The salesgirl looked confused. Delicately she ran a hand over her red hair, petting it, as if to confirm it hadn’t gone anywhere. “Look,” she said. “I’ve humored you enough.”
“Berni, this is stupid.” Grete yanked her sister’s hem so hard she felt a seam tear. Berni froze, looking down at her, her face wrought with failure, and for a moment Grete wished it had worked. If only she could allow Berni to cure her. She opened her mouth to say something—but what was there to say?—and then she heard high heels on marble.
The salesgirl straightened up when a blond woman appeared. She wore a short red coat and black leather gloves. Her eyes were as dark as the gloves, saucy and round. “Darling,” the woman said, reaching for the salesgirl. They kissed on both cheeks. “How’s the new job?”
The salesgirl’s face turned the color of her hair. “Old hat.”
“I can wait my turn,” said the blond woman, smiling politely at Berni and Grete.
“We’re finished,” the salesgirl snapped. “They aren’t buying anything, is that right?”
“No,” Berni said, her voice cracking a little. “You don’t have what we came for.”
The blond woman looked closely at Berni and Grete, taking in their shabby dresses, the worn shoes, and her face rose and fell in pity. Berni crossed her arms. Nobody but Grete saw the salesgirl produce an ivory-and-gold phone out of nowhere. She dialed one number and murmured something Grete could not hear into the receiver.
“Berni,” she whispered, lifting her sister’s dark braid. “We have to go . . .”
“I have a good one for you,” the blond woman said to the salesgirl, accepting an amber bottle. “Why are the Sturmabteilung uniforms brown?”
The salesgirl hesitated. Berni answered for her. “Something to do with shit stains?”
Grete’s mouth fell open. The woman began to laugh. Then one of the doormen came crashing through the plants, a big man, white-eyebrowed, his face florid. He lifted his chins at the salesgirl, who nodded with satisfaction toward Berni and Grete. The blond woman turned in the act of squeezing the ionizer at her throat to watch him take each girl by the arm, and Grete thought she heard her say, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” as they were ushered away.
Grete squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled beside him so that she wouldn’t have to watch the tranquil salespeople and shoppers being disturbed. She mumbled to herself, practicing for her Latin test. Decem, viginti. Trentrigintata.
“Pick up your feet.” The man’s breath smelled of ham. “I won’t carry you up the stairs.”
Berni’s voice: “I can carry her.”
Octoginta. Nonaginta. After this, they would be in such trouble. Berni would never be chosen for the academy.
Berni began to cough, the sound deep-throated and animal. It echoed in the glassy space, and the man told her to hush. Outside rain fell gently, little more than mist. The doorman let Grete cower behind Berni, but he kept his grip on Berni’s arm. A few times she spasmed, hand to her mouth, suppressing the quakes of her lungs.
“You girl . . . know better . . .” In the noise on the street, Grete lost parts of what the man was saying, but watched in a panic as he tapped the lid of Berni’s white box.
“We didn’t steal anything.” Berni’s voice, very close to Grete’s left ear, squeaked a bit. “It’s the host. We bake it at St. Luisa’s, then take it to the churches.”
His chin puckered in disbelief. Grete could imagine the sisters’ reaction when they were returned to the orphanage by the police. Let’s run, Berni, she wanted to shout, let’s just run—but she couldn’t form the words, and she knew even if they ran it would do them no good. Everything was over now, all their dreams, all Berni’s good behavior erased in one poor decision. Why hadn’t she been strong enough to tell Berni no?
A voice cut in, saying something Grete couldn’t hear, and she whirled around to see the blond woman in the red coat had joined them on the sidewalk. “There’s no need to harass these girls.” She leaned in between Berni and Grete. “You don’t have to show him anything, Fräulein,” she said. Her skin smelled of citrus. “Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”
“Remind me how this is your business,” the doorman shouted. A drip of water fell from the canopy onto his face, and Berni snickered. He grimaced. “We catch thieves all the time.”
“Well, if they did steal something I can pay for it. I have plenty of money to share.” The woman opened her white rectangular purse and pulled out a smaller rectangular wallet.
“We didn’t steal!” Berni ripped open the cardboard box. With her grimy hands she rifled through the disks of bread. “We’re on our way to St. Matthias. I swear on the Bible.”
Grete put her hands to her mouth. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the swearing or the desecration of the host. The woman looked down at Grete and said, “It’s all right, my dear, God won’t smite you. It’s just a bit of bread in a box, after all.”
Bread in a box? But it wasn’t; it was the ultimate gift. Grete scowled at the ground, at the backs of Berni’s shoes.
“And there are only a few marks and a handful of pfennig in the red tin,” Berni said. “Go ahead and count it. We’d be the poorest thieves in the world.”
The doorman looked back at his two colleagues, neither of whom moved to help. Finally he made a dismissive motion with his arm and said something Grete couldn’t hear.
“Come on,” Berni said, hugging her so closely around the shoulders that Grete had to walk sideways. Rain fell steadily now; she felt it dripping down the center of her scalp. Ahead of them, the pointed spires of the Memorial Church were wrapped in fog. Grete felt Berni sigh and realized she was staring not at the church but at the Gloria-Palast movie theater. Through its arched doorway Grete could see burgundy carpets and crystal chandeliers; above the doors of its café was a giant plaster pretzel.
Just before they reached the U-Kurfürstendamm station, someone stepped in front of them: the woman in red. She stood there hugging her square white purse, her lips poised in a little smile. An umbrella dangled from her forearm.
Berni jumped apart from Grete and curtsied. “Thank you for your help.”
The stranger took Berni’s chin into her bare hand. “Where do you two come from?”
“St. Luisa’s Home.”
“That makes you orphans.” She replaced her glove, smiling, working her fingers into the leather. “I had a feeling. You have that look.” She tapped her cheek twice, and as if by magic, a dimple appeared. “Determination? Desperation? A little of each? What were you doing in Fiedler’s, if I may ask?”
“We were looking for potions,” Berni said.
A smile broke over the woman’s face. “Magic potions?” She moved to open her umbrella, but then she held it out to Berni. “You take this. I don’t have far to walk.”
Grete stared at the brilliant blue silk, imagining what the sisters would say if they strolled into the orphanage with it. “Oh, thank you, but we can’t,” said Berni, coughing into her sleeve.
“I’m not offering it for keeps. I’ll come so that you can return it. St. Luisa’s, right? And your names are?”
“Bernadette Metzger. This is Margarete Metzger, my sister.”
“And I am Fräulein Schmidt. How do you do.” She pressed the umbrella toward Berni, smiled, and walked away so there could be no argument. Grete’s toes uncurled inside her shoes.
“She was beautiful,”