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using his back to build houses—a profession that had always impressed Helga far more than her parents.

    “Helga needs to know what’s going on,” Hershel said to their father, “what’s happening in Germany—and all over Europe.”

    “That can’t happen here,” Poppi insisted. “This is Denmark. Rabbi Melchior says we must stay calm.”

    Herr Gunvald hammered on their door as if the hounds of hell were after him.

    Helga opened it.

    “Herr Rosen, have you heard?” he asked, talking to her father over her head. “We’re part of Germany now.”

    “We’ve heard,” Hershel said tightly.

    “Where’s Fru Gunvald?” Helga asked. There was no one else in the wagon.

    “She’s at home,” Herr Gunvald told her. “Until we find out what’s going on, I thought it best Inger and Marte stay there.”

    “Helga, go upstairs.” Her father’s pink face was turning red. Never a good sign.

    Still, she didn’t move.

    “Helga, are you listening?”

    “I’m going into Copenhagen to find Annebet—make sure she’s all right,” Herr Gunvald continued.

    “Annebet!” Helga couldn’t keep from exclaiming. Marte’s sister, Annebet, was in Copenhagen, still at university, with all those German soldiers. “Please bring her home!”

    “I will. Inger asked me to stop here on my way into the city, let you know she wouldn’t be in today.” He bent down to speak directly to Helga. “Would you like to come to our house to play with Marte this morning?” He glanced up at her father. “You’re all welcome to come if you’re at all nervous about—”

    “Helga?”

    “My father says this is Denmark,” Hershel said. “Despite the fact that German soldiers are in our streets, we must stay calm.”

    “Helga. Hello? Are you listening to me?”

    “I’m trying to listen to Hershel, Poppi!”

    “Okay, earth to Helga. Come back to me, woman. You’ve called me a lot of names through the years, some of them obscene, but Poppi?”

    Helga blinked.

    “Desmond Nyland.” His familiar face was right in front of her, dark brown eyes studying her with concern. He looked as tired as she felt, lines of strain making him seem much older than she knew him to be.

    “That’s me, homegirl. You back with me?”

    She nodded, shaken. Gone was Denmark. Gone were Poppi and Herr Gunvald. Gone was Hershel. Gone for so long, just yesterday she realized she could no longer recall his face. There were no photographs—not of him. Refugees usually didn’t manage to have too many family photographs, and she had more than most.

    “So where’d you go to?” Des sat down across from her desk, crossed his long legs. “Denmark?”

    “Yeah,” she admitted. She had been seven years old when the Germans invaded. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

    “I don’t think you were sleeping. Your eyes were open and you were talking to me.”

    She looked at her desk, her office. There were pictures on the desk of her husband, Avi, and her two tall sons. Her seven grandchildren. A picture of Desmond and his wife, Rachel, and their adopted daughter, Sara—black, white, and Asian. They were quite the diverse family. Yes, Helga had plenty of photographs now, and a nice home—the same home for over forty years.

    Not bad for a former refugee.

    “Now, I know who Marte and Annebet Gunvald are,” Des said. “Their family helped you hide from the Nazis. I’ve heard that story plenty of times. But who’s Hershel? He’s a new one to me.”

    Never forget. She’d lived her entire life making sure that the people she came into contact with knew that she was a Holocaust survivor. She’d told her story too many times to count. But Hershel she never spoke about. Nearly sixty years later, and it still hurt too much.

    “You want to talk about this now or later?” Des asked, his voice gentle.

    God, she was tired. Old and tired, with bones that hurt and a brain that had recently started time traveling. No, she didn’t want to talk