Erika Holzer - Freedom Bridge

Anna Brenner took her daughter-in-law’s hands in hers. “I cannot find words to express how sorry I am that my son has shamed you.”

“Don’t even try,” Adrienne whispered, squeezing Anna’s hands tightly.

Adrienne remained standing by the door, near-paralyzed by the decisions she knew she would have to make before she left this room.

Max Brenner held his wife’s arm—a useless restraint.

Shrugging it off, Anna Brenner made no effort to restrain her tears as she crossed the room toward her son. She moved slowly, her gait unsteady, not stopping even when she heard Adrienne burst into tears.

Kiril, having braced himself for this sad encounter, felt on the edge of tears himself. But as Anna Brenner approached him, he realized that he should have anticipated more than sadness. What he saw in the set of her mouth was a smoldering anger bordering on rage.

“Tell me to my face,” she said.

He heard the trace of an accent. Her voice, in sharp contrast to her anger, was anguished.

For a moment he lowered his eyes to gather his own strength.

In the next moment he was staring at a gold charm bracelet on her wrist—a tiny thermometer, a reflex hammer, a stethoscope, a head-mirror, each charm suspended from the bracelet by a gold link—

Except for one link with nothing hanging from it!

For a split second, Kiril felt as if a burst of electricity had coursed through his body—the second he knew with certainty that the link had once held the miniature gold scalpel he still wore around his neck.

A charm that held long-suppressed memories for them both… .

“Tell me how you can do this, Kurt. And then, tell me why.”

He looked into the face of the mother he had said goodbye to when he was four and had loved all his life. A face forever with him, forever lost.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

He saw her mouth move, that was all. He had lost every sense but one. He stood like a statue, hungrily drinking in the sight of her.

“You are going to do this?” Her expression bordered on hatred.

And even though he knew the hatred was meant for Kurt Brenner, he accepted it as penance for the wrong he had done her.

Oh Anna, Anna. To have spent a lifetime of pain and guilt grieving over a hostage child not old enough to understand why you never came home. But when I was older, when I learned of Kolya’s injury, I knew you had a chance to raise him in a free country. And now you are suffering because, thanks to me, you think the beneficiary of that bitter sacrifice chooses to make his home in the Soviet Union. How can you endure it?

He saw no forgiveness in her eyes.

His eyes filled with tears. He forgave her instantly.

Did you think I would hate you for leaving me behind? I have had but one lifelong obsession—to find you again. To tell you that what you did was right. To set you free of a guilt you never should have had to bear.

But now the Soviets may learn that Kurt Brenner is Kolya Andreyev, citizen of the U.S.S.R., and they may never let him go. Forgive me for what I am about to say to the press. Then give me twenty-four hours and I will bring Kolya back to you. If I can…

Before Anna Brenner could say another word, Kiril walked past Adrienne and opened the door.

Reporters poured into the room, jockeying for position.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “my statement will be brief. I plan to practice heart surgery in the Soviet Union. My decision has been a long time in coming. It is final. I came here tonight because I want no doubt in anyone’s mind that the announcement I made in East Berlin several hours ago was true. There was no coercion. You asked about my immediate plans. They are to get back on the plane that brought me here so that I may begin my new life in Moscow.”

The reporters gave way as soon as they saw Anna Brenner descend on him like an avenging angel.

She slapped Kiril’s face so hard he staggered from the blow.

A reporter mumbled, “The slap heard round the world… ”

A wilted Max Brenner looked as if he were on the verge of collapsing.

Adrienne, her mind whirling, leaned against the wall, watching with horror as the scene played out before her.

Kiril’s head was reeling from the impact—from the terrible irony—as flashbulbs popped, recording Anna Brenner’s blow for a readership of millions. Cameras panned for reaction shots of a family in chaos.

And retreat. Max and Anna Brenner were leaving.

Adrienne hadn’t moved. “Ladies and gentlemen, listen to me! Will someone please listen to me?” she shouted over the din. “I have a statement of my own.”

The commotion in the room collapsed into silence as Kiril walked over to her.

“You can’t stop me,” she said.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her aside before anyone could react. “Say one more word and you throw away the only chance I have of rescuing your husband.”

“Rescuing him? You’re going back to East Berlin after what he—”

“I must. But it has to be as Kurt Brenner, not Kiril Andreyev. If he and I don’t get out within twenty-four hours, make your statement then. Tell the world your husband was being blackmailed for something he did a long time ago. That he’s being held by the Soviets against his will.”

Kiril removed the charm from around his neck and pressed it into Adrienne’s hand. “Convince them I was an impostor, and then give this to your mother-in-law. She’ll be able to back up your story.”

After a brief hesitation, he handed her a cigarette lighter. “And if I don’t come back, give this to American intelligence.”

The cigarette lighter again!

Stunned, Adrienne realized there was no way she could quickly process what was going on. “Kurt, wait,” she called out.

Handing him the lighter, she turned to the reporters. “I’ve decided to accompany my husband to East Berlin and, if necessary, to Moscow. I hope to persuade him to change his mind. No more questions please,” she said as the flashbulbs resumed, holding a hand over her eyes to deflect the light.

Taking Kiril’s arm—ever the dutiful wife, she thought wryly, she steered him toward the executive jet.

She was still squeezing the tiny gold scalpel when something lurking in her subconscious surfaced. In the private room when her mother-in-law had clasped her hands and Adrienne, overwhelmed by emotion, had squeezed back—hard—she had felt a slight bruising sensation from the charms on Anna’s bracelet.

The bracelet Anna never took off. The bracelet that was missing a single charm, she’d told Adrienne years ago—and then told her what the charm was.

She had a flash-image of Kiril as he bent in the dirt to carve the shape of a tombstone—tiny letters inside for some grieving family.

His carving tool? A miniature gold scalpel.

She whirled around to face him. “God in heaven, Anna Brenner is your mother! And Kurt must be—”

“My brother Kolya.”

Max Brenner sat up, awakened by a dull thud. “Anna?”

“Sorry. I dropped my shoe.”

“You can’t sleep?”

“It’s hardly surprising.”

He turned on the light and went to sit beside her on the other bed while she finished dressing. “It’s two o’clock in the morning. We have an early plane.”

“There are other planes to New York. We’ll catch a later flight.”

“Let me go with you. The streets will be empty.”

“Zurich is an old friend, Max. I want to be alone with her.”

“Then take a doctor’s advice,” he said gently. “So much pent-up emotion. Cry if you can.”

She touched his cheek. “I’m all cried out.”

She finished dressing and slipped out the door.