He folded over his knees and picked up the hem of her skirt again. He held it to his face, thinking of all the world’s lost children and all the parents who treated their deaths as a punishment for some unrelated but despicable moment of human frailty. He thought of all the soldiers, himself among them, who inadvertently caused the death of children and wore the act like a hairshirt. All because they’d simply done their job. First lesson rammed into a grunt’s thick skull was paying attention to detail and following orders to the letter. Dumb Nate Eisenstein threw his grenade through an upstairs window. Kennet listened to instructions and threw his pineapples into the basement. He killed three Belgian children. Three that he knew of—no telling how many were left behind when the house was evacuated.

Tous les autres sont morts. Boom.

Who was at fault? Jorgy for giving the order? Kennet for following it? The Germans for having the Belgian civilians trapped in the house in the first place? The gordian, unfathomable rules of war? Hitler for starting the whole goddamn business? Someone was at fault for the grieving woman lying in the snowy ground by the corpses. The rest of her days, she would be cataloging her words and deeds, searching for the thing she was being punished for.

She had her sentence and would forever search for the crime to fit it.

Kennet already had the crime. What would be his fitting punishment? Which of his loved ones would pay the price for Chenogne?

Love or estrangement, he thought. Won backward is now.

His hands slid up to cup Astrid’s breasts. He’d done this before: the day they declared themselves and flopped exhausted in a field of flowers, he’d curved his hand around her breast but not with passion or ardor or even intention. Merely to hold her, feel the beat of her living heart and let the moment be lagom—not too much, not too little but just enough.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, covering his hands with her own.

They looked long and hard into each other’s eyes. Then Kennet pulled Astrid against him and dug his fingers into her sun-heated hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. To her, to himself, to the mothers, to the world.

To the future loved ones who might have to suffer for what he did.

A Bit of an All Right

Nobody talked much on the ride back to Clayton. Astrid had her eyes closed although the trip was too short for even the thought of a snooze. Minor and O’Hara sat in the back again, arms crossed tight over chests, each staring out their side.

I tried, Kennet thought. Not every good, golden thing is a success. I can do no more.