THIRTY-SEVEN.

The look in the Russian soldier's dark eyes as he raked his gaze over the woman in the bread line didn't escape Mitch. Instinct took over.

He rushed forward and planted himself between the woman and the Soviet, legs spread, hands on his hips. "You will not touch this woman."

The infantryman raised his sidearm.

Mitch stepped back. "British, British," he shouted, pointing at himself.

The soldier shook his head. "Germanski."

"No. British." With trembling hands, Mitch withdrew his dog tags, tugged them over his head, and handed them to the man for verification.

The soldier didn't give them much more than a glance before he tossed them to the side. He shouted something Mitch didn't understand. Probably along the lines of, "This is a trick." At no point did he lower his sidearm.

Mitch yelled right back. "British, British. Not Germanski." He spit on the ground as if the people of Berlin left a bad taste in his mouth.

His adversary's shoulders relaxed.

"Stalag." Mitch bet the man understood that German word for prison.

If he comprehended, it didn't make a difference. What kind of people were these? Britain should never have aligned with them. With his weapon aimed at Mitch's chest, he reached around Mitch and grabbed the woman's hand. "Frau, kommen."

The woman let out a strangled cry.

Mitch chopped away the soldier's hand. "Nyet. Leave her alone."

The barrel of the firearm dug into his stomach.

"I said to let her go. Don't touch her."

Another soldier appeared. With his mouth drawn into a tight line, he a.s.sessed the situation. He spoke a few words to his comrade who flashed Mitch a warning look. But he backed down. His superior nodded away from the bread line and the lower-ranking officer marched in that direction.

As Mitch watched them leave, he spied a familiar form approaching them.

Gisela had seen the gruesome sights, women stripped, abused, and left to die. Those were the lucky ones. The most unfortunate lived.

Lord, don't let it happen. But if it does, may the end come quickly.

He would have to be the one to save her. She couldn't do it herself.

She had a difficult time sitting still because every inch of her body quaked. Every tick of the second hand pa.s.sed like an eternity. Yet the soldiers approached all too fast. They must be taking meter-long steps.

She braced herself for the inevitable. Through her mind flashed memories of Mutti and Vater, their time in California, Margot and Gisela playing on the tire swing or in the sand at the beach. She thought of the kisses she had shared with Mitch, the most beautiful moments of her life. She would never experience the joy of the marriage bed, the joy of loving a man-Mitch-with all she had.

She bit back the metallic taste as blood seeped from the teeth marks in her lip.

The soldiers laughed and jabbed each other with their elbows, one of them almost falling to the ground in his drunken stupor.

She determined not to cry, not to make a noise. They would not have that satisfaction. She wouldn't plead with them for her innocence or beg for her life.

They reached her. Two of them climbed over the remains of the apartment building. Each took one of her arms. The warmth of their hands seeped through her cotton blouse.

With little regard for her arm sockets, they lifted her to her feet. A sharp pain raced through her shoulders. She locked her teeth shut so she wouldn't wince as they forced her to stand.

But she couldn't control the retch that wracked her stomach.

Mitch rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing an oasis in the desert. No, the figure he spied down the block bore the same shape as Gisela, had the same soft sway to the hips. It had to be her.

With the neighbor behind him shouting her thanks, he sprinted away. The scattered debris slowed his progress and frustrated him.

"Gisela! Gisela!" The woman didn't turn at the sound of her name.

"Halten sie! Halten sie!" He raced as fast as he could in her direction, his lungs protesting at having to do two jobs at the same time.

This time the woman stopped, spun, and leaned forward, like she was attempting to decipher who was calling her. "Who is that?"

"Gisela, it's me."

She didn't move but waited for him to draw closer. He was impressed with the job the powder did on her hair, making her appear much older.

When he was about ten or fifteen meters from her, he realized that the gray in the woman's hair wasn't from powder. Though the woman bore a striking resemblance to Gisela, it wasn't her.

"Kommen, kommen." The rough man who reeked of alcohol didn't care that Gisela had vomited on his shoes. His lack of concern over the incident only stirred Gisela's stomach further.

She thought she might be sick again.

The two dragged her over the rubble and to the street where the others stood waiting. Waiting their turns to have their way with her.

Her heart had stopped beating and she couldn't take a breath. She limped beside them. Why had she thought she would be different from the rest of the women in the neighborhood? None of them had escaped this dreadful destiny. Neither would she.

Oh G.o.d, save me. Don't let the waters or the fire consume me. Deliver me. Please, deliver me.

With her legs as wobbly as a toddler's, they dragged her down the street. Few buildings stood in this area. Would they have their fun with her in the open?

She tamped down the bile rising in her throat.

Down another block, the facade of a shop sat tall among the destruction. The inside had burned completely, but the sh.e.l.l remained.

