19I was on my knees, my hands cupping my father’s shoulders, my cheek against his. The skin was cool. This isn’t him, my mind insisted. This can’t be him. He’s alive in Korea. But I felt his slack weight in my arms.
He’d never gone to North Korea. His abductors had brought him to Poland. And they’d killed him.
Jerzy tugged at my elbow. When I turned my head, he touched his lips and jerked a shoulder toward the entry. I heard a leather shoe sole slap against hardpan.
I dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the bunk. Jerzy flattened his back against the wall beside the opening. My gun was in my hands.
A flashlight beam sliced the murk and a brawny masculine body filled the doorway. The man followed the chalky luminescence into the room. He held the light in his left hand, his right arm
