Inked

him.
    Not any of them.
    I heard music in the night. A lonely saxophone playing a heartbreaking version of “Over the Rainbow.” Zee glided through the shadows, little more than a glimpse of spiked hair and sharp joints. Dek licked the back of my ear. I patted his head as I stepped free of the residential alley and found myself staring at a party.
    Just a glimpse, beyond an open gate built into a thick stone wall that followed the curve of the road. Barbed wire fencing rose almost five feet higher than the wall itself, ending on the right-hand side at a distinctive fluted turret that was as out of place as the German signs framing the gate. Young Chinese children squatted on the sidewalk, playing what looked like rock, paper, scissors with a pair of Jewish kids, a boy and girl. Carts rumbled down the road between us, hand-pulled by gaunt Chinese men—who gave wide berth to a car parked alongside the street; a black Peerless, top down, revealing quilted leather seats that looked soft as a glove. I knew cars. This one was old-fashioned for 1944, but lovingly cared for. An Asian man sat behind the wheel, dozing.
    No one paid attention to me: lone woman lurking at the entrance of the alley. The streets were dark. No electricity to spare. No oil to waste in lamps.
    I heard glasses clinking, and smelled food. Yeast scents, and something meatier. Even a hint of coffee. My stomach growled. Zum Weissen Röss’l was the name of the place, according to the largest of the signs hanging above the gate—written, too, above the arched entrance of the elegant white building that was at the far end of the courtyard. Round tables and wicker chairs dotted the swept stone ground, and the saxophone’s mourning tones were pure and sweet. I could not see the musician.
    Business was good. Tables were full. I saw waitresses circulating in traditional Bavarian outfits—white frilly aprons, with white puffy sleeves and collars, overlaid with a dark button-up smock and full skirts—tucked and nipped to accommodate starved frames. Muted laughter spilled into the night, glasses clinking. A surreal sight, and nothing I would have expected to find in the middle of occupied war-torn territory.
    I glanced down at Zee, who was little more than a bulge in the shadows. Found him staring at the restaurant, utterly rapt. Breathless, even. I had never seen that look on his face, and it occurred to me, with some shame, that—sixty years in the past, or ten thousand—confronting a world that had been dead and gone was no easier on him and the boys than it was for me. Worse, perhaps. I had no memories of this place. I had nothing to latch my heart on to. Except for my grandmother. And, perhaps, young Ernie Bernstein.
    I looked back at the courtyard. And just like that, saw her.
    She was sauntering out of the white building, bearing a tray. Nothing but her arm was visible, and a loose arrangement of long black hair. I could not see her face. But I knew. I knew with absolute certainty that it was my grandmother.
    I almost crossed the road. Aaz grabbed my hand, holding me back. I did not fight him. I could not. I watched my grandmother serve a table full of Nazis.
    I had not noticed them until that moment, but in hindsight I could hardly believe I had been so blind. They were sitting in plain view of the open gate, red armbands glowing upon their brown uniforms, sharp black swastika lines standing in sharp relief against white spotlight circles. Blond men, drinking beer and spearing thick sausages on their forks. Two uniformed Asian soldiers sat with them, bayonets leaning against the table. Japanese, I thought. A night out for the men in charge.
    I held my breath as my grandmother leaned close, setting down mugs and taking away empty plates. Aaz tightened his grip on my wrist. But in the end, I did not need to worry. No one touched her body. Not that she looked as though she would have minded. I felt like I was losing my mind.
    The first and second time I had ever met my grandmother, she had been a chain-smoking, hard-eyed, dangerous woman. Gritty, leathery, with a masculine edge to her clothing and walk. A mother, to boot. No funny business. Not this young thing with a sweet face and ready smile. Not this girl who wore black heels and a frilly white apron, and glanced at Nazis with a come-hither glint that was so startlingly sexy I wanted to look away in embarrassment.
    I stood there in the shadows, suffocating, suffering the heat again as if my skin