Inked. Part 18

I felt like a stranger to myself. I stood for a moment, sweating and weary, and tilted my face to the sky. No stars. Just clouds, bruised with the faint reflected light of the city.

China, I thought. I was in Shanghai. And it was World War Two.

I found my grandmother less than thirty minutes later, flirting with a drunk n.a.z.i. found my grandmother less than thirty minutes later, flirting with a drunk n.a.z.i.

I had been floating until that moment, drifting in a daze through the soup of the hot night and suffering a dreamlike schizophrenia; lost in the shadowed kiss of a European-flavored city, only to be torn sideways into Asian byways: meandering lanes and alleys no wider than the span of my shoulders. I pa.s.sed elderly Chinese women perched on low wooden stools, playing mahjong while bickering at naked, shrieking children who played in the stifling darkness among piles of trash that had been swept into rotten heaps wet with water trickling down the narrow gutters.

Most ignored my presence, but some of the children chased me with their hands outstretched, begging for money, trying to sink their small hands into my bag. Open sores covered their arms and legs. I could count their ribs. I gave them the tins of food.

Zee led me; in s.n.a.t.c.hes, glimpses. Dek and Mal were silent in my hair. I did not see Raw and Aaz, but knew they were close. I was comforted by that, but it was a painful, uneasy consolation. I was lost in time. What I did here would ripple into the future. It was not my first journey into the past, but I had never been set loose, faced with the potential cost of being that b.u.t.terfly flapping her wings-and causing a thunderstorm on the other side of the world.

Ernie's young face filled my mind. Save him, Save him, whispered a small voice, but I could no longer blame the letter on the back of that photo for such urgency. whispered a small voice, but I could no longer blame the letter on the back of that photo for such urgency. You have to make sure he doesn't die in your arms. Not murdered. Not him. You have to make sure he doesn't die in your arms. Not murdered. Not him.

Not any of them.

I heard music in the night. A lonely saxophone playing a heartbreaking version of "Over the Rainbow." Zee glided through the shadows, little more than a glimpse of spiked hair and sharp joints. Dek licked the back of my ear. I patted his head as I stepped free of the residential alley and found myself staring at a party.

Just a glimpse, beyond an open gate built into a thick stone wall that followed the curve of the road. Barbed wire fencing rose almost five feet higher than the wall itself, ending on the right-hand side at a distinctive fluted turret that was as out of place as the German signs framing the gate. Young Chinese children squatted on the sidewalk, playing what looked like rock, paper, scissors with a pair of Jewish kids, a boy and girl. Carts rumbled down the road between us, hand-pulled by gaunt Chinese men-who gave wide berth to a car parked alongside the street; a black Peerless, top down, revealing quilted leather seats that looked soft as a glove. I knew cars. This one was old-fas.h.i.+oned for 1944, but lovingly cared for. An Asian man sat behind the wheel, dozing.

No one paid attention to me: lone woman lurking at the entrance of the alley. The streets were dark. No electricity to spare. No oil to waste in lamps.

I heard gla.s.ses clinking, and smelled food. Yeast scents, and something meatier. Even a hint of coffee. My stomach growled. Zum Weissen Ross'l was the name of the place, according to the largest of the signs hanging above the gate-written, too, above the arched entrance of the elegant white building that was at the far end of the courtyard. Round tables and wicker chairs dotted the swept stone ground, and the saxophone's mourning tones were pure and sweet. I could not see the musician.

Business was good. Tables were full. I saw waitresses circulating in traditional Bavarian outfits-white frilly ap.r.o.ns, with white puffy sleeves and collars, overlaid with a dark b.u.t.ton-up smock and full skirts-tucked and nipped to accommodate starved frames. Muted laughter spilled into the night, gla.s.ses clinking. A surreal sight, and nothing I would have expected to find in the middle of occupied war-torn territory.

I glanced down at Zee, who was little more than a bulge in the shadows. Found him staring at the restaurant, utterly rapt. Breathless, even. I had never seen that look on his face, and it occurred to me, with some shame, that-sixty years in the past, or ten thousand-confronting a world that had been dead and gone was no easier on him and the boys than it was for me. Worse, perhaps. I had no memories of this place. I had nothing to latch my heart on to. Except for my grandmother. And, perhaps, young Ernie Bernstein.

I looked back at the courtyard. And just like that, saw her.

She was sauntering out of the white building, bearing a tray. Nothing but her arm was visible, and a loose arrangement of long black hair. I could not see her face. But I knew. I knew with absolute certainty that it was my grandmother.

I almost crossed the road. Aaz grabbed my hand, holding me back. I did not fight him. I could not. I watched my grandmother serve a table full of n.a.z.is.

