Claire woke to the dim light of the dangling lamp flickering on and off. The pervading silence was worse than the horror of the bombs. She pushed herself up from where she lay on the cot, feeling a weight about her waist and every sore muscle in her back. Beside her, Carsten lay still dreaming on his side, his arm the weight against her. Claire stared in disbelief for a few moments. Her robe hung loosely and she feared what may have happened while she was unconscious. The light flickered on again and stayed lit.

"Mr. Reiniger," Claire whispered, wide-eyed.

Carsten woke, drew a deep breath through his nose and rolled onto his back. Claire sat up and fixed her robe, hoping his eyes would remain closed. Her gaze went to the rest of the room, panicking when she remembered they weren't alone. Everyone still slept except them.

"Guten Morgen," Carsten mumbled, trying to get comfortable again.

Claire froze as his other arm flopped over her lap. She nervously eyed him, but he was intent on going back to sleep. He lay there, somehow more threatening than when he was awake, and Claire slid away from him, determined to find another place to sit before her aunt awoke to see such a scene. But when his hand slipped down her thigh, she froze. Loud banging vibrated through the roof, and she panicked. Dust fell from the arch above them as the lamp swung gently on its sagging cord.

Carsten immediately lifted his hand. He rolled over, twisting at the waist to see the entrance of the shelter. His eyes searched hurriedly while he listened.

"That's not bombs," he whispered.

The others in the shelter stirred awake upon hearing the noises coming from outside. Carsten jumped up and crossed the room in seconds. The dutiful butler joined him. Carsten pressed his ear to the hatch.

"What's going on?" Aunt asked with a yawn, surprisingly calm.

The elderly butler prattled in Teutonic tones to Carsten about something.

Claire got to her feet and limped to Aunt's bunk, curling up beside her for comfort. She thought she heard muffled voices and didn't care whose they were as long as they got out of that awful crypt. Aunt forgivingly kissed the top of her head and squeezed her tight.

"Workers," Carsten said. "Clearing debris," he added facing them. "I think we may be here a while."

"I thought these things were supposed to be safe," Aunt snapped.

"They are," Carsten said. "The house was not."

Aunt trembled with fear. Claire wrapped her arms about the woman's ample middle and put her head on her shoulder. Aunt placed a loving hand on her back and patted her.

"It's gonna be all right," Aunt said, more for herself than her niece. "Just have to wait."

Carsten pulled the lever on the door. Beyond the opening, the scene was a matchbox overturned. Beams and mortar had crashed down under the force of a hit, and a sliver of light lit a pool of water that had trickled down from broken pipes and collected on the floor. The uppermost parts of the mess were blackened to char; the smell of smoke billowed into the room. Carsten shut the door, but didn't lock it. He stepped back with an enigmatic scowl on his face.

"What is it?" Aunt asked.

The butler muttered, shaking his head regretfully at the closed hatch door.

"They know we are here," Carsten said. "Just give them time to clear a path."

"What do you mean?" Aunt cried.

"We're buried, aren't we?" Father suddenly spoke.

Carsten gave him a sidelong glance. Then his eyes went to the women. He didn't answer. He paced back to the cot he'd originally claimed

"How long can we stay here?" Aunt asked.

Carsten scrubbed a hand through his tousled gold locks and nodded at the crates taking up the other end of the shelter. His arm fell against the cot and he rolled back against the wall.

Claire got to her feet and went to the boxes. She tried to read the labels, but they were all printed in German.

"I, for one, am starving," Claire said, reading and re-reading the labels. If she pronounced them in her head, they almost made sense. "I am not about to let the house caving in stop me from having breakfast."

An abandoned hammer and crowbar lay nearby. She picked them up and pried the waist-high box open. Inside, stacks of cans gleamed from beds of straw. She pulled one out and tried to read it. Again, the German frustrated her. Perhaps she should make Carsten teach her the language-since he expected they would stay a while, it was his duty. She set the thought aside with the can and moved to another box. The lid flipped back easily when she pushed on it.

"Clothes!" she cried out, seeing the neatly folded stacks lined with paper.

The occupants of the room gave her their attention. She pulled out a drab shirt the shade of ash in the low light, but Carsten yawned. Claire dropped the shirt back on the pile and set her fist on her hip.

"You could help," Claire told him. "You're not going anywhere for a while. Besides I bet you're just dying for a smoke by now."

Carsten begrudgingly wandered over to the cases she'd opened. He towered over her and she saw the bruises on his arm. Picking at the shirt with his fingers, he lifted it slightly and frowned. Claire regretted inviting him, embarrassed by her actions through the night and sorry she hadn't realized he was hurt. Picking on him wasn't going to help anyone.

