I looked back at the courtyard. And just like that, saw her.
She was sauntering out of the white building, bearing a tray. Nothing but her arm was visible, and a loose arrangement of long black hair. I could not see her face. But I knew. I knew with absolute certainty that it was my grandmother.
I almost crossed the road. Aaz grabbed my hand, holding me back. I did not fight him. I could not. I watched my grandmother serve a table full of Nazis.
I had not noticed them until that moment, but in hindsight I could hardly believe I had been so blind. They were sitting in plain view of the open gate, red armbands glowing upon their brown uniforms, sharp black swastika lines standing in sharp relief against white spotlight circles. Blond men, drinking beer and spearing thick sausages on their forks. Two uniformed Asian soldiers sat with them, bayonets leaning against the table. Japanese, I thought. A night out for the men in charge.
I held my breath as my grandmother leaned close, setting down mugs and taking away empty plates. Aaz tightened his grip on my wrist. But in the end, I did not need to worry. No one touched her body. Not that she looked as though she would have minded. I felt like I was losing my mind.
The first and second time I had ever met my grandmother, she had been a chain-smoking, hard-eyed, dangerous woman. Gritty, leathery, with a masculine edge to her clothing and walk. A mother, to boot. No funny business. Not this young thing with a sweet face and ready smile. Not this girl who wore black heels and a frilly white apron, and glanced at Nazis with a come-hither glint that was so startlingly sexy I wanted to look away in embarrassment.
I stood there in the shadows, suffocating, suffering the heat again as if my skin would melt off my bones, or stuff my lungs with cotton. Looking at my grandmother was like checking out an inferno that I could not control. I was totally at a loss about how to make contact with her. Wondering if I should. Remembering that I already had, given the note addressed to me on the back of her photograph.
Just as my grandmother straightened to walk back into the restaurant, her stride faltered, head tilting ever so slightly—as though listening to a whisper in her ear, or just silence. Perhaps the same silence emanating now from Dek and Mal, who had stopped purring and were so still I wanted to look over my shoulder to make certain no one had a gun aimed at my back.
My grandmother turned slowly, a faint smile on her lips—though it was strained now, more clearly a mask. I did not move. I did not breathe. I was deep in shadows across the road—not close by any measure—but she found me instantly. She met my gaze.
Her eyes widened, and she fumbled the tray in her hands. The Nazi she had just served patted her ass with a deep chuckle. She hardly seemed to notice. Just flashed me another look, and then walked quickly into the restaurant.
I sagged against the wall, and waited.
It took more than an hour. I watched people. Listened to a city that was sixty years in my past, embroiled in a war sixty years dead, and found myself thinking that life here, besides certain obvious differences, was not so removed from life in my own time. The toys might be different, and the clothes, and the setting, but people never changed. Fear and hate never changed, nor did love. Or courage.
I saw all those things in the courtyard beyond the wall. Jews who sat at tables around the Nazis, forced to pretend there was nothing wrong. Men scooted their chairs so they blocked their wives from sight, and the laughter I had heard earlier grew quieter, and edgier, as the soldiers drank more deeply from their cups. Those who had been eating left quickly. Those who thought about eating stopped at the gate, took one glance inside, and kept going. Some of them tapped the playing children on their heads, and made sure they came along, as well.
Until almost no one was left. Just the Nazis and Japanese. And my grandmother, who served them. No other waitress came near. The mysterious saxophone player was replaced by a violinist who began playing Strauss. My knees ached, and I settled into a crouch with the boys gathered close. Wondering where the Zee from 1944 might be lingering. Close, no doubt. Close enough to touch.
When the Nazis left, they tossed paper money on the table—but one of the men slipped something else to my grandmother; an object small and dark, like a twig. Her only reaction was to thank him with a pretty smile, blushing when he chucked her under the chin.
She stood politely to the side as they filed out, one after the other, into the street. The Peerless sputtered to life. I had almost forgotten it. The driver rolled ten feet forward to the gate, and then exited quickly to open doors. Within moments, they were gone.
So was my grandmother, when I looked for her again.
I was patient. Nothing better to do. All the time in the world. Raw pulled a cup of hot unsweetened tea from the shadows, and placed it in my hands, along with a warm sugar cookie that melted in my mouth. Tasted fresh from the oven. I almost asked where it was from.
I sensed movement on my right. Watched as the Jewish boy and girl who had been playing earlier outside the gate reappeared, kicking a ball between them. The girl was blond and slender, no older than ten or eleven, while the boy was likely the same age, and dark as Ernie. Not siblings. Nor had they returned to the restaurant gate just for the hell of it, though they were pretending hard that wasn’t the case. It was late, I thought. Probably almost midnight.
My grandmother left the restaurant at a brisk walk, dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse, short-sleeved and tucked in. Her heels clicked. No smile on her face. Nothing pleasant at all about the look in her eyes. She resembled, finally, the woman I remembered; but that did not comfort me as much as it should have.
The kids peered around the gate. My grandmother faltered when she saw them, glancing briefly over their heads at me. A warning in her gaze. I knew how to take a hint. I stayed put, melting even deeper into the shadows.
“Samuel,” she said to the boy, and then rested her hand very gently on the girl’s head. “Lizbet. Curfew will begin soon. You both should not be here.”
I straightened. I knew those names.
Samuel pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out to my grandmother. She took it from him, and then caught his wrist as he pulled away. He began to protest—she muttered a sharp word that sounded distinctly German—and the boy stilled. She dragged him near, holding up his arm to stare at his inner wrist.
I was too far away to see what she was looking at, but I recognized her anger. “This is recent.”
The boy remained silent. Lizbet whispered, “It happened this afternoon. She said he was getting old enough to be a real man. Her man.”
My grandmother made a small disgusted sound, and released Samuel. “You have to stop going to her.”
“Nein,” he muttered sullenly, rubbing his wrist. “We need her connections. Our families need her.”
“I can get you money, things to trade—”
“You cannot keep our families safe, Fraulein,” interrupted Lizbet softly, and grabbed Samuel’s hand, tugging him away. “Her reach is too long.”
My grandmother shook her head, swearing softly, and took several quick steps after them. She grabbed the girl’s hand and pushed something into it. I had a feeling it was the same object the Nazi had given her. Money, maybe. Something valuable, if the stunned look on Lizbet’s face was any indication. She swallowed hard, clutched the object to her chest, and gave my grandmother a fierce, grateful nod.
The children ran. The woman watched them, clutching her skirts. And then, slowly, tilted her head to study me.
She looked so young. Maybe eighteen was too old. It was hard to tell, but one thing was certain: the boys had abandoned her mother early, and left a teenager to fend for herself. No doubt my great-grandmother had been murdered in front of her daughter, just as my mother had been murdered in front of me. That was how it worked. Once you lost the protection of the boys, death always came knocking.