In October 1994 in Stolberg, Germany, I watched this wonderful woman do a Gene Kelly routine around a lamppost across the street. It was so magical and unreal. I used this beautiful memory to rewrite the unhappy reality of the abusive marriage that I was in at the time and turn it into my own fairytale.
Wind furiously herded autumn leaves down the darkened street in front of me to their assorted destinations. The ornate German village with its clattering leaves and cobblestones brought back memories of the fairytales that I had loved as a child. In fairytales, good always overcame evil. But I didn’t live in a fairytale. I lived in a nightmare discreetly hidden beneath a pretence of marriage, and there were no magic words to disenchant my unfeeling prince.
I turned my head at an awkward angle against the window to get a better view of a movement at the top of the hill. Behind the wind and leaves, an elderly woman was coming closer in a fast waddle. Sucking in my breath with unexpected pleasure, I watched as the woman, dressed in a thick brown coat, came clearly into sight. She was a lively white-haired creature that must have escaped from the pages of an old German fairytale! She jiggled to a halt, giving me a wonderful view of her face under the streetlight.
Hundreds of brilliant butterfly leaves swarmed over her and spiraled up and around the lamppost. Holding one hand on a funny brown hat and the other on the pole, she did a Gene Kelly routine, dancing a rat-a-tat rhythm through the flying leaves. With childlike excitement, she smoothed the coat over an ample tummy and patted the buttons. Still pressing the hat to her head, she looked up towards my window and scuttled happily away.
“She was playing! That woman must have been a hundred years old, and she was playing like she was a young kid again!” I laughed softly until my new friend turned the corner.
With a quick tug on a strap at the side of the window, the last shutter rolled down. The image of the dancer was replaced with anxiety over my recent discovery. A flimsy blue day planner was open on the table beside me stuffed with Stefan’s weekly lottery tickets.
Stefan used the same numbers for each Sunday and Wednesday lottery. He had three lines on one ticket forever dedicated to birthdays, and the fourth number on the first line was always 28, my birthday. Only 28 was not marked on a single card now. The number 17 had taken my place. It wasn’t just my birthdate being dropped from the lottery ticket. I consistently found meal receipts for two from beautiful restaurants, and hotel receipts showing a double occupancy. His attitude toward me had become one of chronic irritation as if I was an unwelcome house guest that had quite overstayed acceptable limits.
What would I do if he left me? Panic pressed through my throat and floated upwards to make my head hurt. After carefully checking the position of the planner one more time, I walked down the hallway to get ready for bed.
Splinters of wood around the bathroom door triggered an ominous feeling in my chest as I entered the hallway. Stefan had been upset about me hiding in the bathroom once, but I couldn’t think about that. Staring into the mirror while I brushed my teeth made me feel even worse. I looked like a tortured animal with nowhere to run. I took a pain killer from a cabinet to calm the headache and briefly wondered what would happen if I downed the whole bottle. At forty, maybe life was over for me, but suddenly the image of the dancer popped into my thoughts to tell me there was no time limit on happiness.
Sleep avoided me in spite of the medication. The clock in the hallway reminded me every fifteen minutes that I was a failure and my life was crashing all around me. Worry finally motivated me to get up and see if his love affair had gone further than I realized.
Stefan’s side of the wardrobe was organized by color and item. Not even a thread was out of place. My hand slid under his neatly folded undershirts and retrieved a key. Fear of the front door opening made me nauseous as I tiptoed to his desk, but I reassured myself that he never came home this early. I turned the lamp on and slowly unlocked the bottom drawer. His grandmother’s engagement ring was still there, lying in an antique satin box. Maybe it wasn’t too late for things to change for the better.
Monotony ticked back and forth on the old clock in the hallway. It rang out the hour and quarter hour with glorious accuracy, emitting melodious blasts that startled me every time. That was how I knew it was well toward morning when the key turned in the front door.
My husband politely crept through the apartment making a minimum of noise, removed his clothes in the dark, and slipped into bed. The heavy scent of jasmine wafted up from his body like incense. Overweight men don’t smell like jasmine if they’ve been in a car for eighteen hours. The clock chimed five lingering times before I escaped into a restless dream only to find more horror. In my dream, I was running from an evil man, but I had no destination. I was just running and running and running with nowhere to go. I ran across the dream and through the dawn where the shouting of children on their way to school jarred me from my sleep.
