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many died. And her father was not young. He was seventy-three years old. Her mother would have been sixty-eight, and Beata was suddenly grateful that she had been spared that. At least she had died in peace, even if Beata wasn't there to comfort her at the end. Even now, she had no malice against her father. What had just happened was far worse than anything she could have done, and not what any of them had deserved. No one did. And she was frightened herself. But for now, they were safe. She was sure of that.

“How awful,” Daphne said quietly, thinking of what her mother had said.

“Don't say that to anyone,” Beata snapped at her. “If you're sympathetic to the Jews, they'll hurt you,” she said as they walked into the privacy of their own home. It was warm and comfortable and safe. That was essential now. She couldn't get the vision of the destroyed facade of her old home out of her head, the broken windows, and the antiques strewn all over the street.

“But you feel sorry for the Jews, don't you, Mama?” Daphne looked at her with innocent eyes.

“Yes,” Beata said honestly, “but it's dangerous to say that out loud these days. Look what just happened. People are angry and confused. They don't know what they're doing. It's better to keep quiet. I want you to remember that, Daphne.” Her mother looked at her sternly, and she nodded sadly.

“I will. I promise.” But it seemed so mean. It all did. So cruel. And so wrong. She couldn't help thinking how frightening it would be to be Jewish. To lose your home. To have people take you away, or maybe even lose your parents. It made her shudder to think about it. She was glad that she and her mother were safe. Even if she didn't have a father near at hand. But no one was going to bother them.

They were both quiet that night, lost in their own thoughts. And Daphne was startled when she walked into her mother's room and found her on her knees praying. She looked at her for a minute and then walked out of the room. She wondered if her mother was praying for the family she had talked about that afternoon, and suspected that she was. She was right. But Daphne had no idea what she was doing. She was doing what she had never done, and heard her father do. What they had done for her. What Orthodox women never did. She was saying Kaddish, the prayers for the dead. And praying that they were still alive. But if not, someone had to do it. She said all that she could remember, and then knelt there, by the side of her bed, with tears running down her cheeks. They had closed their doors to her years before, and their hearts, and had declared her dead. But she loved them anyway. And now they were gone, all of them. Brigitte, Ulm, Horst, Papa. The people she had grown up with and never ceased to love. She sat shiva for them that night, just as long before, they had done for her.

13

BEATA CALLED THE MOTHER SUPERIOR IN THE FIRST WEEK of December and asked to visit her daughter. She said it was important, and the Mother Superior told her gently that she would have to wait. They were very busy these days. In fact, they had deep concerns, and a problem of their own. She gave Beata a visiting time on December 15, hoping things would have calmed down by then.

Beata was beside herself till then. She didn't know why, but she felt compelled to see Amadea and tell her what had happened. It didn't really affect them, but it could. She had to know. She had that right. She would have told Daphne, too, but she was too young, and she might say something in school. She was not yet fourteen, and too young to be burdened with deep secrets. Particularly secrets that could cost lives, even her own. But at least Amadea was safe where she was, and her mother valued her advice. She didn't want to make these decisions alone. She had been thinking of going to Switzerland. But Antoine's cousins were long dead. And there was nowhere else to go. She would have had to rent a house there and leave her own. She hated to make decisions out of panic and fear. There was no reason for