I had not noticed them until that moment, but in hindsight I could hardly believe I had been so blind. They were sitting in plain view of the open gate, red armbands glowing upon their brown uniforms, sharp black swastika lines standing in sharp relief against white spotlight circles. Blond men, drinking beer and spearing thick sausages on their forks. Two uniformed Asian soldiers sat with them, bayonets leaning against the table. j.a.panese, I thought. A night out for the men in charge.

I held my breath as my grandmother leaned close, setting down mugs and taking away empty plates. Aaz tightened his grip on my wrist. But in the end, I did not need to worry. No one touched her body. Not that she looked as though she would have minded. I felt like I was losing my mind.

The first and second time I had ever met my grandmother, she had been a chain-smoking, hard-eyed, dangerous woman. Gritty, leathery, with a masculine edge to her clothing and walk. A mother, to boot. No funny business. Not this young thing with a sweet face and ready smile. Not this girl who wore black heels and a frilly white ap.r.o.n, and glanced at n.a.z.is with a come-hither glint that was so startlingly s.e.xy I wanted to look away in embarra.s.sment.

I stood there in the shadows, suffocating, suffering the heat again as if my skin would melt off my bones, or stuff my lungs with cotton. Looking at my grandmother was like checking out an inferno that I could not control. I was totally at a loss about how to make contact with her. Wondering if I should. Remembering that I already had, given the note addressed to me on the back of her photograph.

Just as my grandmother straightened to walk back into the restaurant, her stride faltered, head tilting ever so slightly-as though listening to a whisper in her ear, or just silence. Perhaps the same silence emanating now from Dek and Mal, who had stopped purring and were so still I wanted to look over my shoulder to make certain no one had a gun aimed at my back.

My grandmother turned slowly, a faint smile on her lips-though it was strained now, more clearly a mask. I did not move. I did not breathe. I was deep in shadows across the road-not close by any measure-but she found me instantly. She met my gaze.

Her eyes widened, and she fumbled the tray in her hands. The n.a.z.i she had just served patted her a.s.s with a deep chuckle. She hardly seemed to notice. Just flashed me another look, and then walked quickly into the restaurant.

I sagged against the wall, and waited.

It took more than an hour. I watched people. Listened to a city that was sixty years in my past, embroiled in a war sixty years dead, and found myself thinking that life here, besides certain obvious differences, was not so removed from life in my own time. The toys might be different, and the clothes, and the setting, but people never changed. Fear and hate never changed, nor did love. Or courage.

I saw all those things in the courtyard beyond the wall. Jews who sat at tables around the n.a.z.is, forced to pretend there was nothing wrong. Men scooted their chairs so they blocked their wives from sight, and the laughter I had heard earlier grew quieter, and edgier, as the soldiers drank more deeply from their cups. Those who had been eating left quickly. Those who thought about eating stopped at the gate, took one glance inside, and kept going. Some of them tapped the playing children on their heads, and made sure they came along, as well.

Until almost no one was left. Just the n.a.z.is and j.a.panese. And my grandmother, who served them. No other waitress came near. The mysterious saxophone player was replaced by a violinist who began playing Strauss. My knees ached, and I settled into a crouch with the boys gathered close. Wondering where the Zee from 1944 might be lingering. Close, no doubt. Close enough to touch.

When the n.a.z.is left, they tossed paper money on the table-but one of the men slipped something else to my grandmother; an object small and dark, like a twig. Her only reaction was to thank him with a pretty smile, blus.h.i.+ng when he chucked her under the chin.

She stood politely to the side as they filed out, one after the other, into the street. The Peerless sputtered to life. I had almost forgotten it. The driver rolled ten feet forward to the gate, and then exited quickly to open doors. Within moments, they were gone.

So was my grandmother, when I looked for her again.

I was patient. Nothing better to do. All the time in the world. Raw pulled a cup of hot unsweetened tea from the shadows, and placed it in my hands, along with a warm sugar cookie that melted in my mouth. Tasted fresh from the oven. I almost asked where it was from.

I sensed movement on my right. Watched as the Jewish boy and girl who had been playing earlier outside the gate reappeared, kicking a ball between them. The girl was blond and slender, no older than ten or eleven, while the boy was likely the same age, and dark as Ernie. Not siblings. Nor had they returned to the restaurant gate just for the h.e.l.l of it, though they were pretending hard that wasn't the case. It was late, I thought. Probably almost midnight.

My grandmother left the restaurant at a brisk walk, dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse, short-sleeved and tucked in. Her heels clicked. No smile on her face. Nothing pleasant at all about the look in her eyes. She resembled, finally, the woman I remembered; but that did not comfort me as much as it should have.

The kids peered around the gate. My grandmother faltered when she saw them, glancing briefly over their heads at me. A warning in her gaze. I knew how to take a hint. I stayed put, melting even deeper into the shadows.