Stefan had already returned from the bakery and was warbling away happy-bird fashion in the kitchen. I weakly climbed out of bed and pulled the shutter to face a brilliant flash of sunlight. The sound of the shutter caught his attention.
“I bought two sesame seed rolls for ya, Laura. You hungry yet?”
His cheerfulness made me feel sick.
“I signed that deal last night. Didn’t get in until around four this morning.”
I joined him in the kitchen and watched him stare out of the window with a smile on his face. Ignoring my presence, he scooted into a chair and started vigorously sawing one of his breakfast rolls in half. Both halves were masterfully plastered with creamy butter and long slices of cheese. Stefan did not simply eat, he celebrated every bite. Eating was a symphony of smacks and slurps and moans. He slapped a pile of crumbs onto the floor and began excusing his absence for the previous night.
“Took me a lot longer to drive back from Frankfurt. Truck accident on the autobahn. Traffic was backed up so bad I pulled over at a rest stop to sleep.”
“Why didn’t you call to say you’d be late? I waited up for you.” I kept my eyes on the bread I was cutting, afraid to look at him.
I tried to a couple o’ times, but I couldn’t get a signal.”
Obviously annoyed with my question, he reached across the table to snatch a roll off of my plate and clean out a jar of gourmet jelly with it.
“Had a phone booth at the rest stop, but it only took cards. I was so tired, I just didn’t want to fool with it.” Stefan glanced over at me for the first time that morning and snickered softly. “You look like hell, Laura! Get out o’ here and get some sun. You lock yourself up in here like a vampire. Geez! Go get a haircut and fix that mess.”
Giving a deep sigh of frustration, he pulled out his wallet and tossed twenty Euros onto the table in front of me. I cringed at his comments and stared listlessly at the money as he resumed eating.
Bits of bread lumped up in my throat. The sounds of food being chewed and swallowed in our silence were excruciating.
He finally pushed his plate away with a flick of the wrist and grabbed the bakery bag to pull out a pastry. Stefan was so tender with the pastry that I was absolutely mesmerized by how gentle his hands could be. After the pastry disappeared in slurps of delight, he licked his fingers and checked his watch.
“Gotta go. I’m meeting Gerd Schmidt for lunch. Invited me down to Nuremberg this weekend to meet some of his people.”
“Can I go with you to Nuremberg?”
“I can’t afford to have you get sick on me. I”ll only be there a couple o’ days, and I really don’t have the time to babysit you. Besides that, you look like crap!”
He leaned over and kissed the back of my head.
“Don’t wait up for me! Get out and meet some people. Just do something for heaven’s sake!”
With quick precise movements, he tucked the planner into an inside pocket of his suit jacket, squared his shoulders, and checked his image in the mirror with obvious satisfaction. He didn’t even look back at me before he closed the door.
Stefan might have been overweight, but he really knew how to make clothes look stunning. Everything he wore was as put together as a photo in a fashion magazine. Ten years ago I had found that so endearing. Now all I wanted was fidelity and kindness.
He gave a bored squint at the bedroom window before getting in the car, and I wondered if he could see me hiding up there, scrunched against the wall. Knowing that another woman would be going with him to his Nuremberg meetings was as embarrassing as it was hurtful.
As soon as his car was out of sight, I felt free to cry a bit. I wiped my eyes and nose and glanced over at the twenty Euros. Why should I spend it on a haircut? Since Stefan only gave me the equivalent of twenty-five dollars a week for groceries and other household items, I had just doubled my income.
Hurt and anger over his affair gave me the courage to treat myself to a blunt shoulder-length cut. Once I was satisfied that it was even on all sides, I put everything away and began a tedious gleaning ritual over the fluffs of hair that had scattered around the sink and floor. I got down on my knees with damp toilet paper and searched for the unseen. If I didn’t find it, he would. With my face almost touching the tiles, I made a few more sweeps and carefully folded the clipped hair and toilet paper wads into the bakery bag from breakfast.
Excited over my newly acquired wealth, I tossed the bag up like a ball and skipped into the stoic world of Germans.
“Good morning, Herr Schweinsteiger.” I nodded my head and greeted an elderly neighbor carrying a bakery bag and a newspaper.
