In time, Laura stopped asking for Mayim, and Georg stopped calling out for her at night, and as relieved as I was, it was like losing her all over again.

25

Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

Jürgen was sitting in the living room, trying to get Felix to accept a little wooden toy truck. Felix was sitting behind the sofa, peeking out at the truck longingly, but refusing to come out to get it.

There was a knock at the door, and Jürgen sighed and rose to answer it, leaving the truck on the floor. I stayed in the living room with Felix, hiding a laugh as he came out from behind the sofa, scooped the truck up, and immediately took it back into his hiding place.

“He’s your papa,” I said quietly.

“He’s a stranger,” Felix muttered, as he started rolling the truck up and down the back of the sofa.

“Felix, go sit with Gisela, please,” Jürgen murmured from the door, as he returned with another man in tow. I quickly shepherded my son down the hallway to Gisela’s room, then returned to find the guest was sitting opposite Jürgen, his expression solemn. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but something about his stiff posture spoke of authority—maybe even anger or aggression. I felt my heart rate kick up a notch as I carefully took a seat beside Jürgen.

“Can you tell me where you were last night at 2:00 a.m., Mr. Rhodes?” the man said. Jürgen and I shared a bewildered look.

“I was here, of course,” Jürgen said blankly. “Asleep.”

“Does she speak English?” the man asked Jürgen, looking at me.

“I do,” I said abruptly. I cleared my throat, then said, “I’m Sofie Rhodes. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Detective Johnson,” he said. I recognized that name. This was the policeman Jürgen spoke to on the phone the day someone graffitied our street. “Can you confirm that your husband was asleep in your bed last night, Mrs. Rhodes?”

“Of course he was,” I said. A strange, cold chill ran through my body, and a vivid image of a tiny, damp concrete cell flashed before my eyes. I tried to calm myself, reminding myself that American police were not the Gestapo, that Jürgen and I wouldn’t wind up separated and locked up—not ever again. But even if my mind knew the truth, my body did not, and my stomach was churning violently. I could see the terror in Jürgen’s eyes. I knew some part of him was back there too.

“Did you visit the Miller home last night?”

“Calvin Miller?” Jürgen said, confused. “No, sir. I’ve never been to his home, but I was just at work with him all day.”

“Someone broke into their house last night, apparently looking for his wife. Are you telling me that wasn’t you?”