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A T FIRST, Kristoff didn’t understand the power of the burin. He didn’t know that the one small simple-looking engraving tool could eventually save them. Or get them killed. All he knew, in the beginning, was that the burin was impossible to use precisely, and that he was not naturally suited for metal, the way he’d always been for canvas.
He didn’t like the way it felt in his hand either. Oddly heavy, hard to maneuver. He felt it should create lines with the agility of a brush, or even charcoal, and yet his hand kept getting stuck, and he became repeatedly frustrated at his inability to achieve the perfect lines and grooves in the metal the way Frederick showed him. He worried that Frederick would fire him as his apprentice, and then he would have to find not only another job, but also another place to live. As Frederick’s apprentice, Kristoff had been receiving room and board with the Faber family in their beautiful home on the outskirts of Grotsburg, as well as five schilling a week. But most important, the opportunity to learn the trade that Frederick Faber was known for throughout Austria: engraving. His greatest creation was the country’s most popular—and, Kristoff would argue, artistically perfect—postage stamp, the 12 Groschen Edelweiss. The stamp was a stunning replica of the pure white flower, and Frederick had both designed and engraved it himself in 1932.
Kristoff remembered placing that stamp on a letter he’d written to his mother once, but had never sent. He could not mail a letter to someone who didn’t exist, or whose existence and location he could never determine in spite of his best efforts. But even as a young boy of thirteen, Kristoff had admired the artistry of that stamp, the perfect bows of the petals. He’d always wanted to make a living as an artist. So when he’d heard the rumor last fall from another street artist in Vienna, that Frederick Faber, the Frederick Faber, was searching for a new apprentice, Kristoff had packed up his art supplies and spent most of his small savings to hire a ride to take him the two hundred kilometers out to Grotsburg. And when he’d arrived, he’d convinced Frederick to give him the job after he showed Frederick some of his charcoal sketches of Vienna.
“You have a good eye,” Frederick had said, staring at what Kristoff thought was his most noteworthy sketch: Stephansdom, elaborate in all its detail of the two wide turrets in the front. Frederick had raised a thick gray eyebrow. “But what do you know of metal, my boy?”
“I’m a quick learner,” Kristoff had promised, and that had seemed enough to convince Frederick to take him on. Though, so far, this had turned out not to be true, at least where engraving was concerned.
Though he didn’t master the burin right away, Kristoff did learn two things in his first few weeks working for Frederick. One, Frederick was older than Kristoff had initially thought, and sometimes his hands began to shake when he tried to teach Kristoff how to use the engraving tools. Frederick had told Kristoff he needed an apprentice because there was business enough for two master engravers to work on his stamp assignments for Austria, but now Kristoff suspected the real reason was that Frederick might not be able to continue on with his trade much longer. And Frederick didn’t have any sons.
That was the second thing Kristoff learned. Frederick had two daughters: Elena, who was seventeen, a year younger than Kristoff, and who reminded Kristoff of the edelweiss with her snowy skin, waves of long light brown hair, and bright green eyes. And Miriam, who was thirteen. If Elena was a flower, then Miriam was the buzzing bee who wouldn’t leave the flower alone. Or, as Mrs. Faber called her with an exasperated roll of her green eyes, a flibbertigibbet . But Kristoff still found her amusing, even when her family did not.
Kristoff quickly became accustomed to life in Grotsburg, where the world was green and very quiet, and instead of buildings and throngs of people, he woke up each morning to a view of the forest and rolling hills. But even more, Kristoff reveled in the warmth of the Fabers’ dining room, of the fragrant smell of Mrs. Faber’s stews, of the bread they broke on Friday nights in the glow of their candles. The challah was a savory bread, and Kristoff had never tasted anything like it growing up in the orphanage in Vienna, where the nuns had led him to believe there was only one religion anyway. Not that he was necessarily a believer. Kristoff was much more drawn to the Fabers, the light and wholeness of their family, than he had ever been to God or the institutional church.
“Miriam, sit still,” Mrs. Faber chastised, one night a few weeks after Kristoff had begun his apprenticeship. Almost a month in, Kristoff was still failing miserably at the metalwork. Though earlier that day he had impressed Frederick with his sketch of the hillside, and even hours later, he was still basking in Frederick’s compliment that it was “not half bad.”
“I’m sitting still, Mother,” Miriam said in a singsong voice, bouncing slightly in her chair and casting a sideways smile at Kristoff.
Kristoff hid his own smile in his spoonful of soup. He glanced at Elena, but she refused to look at him. He had yet to determine whether she was shy or rude, whether she acted so standoffish around everyone, or whether it was just around him.
