The German Wife(122)

“A hero?” I blurted. Then I laughed bitterly. “He was a child, Lydia! A brainwashed, broken child.” Lydia gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Hitler was never worthy of our loyalty and he sure as hell wasn’t worthy of the sacrifice of my son’s life.”

Lydia stared at me, and then she turned to slip back into the car. Her gaze was sharp as she looked at me one last time and said, “The boys were safe—hiding. Georg tried to run away and the Americans shot him in the back. The truth was, if Georg hadn’t been a coward, he would have made it out like Hans did.”

With that, Lydia slid into the car and her driver took them away.

As the city crumbled around us, I could think of nothing but Georg. Several days passed and I stayed in bed. Jürgen provided the emotional support the girls needed, boarded up windows, and moved the rest of the food down into the cellar beneath Adele’s building.

“Sofie,” Jürgen said softly. I was sitting on Georg’s bed, wrapped in Mayim’s blanket. The corners of it were soaked in tears, and I looked at him through bleary eyes. “Come with me.”

I let him lead me to the study. He positioned me, blanket and all, in one of the armchairs in front of his desk. I watched as he crouched awkwardly behind his bookshelf, then pressed his shoulder into the side, trying to push it forward. A letter opener and a pair of tweezers were on the floor beside him.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, confused.

Jürgen gave a grunt and an extra shove, and the shelf slid forward just a little. He dropped to his hands and knees, then picked up the letter opener and slid it between two floorboards. He pried one up just a little, then reached for the tweezers.

“Just after we married, I was in this study and I dropped a page out of an early draft of my dissertation. It was such a fluke—it floated down from my hand and then slipped right between these floorboards. I got it out just like this,” he muttered, jiggling the letter opener and the tweezers. “I thought if I ever had to really hide something, this would be the perfect spot.”

He made a sudden sound of triumph, then ever so gently pulled a small envelope from the gap. He blew the dust off, gently wiped it on his shirt, then held it out to me in both hands, as if it were made of glass.

“What is it?”

“Open it, my love,” he said softly.

I gently tore open the seal, and my heart started to pound as I saw the black-and-white image inside. It was me and Mayim, arms around one another, suitcases by our ankles, beaming at my nanny the morning we were leaving for finishing school.

“My God,” I choked out, looking up at him through my tears. I forgot how bright her eyes were and how wide her smile was that day. We were two hopeful kids with the world at our feet, blissfully oblivious to how cruel the journey ahead would be.

“She was here and she mattered,” Jürgen said quietly. “The same with Georg. They are gone, but you are still here. The girls are still here. I hope this photo helps you stay strong through whatever the future looks like.”

I had always loved Jürgen Rhodes, but I’d never loved him more than in this moment—the darkest of my life—when he knew how to bring back in a sliver of light.



48


Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

As I sat waiting for news, I tried to be grateful that this cell was large and well lit, that there was a mattress and a blanket on the bed, and even if it was out in the open, there was a toilet right there. Focusing on the differences between this cell and the last one I’d been in helped at first—but not for long. By the time the lock tumbled, I convinced myself I was going to be locked in that cell, starving and thirsty and terrified, for weeks without so much as an update on my husband or children.

But then Detective Tucker appeared in the doorway. He avoided my gaze, staring at the floor. My breath caught in my throat.

“Jürgen...” I whispered frantically.

“No,” he said hastily. “No, we haven’t had news. But you’re free to go.” He motioned for me to join him in the hallway and I shot to my feet and followed him.

As we started to walk toward the exit, I asked hesitantly, “But why are you releasing me?” It felt dangerous to ask, as if the question could lead me back into the cell.

“We have a new suspect.”

“Henry Davis,” I said grimly. He shook his head.

“No, ma’am. Lizzie Miller.” I was so shocked I stumbled, and Tucker caught my arm and gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry for the trouble this morning. I imagine today has been stressful enough without this...unfortunate mix-up.”

I glanced at the interview room as we walked past, and through the little pane of glass at the top of the door, I saw Lizzie Miller—although at first, I barely recognized her. She was wearing an old man’s shirt that was sizes too big for her—so large she’d rolled the sleeves up to expose her hands. Her hair was in a tight little ponytail at the back of her head, and she wasn’t wearing makeup—revealing heavily freckled skin and eyelashes so faint they were almost invisible. Her expression was carefully blank as she stared up at the wall. I paused, trying to ignore the impulse to confront her.

She had no more pulled that trigger than I did. That didn’t mean she was innocent.

“Can I talk to her?”