I reached for Georg’s hand as we stepped onto the sidewalk outside our house, but he either didn’t notice, or was reluctant to hold hands with his mother now that he was a “big kid.” That stung. It seemed like one minute I was shaking with nerves while holding my newborn for the first time, the next we were walking to school.

“Are you scared?” I asked.

“No, Mama,” he said. “Hans and me are going to have so much fun.” Hans was a year older than Georg and already at school, but the boys were the best of friends.

Lydia was waiting at the school gate with Hans. The boys ran toward one another, meeting with a duet of excited chatter and cheering, then ran through the gate into the playground without even saying goodbye.

Shocked tears sprang to my eyes. Lydia laughed gently as she patted me on the shoulder.

“The first day is the hardest, Sofie, but there’s no need to fret. These teachers will take your baby boy and transform him! He will leave this place well on his way to becoming a strong German man—the kind of man who will do this nation proud.”

I looked into the schoolyard, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Georg. An icy chill ran down my spine as my gaze landed on the flag of the Reich, blowing gently in the breeze above the playground.

We soon found a new rhythm to our days, our routine now based around Georg’s school hours.

“I wish I could take him,” Mayim said suddenly one morning as I was pulling on my shoes at the front door, trying to make up some lost time because we were running late. I forced a smile.

“He’ll be able to walk on his own soon anyway.”

Berlin offered only hostility to a woman like Mayim, and that meant it was not safe for my children to be out with her. Besides, Georg was a fledgling part of the school community, and we were all anxious about what the other children and parents would say if they knew about Mayim. I could picture the crowd of parents at the gate hearing her Hebrew name and recoiling in shock. It was awkward and awful, but Mayim and I both knew that it was best she stay home.

Over the summer, Mayim, Adele, and I liked to sit in the courtyard after the children were in bed. We’d share a glass of wine, willing to endure the buzz of mosquitoes for the company and the chance of a cool evening breeze. On one of these evenings, Adele brought over strawberries from her garden, cut into thick slices and macerated with fine sugar. It was still warm that night, but to my great amusement, Mayim wrapped herself in her knit blanket anyway.

“Laura would be jealous if she knew,” she said, helping herself to a strawberry.