"Fatigues," he said. "Of course, the shelter was supplied by the Army. Better than nothing, I suppose."

"Aren't you used to wearing them by now?" Claire asked rhetorically, flipping through the piles to distract herself.

"Better than seeing you walk out of here in just that robe," he pointed out.

Claire blushed and Carsten smiled smugly and went to the cans. He held the label toward the light.

"Milk," he said and set the can down. He took up another. "Milk."

"They packed us in with a crate load of milk and fatigues?" Claire asked. "I know your soldiers are mere boys, but that young?"

"Ja," Carsten said, opening the crate beside it. "The plan is to supply soldiers for several months. They might be here quite some time. Every box contains some supply or another that will be needed-food, clothes-you get the idea."

"I don't plan on being here that long, Mr. Reiniger," Claire said.

"I think this is what you were looking for," Carsten said, removing several sealed foil packages and handing one of them to her.

"What is it?" Claire asked, curling up her lip as she studied the package. It was strangely pliable.

"Claire's breakfast."

Claire went back to her cot with the packet and sat down. She felt despondent with all that had happened and even more so now, unable to find a decent breakfast to help soften the blow. Carsten passed similar packages to the others and went back to the crates. The crackling of the foil packs mixed with the muffled sounds outside. The workers sounded miles away. Claire tore the rectangular package along the seam. A dark substance was inside, smearing along the tear. Claire stuck her finger into the cold, gooey stuff. Frowning, she placed the tip of her finger to her mouth and tasted. Confused at first, she found herself pleasantly surprised to find it was chocolate. Chocolate cake.

Carsten's shadow darkened her cot. She looked up. He stood there holding a fork and cloth napkin. Under his arm he carried a bundle of clothes. She tilted her head and thanked him, noticing he had put on one of the shirts she'd found. It hung open, still revealing the flimsy undershirt and his muscles. She took the fork and napkin.

"Es ist gut?" he asked.

Claire nodded, surmising what that meant.

"I didn't know you had rations like this in the war," Claire said, trying to picture him in his uniform. She preferred the drabs of her own Joes, but a uniform of any kind had a certain effect on the appearance of a man. She could only imagine what it looked like on his physique.

"Some things are not all lost to us," Carsten replied. Carsten set the clothes on her bunk. "When you are ready, you can change over there. The boxes will hide you."

Claire stuffed a forkful of the cake in her mouth, her cheeks stinging at her own foolish thoughts. He walked back to the crates and started piling suitable matches for the others. Claire cast her eyes about the room while he worked. Aunt wore an untidy dress from the day before and her father had the shirt and torn pants he'd come with. The butler sat contentedly by the door in his pristine serving uniform, which seemed as much a part of his body as his arms and legs. Claire wondered if the old man ever slept or if they simply propped him up in a broom closet for use when needed. He sat with perfect posture, with his hands tucked between his knobby knees. He was ridiculously serious for their little party. When Carsten brought him food, he smiled nobly. He then removed his gloves, neatly folding them and placing them on a table. He took the package and spread a napkin over his lap before proceeding.

Carsten left him to his meal and returned to rifling through the supplies. He discovered a radio and quickly wound it up. The speaker crackled to life as he set it on the lid of a crate. He spun the dial through the static and transmissions until he found the right station. A harsh, high-pitched voice struck the silence. It spoke angrily about something. Claire recognized the city name, having heard Carsten mention it so often. She gathered a woman was reporting on the bombing. Beside her, Carsten listened intently with no show of emotion. Claire wondered if he ever felt anything other than amusement at her expense.

"Doesn't it get an English station?" Aunt asked, smirking.

Carsten tried not to smile and cradled his head in his hands to listen more closely. The voice grew more urgent with each moment. Claire took the last bite of cake before the broadcast sickened her stomach too much to eat. She imagined what the woman said in defense of the Nazis. Claire gathered her bundle of clothes and went to change. As she passed the noisy radio, she set the empty package on the edge of the crate and frowned at Carsten. He kept his eyes cast down, so she slowly went and hid behind the supplies, leaving him to his broadcast.

