“I guess I’m finally tired enough for bed. Good night, sis.”
“Good night, Henry,” I said, and as he started to walk away, I blurted, “I love you.”
He threw a glance over his shoulder as he muttered, “Love you too.”
I’d held back my tears while Henry told me his story, but now that I was alone, I let myself cry. It wasn’t just the details Henry shared about the camps; it was the thought of him in those hospitals all alone with his pain, too ashamed to even admit how much he was hurting.
For the first time in a long time, I thought of my mother. I remembered her telling me that the women in our family were strong…that we were survivors. But there was a burden in being the strong one. You propped people up, tried to fix their problems for them…and sometimes you got it wrong and made everything worse. Then you had to live with the guilt of that.
I turned my head slightly and looked at the place on the brick pillar where I found that dish shard, and then thought about everything Henry told me that night—his curious use of the phrase “haven’t seen him” to describe Jürgen Rhodes, as if the threat were both real and ongoing. Henry was hurting all over again, and it was worse this time. Should I leave him be? Or should I try to help again?
I slid off the porch chair and let myself into the house. It was late, but I walked straight down the hall to Calvin’s room. I knocked on the door, but he was predictably snoring, so when he didn’t stir, I went in anyway.
“Cal?” I whispered, as I sat on the mattress beside him. I reached and shook his shoulder gently, then leaned closer to him and whispered, “Calvin?” He came to slowly, staring up at me with heavy eyelids.
“Lizzie?” he said, his voice rough with sleep and an emotion I couldn’t decipher at first. I sat up and he sat up too, then tentatively reached to touch the bare skin between my shoulder and neck as he whispered, “Sweetheart, are you really here, or am I dreaming?”
I had come into his bedroom in the middle of the night for the first time ever. He wasn’t wearing his glasses—he wouldn’t have been able to see much of me, let alone the distress in my body language. Calvin, half-asleep and apparently living in perpetual hope, had misread the reason for my late-night visit.
I panicked and fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table, handing them to him clumsily as I stammered, “Sorry—sorry I woke you. I just—I wanted to—I was hoping we could talk about Henry. That’s all. Just Henry.”
Calvin donned his glasses. I shifted a little farther down the bed, away from him, then dared to meet his gaze. My cheeks were hot with shame, but Calvin didn’t seem embarrassed—only disappointed.
“I talked to him tonight,” I said, the words tumbling out in a flustered rush. “I just… I’m just worried about him, that’s all. I know you thought us speaking to him together wasn’t the best idea in case he felt cornered, but I think we need to do it. Maybe over the weekend when we all have time.”
“Of course,” Calvin said quietly. “Anything you need. Are you okay?”
I realized with dismay that this was why I woke Calvin up. I was upset, and Calvin always knew how to fix things. Even in that moment, when the uneven emotions between us had never been more evident, Calvin did not miss a beat in his care and attention.
“I’m fine,” I said, and I slid off his bed, suddenly desperate to get out of the room. “I’m sorry for—I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wasn’t thinking straight.”
That night, I realized for the very first time that I was torturing Calvin. Yes, he had me living in his house and in his life, and yes, we were the best of friends—but I was ever so slightly out of reach anyway, and even after all of those years, he continued to hope for what could never be.
39
Sofie
Wewelsburg, Germany
December 1944
It was supposed to be the most important evening in Jürgen’s career, but the work never stopped. Lydia and I spent a leisurely afternoon pampering ourselves, while Karl and Jürgen threw their tuxedos on and disappeared for meetings in some corner of the vast Castle Varlar. I hadn’t seen him since, but I wasn’t anxious. This event couldn’t start without Jürgen, the guest of honor.
Lydia was by my side as I paused in the doorway to the dining hall, taking in the opulent scene. Most of those in the room were men in SS uniforms or tuxedos. Only a handful of women were permitted to attend.
Lydia was wearing yet another dirndl-style dress—a more formal version with puffed sleeves and elaborate embroidery on the skirt. I was wearing the finest outfit I’d ever owned—finer than my wedding dress. A designer at the Deutsches Modeamt fashioned the suit in cream silk, elevated by thousands of tiny pearls and crystal beads.