But Martin’s mother did not come and neither did Liesel’s.

My little sparrows, Frau Vortmuller called them, looking increasingly worried. It was the beginning of June. Her youngest daughter, Magda, had come to stay with them, along with her two mean little boys, who called them “traitors’ spawn.”

“Why don’t you throw them out?” Martin overheard Magda ask her mother one night. “The war is over! Your responsibility here is finished!”

From then on, Martin was extra careful. He did not want to be thrown out. And he knew it was true: Frau Vortmuller did not have to stay with them anymore. There was no one commanding—or paying—her to do so. She just wants the extra rations, Liesel said. But he did not believe this. In her way, he thought, Frau Vortmuller loved them.

And then one day, a tall, stern-faced lady named Marianne von Lingenfels arrived. With her cape and high boots she reminded Martin of a toy soldier. Is that your mother? Liesel whispered, watching through the window with him as the woman strode up the path.

Then they heard her in the foyer. She had a loud, clear voice that carried up the tile stairway. She had come to claim Martin Fledermann (the sound of his name crackled inside like a spark along dormant wires: Martin Fledermann, of course that was his name). She was a friend of the family. She would take him to find his mother in Berlin.

Beside Martin, Liesel grew still. She would be alone if he left. Martin could see her thinking this, too.

The woman strode into the room, Frau Vortmuller scrambling behind her, wheezing up the stairs and looking alarmed.

“Martin Fledermann,” the woman announced, clapping her hands together. She had a long, intelligent face and startlingly bright brown eyes. Her hair was pulled back severely.

“Marianne von Lingenfels,” she said, bending to his level and extending her hand. “You don’t remember me. Your father was my dear friend.”

Martin stared back at her.

“And who is this?” The woman straightened, and her eyes moved to take in Liesel, whose pretty face grew petulant.

“Liesel . . .” Frau Vortmuller said, pausing, “Stravitsky.” She cast a nervous look in the girl’s direction. It was not a name Martin had heard before.

“Ah.” Frau von Lingenfels frowned. “What was your father’s name, child?”

“Bartosz,” Liesel mumbled, and then, seeming to consider something, she looked up. “Do you know my mother? Johanna? Is she alive?”

Frau von Lingenfels looked uncertain. “I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I didn’t know her.” Martin had never heard these names. But he understood something he could not put into words and reached over to take hold of Liesel’s hand.

“Ach mein lieber Gott,” Frau Vortmuller said, and crossed herself.

Liesel snatched her hand away.

“Why don’t you come with us?” the woman said. “I will try to help you find your family.”

Liesel shook her head.

“Nha! Liesel!” Frau Vortmuller gasped at the rudeness, but the woman gestured away her protests.