Jeweled red and orange leaves were splattered everywhere, sweetly resting after a night of battling the wind. The dew that covered them shimmered like liquid crystal in the morning sun. I could honestly say that Germany had the most beautiful autumns ever. It was no wonder that fairytales were born here!
I kicked through the leaves for a short distance trying to remember that dancer’s joy from the evening before. It must have been another lifetime when I dreamed of treasure concealed in rainbows and a future edged with gold…a taped-up and packed-away lifetime where happiness had made me feel lighter than a soap bubble. Where did it all go?
A soft breeze began to shake twirling fluttery colors from the trees overhead that caught in my hair and slid down my arms. Stretching my hands up to the sky, I waltzed slowly down the sidewalk catching the cool silky strokes on my upturned face.
Toddlers were playing in the park across the street, rocking back and forth on toys that were firmly grounded with sturdy springs. I wandered over to watch them and found myself melting in their laughter. When we were first married, I wanted five of them, but Stefan wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. Lost opportunities gave me a twinge of pain. I numbly pitched the bag of hair and toilet paper into a trash can before I sat down near a statue of Christ to enjoy the postcard beauty around me. A peaceful half-trance soothed me for several minutes before screams from an unhappy little boy snapped me back into the moment. I looked on with envy as he was cuddled and comforted and resumed my walk toward the shops at the center of the village.
“Morgan”
“Morgan”
“Morgan”. The good morning greeting was expected by those faces I was familiar with.
My first destination was the jewelry store where I gazed with raw yearning at prestigious wedding rings. I rested my head against the window to get a better look at the display. A new one was there with a large oval diamond edged with smaller purplish stones. Absolutely luscious!
The narrow band that I wore on my own left hand was supposed to have three cut diamonds in it, but I had never seen them. Holding it under a light and moving my hand back and forth hadn’t revealed a single sparkle. It had become symbolic of my value. I cringed whenever I saw someone glancing at it. Privately, I coveted the engagement ring that Stefan kept hidden from me, and my heart ached to be considered worthy of it.
Fruit and vegetable displays wrapped around a Turkish store ahead of me. I carefully examined each box, lingering over the clementines with their glossy green leaves still attached. They were so fresh and beautiful. I considered buying one but then declined. If I still wanted one, it would be there on the way back. Having the twenty Euros gave me so many options that I just couldn’t bear giving it up. Instead of buying something, I walked to the chestnut tree near the bank and sat down on the bench there.
“Morning, Frau Reibekuchen! Think he’ll believe this haircut?”
Frau Reibekuchen stared straight ahead with a no-nonsense, carefully organized demeanor about her. Her arms were tightly folded over a bulky coat and a handbag. Stout legs with sensible shoes stretched out in front of her to catch pigeon droppings.
Frau Reibekuchen didn’t need to say anything. Her expression was enough. I waited until no one was around before I tried again.
“Think he’s gonna notice? Mostly he doesn’t even look at me, so why should I be this scared?”
I had named the statue ‘Frau Reibekuchen’ soon after we moved there. She was a unique, slightly larger than life matronly figure sitting on the far end of the bench. To me, she looked as welcome and comfy as a German potato pancake, and therefore it became her name. It was also obvious that Frau Reibekuchen was everything that I most certainly was not. No one could bully Frau Reibekuchen! She was the very essence of womanly power.
Over time, I had learned to depend upon the statue as a substitute mother who always had time to listen to my anguished chatter. My own mother had passed away years before. I emptied my soul, stopping often to wait until people were out of hearing distance before proceeding—and she appeared to be intently listening. Once or twice, I was even sure that her head nodded with compassion.
Birds and leaves floated around us until I was completely purged of my pent-up emotions. Feeling lighter and more hopeful, I left to spend the rest of the afternoon roaming through shops and sitting on benches where I could smell food cooking and listen to music playing in the various restaurants. Couples walked hand in hand and university students jostled through the narrow streets looking properly serious with their backpacks and bicycles. It was life! It was a life that I felt completely excluded from.
Church bells started ringing as soon as the sun slipped between golden wisps of clouds and over the horizon calling the pius to evening Mass. Lights began blinking on over the castle in the distance giving a welcome glow to its winding paths and painting its walls with rippling shadows. Shops would be closing soon so I decided to go home before it got too dark. The twenty Euros was still hidden in a corner of my handbag.
