The bombing is worse now. The Tommies by night, the Amies by day. Masses of gleaming silver wings streaking through the blue of the sky. The wine restaurant that the gnä’ Fräulein had picked for the day has evacuated to the nearest U-Bahn tunnel, which is now thickly crowded with Berliners intent on surviving the latest onslaught. Above them, the guns of the Zoo Flak Tower begin to pound the air, and a fresh swell of people invade the tunnel, but in the crowd, the gnä’ Fräulein is suddenly gone. Separated from Rashka and the man Cronenberg. The tunnel stinks of fear and of soapless Berliners. Faces are numb-looking. Numb to any illusion of victory piped out through the loudspeakers of the Propaganda Ministry. Numb to the daily ration of destruction. Numb to the crush of defeat.
Rashka is numb as well. She tries to imagine where her eema is. In a slave camp somewhere east? Is she hungry? Frightened? Cold? Does she believe that Rashka has abandoned her? Rashka herself feels beyond tears. She has isolated her soul within her body. Now she simply breathes in and out. Her heart simply continues to beat without purpose, when abruptly, she feels a hand invade the inside of her coat. It’s Cronenberg. For an instant, it feels like a violation. But then the hand is withdrawn. He has stuffed her coat with an envelope. She glares at the man’s face in confusion, but Cronenberg’s eyes are level.
“That’s money and papers,” he tells her. “Enough for train fare and some food along the way. Also, a bomb pass with a false name. Your building was bombed out. Your father’s at the front. You’ll be on your way to join your family in the town of Furtwangen in the Schwarzwald. That ought to put you far enough west of the Russians when they come.”
She is too shocked to answer him.
“Not much of a plan. Might not work. But it’s the best I could manage,” he tells her. “When the raid ends, leave by the opposite stairwell. I’ll make sure she doesn’t catch up with you. So good luck, little baggage,” he says, and then he is gone.
***
“I know it was me who asked for this meeting,” says the Angel, “but I almost did not come.” She tells this to Rachel on the park bench as if she is speaking more to herself. They are separated on the bench by an empty middle space of a little less than a foot. That’s all. “I thought you might be laying a trap for me.” She frowns off at the trees for a moment before she speaks. “That you might have some misguided desire for vengeance.”
“You must mean for justice.”
“Justice?” The Angel turns with a half smile. “Let’s not get in over our heads, child. Justice.” She repeats the word. “
Rachel turns away from those huntress eyes and stares at the walk. The spent cigarettes and daily sweep of litter, from which the ashes of a nameless, braided schoolgirl have risen on the breeze and assembled themselves. The girl stands before Rachel as she must have once stood before the death chamber of the Krematorium. Stripped to her flesh, staring still with terror yellowing her eyes. And then she melts in a drizzle of wind.
“So why can’t we dispose of this nonsense, hmm? I did what I did, and I’ll tell you why. It began as all tragedies begin. With a mitzvah, of course. When I was first arrested, I tried to spare my parents. They were vulnerable. Helpless. I did my best to save them. Them
“Why aren’t you dead?” Rachel asks aloud.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, why aren’t you dead?” she repeats. “You committed suicide in a Russian jail,” Rachel points out. “So why aren’t you dead?”