“Watch us swim, Papa!” they cried, and he laughed and promised he would as soon as he set his briefcase inside. I was on the jetty, where I’d been watching Georg, Laura, and Gisela run along the wooden platform and strike dramatic poses as they launched themselves into the water. Gisela, now five, was not yet a strong swimmer, so the older two were helping her make her way back to the shore after each dive.

Jürgen walked down the jetty to sit behind me, leaving room on the narrow dock for the children to run alongside us. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I leaned against him. It was golden hour; the perfect red-tinged rays of the sun over the lake left me lazy and dreamy. All the world looked like a postcard, but especially with Jürgen’s strong torso against my back, and his arms around my waist. We watched the children play in silence for a while, sharing only a chuckle here or there as they performed for us. But Lydia’s news this morning hovered at the edges of my consciousness, demanding attention.

“Is it true? Your rocket made it to space?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Jürgen paused. “No one can be sure yet.”

I twisted awkwardly to stare at him in disbelief.

“Isn’t this what you’ve dreamed of your entire life?”

“Not like this.”

He’d been laughing at the children just a moment before, but his gaze grew troubled. I shifted so that I was facing him, intending to give him my full attention.

“Mama! Watch me!” Gisela protested.

“In a minute,” I sighed. “I’m talking with Papa.”

“I’m still watching, treasure,” Jürgen said, glancing at her over my shoulder. I watched the joy on his face as he watched her run the last few steps toward the end of the dock, and saw the amusement in his eyes when she inevitably froze at the last minute and stopped right at the edge to peer down into the water anxiously. I’d been watching her for hours that day, and each launch went the same way, so I knew what came next. Gisela would turn back to make doubly sure she was being supervised, pinch her nose with her fingers, puff her cheeks out with air, and then squeeze her eyes shut before she turned around and jumped blindly from the peer. I saw Jürgen struggling to suppress a chuckle at this ritual—then heard the squeal as Gisela finally jumped and felt the spatter of water on my back as she hit the water. But once Gisela was paddling back to shore with the other children, the smile on Jürgen’s face faded. He gazed into my eyes, growing serious again.

“Otto has requested a meeting with Hitler. He is desperate—clutching at straws trying to save the program.”

“Save the program?” I repeated, alarmed. “Save it from what?”