"Samuel," she said to the boy, and then rested her hand very gently on the girl's head. "Lizbet. Curfew will begin soon. You both should not be here."

I straightened. I knew those names.

Samuel pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out to my grandmother. She took it from him, and then caught his wrist as he pulled away. He began to protest-she muttered a sharp word that sounded distinctly German-and the boy stilled. She dragged him near, holding up his arm to stare at his inner wrist.

I was too far away to see what she was looking at, but I recognized her anger. "This is recent."

The boy remained silent. Lizbet whispered, "It happened this afternoon. She She said he was getting old enough to be a real man. said he was getting old enough to be a real man. Her Her man." man."

My grandmother made a small disgusted sound, and released Samuel. "You have to stop going to her."

"Nein," he muttered sullenly, rubbing his wrist. "We need her connections. Our families need her." he muttered sullenly, rubbing his wrist. "We need her connections. Our families need her."

"I can get you money, things to trade-"

"You cannot keep our families safe, Fraulein Fraulein," interrupted Lizbet softly, and grabbed Samuel's hand, tugging him away. "Her reach is too long."

My grandmother shook her head, swearing softly, and took several quick steps after them. She grabbed the girl's hand and pushed something into it. I had a feeling it was the same object the n.a.z.i had given her. Money, maybe. Something valuable, if the stunned look on Lizbet's face was any indication. She swallowed hard, clutched the object to her chest, and gave my grandmother a fierce, grateful nod.

The children ran. The woman watched them, clutching her skirts. And then, slowly, tilted her head to study me.

She looked so young. Maybe eighteen was too old. It was hard to tell, but one thing was certain: the boys had abandoned her mother early, and left a teenager to fend for herself. No doubt my great-grandmother had been murdered in front of her daughter, just as my mother had been murdered in front of me. That was how it worked. Once you lost the protection of the boys, death always came knocking.

My grandmother finally walked toward me. Red eyes glinted from her hair. My own Dek and Mal also uncoiled from around my neck. Her pace faltered when she saw them.

And then she took a deep breath, and kept coming until she was so close I could smell the fried sausages on her body, and the beer, and the cigarette smoke.

I smelled like somebody's p.i.s.s. Not that I cared, right then. My grandmother had died four years before my birth. Every time I met her it felt wrong and heartbreaking, and unspeakably profound.

"What are you?" she finally whispered. I had no ready answer, even though I had spent the past hour trying to imagine what I would say.

I was still holding my cup of tea. Zee pushed up against my leg, and the shadows rippled around us. Raw and Aaz appeared, but they were not alone. Another Raw, another Aaz, gathered close behind them. And Zee. Her Her Zee. Zee.

The boys stared at their counterparts, gazes solemn, knowing. As though this had happened before. As though they knew it would happen again.

Dread sparked. Time had become fluid in my hands. Perhaps there was a very good reason that Zee kept secrets from me. Because he did did know things that I should not-because there was no safe warning for what had brought me here. Not without possibly changing some distant outcome that he knew would come to pa.s.s. know things that I should not-because there was no safe warning for what had brought me here. Not without possibly changing some distant outcome that he knew would come to pa.s.s.

Terrified me. Gnawed at my gut. Surely the future was not set in stone. There had to be more than fate. More than the bleak certainty that what I did now was leading to some inevitable destiny that I could not change.

"I'm from the future," I said, figuring my grandmother could handle the truth; not having anything better to tell her. "Far, distant future."

Her eyes narrowed. "Bulls.h.i.+t."

Well, at least that that was familiar. "You think the boys would just be standing here if I was lying?" was familiar. "You think the boys would just be standing here if I was lying?"

Her lips tightened with displeasure-also familiar, and startling. I had seen that expression on my mother's face. Made me wonder if it was something else I shared with them. Little bits and pieces of us, bleeding true in our veins from across decades and centuries.

Blood never lies, Zee had said.

But there was something else that bothered me. We'd had this conversation before. In my past, in her future. I had met my grandmother the first time I ever time-traveled. She had been in her thirties, and my mother had already been born. Fourteen years old.

But that had been the first time for my grandmother, too. She had never met me before then, I was certain of it. No one could be that good of an actress, and my grandmother would not have bothered trying to hide the truth. All of us were poor liars-if such a thing could be inherited.

Here we were, though. Standing side by side. Almost twins, except for the expressions in our eyes. I was glad that much was different. Something of me that was mine, and mine alone.

But it made no sense that she would not remember this encounter later in her life. No sense at all.

"a.s.suming you're telling the truth-" she began, but my patience had finally worn too thin.

I made a sharp gesture. "I'm here for Ernie. For Winifred, Samuel, and Lizbet. I'm here because you asked me to finish something, to save them, and now they're almost all dead. In my time, dead."

