Colors of Christmas Page 4

  CHAPTER 6

  Carly glanced at the time on her phone before shoving it in the side pocket of her cross-body bag. If she hustled, she would have time for some quick Christmas shopping for her mother and her son. Tyler would be happy with anything as long as it was truck-themed. Her mother was more puzzling to shop for. She insisted she didn’t need anything. Carly wanted to find something that wasn’t strictly necessary and that would evoke delight. And Tyler’s teacher. Carly had enrolled her son in enough different preschools to know that many parents offered at least a token gift. Starbucks gift cards were popular, but Carly wanted to do better than that.

  Chilled, she paced across the parking lot of the Super Target. If nothing else, she could hit the toy section for a Tonka truck for Tyler, and maybe the book section would have a colorfully illustrated volume about the different kinds of big trucks. Tyler was only four, but somehow he already knew far more than she did about the functions and distinctions of large trucks. When they were out driving and he spotted a truck, Carly just nodded her head into the rearview mirror while from his booster seat in the back he explained to her what he saw.

  At the crosswalk, a car approached and Carly slowed her steps to let it pass.

  It slowed down. Her spine shivered.

  The tinted windows prevented a clear view of the driver, but Truman had often jabbered on about owning a car like this one, a full-size blue SUV with every gadget imaginable.

  Carly pulled her gaze away, mindful that even if she couldn’t see the driver, the driver could see her. She angled left to walk behind the car. Only when her presence on the sidewalk triggered the store’s doors to open automatically did the car increase speed. Truman should be at work two suburbs away. And he was too careless with his money to actually own a brand-new SUV. Lots of people drove cars like that, and the driver might have slowed simply to look down the parking lane for an open spot. Carly shook off the premonition, tugged a red shopping cart from the corral, and turned it toward the toys.

  Yellow trucks. Blue trucks. Green trucks. The one Carly went home with had to be child-safe for a four-year-old without being too babyish. The more features, the better, but she didn’t want endless parts that could come off and end up in the archaeological layers of her son’s room. Carly dutifully picked up one box after another to read the descriptions and parent advisories. After the fifth truck she lifted her eyes from all the small print and glanced down the aisle. At the far end another woman, with a baby in her cart, was pondering Lego kits, and beyond her toward the center of the store, a young couple flipped through a rack of children’s clothing.

  A man’s jacket in motion caught Carly’s eye. Brown and worn, in the classic style of a bomber jacket. The man’s hands were shoved in the front pockets, and Carly could only see the back of his head, but her gut burned.

  Truman had a jacket like that. It had belonged to his father, but Truman wouldn’t give up wearing it. And he liked to walk with his hands in its pockets despite the awkward angle at which they were set.

  No. Surely not.

  Once again, Carly reminded herself Truman worked and lived two towns over. Nobody drove that many miles to shop at Target. Nearly every town in the area had one. She abandoned her truck selection and walked slowly to the main aisle that transected the store. Caution ruled. A better look would reveal if the man was Truman. The knit hat pulled down against winter air covered the man’s hair color, but the height was right. He turned his head from side to side as if looking for something.

  Or someone.

  Her.

  Or he might have been an innocent shopper looking for inspiration for Christmas gifts.

  Carly wasn’t taking any chances. She would have to come back for Tyler’s truck, or order online and pay the shipping fee to assure it would arrive in time for Christmas. When the man turned a corner, Carly turned in the opposite direction, dragging her shopping cart in case she needed to get something between her and Truman. She had a restraining order, but turning up in a public place would give him the excuse to claim he was simply shopping and couldn’t possibly know she would be in the same store at the same time. It might be Truman, or it might not be.

  Once outside, Carly made a beeline for her car.

  Trying to unpack boxes and place items around the apartment with one leg bent on the scooter and one hand required to steer was cumbersome at best. Astrid constantly readjusted her own expectations. Alex had done the essentials, leaving the remaining boxes stacked neatly in a corner near the small table and chairs. Astrid opened one box, unwrapped packed items, held them one at a time while she rolled a few feet, and placed them on the table or in a chair. It was a tedious process at the rate she could manage. If she got everything out of the boxes, at least she would know what she had. But the task tired her, and between Sycamore Hills’s meal schedule and the staff and the women she’d met rapping on her door to invite her to various activities, progress had been slow. She had barely emptied one box and she was weary.

  Her cell phone rang late in the afternoon, and Astrid pulled it from the cloth bag hanging from the scooter’s handles. The caller ID announced her daughter.

  Astrid pushed the button to answer the call. “Ingrid?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Something was wrong. Ingrid made no attempt to color her disappointment as anything other than what it was.

  “What is it, Ingrid?”

  “Nothing, really. Ellie is home sick.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think it will amount to anything,” Ingrid said. “But she had me up half the night. We’re both worn out, but she keeps coming up with one more thing to ask for.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She has a fever and a headache. I suppose she’ll be home tomorrow, too. The school insists students be fever-free for twenty-four hours, so even if it breaks tonight, she’ll need another day at home. It doesn’t help her mood that she’s missing the holiday program.”

  “That’s too bad. I know she worked hard on the props.”

