“Karl thought he had a chance to save his own neck and he took it. I know it’s not what you want to hear but it’s the truth,” I said numbly. I couldn’t deal with her breakdown—I had my own to attend to. I walked slowly down the path toward the curb, closer to Hans and Jürgen.
“We didn’t have enough guns. The SS gave us grenades and told us to climb under the tanks and to hold on to them while they detonated. But me and Georg didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die, Mr. Rhodes…” Hans was babbling now, weeping and talking at a million miles an hour, drawing shuddering breaths only when he had to. Jürgen still held him by the shoulders, but now I could see that if he released him, Hans would collapse to the ground. He looked behind us, toward Lydia, and between heaving sobs he choked out, “Mama, I can’t do it. Help me, Mama. Please.”
Hans said the words, but it was Georg’s voice I heard. I imagined that as he took his last breaths, scared and alone, he had called for me just like that. My knees went weak, and I reached for Jürgen’s shoulder to hold myself up. Hans fumbled for the car door and threw himself into the back seat.
“He was shot defending his country,” Lydia said numbly. She walked past us, leaned into the car to murmur something to Hans, then turned to face me one last time. “Georg died for the Reich, in service of the Führer. He is a hero and you should be proud.”
“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.