The woman's voice reached Claire's ears, a nightmare sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Her head would have ached from the screeching, but her leg cornered the market on pain. A door, similar to a hatch on a ship was anchored in the concrete wall. Claire opened it and discovered a familiar sight. A bathroom, similar to the one on the sub, provided a welcome convenience. Claire jumped inside, switching on the light. Discarding the borrowed robe, she changed quickly into the rationed garments. Proving miracles still existed, Claire found the outfit nearly her size. She drew the sash from the robe and worked it through the loops for a belt. Though a little loose, the pants would stay up and the whole caboodle would provide better coverage than the garments she had been wearing.

Stepping from behind the crates, Claire tossed the robe on her cot. Sitting down, she combed her hair with her fingers and scowled at the radio and the shrill beast screaming from it. The hatch had muffled the annoying thing and she almost thought of returning there to get away from it.

Carsten handed her a bundle of clothes, chewing on a piece of gum. He must have happened on a crate with the rarer niceties, since the pack he'd lost was in her purse. "For your aunt."

Claire sighed and took the bundle. Limping along, she delivered it to Aunt while the woman finished the last bites of cake. Aunt licked the chocolate off her lips, tired and annoyed. Claire tried to smile at her but she didn't think it came out right.

"Here you are," Claire said. "There's a toilet behind the crates."

"Well, don't you look spiffy," Aunt scoffed.

"Better than standing here half-naked," Claire replied.

"I'm sure Mr. Reiniger didn't mind," Claire heard her father say.

Claire closed her eyes and bit her lip. A blush bloomed on her cheeks. She instantly missed whatever medication he had been given at the hospital.

"My apologies, Herr Healey," Carsten said, roused by the pronouncement on his behalf.

Claire opened her eyes and saw him step out from behind the crate, irritated, hopefully by the comment. She braced, half expecting him to menace her father at long last.

"I think it's time for your medicine." Carsten approached him with a bundle of clothes. He tossed them on his chest. "Put those on, while I get your pills."

Claire helped her aunt to stand up. She smiled at how controlled Carsten stayed and how easily he'd quieted her father. He followed behind Aunt, stopping at the crate and listened to the radio again, never intending to find a single pill to give him. It was probably forgotten in his room and lost in the raid.

Claire found her cot and laid on her stomach to watch the door, willing the workers to dig faster. In all the days she'd sat daydreaming about faraway places while imagining the soldiers and the Resistance, she never thought she would get a firsthand look. Yet here she was, decked out in fatigues, waiting in a bunker to be dug out after an air raid. This is what it must have been like for the French when the Germans attacked-what the British experienced during the sneak attacks across the channel. She pictured poor little Belgium in ruins. Her heart couldn't blame whoever was trying to kill them. Everyone was fighting for their lives and Claire was just one more body in the way.

Carsten's shadow darkened her cot again. He took one of her badly scuffed shoes and went through the stacks of crates, disappearing in the back once Aunt had emerged in her new outfit. She heard him shuffling things about and then the groan of the crowbar working at a lid. She heard him pulling and piling and rolled onto her side, supporting her head with her hands. The voice on the radio ebbed, a gentle melody came over the air waves and Carsten reappeared with a pair of boots. He approached, and she saw the telling glint in his eyes.

"Don't tell me they make these things for women," she said, retrieving her shoe along with a pair of cumbersome work boots.

"Nein," Carsten said. "They'll be a little big. These should help." He handed her a ball of yarn.

Claire took the ball confused. Socks. The Germans certainly had packed all the basics. She unrolled the thick wool and pulled them on her cold feet. At least she wouldn't have to go barefoot in the dust anymore. The boots didn't fit as well as her clothes, but they were workable, considering the circumstances. She frowned at her clownish feet. If the Germans considered everything, they left the female out. Either that or women in Germany were different from any others.

Claire settled back down on her cot. Her father struggled with his new clothes, and no one came to his rescue. It was nice to see him struggle for once like the rest of humanity. Perhaps he would slip down a peg or two in the process. Resting her head against her hand, she exhaled hopelessly. Her father gaining humility was less likely to happen than a U-boat surfacing from beneath the floor.

***

Hours later, with the smell of burning tobacco filling the shelter, while Carsten lost at poker with Noreen on an upturned wooden box and music lightly played in the background from the staticky radio, a hollow and insistent drumming rattled the hatch. Carsten put his hand down and went cautiously to the door, a cigarette burning on his lip. He pulled the heavy portal open, as everyone but Healey gathered behind him.

"Ah, Reiniger," Kohl smiled, smoking his cigar and looking quite relaxed. "Tough night, eh? You look like hell."

Kohl stood there in a pool of white light with two heavily blackened soldiers who had helped in the efforts to unbury them.

"Took you long enough," Aunt said before Carsten could.