The soldiers pulled her by the hair from the road to the back of the empty building. The one with the dark hair grunted and pushed her against the rough brick wall. If he hadn't pinned her there, she would have sunk to the ground.

In one swift motion, he tore open her blouse.

"Frau Cramer?"

"Josep? Is that you?" The woman buried her head in her hands and cried.

Mitch had not been imagining things and didn't think she was a vision. He wanted to shout. After all of this time, all of this searching, all of this heartache, he had found Gisela's mum.

He closed the s.p.a.ce between them in a few strides. "Frau Cramer, it is you. Where have you been? We've been so worried."

"Where is my Gisela? Is she alive? Bitte, tell me."

He hugged the woman. "She is fine." That was true. He didn't have any information to the contrary. Not yet, anyway. "She misses you terribly. Didn't you see the message we left for you?"

She lifted her head and touched his face. "You are real."

He nodded.

"When you hadn't returned by the time I finished the laundry, I set out, thinking I might catch up to you. The next thing I remember was waking up in a strange house with a strange woman taking care of me. Days, maybe weeks, had pa.s.sed."

"Why don't you wait with the story until we are together to hear it?" He didn't want to tell Gisela's mum that she was out here, somewhere, alone.

"Ja, that I will. I want to see my daughter."

Father, may she be at home, safe and sound. Even as he prayed the prayer, his gut clenched.

He squeezed Frau Cramer's hand and led her through the streets toward the place they called home. The neighborhood they traversed had been razed. Here and there the sh.e.l.l of a building remained, stark against the fiery sky.

Women's screams echoed in the late afternoon air. Much as Mitch tried to shut them out, they penetrated his brain. Sounds he would never forget, no matter how long he lived.

One screech in particular caught his attention. It had a familiar tone, a familiar timbre to it.

But it couldn't be.

Oh, dear G.o.d, don't let it be.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

Mitch heard nothing but the blood pounding in his ears, saw nothing but the brick facade of the empty building, thought of nothing but her. And what those brutal Russians might be doing to her. "Gisela! Gisela!"

"Mit-!" The answer to his call was cut off, as if someone covered her mouth.

He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, yet it took forever to reach her.

A Soviet with a machine gun met him.

Over the man's shoulder, he saw Gisela, her blouse ripped, her eye black and blue, blood running from her nose. Her white chest rose and fell at a rapid rate.

"No Germanski. British." He slapped his chest, then pointed to Gisela. "No Germanski. American."

Tears streamed down her face, washing away a bit of the blood. Her eyes were wild, like those of a rabbit cornered by a wolf. They pleaded with him.

What had these beasts done to her?

He didn't have a plan. If he attacked them, they would shoot him. If he was sure it would save her dignity and her life, he would do it.

But he had no such guarantee.

Without thinking further, he pushed his way past the startled Russian and sprinted to Gisela, positioning himself between her and her attackers. She clung to the back of his shirt.

He didn't turn to look at her. "Are you hurt?"

"Not that way, no." She trembled.

His throat constricted. "American. American. Leave her alone. Don't touch her."

With one eye on the four Soviets, he squatted and picked up two bricks. The roughness of the blocks scratched his palms. Their weight gave him confidence. He hoisted one, prepared to pitch it. "Go away. Get out of here and leave her alone."

The dark one of the quartet spit on the ground and dug the heel of his boot into the soft dirt. He flailed the hand that held the rifle and spoke.

Mitch narrowed his eyes, c.o.c.ked his right arm, and took one step forward. He made his intention clear, no matter what the language barrier.

The Mongol trained the barrel of his weapon at Mitch's heart.

Mitch grasped the bricks. "Run, Gisela, run."

She didn't hesitate for a moment but sprint-limped away.

Now the soldiers could do whatever they wanted with him.

Gisela dashed out of reach of the Soviet monsters-as much as she could hop on one foot. She leaned against the building, panting, the lone branchless tree spinning. Her hands quivered so much, she had a difficult time doing up her b.u.t.tons. The ones they hadn't torn off.

She would never be able to wash away the feel of their hands on her. She bit back another bout with bile.

What was happening to Mitch? Would they kill him?

The thought slammed her harder than the Soviet's fists.

She didn't want to-couldn't-live without him. Her life would be empty. She loved him so much it hurt, yet it was wonderful and bright.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, her heart rate jumping to an unhealthy level again. She spun around, hands fisted.

Then she saw the most beautiful sight of her life. "Mutti. Oh, Mutti, is it really you?"

Her mother fell weeping into her arms. Gisela couldn't believe she was here. Alive and well. Her tears mingled with her mutti's. At last Mutti loosened her grip on her only child. "What have they done to you?"

Gisela touched her sore cheek. "Nothing that won't heal."

"My daughter, my daughter."