He shook his head and held out his hands again. He might not have understood her words, but he couldn’t mistake her anger. “I’m sorry if I’ve done something to make you upset,” he said in German. “I’ll leave now. I just . . . I just wanted to smell the fields in springtime . . . to remind myself of home.”

His words and the sorrow in his voice threw Lena off-balance. He looked young, surely not even twenty years old.

“I received a letter from my sister back home,” he continued. “She told me that my mother has died. I couldn’t remember her face or her smile, so I thought . . . I thought if I smelled the farm, it would remind me of home . . . and I would be able to picture her.” Tears glistened in his eyes.

He could be Wim, missing his mother, his home.

“Jesus commanded us to love our enemies,” Papa had said in one of his sermons. “He prayed, ‘Father, forgive them,’ even as His enemies nailed Him to the cross.”

Papa had died loving others more than himself. Lena still remembered the calm, peaceful look on his face as he’d gazed at her for the last time. And as she remembered, something deep inside her burst and drained away, easing the unbearable weight she’d carried for so long. She stepped closer to the young soldier and met his gaze.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said in German.

His eyes widened in surprise.

“And I’m very sorry about your mother. I’m sure she missed you very much. It’s hard to be separated from the people we love, isn’t it?”

He nodded and wiped his eyes.

“I have a son who is just a bit younger than you. He’s away from home too, and I think of him constantly.”

“I don’t think I’ll live to see my home again. They’re trying to hide the truth from us, but I know we’re losing the war.” He sighed and looked out at the pasture for a moment. “Is this your farm?” he asked, gesturing to the fields and the house and barn in the distance.

“It is.”

“I’m sorry if I trespassed.”

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. “I forgive you,” she whispered, her heart squeezing.

“I’ll leave now. I . . . I only wanted to walk into the countryside . . . so I could imagine that I was home.”

Lena thought of her own children, longing for home, and her eyes filled. “Is it . . . ? Would it be all right if I hugged you? Maybe you could imagine that I’m your mother, for just a moment, and I could imagine you’re my son.”