Tulips in Her Hand

Chapter Fifteen

Celina felt that the city of Munich was going to swallow her.

Her legs burned horrendously as she attempted to push aside the thoughts of Ms. Peiper and her father. The night sky seemed to envelope her in a feeling of darkness. Pressing her cheek against the rough bark of a tree, she attempted to decipher the bustling movement of the distant city in front of her. Wren groaned behind her on the stretcher.

Why Munich? How did they end up in one of the busiest towns in Germany? The fluttering feeling in Celina's stomach did nothing to calm the nausea suddenly flooding over her.

"That looks dangerous," Wren croaked, pointing towards Munich. Celina scarcely heard his soft voice, lost inside the shouts of her thoughts. What had she done? Oh, what had Celina Rudaski done?

"That's why we'll just turn around," Celina murmured, yet even as she said it she felt the trepidation in her heart. Her soiled clothing clung to her damp skin. Her stomach growled, feeling as if it were gnawing itself from the inside. Her throat rasped when she spoke, parched. They needed to go somewhere civilized.

Wren frowned, wincing. "And where will we go? I need food, Celina, and so do you. All the cities we've passed by are just like this one, except thieves are likelier to be caught in smaller cities."

Celina bit her lip. He had a point. Yet neither option seemed preferable, both likely to result in an arrest. "You're right. We'll go to Munich, right now. No arguing; dark's the best time to go." Her words were brusque and sharp, slicing through the air. She picked up the rope to the sledge, using every bit of energy left to pull Mariusz towards the city. Munich. Celina shuddered even as she thought of it. Her entire body seemed to tremble, whether it be out of fear or exhaustion or both.

When nearly reached the edge of town, Celina abruptly stopped. A thought rushed into her mind like a gust of wind. "You can't be on the sledge," she said, gazing down at Wren, "It'll be a dead giveaway."

Seconds ticked by as Wren said nothing. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. "You want me to walk?" he said, incredulous, "But I'm injured! Wounded! And you're as weak as a--"

It was Celina's turn to frown. "I beg you not to finish that sentence. Besides, I'm stronger than you think, and you're not as injured as you think. It's either this, or be shot." She proceeded to grasp his arm, lifting him off the sledge. He wobbled as she supported him, nearly collapsing onto the earth like a pile of unwashed laundry. Celina gasped as she felt his weight leaning on her. Pain revolted throughout her entire body.

"I think I'd rather be shot," he mumbled.

Celina shook her head, leading him into the depths of the teeming city. As they reached the cobblestone road, a man with blue and green paint dripping down his arms bolted passed them, nearly sending the two flying to the ground. Wren muttered under his breath that he must have been a mad painter. Celina, however, furrowed her eyebrows. Something seemed oddly familiar about that man...something distantly alike to someone.

She brushed off the dust from her arms, her heart pounding in her ears. "Wait!" she called. The man was a mere speck in the distance. "The man with the paint; wait!" She scurried off to catch him, dragging Wren behind. Her feet begged to collapse on a warm, fluffy bed. Just a little bit more.

The man spun around. The blue and green paint now dripped to the cobblestone road, teardrops on a yellowed pillow. His eyes smiled, with friendliness flecked in his irises. So familiar, yet so distant. "Have we met?" he asked. He was younger, with rusty brown hair that reflected the dim street lights. A few passersby milled about, for no one wanted to be caught out after curfew.