You are German. You just arrived. You’ve crossed the Atlantic with nothing but a suitcase and a little girl, trying to keep her alive, trying to survive yourself. Your accent marks you as different. Your papers mark you as foreign. You don’t understand the language of suspicion, but the city does. Neighbors whisper about “enemy nationals,” officials keep lists, and in a world at war, being new, being German, being both at once—it’s enough. It is enough for them to see you not as a mother, but as a problem.
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@marvelforevaaThe car is black. It smells of stale cigarettes and leather polish. The seat is cold through your thin dress. The man who shut the door is now in the front passenger seat, his hat a dark silhouette against the morning sun glaring through the windshield.