The Colour of War

Chapter 16

The morning light filtered through the windowpane, painting the room in a pale, uncertain glow. Evelyn's eyes fluttered open. Beside her lay Stefan, his breaths deep and even in the quiet room. She watched him, the rise and fall of his chest hypnotic, peaceful. With a tenderness she reserved only for him, her finger traced the lines of his face—memorising, cherishing.

His eyelids stirred, and a smile unfurled across his lips as they met hers. "Guten Morgen," he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

"So," Evelyn said, a twinge of sadness threading through her words as she sat up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, "it's your birthday soon, and we won't get to spend it together."

"The war will be over quickly, meine Liebe," Stefan's hand found hers, his grip strong yet gentle, pulling her back towards the warmth they shared. "Wir haben die Oberhand."

But his assurances, meant to comfort, failed to penetrate the growing unease nesting within her heart. Questions gnawed at her—the SS, the Gestapo, their treatment of people like her—but she stifled them, unwilling to mar the tranquillity of the morning.

With a resolve that surprised even herself, Evelyn spoke again. "I want to get you something nice. I still owe you for Christmas."

His brow creased, concern carved in his features. "You know what it's like now, Evelyn. Your patronage is unwelcome in German shops, and the Jewish ones... they're being boycotted."

Her eyes welled, the injustice of it all. "This is our home, and now I can't even buy a simple gift. I despise feeling so... so useless, living off you."

"Hey," he whispered, cupping her face, his kiss landing softly on her shoulder, "you are the heart of this home, of us. Nothing more is needed."

The conviction in his words made her feel good, but Evelyn's decision remained unshaken. "I know where to go," she asserted, her voice betraying none of the anxiety swirling within her.

"Please, Evelyn," Stefan pleaded, desperation in his tone. "It's too risky. Wait for my return, then we'll celebrate."

Her head shook, small but firm. "I have nothing for you. It's shameful."

Evelyn knew no argument would sway her. This was something she had to do—for him, for herself.

Evelyn withdrew from the warmth of their shared bed, leaving a soft kiss on Stefan's forehead as he groaned in protest, sensing her determination. She stood before the mirror, fingers expertly twisting the scarf around her head, a shield against the chill and prying eyes. "I'll be back before you know it," she promised.

Outside, Cologne lay hushed under the weight of an oppressive morning. The shuttered shops, their windows dark and foreboding. Her steps quickened as she neared the old bakery, its sign barely visible through the dust and grime that coated the glass. She pushed against the door; the bell's chime seemed too loud in the silence that greeted her.

Her gaze flitted across barren shelves until it found solace in an ornate pastry. The corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, her hand outstretched.

"What are you doing here?" The baker's gruff tone made her almost flinch.

"I just wanted to buy this," Evelyn stammered, holding up the pastry, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"Rules are rules. No Schwarz. Leave now, or I'll call them." His eyes were hard stones, his stance uncompromising.

Panic tore at her throat, but she held his gaze. She knew him—the man who had praised her discerning palate, who had wrapped Black Forest Cake with care for her many a time. "This is for someone special... his birthday," she implored, the words firm, but her insides roiling with dread.