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lagoon, dark against the frozen brightness. She thought of her own black coat and how it made her vulnerable.
    A road of sorts had been sketched out across the ice. The German army had placed small trees along the way to mark the path the refugees needed to take. Out in the blinding, unending whiteness, it would be very easy to get lost.
    Mitch caught up to her and stood at her shoulder. “A far cry from the green hills of England.”
    “So you’re not from London?”
    “Not quite. The little town of Kendal. My mum and pop have lived there all their lives. My sister too, until she moved to Dorchester.”
    “You miss it. And them.”
    “My mum, anyway. It’s been a long five years.”
    “That’s how long you’ve been a POW?”
    “Yes.”
    “Has your father passed away?”
    “No. Why do you ask?”
    “You said you miss your mother, but you said nothing about him.”
    “We have a complicated relationship. Shall we?” He led the way down the beach and onto the ice.
    Gisela took the hint and dropped the subject.
    After a while, the trees became redundant. The side of the “road” was littered with dead horses, discarded goods, and broken-down carts. Gisela tried to take it in at the same time she tried to close her mind to what played out in front of her.
    They plodded farther in silence, needing every bit of every breath to continue trudging forward. In places, small holes littered the ice. Herr Holtzmann had gathered a stick from the bank and walked in front of them, testing the depth of the water on the surface at those points. In some places, it was more than ankle deep. Their shoes and stockings and pants legs were wet.
    And cold. Gisela shivered.
    “How are you doing?” Mitch pulled the heavy cart without complaint.
    “Swell.” Ella and Opa had been right. He would never have survived this trip. Would any of them?
    “You’ve taken my title as the cheeriest chap on the planet.”
    She had to give him a little smile for his effort. “I’d like to feel my toes again someday.”
    “You will. And when you do, they’ll hurt like the dickens.”
    “Ah, now I see how you earned that title in the first place.” But Mitch was correct. She tried not to think of the pain that awaited her when they finally left the ice. Whenever that would be.
    They continued the trek, the line of refugees stretching as far in front of them as they could see and as far in back of them. The scene was surreal, like it should be in a motion picture and she should be Greta Garbo.
    “I want to get out.” Annelies leaned over the side of the cart as she whined. Poor kid. She had to be restless. Mitch lifted her and set her on a stretch of ice not pockmarked by bullets and missiles. She gave him the biggest grin and began gliding across the slick surface.
    A little bit ahead, Gisela spied a dark bundle on the right side of the road. Probably left there by someone who could no longer carry the heavy burden. The goods were wrapped in a gray army-style blanket. She broke off from the group. “I’m going to see what’s in that package.”
    Herr Holtzmann on her left nodded. “Do you need the extra weight?”
    “Nein, but there might be valuables in there we could use. We have two strong men now.” She removed her heavy wool mittens and unwrapped the blanket.
    Her breath caught in her throat. A baby. Eyes closed, lips blue.
    She cradled the infant in her arms.
    Cold.
    Stiff.
    Dead.
    Her eyes stung.
    Who would leave their baby like this? How could they walk away from their child? The thought sickened her.
    A Soviet plane droned overhead.
    A tiefflieger .
    The single plane broke through the clouds, its shiny silver fuselage catching the light. The pilot wheeled around and gunfire rained down on them.
    Rat-a-tat-tat.
    Gisela spun to the left and to the right. Bright-white ice surrounded them. No trees. No ditches. No homes.
    Rat-a-tat-tat.
    Annelies broke off her gliding, her gray eyes huge in her face,her mouth hanging open. Mitch