The turn off Route 114 onto Marianne’s little clamshell strewn “Way” was marked by a profusion of beach plum blossoms, which she had not mentioned in her directions. Possibly because at her age she did not venture far enough to have seen them, but more likely because a thicket of flowers and shiny purple berries was not the sort of thing Marianne made note of, while the sturdy aluminum mailbox, now all but obscured by the bushes, was.

Her house was the last of the seven or eight that lined the road, and when Martin pulled around the corner, he was struck not only by its loveliness—a little gray shingled cottage, with a peaked roof and wraparound porch—but by its utter Americanness. It was rough-hewn and impermanent looking. Its wide sliding glass doors lent it a quality of carefree openness. Such a great contrast to Burg Lingenfels. Americans can face the world with open arms, Marianne had once said, because the world hasn’t yet come to knock it down.

Before he could climb out of the car, the front door opened and there she was: Marianne von Lingenfels—at once totally recognizable and completely changed. She walked with a cane and wore a pair of thick, squarish glasses, but her gray hair was pulled back from her face in the same practical manner it had always been, with a clip on each side, just above her ears. And her voice, barking his name, rang straight from his past.

“Marianne,” Martin said, slamming the car door behind him. A broad, pure smile spread across her wrinkled face. Here she was, unmoored from the circumstances that for him had always defined her—in America, in Maine, for Christ’s sake. Yet unlike Martin, who was a chameleon, an adapter to even the strangest situations, Marianne remained completely herself.

From the shore came the sound of the surf, and overhead the seagulls screeched. The front door of the house swung open again and a mournful-faced black woman with her hair braided close against her skull emerged. “You all right, Marianne?” she asked softly.

“Oh, yes,” Marianne said, keeping her eyes on Martin. Her smile remained fixed—an outpouring of happiness. “Alice, this is my dear friend Martin.”

Martin climbed the steps and extended his hand, which Alice accepted shyly. Then he turned to Marianne, grasped her gnarled fingers between his, and kissed her delicate shriveled cheeks.

“Ach, Martin,” she said, clinging to his hands. “Du bist das Ebenbild deines Vaters.” You are the picture of your father.

Martin continued to smile, but the words resurrected the old, familiar dismay. His father the resister, the great man, the almost-liberator of Germany and almost-saver of so many millions of lives. Marianne had always shone a bright light on the chasm between Martin and this man.

“Come, have a cup of coffee. Or maybe you would like something stronger—a glass of schnapps after your journey,” Marianne said, speaking in English now.

“Coffee would be fine,” Martin replied.

“Sit,” Marianne commanded when they had reached the covered part of the porch where a set of mildewy wicker furniture was grouped like so many pigeons, facing the sea. “Alice will bring it.”