When they arrived, Meerstein Strasse did not look like a street where anyone could live. No more tall, speckled plane trees lining the curbs, no more lively café on the corner, no more gurgling fountain. But still, pockets of memory opened in Martin. The smell of damp stone, rot, and chemicals; the sight of people emerging from cellars covered in dust . . . the empty brass birdcage that hung in their shelter, the pee bucket in the corner. The horrible, glass-eyed elephant trunk masks.

Marianne climbed out of the jeep and thanked the Americans. Still sticky and slightly dazed from the chocolate, Martin and Liesel scrambled after her. She pulled a crumpled envelope from her jacket and regarded it for a moment before crossing the street to ask a group of women at a water pump for directions. The paper looked ancient and unpromising. But the script stirred something in Martin—it was familiar. His father’s handwriting.

As Marianne spoke, one of the women tried to fill a woven basket. The water rushed out through its lattices, but she didn’t seem to notice. On her hip, a baby stared at Martin.

“Over there,” another woman said, pointing to a building, if it could be called that.

Marianne looked back down at the letter as if hoping for some other indication, before she led Martin and Liesel toward the remnants of number 27.

“Building is full,” a Russian soldier barked as they approached. “Move on.”

To Martin’s surprise, Marianne answered in Russian. A wide smile spread across the soldier’s face. “Ty govorish’ po-Russki?” he asked.

More Russian issued from Marianne’s lips and the soldier bounced on his heels like a delighted child. “Jiri,” he called, and soon they stood at the center of a small group of Russians, all grinning and slapping Marianne on the back.

Benita Fledermann—Martin distinguished his mother’s name.

“Ah.” The man nodded, his face sobering. More Russian.

“This is where you lived?” Liesel whispered. She too seemed impressed with Marianne’s Russian.

Martin shook his head. Where he lived was not like this.

The Russian gestured for them to follow.

What had once been a courtyard was now piled high with rubble and crisscrossed by narrow footpaths. “Don’t fall,” Marianne said as they walked. She was stern again; the freedom that had come over her on the train was gone.

They followed the man through a doorway, down a black hall, and up a staircase, climbing blindly. It smelled of mold and cabbage and human shit. Marianne’s dry hand gripped Martin’s hard enough to hurt. He was thankful for the pain; without it his body might disappear in the dark.

Then there was light. A man sat outside a closed door beside an electric lantern. He was terrifyingly ugly: swarthy and scarred and low-browed, wearing the uniform of a Red Army soldier. At their approach, he pulled a rifle across his lap. He and the man they followed exchanged words, and with a terse nod to Marianne, their escort departed.