Maybe moving somewhere new and starting over would help take away the pain of knowing his best friend was so near but he wasn’t even allowed to talk to him. Maybe it would soothe the pain he still felt in the gaps where Elsa used to be.

Maybe it would help ease the guilt that had followed him all day like a heavy burden on his back.

It wasn’t as if he could have done anything at school that morning. It wasn’t Max who had humiliated Leo. It wasn’t his fault. But still, he felt it. The unfairness of it. The fact that he hadn’t even tried to speak up for his friend.

Why hadn’t he? Would he, if he had the chance again?

Max didn’t want to torture himself with questions. He wanted to run from them, run as fast as he could.

He could have a fresh start in Munich. Start again, maybe even make new friends.

They were leaving in a week. Max told himself he would talk to Leo before they left. And he told himself that he would find a way to keep his promise of friendship.

He told himself whatever he needed to hear – even if, somewhere deep down in the depths of his heart, he knew it was all a lie.

LATE 1938

ELSA

Our days are mostly the same as each other. The pattern is strangely comforting.

School; homework; help Mutti with dinner; sew or read together till the light fades; bed.

And through it all, try hard not to think about Vati.

As soon as he comes into my mind, the questions pile in with him: Where is he now? What is he doing? Is he safe? Is he even alive?

I don’t have any answers so I do my best to chase the questions away with routine and chores and helping Mutti.

Otto is doing the same. At least, I think he is. We don’t talk about it, but I can tell. Only, instead of sewing and reading, Otto has become even more obsessed with fixing things. He has been taking woodwork at school and seems to spend every minute at home looking for anything made of wood that he can take apart and rebuild. Maybe mending something helps him cope with all the things in our lives that we can’t fix.

This evening, as usual, we are trying to keep ourselves as busy as possible. I’m holding the end of an old dress while Mutti patches a hole in it. Otto is sitting on the floor with one of the kitchen stools. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, the concentration on his face – his narrowed eyes, his tongue poking out of the edge of his mouth – as he unscrews one of the legs and rubs it with sandpaper before tightening it back into place.