“The American is from a fishing town in the northeast coast of his country,” Sophie said, still considering the tempestuous waves. “His father was a fisherman, as was his grandfather. As he describes it, neither were happy when he chose the sky over the sea.”

La Chanteuse didn’t respond.

“His name is Frederick Rickman, though only his mother calls him Frederick,” she continued. “His four sisters call him Freddie, or Flying Fred when they are feeling particularly playful.”

La Chanteuse made a funny sound from behind her.

“What?” Sophie asked.

“It just seems rare I know a person’s real name anymore.”

“Mmm.” Sophie straightened the seascape, tipping the left corner of its frame slightly upward. “He finished high school and signed up for the U.S. Air Force as quickly as he could run to the recruiting office. He said he was afraid that he would miss the action. He was flying in a B-17 as a tail gunner when they were shot down southwest of Brussels. It was his first sortie, and he was the only one who survived out of his crew. He likes American baseball, reading novels, and misses his family. He’ll be nineteen in two weeks.”

“And he talks far too much,” La Chanteuse muttered.

“Beware the dog that does not bark and the man who does not speak.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something the American said. I think he was referring to the child, who didn’t say a single word the entire time we were in that room, no matter what story or joke we tried. Who hasn’t yet spoken a word.”

La Chanteuse scoffed.

“I don’t even know her name. Real or otherwise.”

The carved clock on the mantel ticked loudly into the silence. Just when Sophie didn’t think the woman was going to answer, she spoke. “Aviva. Her name is Aviva.”

Hebrew for springtime. A beautiful name for a beautiful little girl. A little girl who had remained as still as death throughout the invasion of the apartment.

When the immediate threat had faded, the child had resumed her drawing and had not objected when Sophie picked up one of her pencils. Together, they’d passed the hours drawing, Aviva rendering sketches of dogs and Sophie doing her best to portray a mare and foal galloping across a pasture. Aviva hadn’t objected, either, to Sophie’s lack of talent and simply bent her head, wrinkled her fine features, and added color to Sophie’s efforts.