores. He had to. Coming back empty-handed was unacceptable.

A ring of black-uniformed SS officers brandished their weapons. "Get back. All of you, get back."

Not a single person heeded the order.

A shrill voice uttered the crowd's plea. "Let us through! Give the food to us, not the Soviets!"

The chant rose. "Let us through! Let us through!"

A lucky few emerged with sacks of flour and tins of coffee.

"Drop it." The n.a.z.i soldier fired into the air. "Drop it."

Those finished looting dashed away.

"Drop it!"

Shots rang out.

Two bodies fell to the ground.

"Let's get in there." Kurt shoved Mitch in the small of the back.

A few moments later, they popped through the doorway. In a burst of energy that was difficult to muster these days, they sprinted toward the pallets of food. The basics. Enough to keep them alive until peace arrived. They loaded sugar and a few tins of fruit into their bags.

Split sacks of flour coated the concrete floor. Mitch slipped and slid and grabbed a bag.

A group of soldiers-maybe half a dozen or so-entered the warehouse. "Out! Everyone out!"

Bullets ricocheted off the metal sides of the building. One zinged by Mitch's ear. He ignored it, intent on reaching the sticks of sausages a few meters in front of him.

In no time, his bags were full and his arms laden with more than he could carry. He headed toward the exit, having difficulty seeing through the one eye. If he got past the guards, he would be able to deliver this abundance to Gisela.

"Halten sie. You there."

Even before he reached the exits, Mitch's arms and shoulders burned with the load.

"Halten sie."

Mitch didn't think the n.a.z.i spoke to him.

Not until the soldier jabbed his rifle into Mitch's side. He froze, shivering as the cold metal dug into him. Another scene from another day flashed in front of his eyes. He and his chums being marched off by the Germans. The enemy.

This soldier was not interested in taking prisoners.

Around him, starving people plundered the foodstuffs. No one cared about him. They had a difficult enough job keeping themselves alive. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

"Drop what is in your hands."

He didn't want to. Didn't want that precious bag of flour to split open. He hesitated.

He winced as the soldier jabbed the barrel of the gun deeper into his flesh. "I said to drop it."

Mitch obeyed. The white powder flew into a cloud in the air.

"Deserter. Plunderer. Common criminal." The n.a.z.i spit at his feet.

"Nein." His knees knocked. How could he defend himself? If he spoke, they would know he was British. If not, he'd swing from a lamppost on the Unter den Linden in less than an hour.

Death either way.

The heavy sh.e.l.ling continued, often rocking the little house and disturbing the peace of the eight people huddled in the cellar. Gisela attempted to interest Annelies and Renate in a game of pat-a-cake, but they didn't want to play.

Renate sucked her thumb with vigor. Annelies crawled onto Gisela's lap. "When will Mutti come?"

She looked at the child's precious face, gray eyes big against her sallow skin. "When the fighting is over, then she will come." Father, may it be so.