Chapter 29
The morning we left Berlin, the whole city seemed to hold its breath.
We boarded the military truck at the side entrance of the hotel; Gideon had arranged everything, down to the last paper.
The children and I were wearing our new clothes and shoes.
Klaus practically vibrated with excitement.
Axel clutched Hilde's hand the whole time, both solemn and excited in that strange way children are when they sense the edges of something huge.
"Ready?" he asked softly.
I nodded, though my stomach flipped. "Ready."
"Home," he murmured.
The word poured through me like sunlight.
We followed the airman up the metal ramp; the children clung to my skirt and Gideon's hand.
Inside, the plane's belly was all rivets and steel ribs, the floor lined with canvas seats stretched tightly over metal frames.
Cargo nets hung along the walls, bulging with supplies headed back to the States.
A faint scent of oil, recycled air, and something metallic filled my lungs, sharp and new and terrifyingly exciting.
Gideon helped Klaus up the last step, then guided me inside.
The ceiling was low enough that tall men had to duck.
The windows were round portholes, each showing a slice of the sky.
Soldiers and families settled in quietly, coats and bags tucked by their feet, murmuring to nervous children.
It felt less like boarding a plane and more like stepping into a great migrating bird preparing to leap across the world.
We found our row—wide bench seats with rough straps—and Gideon buckled the kids in, making sure each clasp clicked firmly. When he turned to me, his eyes softened, as if saying trust me… you'll be safe.
I took a deep breath and smiled at him. I sat and took his hand as the hatch sealed shut behind us.
The engines started, low rumbling like thunder trapped in steel. My heart pounded loud enough to drown it out. Klaus grabbed my sleeve. Axel pressed his face to the little window, breath fogging the glass. Hilde curled into my side, clutching her doll.
We lifted.
Slowly.
Gracefully.
Against every law of nature I'd ever known.
And Berlin—my Berlin—began to fall away beneath us.
My breath hitched.
There it was.
The city where I'd been born, learned to walk, and learned to survive. The city where bombs fell, mothers cried, and children starved. The city that stole so much from me, and yet… it was all I had known.
As we climbed higher, the patchwork ruins came into view. Streets like broken ribs, buildings like jagged teeth, whole neighborhoods flattened into patterns I recognized far too well.
"That—there," I whispered, pointing through the window. "That used to be the Zoologischer Garten… the zoo. My mother used to take me to see the elephants. I always thought they looked like old grandfathers."
Klaus squinted. "Where? I only see… broken."
"Yes," I murmured. "But before… it was beautiful."
As we banked left, I caught sight of Tiergarten, once a forested heart of the city, now a bare skeleton of stumps. I saw the scar where the Kaiser Wilhelm Church stood, broken spire jutting up defiantly.
My chest tightened when I noticed movement. A cluster of children running across a courtyard, tiny figures weaving between mounds of rubble. Bare legs. Torn clothes. I knew them, even if I didn't know their names.
Trümmerkinder.
Like Axel had been, and Hilde. Like Klaus might have become. Children who knew hunger better than warmth.
Farther along, I saw the silhouettes of Trümmerfrauen, women with scarves tied over their hair, standing in lines by the piles of debris, passing bricks hand to hand. Their movements slow, weary, eternal.
My throat burned. I pressed my palm to the window. "They're still there," I whispered. "Working. Always working."
Gideon reached over and covered my hand with his.
"We'll help them," he murmured. "Someday, when we can. But right now… it's your turn to have a life."
I turned to him and smiled through tears. Because he meant it. Because he had already given me a life I hadn't dared imagine.
When Berlin became a gray blur beneath us, the children's awe blossomed.
"It's so small!" Klaus gasped.
"It looks like toy houses," Axel said.
"It looks like… nothing," Hilde whispered, unsure if that was sad or wonderful.
The clouds swallowed us, thick and white and endless. I had never imagined anything so soft and enormous. I pressed my forehead to the window and whispered a prayer I hadn't spoken since my mother died.
"Thank you."
Hours later, the ocean appeared.
A great, impossible sheet of blue, stretching farther than my mind could grasp. Waves like shifting silk. Sunlight glittered off the surface like thousands of diamonds.
I gripped the armrest. "Gideon… there's… so much water."
He grinned. "More than you can imagine."
"Will we fall in?"
"No," he chuckled. "Not today."
The children pressed their noses to the glass in unison.
"Water!" Klaus shrieked.
"So much!" Hilde cried.
"Are there sharks?" Axel asked, fascinated.
