“Yes, the war was one of those things.”

“So Papi’s death is like the war and I’m like a Nazi who won’t talk about it?”

“Hanne. You know what I’m saying. I don’t want you to believe when you’re older that you had a mother who didn’t want to talk about things, because I do.”

“Okay, if I promise never to say that you didn’t talk about things can we stop having this conversation?”

“I met him in French class.”

“Yeah, I know. He thought it was a history class but he didn’t leave because he saw the back of your head.”

Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration but she let it slide.

“I know the stories. I have a ton of photographs. I remember him.”

“Do you miss him still?”

“I guess.”

“Do you feel it was unfair that he died?”

“Of course. He only got half a life. Maybe less.”

“But unfair to you.”

“I guess so. But it’s not like I knew him all that well.”

“What do you mean?”

“He worked a lot.”

“He was home for dinner nearly every night. He helped you with your homework.”

“Once maybe.”

“Hanne, no. Many nights.”

“And on weekends he went to conferences.”

“A few times a year. And sometimes we went with him. To Barcelona, remember?” She had a memory of the three of them in a park near their hotel, but she also had a memory of buying Hanne a doll made out of palm fronds, because Hanne had stayed home with Fritz’s mother. Which was true? She wasn’t sure.

“Is this talking? Because it feels like you’re telling me what I should remember.”

Three days before she and Hanne left the island, Oda had her first real conversation with the Australians.

She’d come downstairs without Hanne, who’d told her the night before she wanted to sleep in. Oda took her seat at the table they always sat at, then wished she’d chosen the other chair instead. Without Hanne in front of her she faced the Australians without obstruction.

“Guten Morgen,” the husband said. He had a fine but exaggerated accent, too bouncy.

“How are you?” Oda said in English.

“Ah, as well as can be expected in the third week of vacation with these ankle biters.”

She understood the gist, if not every word. The oldest child was pouring a packet of sugar into his hair. His father grabbed it out of his hand and swiped away the sugar on the boy’s head. Some crystals pinged against Oda’s plate. “Sorry,” he said. “And you? How are you?”

Did he know? Of course he didn’t. But for so long now when someone asked how she was they loaded it with pity and braced themselves for her reply, as if she had the power to hurt them with the truth.