  “It can’t be helped.”

  Astrid heard running water in the background. Ingrid often called while she was cleaning up the kitchen.

  “Anyway,” Ingrid said, “I called to see how you’re settling in. I feel terrible I couldn’t come to help.”

  “John can’t help that he had to be out of town, and there was no need to pull the girls out of school. You’ll all be here soon enough.”

  “The girls are so excited. They think it’s such an adventure for Oma to move to an apartment.”

  Astrid chuckled. “I hope they’re not disappointed when they see it. They won’t be able to go to the basement to make up plays to perform for us, and the kitchen barely has space to bake a pan of cookies.”

  “None of that matters,” Ingrid said. “Oh, I almost forgot. Ava asked about the gold ornaments.”

  “Yes?”

  “She wants to know if you have them in your new apartment.”

  “I hope so.” Astrid looked at the items strewn on the table and the boxes she had not yet opened. “Not everything is unpacked.”

  “Will you have a tree?”

  “Goodness, no.” There was no space for a tree, and Astrid was in no condition to wrestle with one this year. “But there are a half dozen trees around the place. When you come, I’ll take the girls around to look at them all.”

  The sound of water stopped abruptly.

  “I have to go, Mom,” Ingrid said. “Ellie is fussing about something again.”

  “Give her a kiss from Oma.”

  “I will.”

  Astrid dropped the phone back into the scooter’s bag and glanced at the clock. Dinner was early in a senior community, and that was going to take some getting used to. If she didn’t go soon, she would miss it. When Alex got back, she would see about getting some groceries to keep in the apartment. It may have been a mistake to sell her car. Her ankle wouldn’t be broken forever. Perhaps she would
buy another car. She could afford it. Something used, small, and efficient with low mileage.

  Checking to be sure her apartment key was in the bag, Astrid steered the scooter toward the door.

  In the dining room a few minutes later, Astrid discovered Betty, Phyllis, Fern, and Mae had finished. It was barely five thirty, and already they were on the way out.

  “We came down early,” Betty said. “They’re showing It’s a Wonderful Life in the theater starting at six. Hurry and eat so you can join us.”

  Astrid nodded in a way she hoped was noncommittal. In the mood to be alone, she maneuvered to one of the small tables against a window and reached to pull out one of the rolling chairs.

  “Let me help you with that.” The long arms of a young man pulled the chair clear of the scooter and positioned it so Astrid could sit easily.

  “Thank you, Sam,” she said. “I was hoping to run into you again.”

  “Oh, why is that?” His features brightened with inquiry.

  “I’ve enjoyed your food the last couple of days. It must be a busy kitchen that customizes everyone’s order as you do.”

  “I have a terrific staff.”

  “I was curious whether you ever prepare traditional German dishes.”

  “I haven’t so far, but I just might give that a whirl.”

  “It would make a good daily special, don’t you think?”

  Sam cocked his head and smiled. “I think you aren’t quite used to being waited on and not having to prepare your own food.”

  “I have some delicious recipes,” she said. “You’re a smart young man. I’m sure you could manage the math to offer them on a larger scale.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Sam said, winking. “You bring your recipes down one day and I’ll have a look. Right now, I’ll make sure a server comes to take your order lickety-split.”

  She watched him saunter back to the kitchen. He was a charming young man, reminding her of someone she had known—and loved—a lifetime ago. The love she shared with Heinz flamed quickly and was extinguished in the space of a breath more than sixty years ago. But she would never forget him.

  CHAPTER 7

  The alarm shrieked. Startled, Astrid dropped her head to the library table where she had been reading the newspaper after breakfast the next morning, and covered her head with her arms.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  Even when she was a little girl and bomb sirens blared, she had to do more than simply cover her head with her arms.

  Shelter. Where was the nearest shelter? She had known them all as a schoolgirl in Würzburg. If the air-raid siren went off while she was walking between school and home, she knew what she was supposed to do, but in this moment, she could not think where to go.

  Astrid sat up straight. She had come to the library for no better reason than getting out of the apartment for more than a meal without committing herself socially. The array of newspapers and magazines was impressive enough that she considered making it a daily habit. A cup of coffee from the bistro across the hall sat half-consumed on the table because she had become engrossed with the editorial page. The siren was not a surprise. She had seen the sign propped up on the reception desk in the lobby announcing a tornado drill at ten o’clock that morning, and at the time she had thought it would be good for her to know where to go in case of a real emergency. She even watched the time as the drill approached.

  Still, the siren jolted her, as every siren had during the last seventy-five years.

  The British. The Americans. The bombers who did not print out a nice warning of their intended arrival but flew in with as much stealth and severity as possible.

  This was not that. She could say those words all day and it would not slow her heartbeat. It never had.

  A Sycamore Hills staff member in blue scrubs took long strides across the library and gripped Astrid’s scooter.

  “It’s just a tornado drill,” she said, “but we do have to take cover. It’s required for everyone.”

  “It’s December,” Astrid managed to say as she read the caregiver’s name tag. Jennifer. “There’s snow on the ground. We’re in no danger of a tornado at this time of year.”

