The Pieces We Keep by Kristina McMorris Read Free Book Online Page A

that only upon its completion could one grasp the perfectly logical beauty.
    The theory required faith, of course-an asset of hers now put to the test. She leaned her head against the cool metal post and listened to the rush of the current. A force even stronger had swept her away the day she first met Isaak.
    She was buying fruit at the outdoor market when an air-raid siren wailed. Another tiresome practice drill. Startled from her thoughts, she knocked a large tomato onto the cobblestone road. Its juices sprayed an arc over a pair of wingtips. When she looked up to apologize, expecting a stuffy man to fill the suit-after all, what in England wasn’t stuffy?—she instead met eyes that drained her of words.
    The craggy vendor interrupted, demanding due pence for her loss. Fear of poverty trumped that of a German attack. Vivian hastened through her coin purse while the siren blared and people all around bustled toward shelters.
    “This should cover it, ma’am,” the suited man said, paying the vendor double. Before Vivian could object he wrapped her hand with his. Words again eluded her. “Come with me,” he said, not a question, and she wasn’t sure which surprised her more: his American accent or her willingness to follow. Not that her assent was fully voluntary. A magnetic pull radiated from his touch, making every layer of her skin hum.
    He guided her into a public air-raid shelter. It was there she detected a trace of his German vowels-residual of his time spent in Switzerland, he explained, after moving from the States. Only a year her senior, he spoke of the American delights he missed, the drugstore confections and radio shows of his youth. She nodded along, prodding him to continue. Like cold fingers to a flame, she was drawn to the danger of his warmth.
    Never before had she been disappointed by the all-clear signal. To this day, so vivid was the memory she could hear Isaak’s voice even now. She glanced over her shoulder. At confirmation of his absence, her spirits sank.
    When she turned back to the river, she heard him again.
    “There’s no other woman. I swear it, Vivian.”
    She questioned if she was going mad until, past the concrete block, she glimpsed male hands on the railing. She recognized the ridges of his knuckles, the curves of his fingers.
    “I have good reason for being distracted. But it has nothing to do with my fondness for you.”
    It was the start of a likely excuse.
    “And? What is that reason?” She meant to sound challenging, but failed.
    “My family.”
    An unexpected answer. “Go on.”
    His profile edged out from the lamppost. Beneath his flat cap, his skin gained luminescence from the sun’s orange glow. “My family lives in Munich,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. “But they’re not Nazis. They’re good people trapped by a dictator consumed with power and greed.”
    “By family ... you mean ... ?”
    “My mother. Yes.” His gaze stayed forward, as if borrowing the anonymity of a confession booth. “She lives there with my uncle and aunt. They have two teenaged daughters. Bright, kind girls.”
    The newsreels. No wonder Isaak took such an interest. With all those snippets of Germans cheering at massive rallies, the films conveyed unity, a whole country bowing to Hitler. She hadn’t considered opposition festering within those borders.
    Then again, neither had she questioned the tales of Isaak’s life.
    “But you told me you moved to Switzerland, after your father died.”
    “It was a wish,” he said. “Ever since I was a kid, my mother would describe Lucerne like a magical kingdom. I had planned to graduate from the university and work for my uncle’s newspaper, as I told you, but just long enough to save funds. Then I was going to pack up and take her there.”
    Vivian’s thoughts churned as she tried to visualize how all the pieces fit. “So-why can’t she go now? If she’s a Swiss citizen? Surely it’s safer there.”
    Isaak said nothing,