We agreed we wouldn’t make a fuss that morning, but he and I both knew this would likely be our last goodbye. We discussed trying to bring the children for a final visit—but to arrange that would take time we didn’t have. I couldn’t bear to lose him, but I knew what the cost would be to keep him. He wasn’t willing to pay that price, and now that I’d seen Mittelwerk with my own eyes, nor was I.

To fail a test of loyalty like Otto’s invitation for Jürgen to join the SS was suicide. Jürgen was just determined that his death would come on his terms. He didn’t have a clear plan for the specifics—he was just going to go to Mittelwerk and look for an opportunity to make one first and last act of defiance, maybe to free a prisoner or two, or to sabotage the line itself somehow.

“I love you more than I knew I could love another person,” I said. My whole body was shaking with the effort it was taking to hold back my tears.

His expression softened, and Jürgen reached to cup my cheek in his hand.

“You have made my life, Sofie von Meyer Rhodes. My last thoughts will be of how grateful I have been to share it with you.”

And then we kissed, one last time, and I slipped into my car and drove away. Just a few miles out of Nordhausen, I had to pull over to the side of the road because I was sobbing too hard.

Sometimes, I thought I had, by necessity, grown used to living apart from Jürgen. Only now that our connection was likely about to be severed permanently did I understand that it was all that had kept me going through these years.

On that long drive back to Berlin, I wondered how quickly they would come for me. If Jürgen made some dramatic move, it was likely I’d be taken in quickly. I went straight to Lydia’s house to see the children, but a black car was already waiting in her drive. I parked near it, not blocking it in. I knew it would soon be driving me away.

40

Sofie

Huntsville, Alabama
1950

It was Friday morning and Gisela had been dawdling since she got out of bed. Now we were at the school gate and she didn’t want to get out of the car.

“What’s wrong now?” I asked her, looking at the schoolyard, where a handful of other tardy children were walking into their buildings.

“I just want to go home,” she said miserably.

“We can talk about this tonight,” I said firmly. “You need to get to class.”

She sighed impatiently and slipped out of the car, pausing just long enough to slam the door behind her.

“Mama?” Felix said hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I need to go to the potty.”