A month later, word came that Hermann was arriving. Everything was arranged. Someone other than him, a secretary, wrote the letter. Could it have been Mrs. Nielson? Sunday, June thirteenth. Through Onkel, I told him I’d meet him at the station, wanting every moment with him in Alexandria. I watched Hermann looking for me, hand hooked at his hip, the other tapping an unknown beat into his thigh as he scanned the platform. When he saw me, he smiled like a boy, but as he came toward me, I saw his eyes were dull, his cheeks hollowed out. I felt pain twist in my gut. He pulled me to him. “Thank God, Marie.” His breath traced along my jaw to my ear. “Have you been all right? Has my brother been taking care of you?” He backed away from me just enough to cup my face, then ran his hands along my ne
