I fold the paper back up and finish the milk, and it’s not until I wash the glass and return to the table that I turn my attention to the day’s mail. I’m not much of a correspondent, I’m afraid, and I tend to receive few letters of a personal nature. Just the usual brusque envelopes from banks and charities and insurance companies, the occasional missive from some government department of this or that, hardly the kind of communication you rip open with trembling fingers.

So I’m surprised to discover a slim, light envelope tucked between the usual correspondence, marked PAR AVION on one side. I flip it over and find no return address, just my own name in beautiful handwriting, and my own address. I don’t think to look at the postmark before I open it. Tug out a single, tissuelike sheet of airmail paper, folded over once, and unfold it. A square black-and-white photograph falls out, three children posing against a fence in what seems to be a zoo.

I return to the letter itself and begin to read.

Dearest Ruth,

I’m so sorry not to have written sooner. The time has simply slipped away from me. I thought perhaps you might like to see how your sweet nephews and niece are growing, so I took this photo of the children at the local zoo.

I’m writing to ask if you wouldn’t mind coming out here to lend me a hand with the baby’s arrival. I am so drained by the pregnancy, and as you remember, these ordeals are always difficult for me. I know you’re busy with your own work, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need your help so desperately.

Your loving sister,

Iris

P.S. Our apartment here reminds me so much of the one we shared in Rome, all those years ago. Do you remember how happy we were then? I was just thinking of what you said to me that last day. Am I too late to admit that you were right?

Iris

APRIL 1940

Rome, Italy

Ruth was matter-of-fact, as you would expect. “All things considered, you’re pretty lucky. A broken ankle is nothing.”

“Don’t forget the stitches,” said Harry.

“Still, the ankle’s the worst part, because she can’t walk. Thank goodness that fellow was there to snatch her out of the way. What’s his name again, Harry?”

“Digby. Sasha Digby. Works in the visa section with me.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to write him a note.” Ruth patted the blanket covering Iris’s leg. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Digby? He’s gone back to the embassy. He’s a hard worker, stays late every night.” Harry took out his cigarette case.

“Put that away,” Ruth said. “We’re in a hospital.”

“So?”

“So what if you light up an oxygen container by accident?”