Chapter 23 INGA
The scent of boiled laundry and potatoes still lingered in Elke's flat, the scent that clung to every hallway in Berlin these days. Axel sat on the floor with Hilde, trying to feed her bits of chocolate Gideon had brought, but she only sucked them until they melted and smeared down her chin.
I couldn't sit. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't be still.
I kept pacing the narrow length of the room, hands twisting in my hair, my heart beating so hard it felt like I was bruising from the inside out.
"I can't just stay here," I cried for the fifth time, turning sharply at the wall. "I can't not do anything, not when Klaus—when—"
"You have to calm down," Elke insisted, trying to pull me into one of her mismatched kitchen chairs. "Gideon is an American pilot. He knows what to do."
Her voice was steady, but there was something else in it too, a brittle edge. Envy. She'd wanted this for years. A man in uniform. A way out.
"I still can't believe you're engaged to one," she murmured, half dreamy, half sulking. "An American, Inga. How in heaven's name did you manage that? You never even flirt with the soldiers."
I shot her a look. "I didn't manage anything," I snapped, too raw, and added "Gideon… saved me" to soften it.
Elke sighed dramatically and pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh, romance…"
She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "Trust me, I've tried to get saved like that, and all I got was a man who smelled like beer telling me nice legs."
Normally, I would have laughed. Tonight I couldn't. I knew she was just trying to relax me, to pass the time, and I loved her for it.
But I was too restless. I didn't even have a chance to answer before a sharp knock rattled the door on its hinges.
Elke jumped. Axel froze. Even Hilde let out a small squeak and hid behind his arm.
My heart thudded painfully.
Elke moved toward the door cautiously. "Who is it?"
"Russki," a man's voice answered through the wood. "I have message."
My blood turned to ice. Elke turned wide, terrified eyes on me.
I shook my head; the words, "Don't open—" came out automatically, but I stopped myself.
The Russians were the ones who, according to Axel, had taken Klaus.
So if they were at Elke's door now, here…
they had to know about Klaus. I stepped forward with my heart pulsing in my throat. "I'll take it."
The door creaked open just enough for a Russian soldier to stand in the gap. He was older than most, uniform rumpled, eyes sharp and unreadable. He held out a folded piece of paper.
"For you," he said in heavily accented German. "Inga Weber."
Every breath in my body stopped. I took the paper with trembling fingers. It was dirty around the edges, like it had been carried for hours. My name was written on the outside in a handwriting I hadn't seen in… God. Years. A lifetime ago.
My father's handwriting.
No.
No, it couldn't be.
I unfolded it with numb fingers.
Daughter,
I know this must be a shock, but I'm alive and safe. Do not listen to anyone. They lied to us for years.
I need you to trust me and follow the man who brings this letter. He'll take you to me. And Klaus.
We can finally be a family again.
Vati
The room spun. My throat closed, and my vision blurred.
"He… he's alive?" I whispered, hardly hearing my own voice. "My father—alive? And he has Klaus?"
Elke snatched the letter from my hands. Her eyes flew across the page, then she looked up at me sharply.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, Inga. Don't believe this. This is what they do. Russians lie. They lure women. They lure—"
"I don't have a choice," I whispered. Because it was true. I didn't. I had to take the chance.
If my father was alive…
"Klaus," I forced out. "He has Klaus. I have to go."
Elke grabbed my wrist, panic rising. "Inga, you don't know this man! You don't know anything—"
"I know my father's handwriting," I argued stubbornly, but my voice trembled. "I have to go. I have to see them. Even if it's a lie. Even if it's a trap. I have to know."
Elke stared, helpless and horrified. I reached into my coat pocket and pressed the money Gideon had given me—money I'd never even dreamed of touching—into her palm.
Her eyes went wide. "Inga, what is this?"
"Take care of the children," I whispered. "Please. Feed them. Keep them safe."
"Inga, don't do this," she begged. "Don't go. What about Gideon? What about—"
Pain ripped through my chest.
"I'll come back," I promised.
I didn't believe it. But I said it anyway.
Because I needed to believe that somehow, someway, everything wouldn't fall apart again. I turned to Axel and Hilde. Axel shot to his feet, pale and shaking. Hilde clung to his arm, eyes huge.