  Jennifer chuckled. “Tell that to corporate. Tornado drills and fire drills. We have to do them year-round so new residents and staff know what to do.”

  “Like me.”

  Jennifer shrugged one shoulder and steadied Astrid’s elbow as she arranged herself on the scooter.

  “Where to?” Astrid said.

  “Through the dining room to the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?” Astrid pushed off with her good foot.

  “You’ll see,” Jennifer said. “There’s a room back there built for this.”

  They were in the hall now. Traffic came from every direction. Astrid entered the flow.

  “Will you be all right now?” Jennifer asked. “I have to check the rooms down the hall.”

  “Go,” Astrid said.

  In the kitchen, Sam’s was the only familiar face Astrid saw. Where were Betty and the others?

  “Right through there,” Sam said, gesturing. “You’ll get used to this.”

  Astrid doubted the veracity of that statement. In seventy-five years she hadn’t gotten used to the sirens. Smoke alarms, ambulances, fire trucks, city-wide tornado sirens. All of them made her heart race.

  In another couple of minutes she was in a room she had not imagined existed. How many did it hold? Was there another? Would the elevator work during a real tornado? Astrid pushed the questions out of her head. She found a spot where she could lean one shoulder against the wall and close her eyes.

  This was not that.

  For most of the war, the threat of bombs sent the people of Würzburg to the shelters, though the damage usually was light. When the frequency of air raids increased in the final months, though, bombs destroyed parts of the city. Mama prodded Papa to make some arrangements. The family needed to be out of the city, away from the targets. He dragged his feet. What about his Apotheke business? Finally, Papa found a place in the countryside where they could go and arranged a truck to transport the family’s belongings. They could move to an old unoccupied beer brewery in the village of Wenkheim. Movers disassembled the furniture and packed the entire household except for mattresses and a few chairs. The date was set for the family to travel.

  And it was one day too late.

  When the sirens howled, Astrid grabbed her survival bag, just as her brother, Harald, did—just as they had both learned to do in the intensifying weeks of air raids. Nanny Paula carried her younger sister, Uta, and Mama and Papa had the other bags. The family ran down the flights of stairs in their apartment building and into the public air shelter next door.

  It was cold and damp and dark and crowded. Astrid felt that place now, even as she was in a warm and dry space with calm conversation swirling around her.

  Sirens screamed for hours that day. Enormous explosions shook the building. When the shelter’s wall and door collapsed, Astrid reached for the nearest person to hang on to. She wasn’t even sure whose hand she held.

  Then it was quiet. Eerie. On other days, quiet meant the danger had passed. Not on that day. Not on March 16, 1945.

  Papa and some of the men climbed out over the rubble to see if it was safe. Far from it.

  “Go,” he said. “Take shelter in the park across the street.”

  Astrid climbed out, taking her brother’s hand to pull herself atop the rubble. Mama handed Uta up to Papa. Nanny Paula followed. Astrid’s heart raced so fast she feared her chest would break open.

  “Hurry,” Papa said, though Astrid could hardly make her feet move against her rushing heart.

  Every structure was on fire, flaming first from the upper floors. The red sky shot sparks from incinerator bombs in every direction. The building behind her family’s apartment building was half gone already.

  “Harald and I will check the apartment,” Papa said. “Perhaps we can salvage so
mething.”

  Papa, no, Astrid thought. If he ran into the thick, spiraling smoke, she might never see him again. Uta was crying, her mother frantic. If Papa and Harald didn’t come back, who would take care of them?

  “Do as your papa says,” Mama said, her voice strained but firm. Astrid’s heart raced on as she obeyed her mother and covered herself with a wet blanket—she had never been sure where it came from—and ran for the park. The crowd was as dense as the smoke, and Astrid wondered how Papa would ever find them. What if Papa never came? Family after family thickened the throng. No one could go home. Astrid shivered under her blanket, her eyes stinging as she watched the burning sky.

  And then Papa came. He and Harald managed to throw the mattresses out the window to drag to the park, and they saved six chairs and the baby’s crib.

  In her young life, all of it lived in the shadow of the Nazis, Astrid had never seen such horror. The neighborhood burned, as did every neighborhood in the city. In a matter of hours, the entire city was reduced to what its citizens could carry. No matter whom she looked at, stunned and frightened expressions greeted her.

  The next day, while the inferno raged, families clambered for limited transportation to the countryside. German soldiers, stationed in barracks nearby, were allowed to assist with a few trucks, not nearly enough to move families out as quickly as they wanted to go, even if they had no destination. Papa was determined to check on the Apotheke, his downtown pharmacy business. Flames and smoke were still spreading, and entire blocks had turned to smoldering rubble.

  Papa, no, Astrid thought again. Don’t leave us.

  They waited and waited. When he returned, Papa had a hand trolley loaded with a fifty-liter bottle of olive oil and a large box of powdered and crystallized sweetener.

  “For the soldiers,” he said. If he had something to offer them, they might help him return to the Apotheke and retrieve more of value. The plan almost worked. But it was too late. By the time they got there, the building had burned beyond recognition.

  “It’s gone,” Papa said when he came back to the park, his shoulders slumped. “Everything. Gone.”