Shoes clattered on cobblestone.
Max’s adrenaline surged. He turned. A hand grabbed his jacket and pulled him into an alley.
“Give us your food,” a male adolescent voice said.
“Nein,” Max said.
“Then we’ll take it,” another boy said.
“And your money,” a guttural voice added.
Three?A cold sweat covered his skin. Despite his battlefield experience, he was no match, he believed, without his sight. Unwilling to give up without a fight, he pressed his back against a brick wall and raised his walking stick like a club.
The boys chuckled.
A concussive blow to the head toppled Max to the ground. In a daze, he struggled to raise his cheek from the cold cobblestone. Touching his forehead, his fingers turned wet. He attempted to stand but lost his balance and fell. As his vertigo waned, he placed his palms on the pavement, shards of a broken wine bottle digging into his skin. His basket and wallet were gone, and his walking stick had been snapped in half.
He stumbled out of the alley. His head throbbed, and his stomach turned sour with humiliation.Wilhelmina was right. I shouldn’t have tried to go by myself.He couldn’t imagine her having to care for him for the rest of his life. But deep down, he feared being alone. Disoriented, Max shuffled his feet over the sidewalk. Rather than wait for someone to come to his aid, he pressed a sleeve to the gash in his scalp and struggled to find his way home.
CHAPTER6
OLDENBURG, GERMANY—JULY18, 1916
Anna, her eyes filled with fatigue from working the night shift, entered the kitchen. The pantry was bare, except for bits of wilted potato and carrot. She lit a wood-burning stove, drizzled a miniscule amount of sunflower oil into a pan, and then sautéed a handful of leftover potato peels.When was the last time I made Vater ham and eggs for breakfast?
Rationing limited citizens to only one egg per week, which was used in increments to add nutrient to meals. Last year, the German government ordered theSchweinemord, the slaughter of over five million swine, which they deemed as competitors for scarce food resources. But the bureaucratic government’s endeavor to produce food and preserve grain had not taken into account the use of pig manure on farms, and fear of a disastrous fall harvest was rampant. The shortages were becoming worse. Grain was scarce and bakers resorted to using potato flour to make the black war bread calledkriegsbrot, which often contained various additives, including corn, lentil, and sawdust. She wondered, although briefly, if Germany would be able to survive the British naval blockade, which forced the country to be self-reliant with producing food.
Anna’s stomach grumbled as she prepared a pot of substitute coffee made from tree bark. But the ache in her abdomen was not solely due to hunger. For the past several weeks, the frequency of Bruno’s letters had dwindled. When he did write, his words were sparse, and he provided little detail about what was taking place on the front.He might be occupied with fighting, or maybe he’s trying to protect me. It saddened her to think that he was carrying his burden alone, and she wished that there was something she could say in her letters to end his solitude.
“Good morning, Anna,” Norbie said, entering the kitchen. His clothes sagged on his thin frame, and an extra hole was cut in his leather belt to hold up his trousers.
You’ve lost weight.Anna scooped sautéed potato peels onto plates, making sure to give Norbie a larger portion. “Did you sleep well?”
“Ja,” Norbie said. “How was work?”
“Okay.” Anna buried images of a soldier with gangrenous legs who died during her shift.I’ll tell him about it later.
Norbie poured the bark brew into cups.
“We’re out of coffee beans,” Anna said.
He took a sip. “It’s lovely.”
“That’s sweet,” Anna said. “But we both know that it tastes like ash.”
They sat at the table, and Norbie said a prayer, asking for peace and the safe return of soldiers.
“You gave me more,” Norbie said, forking a bit of potato onto Anna’s plate.
“I sometimes get extra food at the hospital,” Anna said.
“But you’re off from work today,” Norbie said.
“How did you know?” Anna asked. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you that Emmi and I traded shifts.”
“You’re wearing your engagement ring, and yourmutter’s locket.” Norbie, appearing proud of his detective skills, tapped a finger to his temple.
Anna clasped the silver heart-shaped locket, which had been an anniversary gift from Norbie to his wife. Inside was a Lilliputian-size clock, which Norbie had crafted from a tiny, second-hand watch.