“Elena, dear. Go fetch another log or two for the fire. It’s chilly in here,” Mrs. Faber said. It was the deepest, coldest part of winter, and the Fabers’ three-story wooden house was drafty. Kristoff’s room in the attic had a small woodstove, but he had to huddle under two blankets to stay warm at night. Still, it far surpassed the orphanage, his bed in a row of ten others in a large cold room, and only a thin blanket to cover him. And Mrs. Faber’s cooking was much better than the nuns’.
Elena put her soup spoon down and stood. Kristoff tried to meet her eyes again, but she wouldn’t look up.
“I can help.” Kristoff stood, before he lost his nerve, and Elena turned toward him. At least he’d caught her attention.
Her beautiful face sunk into a frown. “It’s not—” she began.
Mrs. Faber spoke over her: “Thank you, Kristoff. I’m sure Elena would appreciate that.”
He smiled at Mrs. Faber and followed Elena. They went wordlessly through the kitchen, out the back door, toward the woodpile, which rested across the Fabers’ sprawling yard in front of Frederick’s workshop. The earth was frozen, and the ground crunched beneath their feet; the night air was biting and neither Kristoff nor Elena had grabbed a coat. Elena shivered, and her hair fell into her eyes as she reached down to grab the wood. Kristoff resisted the urge to pull her hair back, and instead reached down and took the log from her hands.
“Really,” she said sharply, pulling it back and holding it toward her chest. “I’m just fine. I’ve been doing this on my own long before you came here. I don’t need your help.”
“But I want to help,” he said. “And it’s no trouble.” Elena glared, and he was suddenly certain that she was not shy—she just didn’t like him. And this realization bothered him. He had the urge to fix it.
But before he could say more, Elena turned and began to walk back toward the house. Kristoff picked up another log from the pile and ran after her. He caught her just before they reached the back door, and he reached for her shoulder. “Have I done something?” he asked her, slightly out of breath from running in the cold. His words came out jagged and smoky against the chilly air.
“Something?” she echoed back.
“To upset you?”
“Why should you think that?” Her breath made frosty rings in the air, and she shivered again.
“Never mind,” he said. “We should get back inside. You’re freezing.”
“Look,” she said. “It’s just that we’re not friends, okay? We’re not going to be friends. I don’t expect you to be here long. They never are.”
“They?” he asked, considering, for the first time, Frederick’s last apprentice, or maybe his last few? Were they all terrible with the burin, like him, and promptly fired?
But Elena didn’t answer. She carried the wood inside and placed it into the fire. Kristoff did the same, and then he excused himself to go to bed. Up in the attic, wrapped in two blankets, he took out his sketch pad and a nib of charcoal. He found himself sketching Elena’s angry green eyes and wondering how long this place would stay his home.
The next day, inside Frederick’s workshop, Kristoff had trouble concentrating. His work with the burin was even worse, his practice lines even sloppier. And when they were cleaning up before dinner Frederick turned to look at Kristoff and frowned. “Are you going to fire me?” Kristoff asked.
“Fire you?” Frederick was nearly bald, but his eyebrows were still bushy, thick, and gray, and they framed eyes as vividly green as Elena’s.
“I’m not doing well with the metal,” Kristoff said, unable to keep the note of desperation he felt from creeping into his voice. “Maybe I’m not meant for this. Maybe you should fire me.” As much as Kristoff did not want to be fired, he also knew the longer he was here, the more accustomed he became to the warmth of the Fabers’ house and Frederick’s workshop and Frederick himself, the harder it would be to leave. Should Frederick want to fire him, it would be better for him to do it now.
“Do you want me to fire you?” Frederick asked, looking confused.
“No, of course not,” Kristoff said. “I just thought... Elena said...” He felt his cheeks turning red.
“Ahhh, Elena.” Frederick sighed. “Don’t mind my Elena. She’s just mad about my last apprentice.”
“That you fired him?” Kristoff asked.
Frederick shook his head. “No, no, my boy. I’ve never fired anyone.”
“So what happened to him?” Kristoff asked.
Frederick frowned again but didn’t answer his question. “You want to be here?” he finally said. Kristoff nodded. “Then I want you to be here. I want you to learn. If you still want to learn?”
“I do,” Kristoff said.
“Good.” Frederick put his hand gently on Kristoff’s shoulder. “There are two necessary skills to becoming a stamp engraver, Kristoff. First is the ability to draw something worthy of going on a postage stamp for our beautiful Austria. You have that skill down.” Kristoff felt his cheeks grow warm with the unexpected compliment. “The other part is learning how to replicate that all to scale, in reverse, in the metal with the engraving tools. And you will learn. It just takes time. And patience. I didn’t have complete control of the burin either when I was your age.” Kristoff smiled, grateful for Frederick’s kindness. “Here, try one more time before dinner.” He handed Kristoff back the burin, his hands shaking a little, the tool vibrating in his palm. Kristoff pretended he didn’t notice.
