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Entering the grounds of Freiberg Universität always calms me. It’s my happy place—or one of them. I did my international business degree here, so it feels like home. Ancient buildings surround wide lawns with huge, leafy trees providing shade. Birds and insects add a low, pleasant background hum. Late flowers give off a sweet scent. A few students wander the sidewalks, murmuring quietly as they move from class to class.
I carry Hans’s smaller suitcase over the cobblestones toward Kollegiengebäude II, where the few on-campus students live. Most of them are foreign—which makes sense, since Freiberg is small. Students can commute from anywhere in the country in less than an hour on our train and bus system—one of the things I miss when I’m in the US.
We drag the bags up the wide steps and through the arched double doors. The vast tiled lobby stretches to the far side of the building, with another set of doors leading to a paved plaza. A wide hallway extends from each side of the lobby, and on the left, broad stairs with a stone balustrade lead up to the first floor. Through an open door on the right, I spot what looks like an office. I turn to Hans. “Did they tell you where to check in?”
He releases his suitcase handle, and the overstuffed case thuds to the floor. Ignoring it, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through screens. “In there, I think.” He jerks his chin at the open door. Leaving the suitcase on the floor, he strides past me and enters. “Guten Tag, Freiberg U!”
I bite back a smirk. Hans’s personality is larger than life. He’s not a big man, although he’s managed to put some muscle on his slender frame over the last year. His mother is Hawaiian, of Japanese descent, and he bears a strong resemblance to her. Or did until he dyed his hair blond. His German father contributed the broad shoulders and his love of the accordion.
After a short conversation, of which I can only hear Hans’s side, he reappears bearing an enormous key and a grin. He lifts a hand for a high five. “Got a date tomorrow night.”
I slap my palm against his. “Of course you do.” Hans kind of blossomed our junior year of high school, despite being the leader of a polka band. Grabbing the handle of the smaller suitcase, I point at the stairs. “Lead on.”
With a sigh, Hans hefts the larger bag. “Third floor, of course.”
I reach out and snag the key to check the tag. “I hate to tell you this, but in Europe we count floors differently. This is the ground floor. One is up there.” I jab the key up the steps.
“Ugh. I know.” He starts up the wide steps.
I follow. “Consider it part of your workout routine.”
By the time we reach the third floor, I’m starting to wonder if he’s smuggled gold bricks into the country in his carry-on. I gratefully drop the case to its wheels and pull out the telescoping handle.
We head to the right, then double back when we notice the numbers are going lower instead of higher. Up here, the ceilings are lower, and the corridor is narrower. Most of the doors are closed, but a few stand ajar. I catch glimpses of the familiar rooms. Although I didn’t live on campus when I attended here, I had friends who did.
The door to room 312 is open. Hans tries the key to make sure he’s in the right place, then pushes the door wide and drags his bag inside. The room is large and airy, with two big windows, an ancient fireplace that has been retrofitted with propane, several worn but clean overstuffed chairs, and a low table. Doors on either side lead to tiny, single bedrooms, each holding a bed, a desk, a white pedestal sink, and an ugly, modern wardrobe.
“What do you reckon? Left or right?” He waves vaguely around the parlor.
I shrug. “They look the same to me.”
Hans tests both mattresses, then claims the room on the right. “Just leave that there.” He points at the corner near his wardrobe.
“Your wish is my command.” I tuck his stash of gold in the corner and drop into the chair by the desk. “Do you know anything about your roommate?”
Hans heaves his suitcase onto the bed and unzips it. “Nope.” He reels off all the Rotheberg gossip while he unpacks, updating me on friends and strangers alike. He knows everyone in town, it seems, or follows them on social media.
I sit up straight. “Hey, you didn’t bring your accordion.”
He laughs. “I didn’t want to spring for the extra seat. My oma offered to bring one down for me, but I think I’ll survive not playing for a couple of months. After touring last year, I’m ready for a break from oompah music. My father about had a heart attack when I told him.”
Hans’s father started the Alpine Players when he moved to Rotheberg with his wife and young son years ago. They’ve been a fixture in town for as long as I can remember, playing at many of the town’s festivals. Hans joined the band occasionally as a child and officially after he graduated from high school. He even took a year off college to perform and took them to Las Vegas last year. Now he’s prioritizing his engineering degree.
“Ha. I’ve heard your dad play heavy metal. I’m sure he wasn’t surprised.”
Hans smirks but doesn’t reply. He puts his neatly folded clothing into the wardrobe and tucks his spare shoes into the bottom. I’m disappointed when he opens the smaller suitcase—there are no gold bricks. No bowling balls or anvils either. Just clothes and books. Thick engineering textbooks.
As he moves his toothbrush to the sink, he switches topics. “When are you going to ask Eva out?”
I splutter for a moment. “Eva? Me? What?”
“Does she know you’re the crown prince of fairy-tale land?”
“I’m not the crown prince. And why would I ask her out?”
Hans rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’ve had a crush on her for ages. This is the perfect time to make your move. Girls go gaga for royalty. I get why you never said anything before, but come on. This situation is gold.” He spreads his hands wide.
I scratch the back of my head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t going to?—”
