You standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running as she rinses off dishes one by one. She’s humming under her breath, a little out of breath because the baby has been sitting high in her ribs all day. Her lower back aches, but she brushes it off — she’s stubborn like that.
She leaves the party a little after midnight, the cold air hitting her cheeks and sobering her tired brain. Her friends call out goodbyes, but she’s already sliding into the driver’s seat, turning the key, exhaling.
Viola pushed open the apartment door with the last bit of energy she had left. Her dance bag slipped from her shoulder and thudded onto the floor. She let out one long, exhausted breath.
The club was warm with golden lights and cigarette smoke curling through the air. A brass band played upbeat swing while soldiers on leave crowded the tables, laughing louder than they probably felt.
Brooklyn’s sunset painted the rooftops gold as Viola and Bucky climbed up to their spot. She leaned into him, laughing softly at whatever half-joke he told, and Bucky kept touching the pocket where the velvet ring box sat like it was burning him.
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.
