When the time at last wore away, Frau Hofmeister brushed away the crumbs and prepared to leave, as you might expect. Then she paused, frowned, sat back down and told Elfriede that she was not her father’s child, that Elfriede had been conceived during a cure along the Baltic seaside nineteen years ago while Elfriede’s father stayed home to tend the business. She met a beautiful Danish student, an artist who was staying also at the hotel, and one day he forced her—well, urged her—well, coaxed her—into his room, no, not his room, they were taking a walk together and—my God, he was so beautiful, so soulful—what could she do? It was just the one time—well, maybe more than that—maybe a dozen times, maybe most of August, it was like a dream—but it wasn’t Elfriede’s mother’s fault, it was fate, it was God’s will, and Elfriede was not ever to tell her father this thing. It would break his heart.

Elfriede doesn’t remember the rest of this conversation, or how her mother made it out to the door to her carriage, or how they parted this final time before Elfriede was called to her mother’s deathbed. In fact, the entire episode seems unreal to her, and she’s long dismissed it from her mind as a symptom of shock. But the words return now with remarkable clarity, as she holds this letter in her hand, postmarked London. Also the brightness of her mother’s eyes, which Elfriede once attributed to her incipient illness. God sent him to me, Mother said, and then, That’s why you’re so beautiful, you know, you have his eyes and his hair and his soul. And again: God sent him to me, in my misery. Until that moment, Elfriede never knew her mother was miserable at all. Until this moment, she doesn’t remember.

Eight fifty-two.

Elfriede takes her butter knife and slices open the envelope.

There was no salutation. No date.

Forgive me for addressing you. Not for anything in the world would I disturb your peace of mind. I wish only to explain how much your friendship has meant and will always mean to me, except of course that I cannot. God has not given us any words large or subtle or beautiful enough, in my language or yours. On my knees I pray for your happiness. But if happiness is impossible, if you are made to feel hurt or misery of any kind, if you have any need whatsoever of a stalwart friend, you must dispatch a message to the address below. A postcard will do. W.