“Yes. He was a resistance fighter, too, but had been captured, early on, and hung in the square in their town. Her mother broke, and Nonna—her name was Angelica—took over raising her little brother and running the vineyard. But as the Germans took over their lives, she knew she couldn’t sit still. A colonel had even taken up shelter in her home, in her father’s room and that’s what started it. She learned German—Nonna was smart as a whip—and would record their conversations, pass it on to local fighters.”

“And she never got caught?”

“Oh, she got caught. But that’s another story.” Ziggy opened her eyes and smiled. “We were talking about Fred.”

“Fred. Bloody. Alone in a field.”

“His platoon of scouts had stumbled upon a group of German soldiers. Everyone scattered. He was shot but managed to get away. Ran through the night, finally dropped in a field, and that’s where Nonna found him —“

“Bloody and near death.”

“She put him in a wagon, dragged him up to the house and hid him in the wine cave, behind the barrels while she nursed him back to life.”

“Feels like a war romance.”

Ziggy smiled. “How do you think I got here.” She sighed. “Fact is, all great love stories involve pain and sacrifice. But that’s what make them so epic, right?”

Her eyes closed. “You’ll have your happy ending, RJ. I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure how we’ll get there.” She put her jacket on the bench, lifted her legs and lay down. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow will look better.”

RJ stared out the window, the world gray and blurry.

And tried to believe.

Berlin, Germany

“You sure this is a good idea?”

Roy voiced York’s thoughts as they sat at a picnic table in the Prater Bier Garten, deep in the heart of Berlin.

Not even a little. But York was running out of leads, choices and even hope twenty-four hours after he stared out into the dark night in Heidelberg, so, “It’s all I got.”

York had no appetite. Maybe it was the pain, slowly encasing his body after their travel from Berlin on a day train. Or, the fact he had no time, no focus to eat—not with his gaze on the crowd packed into the massive outdoor beer hall, twinkle lights glowing from massive strands that stretched across the open-air grounds. From the stage on the far end, a post-punk indie band screamed out a mess about despair, anger and frustration, with a cacophony of metal and drums that roiled into the night.

It seemed an appropriate soundtrack to this meet and greet.

“And you trust this guy?” Across from him, Roy nursed a bratwurst and fries, which went well with his frothy glass of deep-brown Prater Schwarzbier.