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Zillah entered, a brown apothecary bottle in one hand, scissors in the other. “
We need to change your appearance,” she said. “We’ll begin with your hair.”
* * *
—
When Elena woke in the morning, she felt stiff and had a pounding headache. She had been dreaming something terrible that she did not want to make sense of. She was in a strange room. A few cracks of light came through where she had not completely closed the curtains. She recognized nothing. There was a dressing table, and unfamiliar pictures on the walls. It was unique, nothing like any generic hotel room she could recall. What was she doing here?
Then she remembered the young man covered in blood, and the flesh beneath the raw wounds. She had been doing what she could, helping Zillah. She could remember Eli’s tense face in the kitchen light, full of pity, and struggling not to show his despair. He was trying to defend Zillah from what she already knew.
But Elena was safe, though only for the moment. They were Jewish, which meant that if they were not hunted already, they would be soon, and underneath the brave faces, they knew it.
They might argue that it would not really happen. That was what Eli had said. Did he believe that now, after last night? Or was he saying it to comfort his family, because there was nothing they could do about it, whatever they knew? It wasn’t practicing their religion that was the problem; it was blood heritage.
What time was it? She leaned over and picked up her wristwatch from the bedside table. It was just after ten! How could she have slept for so long, leaving everybody else to…what…carry on as normal, as if nothing had happened?
Elena got out of bed quickly. She had her own small bathroom where she could wash, then get dressed in the plain dress Zillah had given her. Apart from that, she had only the clothes she had come with, and her camera. She would have to buy clothing again. This was getting absurd, like a repeating nightmare that became worse every time it completed the cycle and started over.
She walked into the bathroom and nearly cried out when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was very blond, short. Who was that woman staring back at her? And then she remembered Zillah, the peroxide, hair covering the bedroom floor.
She went downstairs, trying to remember the way to the kitchen. The others must have finished breakfast ages ago. She would just ask for a cup of tea and perhaps a couple of slices of toast. And apologize for having slept so long.
As far as the rest of the day was concerned, she had no idea what she was going to do. No, she knew. She just did not want to admit it. She must leave this house. The Brownshirts or the Gestapo…or someone…would be looking for the young man, and they would come here. If they found her, God alone knew what they would do to Zillah and Eli. And to Jacob, if he was here. Being American would not save him. Elena had no other choice that she could live with.
The kitchen door was open and she saw Zillah inside, apparently alone. She knocked on the panel, lightly.
Zillah turned from the pastry she was making and smiled. “Good morning. I hope you slept after all that?” That was her only reference to the young man. “Jacob hasn’t arrived with the morning papers yet, but he shouldn’t be long. Would you like tea? Or do you prefer coffee? And breakfast?”
The benches and the floor were clean and bright, no sign of blood, as if last night had never happened.
“I’d love tea,” Elena accepted, walking farther in. The room was warm, perhaps from the sunlight, but also from the oven, and it smelled like clean cotton and new bread. It flooded back memories of Grandma Josephine’s kitchen a long time ago, when none of them even knew what war meant—it was something that happened to other people.
“Sit down,” Zillah said with a frown of concern. “You must be terrified, although you mask it well. I’ll get you toast. We have plenty, so eat as much as you wish.”
Of course, there would still be food restrictions in Berlin. She had not thought of that until now. How stupid of her. How self-centered.
She sat at the kitchen table, unable to help because she had no idea where anything was. “I’m very grateful indeed for—” she began.
“All right, now you’ve said it,” Zillah cut across her, but with a smile. “We know. These are hard times. Frankly, we’d help you even if you had shot that pig, Scharnhorst. But I believe you didn’t. I think you would be cooler about it if you had. And perhaps you would have prepared your escape rather better.” She met Elena’s glance for an instant and there was wry humor in her look.
“I would,” Elena agreed emphatically. “For a start, I would not have gone back to the hotel where I was staying. I would have hidden the gun somewhere and gone in a different direction. Not opposite—that’s too obvious. Perhaps sideways?”
Zillah looked at her, saw the harsh humor in her face, reflecting her own. “You’ll know for next time,” she said drily.
For the first time in hours, Elena laughed. “Trouble is,” she replied, “I would have to find another rifle. I imagine they are expensive. Perhaps I should steal one? And learn to shoot straight. I don’t even know how to hold a gun properly.”
“Good idea,” Zillah agreed. “When you are a good shot, you should aim at Herr Doktor Goebbels. He is the worst.” Her slight words had a passionate loathing behind them and a certainty deep as the bone.
Elena thought of the young man, but she understood that he would not be referred to again.
The kettle whistled and Zillah made a fresh pot of tea. A moment later she brought the toast, a tiny portion of butter, and homemade preserves.
Elena thanked her and ate hungrily.
Zillah watched her for a few moments, standing still, as if waiting to see if it was satisfactory. Even through the pleasure of the fresh food and the warmth of the kitchen, the tension remained. They both had to be thinking of the young man who had been lying there, just hours ago.
Elena put down her toast and turned to Zillah. “What Eli said last night…he knows it’s not true, doesn’t he? He has to know now…except it’s not the first time it’s happened…is it? You knew what to do…”