Mrs. Faber had a routine for weekly dinners. Thursday nights she made beef stew, and this became Kristoff’s favorite night of the week. They’d rarely had beef in their stew in the orphanage because it was too expensive, and so now the taste of Mrs. Faber’s delicious meat each Thursday night reminded Kristoff that he was no longer an orphan, no longer entirely alone.
After dinner, Miriam and Elena would finish their schoolwork, and Frederick would smoke a pipe in the armchair by the fire in the living room and read a book. Kristoff wasn’t sure what to do with himself at first and he would excuse himself to go up to his room.
But one Thursday about two months into his apprenticeship, after the girls had finished clearing the table, Miriam bounced up to him and asked him to play Monopoly with her. Frederick had brought the game back from a trip to London two years earlier, and Miriam loved it. Elena didn’t seem so enthusiastic, but Kristoff had seen her sitting on the floor by the fire, playing with Miriam before. This was his first invitation to play along.
“Come on.” Miriam tugged on his shirtsleeve. “Don’t be a bore and run up to the attic like you always do. Play with us tonight. It’s so much fun. You’ll love it.”
He glanced at Elena, who quickly looked away. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said quietly, willing Elena to turn back and look at him, to tell him that he wasn’t intruding at all. The truth was, he wasn’t exactly sure how to play Monopoly and he knew that was most likely why Miriam wanted him to play, so she could win. Not that he minded. He was happy she’d invited him at all. His belly was full from the stew, his skin warm from the fire. He wasn’t ready to retreat to the cold attic alone.
“You aren’t intruding,” Elena said. “I have a book I want to finish, anyway. I’ll go upstairs. You play with Miri tonight.”
“What are you reading?” Kristoff asked.
She finally looked back at him, her eyebrows raised, and maybe she couldn’t believe that a person like him, a person who had left school at fourteen to become a street artist, might be interested in books. But he was. Ever since he was a little boy, he’d read everything he could get his hands on in the orphanage, and his favorite nun, Sister Marguerite, would often give him books when she’d finished reading them. Books on art, history, and war, and sometimes even novels.
“She’s reading something boring,” Miriam said, tugging again on his sleeve, trying to pull him toward her game.
“Dr. Freud is not boring,” Elena said. “Maybe when you get older, Miri, you’ll understand him.” Miriam rolled her eyes in response.
Kristoff had nothing to add, as Freud’s books were not something he’d ever seen, and he only loosely knew of the man. Some kind of doctor practicing in Vienna, with all kinds of crazy thoughts. But maybe Elena didn’t think they were crazy the way the nuns had?
“Elena,” Mrs. Faber chimed in, then leaned over to blow out the candles that had been burning on the dining table during dinner. “Why don’t you leave Dr. Freud be, and play the game with your sister and Kristoff.” She tugged affectionately on one of Miriam’s braids. “Someone needs to make sure this one doesn’t cheat. And three people can play together.”
“I don’t cheat, Mother.” Miriam crossed her arms. “I can’t help it if I always get London’s best properties.”
Mrs. Faber laughed, pulled Miriam close, and kissed the top of her head. “Right,” she said. “You never steal Elena’s money when she’s not looking.”
“Never,” Miriam gasped, and Elena broke into a grin.
“All right. Come on,” Elena said. “The game takes forever. We might as well get started.”
He followed the girls to their normal spot on the floor in front of the fire and he tentatively sat down. Frederick lowered his pipe and his book, and he looked at Kristoff as if he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind, smiled warmly instead, and announced he was going up to bed.
Later that night, Kristoff couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed for a long while, wide-awake. The sound of Miriam’s laughter as she’d counted up her money, and Elena’s chuckle as she’d lost to her younger sister (yet again)—intentionally, Kristoff thought—all felt so near to him. As if they were his, as if he belonged to them now.
The engraving tools felt so impossible still. The metal so different from canvas. Frederick continued to insist that Kristoff would learn. But what if he didn’t? What if he never did? Frederick couldn’t stay patient forever. But Kristoff couldn’t imagine losing him. Or Mrs. Faber’s beef stew. Or Miriam’s laughter and chatter, and Elena’s beautiful smile, even if it was rarely directed at him. He couldn’t fail at engraving and be forced to leave the Fabers behind. He just couldn’t.
Though it was very cold now, and the middle of the night, he got out of bed and tiptoed down the two flights of stairs. He would practice at night. While Frederick slept. He needed the extra time in the workshop, alone, without Frederick’s watchful eye making him nervous.
The dining room was quiet and still at this hour, and the fire had burned down to tiny orange embers. Kristoff put on his boots and his coat, and he opened the back door slowly, so as not to make noise. He ran across the snow-dusted grass to Frederick’s workshop.
When he opened the door to the workshop, his eye immediately drew to the unexpected light of a candle flickering inside on the worktable.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
He felt the crush of metal against his skull, and he cried out in pain as he sunk to his knees.