Knowing that I could actually buy something felt so liberating that I wanted that feeling to last forever, but as I reached the apartment, a heavy sorrow replaced the happy day. My footsteps echoed over the cold stone tiles in the hallway. Every sound was magnified by a dreary silence looming in every corner.
I turned on the television to watch a murder mystery. It was all dubbed in German. Without turning on a light, I made a sandwich in the kitchen and started letting the shutters down. Stefan wouldn’t be in until late, and I didn’t have to worry about making dinner for him because he always ate out.
It was just me and the television and the sound of the wind singing through the trees.
Police sirens, yellow tape, and plastic gloves all came in their order. The show provided two corpses, two body bags, and the regular methods of scrutiny. Mild “who done it” curiosity had taken root in my head when I heard the front door open. The crime scene immediately shifted from the television screen to my own living room. Something had to be wrong for him to be home this early.
It didn’t take a Sherlock to figure out that Stefan was at the peak of a fit.
After the front door slammed, the wardrobe started sounding like it was being ripped apart. I sat as still as a corpse without the benefit of a body bag to hide in. I was too paralyzed with fear to try to find cover.
Heavy footsteps beat a steady rhythm to the living room where he found me cowering in a wing-backed chair. Engulfed in rage, he gave me the once over, then snarled, “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
Still holding the partially eaten sandwich, I could only stare back at him helplessly.
Stefan slapped his hand against the doorframe and stomped into the bathroom. I heard the familiar sound of trash being emptied on the floor. Drawers and doors were opened and clapped shut. I heard the garbage in the kitchen being tossed and dissected. More drawers and doors were slamming to make the stone walls reverberate with the violence.
Too soon, he reappeared.
“Where’s the bag I brought home from the bakery this morning?”
The unexpected question dazed me. My voice was weak with anxiety as I struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation.
“I made myself a lunch and went to the park to eat it”
“Why would YOU take a lunch to the park or anywhere else? Don’t try to sell me any of that corny crap!”.
He pocketed my house keys and used his to lock the door behind him. I heard the key being turned twice for security before he stomped out of the apartment building. I was now a prisoner in my own home.
Icy fear and hysteria seemed to ooze from the walls, but I managed to get to the bedroom and peek outside. His car was still across the street. I whimpered softly and slumped to the floor. The loud ticking of the clock taunted me while I swayed back and forth hugging myself tightly.
Time was distorted. It almost seemed as if several hours had passed before I heard the key, but it was also like the front door slammed simultaneously with no minutes in between. I couldn’t even lock the bedroom door because he had removed all of the keys from the inside doors after I tried to lock myself in once.
Clomp…clomp…clomp. I sat in the darkness listening to his footsteps and the light switches being turned on. Clomp…clomp…clomp. His hand found the switch inside my door, and he was glaring down at me. Revulsion and terror made my throat squeeze shut.
“You forget to finish your lunch?”
Hair and soggy toilet paper wads rolled onto the floor beside me. He threw the bag in my face and screamed, “You gonna eat it by yourself, or do you need some help?”
Down on one knee, he continued his tantrum just inches from my face. “Don’t you ever try to blame this failed marriage on me, you pathetic bitch!”
He hit the light switch on the way out, leaving me in the shadows.
I listened to his footsteps ringing over the tiles in the living room. I heard my keys hit the wall and the desk drawer being jerked out. The front door slammed. He was gone. Was it seconds? Or was it hours?
Still trembling, I half crawled to the bathroom and started picking up the garbage. I organized the things that he had pulled out from under the sink and straightened up the towels. Broken, jagged pieces of gourmet jelly jar glittered in the corner of the kitchen near some tin cans with soupy contents oozing over the tiles. The glass fragments were methodically swept up and dumped into the trash can. I gathered the plastic cartons that I had folded for the recycling bin and wiped up any remaining food scraps. Everything was finally back in its place.
All along, I knew what had happened, but denial had become my only rescue in a moment of crisis. Eventually, I found enough courage to shuffle into the living room in a tired stupor. The bottom drawer was bounced out, and the ring was gone.
I curled up in the wing-backed chair and listened to the hallway clock tick and chime. I couldn’t remember from one chime to the next what time it was. The phone abruptly shattered the stillness, and I pressed one hand against my chest to steady my heart. I couldn’t move. It must be him, but I couldn’t handle being yelled at again—or worse yet, finding out he wasn’t coming back. An unfamiliar voice on the answering machine propelled me across the room before the caller could hang up.