"I'll be back," I whispered to them. "Stay with Elke. Don't leave the flat."
Then I stepped outside. The Russian soldier was waiting patiently beside a gleaming black limousine, polished so brightly it reflected the ruin around it like a twisted mirror. My stomach dropped.
"Please," he said simply, opening the door. "Come. Your father waits."
I looked back at the ruins, at the only home I had left, and then stepped inside the car. The door shut with a soft thud. The world outside disappeared as the limousine rolled toward Checkpoint Charlie, toward the East, toward whatever waited for me behind those walls.
The limousine glided silently through the sleepy, early-morning streets, its wheels whispering over cracked cobblestones. Berlin felt unreal, too quiet after the panic, after Klaus… I pressed my forehead to the cool glass as the world slid by.
People were already lining up with ration cards in their hands, shuffling their feet, blowing into cold fingers even though summer had touched the air.
A few women had small children wrapped in blankets, leaning tiredly against their skirts.
A baker's cart rattled past, the driver calling out the day's meager offerings.
And there—my heart squeezed—Old Manne, the man I'd waited beside so many mornings. He stood with his one arm tucked against his coat, staring ahead with that weary patience carved into all of us. I wanted to pound on the window and shout at him. Tell him I was engaged. Tell him Klaus was taken.
Tell him I was terrified.
But the car kept moving.
We passed the rebuilt blocks, new storefronts, smoothed stone facades, hopeful construction scaffolds catching the first pale light. West Berlin's stubborn determination glowed faintly, like a lantern refusing to go out.
But then—Checkpoint Charlie loomed ahead. A barrier. A border. A scar across the city.
American soldiers stood guard on one side, their uniforms neat, boots polished, rifles gleaming.
Beyond them, past the striped barrier arm and the concrete teeth on the road, Eastern soldiers waited with blank expressions, weapons slung casually over their shoulders, as if violence were just another morning chore.
My stomach twisted.
The car rolled to a stop.
One of the American MPs stepped forward.
He didn't look directly at me—didn't even try—but he peered into the car with suspicion, then glanced at the papers the Russian soldier handed over.
His jaw tensed. His fingers twitched. For a moment, I thought he might pull me out, ask who I was, ask if I was here willingly.
But whatever was on that paper—the Russian's pass—made his face fall still and cold. He stepped back.
The barrier rose.
And we crossed.
It felt like stepping through a mirror into a darker version of the world.
The air itself seemed heavier. Even the light dimmed, as if the sun grew tired here.
What small flickers of hope the cleared-out West held—the new bricks, the painted storefronts, the cautious smiles—died instantly.
On the East side, rubble still swallowed entire blocks.
Buildings leaned like burned matchsticks.
Men trudged rather than walked. Women stared with hollow, hungry eyes.
Even the children—if they could still be called that—moved like shadows, stiff and silent, as though the simple act of living required too much effort.
"Why… why does it look worse?" I whispered before I could stop myself.
The soldier didn't answer.
We drove deeper, past lines of people waiting outside distribution centers, past groups of men clearing debris with dull eyes. Everything was gray. Everything was exhausted. Everything looked… hopeless.
This had been my city, too. It still was.
But even I felt the difference. As if someone had reached into this quarter of Berlin and pulled the warmth out of it. My heart thudded painfully. Was Klaus here? Was he somewhere in this cold, lifeless place, alone and terrified?
The limo turned onto a quieter street, a street that didn't match the rest.
The rubble thinned. Sidewalks became smooth. The grime lessened.
We turned again, and my breath caught. A villa rose before us.
A real villa. Four stories, pale stone washed clean, windows intact, a balcony with wrought iron curling like lace.
The garden—an actual garden—overflowed with trimmed hedges, roses, and an enormous chestnut tree spreading its branches protectively overhead.
I stared.
It looked like something from a fairy tale. Something from before the war.
Something from the life my mother used to daydream aloud while cleaning rich women's apartments.
My throat tightened painfully.
This wasn't right.
Nothing about this was right.
The car stopped at the foot of the steps. A man in a pressed black suit—an actual butler—stepped forward and opened the door with a gentle bow.
"Fr?ulein Weber," he said, as if he'd been expecting me for years. "Please, follow me."