neck. But then the girl sucks air into her lungs and lets it out in a wail. Anna gathers her onto her lap and rocks her.
And shut that brat up, the Obersturmführer shouts from above. Wheeling, he sweeps an arm across the display case. Anna huddles over Trudie, trying to shield her from the shower of jewelry and silverware and candlesticks and china.
Jesus Christ, she’s worse than an air-raid siren, the Obersturm-führer rants. Of all the spoiled—disobedient—What does a man have to do nowadays for some peace and quiet? Just a second’s worth of order!
Shhh, Anna says to Trudie, cupping the girl’s face to feel for damage. One cheek is already puffy, blood welling from a cut inflicted by the Obersturmführer ’s death’s-head ring. But he doesn’t seem to have broken any bones, and the teeth are still intact. Shhh. Be quiet now.
Trudie tries to swallow her sobs. The Obersturmführer ’s boots pass back and forth a few centimeters from Anna’s nose. Glass crunches and grinds beneath them. A young bride, still in her frame, smiles at Anna from the shards.
Things fall apart, Anna thinks, remembering a poem Max once read to her; the center cannot hold. She is unaware that she has uttered the words aloud until the Obersturmführer lunges at her.
What? he says. He grabs the braided coil at the back of her neck and yanks Anna to her feet. What did you say? Why did you say that?
Anna cries out. She bats at his hands; an ounce more pressure and her hair will come out by the roots.
Nothing, she gasps, it was nothing, a foolish poem, it doesn’t mean anything!
The Obersturmführer ’s grip slackens somewhat, but he keeps a firm hold on the braid while he draws his pistol from its holster. He tries to fumble the safety catch off. This is an awkward maneuver one-handed; he nearly drops the revolver; he swears.
For all our sakes, he is saying, maybe it would be cleaner, better, the best solution for all of us if I—
Time slows to the sludgy pace of dream. Over the roar in her ears, Anna hears the click of the safety being drawn back. She won’t make it easy for him, she will put up a fight, she will bite his arm as hard as she can—
But then the Obersturmführer drops her hair. He gazes bewildered around the bakery. His mouth hangs down as though he has suffered a stroke. He is once again unplugged.
No, he says. It may be all right. It may still come all right.
Anna shuts her eyes.
Of course it will, she whispers, and touches his sleeve.
The Obersturmführer looks down at her hand, his lips thinning in disgust.
Clean this place up, he snaps, sliding his pistol back into its holster. He straightens his uniform tunic and yanks his greatcoat on. In the glare of the lamp, his shadow bulks to monstrous proportions on the wall. It’s a disgrace. You’re a disgrace. I’ve had it with the pair of you. Puling, whining, ungrateful! I’ve half a mind not to come back at all.
Please, Anna says, though she is not sure what she is begging for. Part of her rejoices, exulting, Good riddance, thank God! But if the Obersturmführer abandons them, she and Trudie will have no choice but to join the ranks of the dispossessed.
Please, Horst, don’t go away angry—He casts a pallid glance in her direction. The door slams behind him.
Anna looks about for Trudie, who is standing in the corner, her thumb in her mouth.
Come, little rabbit, Anna says. Hop upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute with some ice for your face; won’t that feel good?
The girl gives no indication that she has heard. Anna reaches for her shoulders to turn her around. Trudie flinches from her touch.
I’m sorry, Anna whispers. I’m sorry, little one.
Trudie slips away from her and walks toward the staircase.
Anna watches her go. Then she kneels to salvage what she can from the debris of the Obersturmführer ’s tantrum, raking the stuff into a pile. Her uncoiled braid swings over one shoulder like a hangman’s rope; her scalp smarts; the tine of a fork pierces her forefinger. Anna rocks back on her heels, sucking the wounded finger. She relishes the salt of her own blood. She has not eaten in two days.
What is to become of us? she asks aloud.
As if in response, there is a rap on the door. Anna gets to her feet to answer it. Then she