“November 1, 1944,” the first entry began.
It has been a long time since I kept a journal, the last one filled with the silly hopes and dreams of a twelve-year-old me, hidden, of course, from my mother’s ever-prying eyes. But as I saw the bags of letters, dozens of them waiting to be burned behind the post office like the many still smoldering in the corner, I realized I should be documenting what I have seen during my time witnessing this terrible war. It is my duty to accurately describe the horrors and injustices. If not for others to know, then for myself to never forget what I will hopefully overcome.
The letters... My heart was heavy at the sight of them. Bags upon bags, stuffed with letters that were either never sent, or received and not delivered. Yet another tactic to separate, confuse, and extinguish hope. Which was what I felt when I saw them, my mind immediately going to William and the many letters I’d written and sent. Or thought I’d sent. But had they suffered the same fate as these?
My chest rose with a long inhale. Shehadwritten me. I was confused though. Why would a post office in Manhattan not deliver letters?
I glanced down to the yard. Selene was sitting on one of the stone benches, her eyes closed, head tipped back, the sun on her face.
Getting to my feet, I stood at the rail.
“Why would a post office in Manhattan burn letters?” I shouted.
She turned and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
“Is that all you’ve read?” she shouted back.
“So far.”
“Did you not turn the page?”
“You said it might create more questions. I...have a question. It makes no sense that a New York post office would burn letters. It’s against the law to tamper with mail. I don’t—”
“William.”
“Yes?”
“Turn the page!”
I looked down at the book and turned the page. What I read next nearly made my heart stop.
“November 2, 1944—Hamburg, Germany.”
I looked back to Selene.
“What the hell was she doing in Germany?”
30
Kate/Lena
Hamburg
I clasped myhands tightly in my lap, my palms damp, as we rolled into the city of my childhood.
So many of the beautiful buildings, homes, and apartments had been hollowed, blackened, or were now piles of rubble from the Allied attack the year before.
Streets I had run down and shopped on, bakeries and sweet shops I’d frequented, parks I’d played in...all gone.
There was barely anyone on the crumbling sidewalks, save for the soldiers who watched us as we drove slowly by. Tanks and other military vehicles sat around every corner. Here and there an old lady limped by, or a woman with her young child hurried along, their heads bowed, their eyes on the ground in front of them.
A line of people waited for food, their ration tickets in their hands, their faces drawn and pale. An older man was handcuffed and being shoved roughly into the street. I turned my eyes away.
“You’re sure my parents’ home still stands?” I asked.
Max nodded.
“It is my understanding that there was some damage, but most of the house is still in livable condition.”
