I knew I’d have nightmares that night—I did most nights since the war, and I expected that Jürgen would too. I kissed each of those photos gently, and then set them on the bedside table to watch over me and Jürgen while we slept. Maybe their presence would bring us peace, because while that pile of photos represented so much loss, they also carried so much love. The sum total of those moments was the woman I had become.

4

Sofie

Berlin, Germany
October 1930

I’ve always loved early autumn. The tree-lined streets around my home in Lichterfelde quickly shifted from a canopy of summer foliage to a ceiling of reds and golds and deep, rich brown. It was still warm enough in October that we didn’t need our coats, but not so warm that it was uncomfortable. I married Jürgen in early autumn 1929. And twelve months later, early in the autumn of 1930, I discovered I was pregnant with my first child.

I told Jürgen and Mayim right away, but weeks later, I was finally ready to share the news with our wider circle of friends—starting with Lydia zu Schiller.

When I arranged lunch with Lydia, I planned to tell her my news as soon as Mayim and I sat down. But everything changed in the interim. Now it seemed that all of Germany was trying to process the results of our most recent election.

“I still can’t quite believe it,” Mayim said, as she stared blankly at a menu. I was so worried for her. I had the impression she was in a state of shock, as if she’d witnessed an accident or injured herself. “Even in these wild times, I didn’t expect this.”

“A hundred and seven seats! They are the second-biggest party in the Reichstag now,” Lydia said. Then she glanced at me. She was referring to the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei—the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, known as the Nazi party. “I know you’re not one for politics, Sofie, but they only held twelve seats last term, and before that, they were a fringe party. No one took them seriously.”

Lydia was right that I wasn’t a political expert. Even so, I bristled at her condescending tone. I wasn’t fascinated with politics the way Jürgen was, or so determined to climb the social rungs in Berlin that I had to keep abreast of the most popular figures and fashions like Lydia and her husband, Karl. That didn’t mean I was ignorant. My best friend was Jewish—of course I noticed when a party founded on a platform of anti-Semitism had a sudden and shocking rise to prominence.