My grandmother flinched. "How?"

"A woman named the Black Cat." I watched carefully for her reaction. "Seems to come right down to her, though I don't know why or how."

But I thought my grandmother might. She closed her eyes, rocking back on her heels. Then, without a word, turned and walked away. Demons slipped into the shadows. I gave Raw my teacup.

And I followed.

6.

WE did not talk. Not even when did not talk. Not even when her her Raw appeared from the shadows with a cream-colored silk scarf, which she pa.s.sed to me. I wrapped it around my head, with special care to hide my face. Best if no one saw us together. It would be hard to explain where her twin had been all this time. Maybe the boys could find me eyegla.s.ses or a wig-though that sounded stifling. Raw appeared from the shadows with a cream-colored silk scarf, which she pa.s.sed to me. I wrapped it around my head, with special care to hide my face. Best if no one saw us together. It would be hard to explain where her twin had been all this time. Maybe the boys could find me eyegla.s.ses or a wig-though that sounded stifling.

No one else was out. I remembered my grandmother reminding the children about a curfew, but except for a distant scuff of boots, and low drunken laughter, I saw no soldiers, no one at all positioned to enforce that rule. I felt the oppression, though-worse than the heat. There had been life in the streets earlier, but now it was just ghosts and a hush that was as heavy and suffocating as a plastic bag pulled tight over the mouth of the city. Life, choked out.

And hiding. Quivering. I thought of Winifred Cohen, and her presence behind that closed locked door. Like a mouse. Same now, but deeper. The fear and weariness of the people hiding behind the walls of their homes had bled into the air. Each breath made my skin p.r.i.c.kle. My sweat felt like the product of poison, or fever.

We walked only five minutes before we reached a long street lined entirely with row houses. My brief impression was of large arched windows and gray brick; laundry lines sagging with holey s.h.i.+rts and underwear; and one light burning from a first-floor window. Every other was dark.

We entered a place of oppressive silence and climbed a set of rickety wooden stairs to the third floor, where my grandmother unlocked the last door at the back of the landing. Hot, stifling air rolled over us when we entered. I smelled mildew, so strong I choked, and tried to breathe through my mouth. We were in one small room with wooden floorboards, cracked walls. Not much furniture. Just a long, lumpy sofa, two battered chairs painted red, and in the far corner by the window-which opened out onto a gla.s.sed-in private balcony-a white porcelain sink that had been bolted into the wall, rusted piping trailing free from the bottom like a naked spine. A tin bucket sat on the floor, with washrags hanging over the edge, and a hose coiled from the faucet.

"Don't drink the water," said my grandmother suddenly.

I unwrapped the scarf, pus.h.i.+ng sweat-soaked hair away from my face. "Don't touch the food, either?"

"Be careful," she replied testily. "Better if you only eat what the boys bring you. There's not much food here anyway, but what's available is usually spoilt rotten."

"No one at your restaurant seemed to notice. Especially the n.a.z.is."

Her mouth tightened. "Locals usually only order drinks, but the j.a.ps allow in special s.h.i.+pments of fresh fixings to keep the Krauts happy. They're the only ones who can afford those meals. We get a couple of them every week, crossing the creek to Little Vienna because it reminds them of home."

The disdain in her voice was biting, even hateful. I marveled at her acting skills in front of those men. "Your American accent doesn't bother anyone?"

Her dark eyes glittered. And then she spoke a stream of what was probably invective-and that sounded perfectly, flawlessly German.

I raised my brow. "I see."

"I doubt that," she muttered. "If you are from the future, then how does this war end?"

"Well. And that's all I'm going to say about it."

She gave me a cold look. "I don't like this. I don't even know if I should believe it."

"You're a spy," I said, matching her tone. "You should be used to a lot of things you don't like or believe."

She stared. And for one moment stopped being my grandmother, becoming simply, Jean: a young woman alone, with her whole life ahead of her. Dangerous, maybe-but vulnerable, too. Flinching, as Dek and Mal freed themselves from my hair, slithering down my arms.

Her gaze hardened again, though. I would have been worried for myself if I had been anyone else.

"Be careful where you say that," she said, her voice deathly quiet.

I tilted my head. "You use those children to help you?"

Her hand balled into a fist. Before she could reach me, both Zees tumbled from the sofa, standing in her way. She stopped. I did not move a muscle. Still as stone, radiating calm. Maybe I was as good an actress as she.

Around us, shadows moved, glinting with sparks of red. Aaz appeared-mine, I thought, though I could not say why. He carried two plates filled with a delicate shrimp salad. Raw swung a basket of rolls and b.u.t.ter.

My grandmother and I stared at the food, and then each other.