“I’m Laura Homann. Could you please speak English?”
“Yes, Frau Homann. This is Frau Grundfeld at Marien Hospital in Aachen. An accident has occurred with your husband. Could you be at hospital as soon as possible?”
“Has he been in a car accident?”
“That I cannot tell you. But you must come right away please.”
I washed my face and grabbed a coat. Mumbling a prayer, I checked to make sure that my passport was in my handbag in case I was asked to sign papers. I located my keys behind a corner table and rechecked to make sure that I had everything before leaving the apartment.
While hurrying toward the center of the village, I frantically tried to remember where to catch a bus at that time of night. The only stop that I knew of for certain was near the chestnut tree. I ran there as fast as I could and strained to read the schedule in the dark. The bus only came once an hour after ten o’clock, and although I had forgotten my watch, I knew it was well after midnight.
I couldn’t figure out what to do. There was no one around with a watch.
Then my terrified eyes found her.
Frau Reibekuchen calmly gazed into the future from her spot beneath the chestnut tree. Her hands remained securely folded over her bag of unknown treasures. Self-confidence and wisdom, chiseled by an artist’s hands, reflected off her face in burnished patches of light. Frau Reibekuchen was forever calm and self-assured; and in her presence, I felt comforted. Frau Reibekuchen would always know what to do.
Somehow it would be okay. I just had a knowing that it would be okay.
Snuggling close to the cold statue, I peacefully waited until a bus appeared and pulled to the curb. I paid for my ticket with the twenty Euros and carefully watched the change being counted before finding a seat near a window. The driver deftly maneuvered the vehicle through the narrow streets and across farmland dusted silver by a full moon. Within an hour we were in the city where I transferred to another bus and anxiously got off at a stop close to the hospital.
Worry now seized me with its frightening possibilities. What if he died?
No one was in the dim hospital foyer, and I couldn’t even read the signs posted on the walls. I finally tapped on the window of a lit corridor until someone noticed me and escorted me to the trauma unit.
“I’m Laura Homann! Is my husband here?”
“Yes, Frau Homann. Moment please. I will call a doctor for you.”
Within seconds, a tall thin woman appeared with a stethoscope around her neck.
“Hello, Frau Homann. Come this way, please. Your husband was injured this night by falling down some stairs at Koenigs Park here in Aachen. He was running, so we think. Maybe he was late for his train.”
The last remark was more of a question than a comment. I had no idea what Stefan would be doing at a park in the middle of the night. Why would he take a train when he had a car?
My chest constricted as I neared his room. What if he yelled at me in front of the doctor? I timidly paused at the door before going inside.
My first glimpse of a bandaged head and a swollen, discolored face left me dazed. His right eye was puffed out beneath transparent pieces of tape, and I could make out blood and stitches everywhere.
“How badly is he hurt? Is he going to be alright?”
The doctor checked the bandages while reassuring me with typical German bluntness. “Head wounds bleed much. His head made contact with many stones tonight, but we find nothing more than bruising for the body. He has much fat so his body is protected. Unfortunately, his head did not do as well.”
“How serious are the head wounds?”
“We will keep him a few days to make sure, but I think he will be just fine. The scan looked very good.”
“How long is he going to be unconscious?”
“This condition is in part the injuries, but also he has medication to keep him asleep. He will heal more quickly if he is not so active.”
I took in the white band of skin around his left wrist and became alarmed. “Where is his watch? Did someone do this to him?”
The doctor was professionally indifferent. “His watch and other pocket things are locked behind the desk. It appears to have been nothing more than a fall. If you would like to sit with him for a small time, you may do this. Just please talk to me before you leave. We need you to sign some papers.”
I slid a chair close to the bed and lightly stroked the hair from his battered forehead. There was a butterfly bandage at the corner of his mouth—a mouth that I knew better than my own. How could the same mouth that once kissed me so tenderly become such an instrument of death? I held his hand and softly traced the scar that he got from a dog bite when he was a young boy, and then I noticed the heavy scent of jasmine. Concern was replaced with a sigh, and I pulled my hand away. I didn’t belong there. If he woke up, they would all know I didn’t belong there.
