The Lost Girls of Paris - Pam Jenoff Page 0,130

her. “Finding out the truth about Eleanor, plus everything between us, it was just more than I could take. I was overwhelmed.”

“So you left.”

“I left.” But running away had changed nothing. Eleanor’s guilt was still there, plain on the page. And so were her feelings for Mark. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s okay. All of us have things that we keep hidden. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He paused. “When we were in Washington you asked about my time with the War Crimes Tribunal. I wasn’t ready to talk about it then, but I am now. You see, I was finishing up law school when the war broke out. I wanted to enlist, but my father insisted I take a deferment and finish school before going abroad. He’d banked everything on my school and my being a lawyer was needed to keep us afloat. So I doubled my classes to finish early. I enlisted the day after graduation and they put me in the JAG corps and deployed me. But by then it was all over, just the cleanup.

“One of the first cases I faced in Frankfurt was the Obens trial. Have you heard of it?” Grace shook her head. “I didn’t think so. They worked hard to keep it out of the papers. Obens was an American GI in one of the companies that liberated Ravensbrück. He and the others were sick with what they had seen, not right in the head. When they captured a German who had been a guard at the camp, Obens shot him, in cold blood, and in violation of the rules of war.” Grace blanched, imagining good men just like Tom, only too far gone. “I wanted to prosecute the matter. It wasn’t combat—it was murder, pure and simple. But my superiors would hear none of it. They were only focused on trying Germans and they didn’t want to dilute the story of the Allied victory.

“I wouldn’t leave it alone. So they came up with a story about how I was doing it because my family was German.” She recalled his surname: Dorff. Some part of her had known he was of German descent, but she hadn’t wanted to ask. “They called it treason.”

“So you resigned?”

“Before they could court-martial me, yes. You must think I’m a coward. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“No, I think what you did was brave. But why are you telling me now?”

“Because I think you blame yourself for Tom’s death and that’s why you keep running. But none of it is black-and-white. Not your choices, not my choices and not Eleanor’s either. I’m sure there were reasons for what she did.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. But I’m awfully glad you’re here.” The words came out before she realized she was saying them. She could feel her cheeks flush.

“Really?” He took a step closer. “Me, too.”

“Even if it’s complicated?”

“Especially then. I’m not here for easy.”

He wrapped her in his arms then and they stood motionless for several seconds. She looked up and their eyes met. He looked as though he might kiss her and this time she really, truly wanted him to. She closed her eyes as his head lowered. Their lips met.

There was a noise behind them. “Grace, would you believe I got Sammy a bike and...” Frankie’s voice trailed off as Mark and Grace broke apart, too late.

Grace cleared her throat. “Frankie, this is Mark Dorff. He was a friend of my husband’s.” The explanation just seemed to make things worse.

She watched as Frankie looked from her to Mark, then back again, braced for what he was going to say. She could not tell from his expression if he was angry or amused.

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” she offered.

“Yeah, well, remember that woman you asked me to check on?” Frankie looked uneasily at Mark, as if unsure he should speak in front of him.

“It’s okay. Mark knows everything.”

“I was over at immigration earlier, checking on some things for Sammy’s adoption papers. I saw my buddy at customs. He found her entry file.”

“Eleanor’s?”

“There wasn’t much to it. She came to America a day or two before she died, arrived by plane.”

Grace nodded, her heart sinking again. She knew that much from the passport she’d seen at the consulate. What had she expected, really? A customs form could hardly tell what had gone on inside Eleanor’s mind, what she was doing in New York and whether it

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