I drew in a deep breath, and for the first time in fifteen years, I told the truth.
“This is a good life,” I said slowly. “But it’s not my life, and that’s what I need to find my way back to.”
50
Sofie
Birmingham, Alabama
1951
Eight months after my husband was shot, Henry Davis pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity to a charge of attempted murder.
We stayed in Birmingham for the trial, but left the children at home with Claudia. She had been a godsend since Jürgen’s accident, especially after I cut ties with Avril Walters and was in desperate need of help. Despite her misgivings, Claudia was too kind to turn away a neighbor in crisis, and we bonded strongly in those tender early days when the doctors were telling me to brace myself for the worst. By the time I was released from jail, Jürgen was out of surgery and missing his spleen. The first few days were terrifying. The next few weeks frustrating. But after all of that, he came home.
And by then, I’d had a chance to tell Claudia the whole, ugly story of our past in Germany, and that made all the difference. Gisela had a new friend in Mila, and Felix and Luis were best of pals too. It was startling how much of a difference those connections made for my children, particularly Gisela, who decided America might not be such a bad place after all.
Jürgen and I both gave evidence during the trial. I was done in just an afternoon, just long enough to confirm the pattern of Henry Davis’s harassment and the theft of my photographs. Jürgen’s testimony was much more involved, and he was on the stand for days. I’d heard it all before—Jürgen and I discussed everything that had happened so many times I knew his side of the story by heart. Even so, I wept as he talked about how it felt to lie on the grass outside our home, wondering if he was going to die in my arms.
The doctors who testified were all in agreement. Henry Davis was suffering from combat fatigue—but that wasn’t the cause of his delusions. He’d sustained severe organic brain damage during an intensive round of insulin shock therapy, which he’d only undergone in a desperate attempt to get some semblance of normalcy back to his life.
“But how are we to know that this is not who Henry Davis was even before that therapy?” the prosecutor asked. That was when Lizzie Miller took the stand. She was barely recognizable—dressed in trousers and flat shoes, her hair longer and pulled into a rough ponytail, her freckles and light eyelashes on full display. She smiled softly at her brother between her answers, as if encouraging him with her eyes. The polished suburbanite had disappeared, but in her place was a warrior.
She advocated for Henry Davis. She told the court about the conversations she’d had with him about his experiences at Buchenwald, about the loss of his best friend, about his desperation to accept any treatment that might help him feel well again in the aftermath of the war. She spoke about her brother with such warmth and fondness that even Jürgen seemed heartbroken for him by the time she’d finished. When I looked to the jury, I saw some of them had tears in their eyes.
I knew what the verdict would be long before the trial was over. I worried that Henry Davis would get off scot-free for what he’d done to my family. Now I understood that he was going to be in a prison of sorts for the rest of his life, regardless of the verdict.
The prosecutor rested Henry’s case at close of session on a Thursday, and by Friday morning, the jury returned and Jürgen and I were walking up those stone steps to the courtroom for the last time. The trial made national media, although, blessedly, not a whisper of Jürgen’s real history made the press.
We took our seats at the front of the courthouse behind the prosecutor. On the opposite side of the aisle, Calvin and Lizzie sat behind Henry. Calvin offered Jürgen a sad, friendly wave. He had been apologetic and supportive throughout the entire ordeal, even when Jürgen had to work part-time for months until he built up his strength. Beside Calvin, Lizzie met my gaze and nodded politely. I returned the gesture.
I knew Calvin and Lizzie had separated, but it was evident throughout the trial that they were still close. I wondered if she and I would have been friends too, had we met under different circumstances. Despite everything, I grudgingly came to admire her strength and her loyalty to her brother—even in her clumsy attempt to protect him from what he’d done. I had a feeling that if that war never happened, and I had just met Lizzie Miller in a salon or at a dinner party or at a picnic, we’d have hit it off right away.
I was at Jürgen’s side when the jury foreman told us that Henry Davis had been found not guilty of one count of attempted murder by reason of insanity. No one cheered—there was no relief, not even from Henry and Lizzie. She reached forward and squeezed his shoulder, and she kept her hand there as the judge announced that Henry would be committed to a residential facility for treatment on an indefinite basis for the protection of the community.