A clear plastic bag leaned against the wall nearby with tape sealing it shut. It took a few moments for me to recognize his clothes. I reached over and gingerly picked it up to examine it. It contained his shirt and suit, all drenched in blood. As I was peering through the clear plastic and trying to make sense out of the whole mess, Stefan suddenly let out a terrible cry. His hand lunged toward me with the tubing straining from an IV bottle. I could hear myself shrieking even before I fell backward over the chair in a clumsy attempt to save myself. Out of nowhere, a nurse arrived to push him back down into his pillow. The look of rage in his eyes before the nurse pinned his arm and gave him an injection was all too familiar. I knew my husband, and I knew how he felt about me.
Still holding the bag, I fled the room and met the doctor who asked, “Is Herr Homann giving us problems? It is often so with head injuries. Don’t worry, it soon will pass.”
She patted my arm and gave me a tight smile.
Stunned and embarrassed by the nasty encounter, I could only stutter, “His…his suit is ruined, could I take it with me, please? I mean…to the cleaners to see if they can fix it?”
“Of course, I see no problem. Tomorrow you will find him better I think. You may come any time after nine mornings.”
I managed to sign papers without knowing what I was signing and walked out to find pastel washed clouds and an early morning sun. Buses now came every fifteen minutes. I barely made the one already waiting at the stop. I tiredly scooted into the handicapped seating behind the driver, holding the bloodied suit on my lap.
The world around me was joyfully rising to the beat of a dreamy autumn day, but I didn’t notice. I didn’t see Charlemagne’s cathedral pointing to a pale pink sky or the bakeries or the red geraniums still cascading from balconies. I didn’t see the nuns opening the gate at the girls’ school or the white-haired couple holding hands in front of a Kiosk. I just sat quietly staring at the ring on my left hand with three cut diamonds I had never seen.
Church bells started ringing somewhere, and I remembered that I hadn’t wound the hallway clock. I numbly considered the possibility that I was worth more than a clock I detested, but that idea faded away as I watched shops blur past me in a tedious rhythm.
Eventually, I glanced at a newspaper that someone had left on the edge of the seat with last night’s lottery numbers listed on the front page. I studied the numbers with my brain not quite registering. Then it all clicked! It was one of the birthday lineups that Stefan had used for years, except the number 17 was in my old spot. I groaned and shook uncontrollably at the cruel twist of fate.
When I made my transfer, I was awkwardly holding both the bag and the paper. The contents of the plastic bag soon became a complaint as morning commuters crowded close to me. After miles of farmland and uneasy passengers, I wearily stumbled out of the bus at the chestnut tree and plopped down on the bench near Frau Reibekuchen. A wind was blowing leaves around her sensible shoes and piling up beneath the bench.
Frau Reibekuchen was patiently waiting for me to figure it out on my own.
I hesitated before opening the bag and pulling out the stained suit jacket to check the inside pockets. They had told me everything was removed from his pockets, but what if…?
There were so many pockets on the inside that I tried squeezing the fabric to find any stiffness that might indicate a skinny little planner was there. My breathing got louder when I found a pocket that felt slightly thicker.
It was there!
I fumbled through the stack searching for the one that contained birthdays. There it was! Stefan had it folded up in the middle for safety. I laughed with absolute delight at the number 17 sitting in my old place.
“Do not throw this gift away.” The words seemed to breathe through my mind.
I looked over at Frau Reibekuchen and noticed for the first time that she wore a pillbox hat that was popular in the sixties. Swirls of bronze blended it discreetly into her hair.
“Do not waste this gift!”
Now I understood what I had to do.
I studied the beautiful face that had been a friend for many turbulent years. Frau Reibekuchen was the only one I had trusted my secrets to. I trusted her now with one more. Oblivious to those that could hear, I leaned over and whispered a loving goodbye. As the next bus ground to a stop, I clutched the ticket to my chest and scurried to get a seat.
Fairytales and magic things were all foolishness. I knew that it was so. But when I pressed my cheek against the window and looked back at the chestnut tree, magic seemed to be everywhere. I felt as if I was experiencing freedom for the very first time in my entire life. It was the breathless, airy freedom of an autumn leave that is finally permitted to fly upwards into an infinite rainbow of possibilities.
I glanced back one last time at the suit jacket draped over the bench near the statue. It would be okay. Frau Reibekuchen would know what to do with it. I was going to learn to dance.
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