"Good damn thing we thought to install this little hut, Frau. Well, how about we get you up?" Kohl suggested.

A ladder stood against the remains of the house, cresting a gaping hole at the top of the wreckage. A few soldiers wandered through the remains of the house. Some of the men stopped to peer down. Carsten wondered how the women would navigate the exit, not to mention Healey. The rickety old ladder spanned at least twenty feet, maybe more.

"They will need to lift Healey out," Carsten informed Kohl. "There is no way he can climb."

"What about die Frauen?" Kohl asked, flicking his eyes toward Aunt and Claire.

"Oh, don't you worry about me," Aunt said. "I can climb that like a boy in a tree."

Carsten looked to Claire. She squinted at the bright light and hesitated. She chewed her lip, stepping back from the opening before she could think again.

"Fräulein Healey's leg was badly injured in the blast," Carsten said. "I will help her up to save us time."

"Why not let us use the lift?" Kohl said in German.

"I don't trust it," Carsten answered.

"But it's good enough for Herr Healey?"

Carsten coolly refused to answer, drawing the last bit of smoke from the tobacco and discarding the end.

"Your attention to the matter isn't advisable, Hauptmann," Kohl continued in German. "You know better. You could injure your reputation."

Carsten stood stiffly, still not responding. The advice from Focke had been guarded orders to cease his growing relationship with a member of the cargo, and Kohl's insistence assured him his flavor had gone bad with the men in the offices. He waited for Kohl to try another suggestion.

"The old man here?" Kohl asked, returning to English.

The little old butler shuffled into the frame of the hatch, lifting a gloved hand to wave at their rescuer.

"Hello, Amsel! Am I glad you weren't hurt!" Kohl reverted to their common language. The man chattered to him joyfully. Kohl then addressed the men who had come with him. "We'll need a lift."

The soldiers replied in unison, then hurried up the ladder as adept as squirrels. Shouting came from above as they relayed their orders.

Kohl's attention returned to them. He peered past Carsten into the dark.

"Frau O'Shea!" he called. Noreen came into the light, her mouth drawn in a tight line. "If you are ready, you may precede me. It will not take those fire monkeys long to get the lift and have the others out."

Aunt carefully stepped outside the shelter, taking in the damage with awe.

"You go on ahead," Kohl instructed. "I will follow you."

Aunt placed her foot on the first rung and her hands a rung above her head. She was far less confident than when she'd replied earlier.

"Wait for us to get to the top before you come with the girl," Kohl instructed Carsten.

Carsten nodded and went back inside the dark shelter. He looked over the space that had kept them safe from the explosions and fires while Claire stood by the door watching her aunt climb along the ladder with Kohl waiting patiently below.

"Fräulein," Carsten called to her. He wished he could leave her there for a while longer, outlined by the gray daylight in perfect silhouette. Claire glanced at him over her shoulder. For a moment it seemed they were somewhere else. Kohl's words replayed in his mind and he knew they were not. "Get your things."

Claire pushed off the wall and hobbled to the bunk they shared. Her only belongings were a ruined suit, one pair of shoes and a tiny purse. She clutched them to her with the care of a little girl holding her doll. He turned from her to Healey, who carelessly lounged on his bunk, arms propped behind his head for a pillow.

"They will come back for you," Carsten told him. "Do as they tell you or you could lose the use of your other leg too."

Healey bared his teeth, probably ready with some witty response, but he didn't follow through.

"Of course, Mr. Reiniger," he rasped.

Carsten locked eyes with him for a moment in a test of wills. This time he looked away first.

"They're at the top," Claire called from the doorway, making a sack out of her skirt and stuffing her meager things inside.

"Amazing the cow didn't fall and kill him," Healey said, sitting up.

Claire bolted to the the bunk her father lounged on, wearing a disgusted scowl. She swung the flat of her hand against his smug face. Gritting her teeth, she glared down at him.

"Don't you dare talk about her like that," Claire said, pushed to the very edge.

Carsten pulled her back before she struck him again. He understood her sensitivity, as the woman had raised her, but they could little afford Healey turning against her this close to the end.

"Ungrateful child!" Healey growled. He took his cane and lunged toward them, swinging it.

Carsten grabbed the cane, pulling Claire out of the way. His icy eyes drilled through Healey. The wood of the instrument crackled as his fist crushed it. He tore it from Healey's hand and slammed it against the bunker wall, breaking it in half. Carsten tossed the piece he still held. It skittered across the concrete floor.

"Do not," Carsten growled back. "I will kill you."