Gideon leaned over. "Only friendly ones."
I laughed—really laughed—and for a moment, I felt weightless.
Meals were served in metal trays: warm rolls, butter, ham, and something they called casserole.
The children ate until they were pink-cheeked and sleepy.
Blankets were handed out. Cushions too. Hilde curled up in my lap.
Klaus fell asleep on Gideon's shoulder. Axel stretched across two seats, snoring softly.
Hours passed in a gentle hum.
For the first time in years, nothing hurt.
Gideon surprised us halfway through the journey.
"You want to see the cockpit?" he asked.
The children nearly exploded with joy. He winked at me and led them through the narrow aisle into the sacred space where the pilots sat.
I followed on tiptoes, wondering if I was allowed here too.
Gauges glowed softly. Lights blinked. The sky stretched endlessly in front of us, a sea of cotton clouds tinted pink by the sinking sun.
Axel whispered, "It's magic."
Klaus reached out hesitantly. "Can I… touch?"
Gideon nodded. "Only this switch."
Klaus flipped it. A tiny light blinked.
Hilde giggled.
Then the plane shuddered, and I froze.
The captain called, "Turbulence ahead, Captain Griffin."
Gideon squeezed my hand. "It's alright. Just air pockets. We're safe."
The plane rattled again. My breath shortened.
Gideon pulled me gently into his chest. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."
And just like that, the fear loosened. We left the cockpit, and the children talked for an hour straight about buttons and clouds and how Gideon was obviously a sky king.
I agreed.
Hours later, the mountains rose from the horizon like a painting coming alive. Deep blue peaks. Silver rivers. Forests rolling in endless waves. And the sky—God, the sky—so open and clean it made my chest ache.
"This…" I whispered, pressing my fingers to the window. "This is our new home?"
"Yes," Gideon said softly. "Welcome to Montana, sweetheart."
Klaus gasped. "It looks like heaven."
Axel grinned. "I want to run everywhere."
Hilde pointed. "Trees!"
I rested my head against Gideon's shoulder and let joy bloom inside me, warm and enormous. Berlin had been gray rubble beneath our feet for so long. Now the world was wide and green and full of promise.
Gideon murmured. "We're almost there."
I closed my eyes and whispered, "Thank you."
For saving us. For loving us. For giving us a sky to fly in.
When the wheels touched down, the whole plane shuddered, rattling through my bones. Klaus stirred against my side, Axel blinked sleepily, and Hilde yawned so wide her jaw popped. Gideon gave my hand a squeeze.
"We're here," he whispered. "Welcome to Montana."
Montana.
The word still felt unreal on my tongue, like a place out of fairy tales instead of somewhere I would actually step onto.
Customs was quick—quicker than I'd expected.
A few signatures, a glance at our papers, and a smile from a tired official who seemed charmed by the kids clinging to Gideon like ducklings.
When we stepped outside, the air hit me like a revelation.
Fresh.
No coal dust. No smoke. No rubble. Just sky. Endless sky. A blue so deep it hurt my eyes.
Gideon inhaled like a man tasting home for the first time after a long exile.
He turned to us, grinning. "Alright. We've got two choices. Stay in the city tonight and rest…" His eyes moved to me, soft and warm. "Or we can make the drive to the ranch now. We'll get there before dark."
My heart stuttered. I leaned into him, my cheek brushing his shoulder. "If it's alright," I whispered, "I would love to meet your family."
His smile softened into something tender and a little mischievous. "Fair warning, they'll likely make us sleep in separate rooms until we're properly married."
I fought a grin. "I'm willing to take that risk."
He raised a brow. "Are you now?"
"Yes," I said, eyes locking with his. "Very willing."
He laughed—warm, rich, relieved—and kissed my forehead like he couldn't help himself.
He borrowed a truck from a man who greeted him with a hearty clap on the back. "Griffin! Back from saving the world, are ya? Take her for as long as you need." A wink toward me. "And who's this pretty thing?"
Gideon cleared his throat, cheeks turning faintly pink. "My fiancée."
The man whistled. "Well, I'll be damned. Congratulations, you two!"
I blushed, clutching Klaus's hand tighter. They loaded our luggage into the truck bed, then the children, who squealed with delight at sitting among the bags like it was the greatest adventure of their lives.
Gideon opened the passenger door for me with that old-fashioned gallantry he did so naturally, and when I climbed up, he shut it gently, almost reverently. He rounded the truck and got in beside me, thigh warm against mine, the smell of leather and dust and pine in the cab.
"Ready?" he asked.