“Mrs. von Meyer Rhodes?” Two of Adele’s tenants were in the doorway. The quiet Bavarian couple who lived in that tiny front room in the front of the ground floor. They kept to themselves mostly, and in the shock of the moment, I couldn’t even remember their names. The man walked into the room and extended a hand toward me. I let him help me to my feet.

“Let us take care of her for you tonight,” his wife said gently from the doorway. “In the morning, we will call the mortuary.”

“She was always so good to us,” the husband said gruffly. “When I lost my job, she let us stay anyway, even though it took me months to find work again. It will be an honor for us to sit with her. We will pray over her soul and keep her company until the undertaker comes in the morning.”

When I nodded, the man crouched beside Adele’s body and whispered, “Let’s get you up on the bed, Mrs. Rheinberg.”

He cradled her gently in his arms as if she were a child. Then he stretched her out on her bed and even pulled the blanket over her, right up to her chin. I started to cry again at the kindness of his gesture.

People could still be good.

I told the couple I needed to wash my face before I went home and saw my children. I let myself into Adele’s bathroom and closed the door before I turned on the light—just in case Mayim was still there. I was relieved to find she wasn’t—although I had no idea if she was hiding elsewhere. It was too risky to search for her. All I could do was pray.

There was no answer the first time I called Jürgen’s lodgings. The second time, he answered on the third ring, sounding dazed and sleepy. Without preamble, I told him that Adele had passed. I didn’t mention the Gestapo or the circumstances of her death. At first, he didn’t even react.

“Jürgen, did you hear me?”

“Did she die at home?” he asked stiffly. I was trying to be brave—for him, for Adele, for the children—but that question broke me. In a strange way, Adele had gone to meet her maker on her own terms.

“She did,” I said, and then I choked on a sob. “She died at home.”

There was another long silence over the phone. Then Jürgen said, “I’m coming home. Right away.”

“Will you be allowed to?” I whispered, a sharp edge of bitterness in my voice.

“She was a mother to me,” Jürgen said, his voice breaking midsentence. “Of course I’ll be allowed to.”

He hung up quickly after that. I’d never seen my husband cry, but I understood that he needed to, and I understood his need for privacy.