Healey's maddened rage changed to respectful fear. He looked at the end of the shattered cane closest to him on the floor, then fell back on his bunk.

"If I don't do it first," Claire added.

"You pipe down," Carsten said more gently to her, tugging her to his side and squeezing. She hung there like a scolded child. "You will not want to deal with me if you lay a hand on him again." He paused seeing the strain in her face. "Do you understand me?"

Claire tried to pry his fingers from her waist, fighting to breathe. When she relented, he released his grip and took hold of her arm, pushing her out in front of him. She tried to free her arm and he waited for her to bare her claws at him next.

"Do you?" Carsten said to Healey.

"Keep her away from me and there will be no issues," Healey said.

Carsten wanted to throttle the man, but let him sit there sulking instead. They behaved more like bickering siblings than father and daughter. If the world ever blessed him with children, he would never in all his days speak to them in such horrible ways. Carsten reluctantly turned away, dragging Claire with him.

"Please remember, Herr Healey," Carsten said. "I am your only protection. Don't look to anyone else in the Reich to care once they get a taste of your acid."

Claire hopped alongside him, out the door and to the mass of rubble where the ladder waited. Carsten fumed while he helped her navigate the precarious pile until they stood beside the questionable escape route.

"Climb on my back," Carsten murmured.

"You've got to be joking," she scoffed. Claire sized up the tall ladder. Two men held the poles at the top. "You can't carry me up that."

"Climb on my back or stay here with your father," Carsten said.

Claire raised an eyebrow.

"I might try to kill him," she warned.

Carsten set his hands on his hips and waited. She tied her makeshift sack to her belt then reached for his shoulders while he squatted. Claire carefully circled her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

"You've got to be crazy, Mr. Reiniger," Claire said. "This is gonna be some trapeze act."

"Just hang on tight, ja," Carsten said, sounding a bit worried.

"Oh, don't you worry about that. You just let me know if you can't breathe anymore."

Carsten smiled, taking hold of the ladder. She tightened her arms and legs around him.

"We haven't started yet," he said gasping. "Here." He loosened her arms, looping them under his shoulders. She threaded her fingers together on the base of his neck. "Better?"

"It's your show," Claire replied, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades.

Carsten tried to ignore the feel of her along his back.. He started carefully up the ladder, testing its strength with their combined weight. The wood was less rickety than he'd assumed upon first inspection. It bowed a little with their ascent, but not enough to cause him alarm. Claire pressed her nose to his spine and tightened her grip. Carsten was reminded of his marching days with full packs, but they weren't nearly as pleasant to carry.

Carsten heard Kohl calling down to him. "Steady, steady. Almost there."

With remarkable dexterity, Carsten climbed to the top. The strain in his muscles showed in each flex. He was winded and sweat beaded on his forehead when he reached the last step. The soldiers directed him to stop. Kohl helped Claire off the younger man's back and onto the mountain of rubble that had once constructed the safe house.

Relieved of his burden, Carsten made his way over the last rung with a bit of a struggle. He stood on the rubble catching his breath and scanning the scene. The air raid had flattened the neat little rows of homes from one corner to the next. A fire had raged through, adding a demoralizing touch to the carnage. The houses behind the garden were singed but standing. In the distance a church spire reached to the sky, still standing in spite of the Allied attack. Smoke rose from the other blocks between the buildings that stubbornly remained. Down on the street, rescuers were laying out the people who hadn't made it, covering them in sheets and blankets. The scene was the same throughout the city.

Kohl smoked his cigar nearby with one hand stuffed in his trouser pocket. He scowled disdainfully at the gray clouds hovering above the city. The rescue workers and soldiers who helped them turned their attention to lifting Healey and the old man out. A pair of them urged Claire and her aunt to safety.

"You should have seen it when the campfires were burning," Kohl said. They were surprised by his carefree demeanor. "Reiniger," Kohl said, after a moment. "I took the liberty of contacting Berlin for you. A house will be ready tomorrow. I explained the circumstances and a doctor is waiting to assist Herr Healey and the rest when you get to the Chancellery. Did you need to stop at your apartment?"

"Danke, Nein," Carsten replied, unsurprised the man had suggested it. He'd been doubting Kohl's intention since he saw him again. "As soon as he is out, we'll be on our way."

"Oh, by the way, the bridge is out," Kohl said. "They started ferrying people across this morning with whatever boats they could find. The man in charge has been made aware of our need to cross quickly."

Carsten nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Kohl smiled at him. He was going with them. Carsten eyed him.

"Let's get them out of here," the older man suggested.