Ian grasps her shoulders, breathing hard too. He ducks down to look at her properly. “What’s going on? What is it?”
He lifts her chin and in his eyes, she sees the lights of the castle that has stood on that overlook for a thousand years, stalwart and secure and reliable. A constant amid the tumult.
She clutches Ian’s wrists, feeling her legs giving way. “I killed them,” she whispers. “I killed them. It was all my fault.”
Ian steadies her. “Who?”
“My parents.”
“How is the accident your fault?”
Kate shakes her head in despair. “Because I was the one driving,” she says weakly. “It was me. It was raining, and… and…” She takes a breath, tries to tell him the whole truth, but the words won’t come.
Ian pulls her in to his chest, where she buries her head in his scarf as the wind chills the tear tracks on her face. “It’s still not your fault, Kate,” he mutters. “Any one of you could have been driving, and the same thing would have happened. The roads still would have been wet. You can’t blame yourself for this.”
Oh, but she can.
“Do you think your parents would, if they were alive to hear you say this? Jesus. Would they not just be grateful you survived? Come on, Kate. You have to forgive yourself. You have to.”
Kate tilts her chin up. He kisses her gently and pulls her in for another hug. Over his shoulder, the Ferris wheel is fully illuminated now. Each car is a different colour, and she watches as the red one drops down behind some trees, out of her view. It slows down a little with time, disappears for a while as the other cars take their turn at the fore. You would think the red car was gone. But then it rises back up, almost camouflaged in all the sparkling, twinkling lights, but not quite. It’s always there, whether you want to see it or not.
PART III
At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.
—Dante Alighieri, Inferno
Chapter 22
Audrey
BERLIN, GERMANY | MARCH 1939
They left Berlin after dusk. The sky turned from purple to indigo as the late winter sun sank below the horizon, a great fish dipping beneath the surface of the dark water. Audrey, Friedrich, and Ilse, holding Daniel, stepped outside and scanned the street. The Richters’ house was dark.
This was the first time Ilse had left the house since that terrible day, nearly five months ago now. As they pulled away from the curb, she glanced out the window at her family home.
“It will be all right,” Friedrich said.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but you cannot know that,” she replied.
Friedrich turned his attention to the streets. The drive to the Netherlands would take most of the night, six hours or so, he’d said.
As they drove, Ilse took in her once-familiar surroundings. All the Jewish landmarks and businesses were shuttered, destroyed. Audrey had hardened herself to these sights, but now saw them anew through Ilse’s eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek as they passed the remains of her synagogue. After the fire, it had been left to steep in its own destruction, like some half-eaten animal carcass at the side of the road. Gaping and hollow. Stripped of its dignity, even in death.
They traveled in silence until they reached the edge of the city and traffic slowed to a stop.
“What’s happening?” Audrey asked, craning her neck from the back seat, but all she could see was the car in front. “Why are we stopping?”
“Probably just a checkpoint,” said Friedrich.
“A what?”
“A security checkpoint. They want to know who is coming into and leaving Berlin.”
“What?” Ilse gasped.
“This was entirely expected,” Friedrich murmured, looking over at Daniel, who was dozing in Ilse’s lap. “We have our papers. Everyone just remain calm. Remember our cover story.”
Audrey steeled her nerve as they neared the front of the queue. Eventually a police officer tapped on Friedrich’s window.
Friedrich cranked it down. “Guten Abend,” he said, leaning his elbow on the window ledge.
The policeman’s eyes flicked to the decorations on Friedrich’s shoulder. “Guten Abend, er…”
“Obersturmbannführer Müller.”
The officer visibly straightened before saluting Friedrich. “Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.”
Ilse stared ahead, but a nerve jumped in her clenched jaw. She hadn’t seen Müller’s performative Nazi behaviour like Audrey had.
“I’m afraid I must ask for your papers, Obersturmbannführer,” the policeman said. “For yourself and these ladies, please. Forgive me, it is policy.”
Friedrich nodded and gave no argument. “I applaud your diligence, officer…?”
