“I always knew,” she said quietly. “Don’t you remember at finishing school? I was polite to…that girl…because that was the way, but I never understood why you couldn’t see that she wasn’t like us. We had to pretend for a long time, so it was a relief to me and Karl when right-minded Germans came to power in this country.”

I never once noticed her reticence toward Mayim. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. In any case, she’d proved Mayim right. The Nazis didn’t make people like Lydia anti-Semitic, not really. They had only uncovered what already existed.

“What about you?” she said gently. “When did you change your mind about the Jews?”

“Deep down, I always knew the truth,” I said. “What you say is true. Sometimes you have to do and say certain things for acceptance.”

She nodded sadly, misunderstanding me as I knew she would. Adele had been right about so many things—people heard what they wanted to hear. Lydia’s expression grew somber.

“And…Adele? Do you know what she was mixed up in?”

I raised my chin, and just as Adele had told me to, I spoke harshly, as if I were handing down a judgment, and not breaking my own heart.

“The Gestapo suspected her of disloyalty to the Reich. I have no idea what the details were.”

“I’m so sorry, Sofie,” she said again, shaking her head.

“Me too,” I said flatly, and then I thanked her and closed the door before I could say something I would regret.

31

Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

I found Lizzie’s address in the telephone book. She lived just a few blocks away in a very large house by a young but extensive garden. I went there unannounced. It seemed safer to arrive on her doorstep unannounced with a gift, and to look her in the eyes while I apologized.

“Just wait here a moment,” I said to Felix, who was sitting in the back seat, playing with his wooden truck. He nodded, distracted by the toy.

I walked up the path to knock on the door, then waited, hovering on the little porch with the cake in my sweaty hands. The door swung open and there stood the man in the brown uniform, the one who walked up and down my street each day. Up close, I could see the embroidery on his shirt. Henry, and below that, Walt’s Lumberyard.

“You,” he said. His tone was flat, almost emotionless, but there was something dark in his eyes that unnerved me. I took a step away from the door.

“Hello,” I said nervously. “Is Lizzie home?” The man stared at me, his gaze intense and unblinking. “I’m looking for Lizzie,” I said again. “Lizzie Miller? Is this the right house?”

“What do you want with Lizzie?”