London, 1968

Dinner was, to put it mildly, impressive. Food is always important to people who know what real hunger is like, and many— most— of the dinner guests did. Himself included. His pre-dinner four helpings of latkes notwithstanding, he did full justice to the meal, which was not only pleasant but politic. The way to a man's heart might, as the old saying had it, be through his stomach, but he'd learned a long time ago that the way to a chef's heart was via a well-cleaned plate.

It turned out that the infamous Myron Goldstein actually was at the party, too, although he'd taken one look at Newkirk, smiled broadly as he introduced himself, and, with the air of a man reprieved at the block, had promptly taken a seat as far away from Kay as the table permitted. Nice enough, in a way, but if he'd ever said anything interesting in his life it had probably been by mistake, Newkirk thought. How anyone could have taken one look at him and thought he was good enough for Kay was mind-boggling.

His sharp ears caught a number of remarks he had decidedly not been meant to hear. They were all in German, and he'd made something of a point, when asked, of disavowing any knowledge of the language. ("Oh, I was over there during the war, right enough, but I'm afraid I never got much past 'Goot un-nobbin, fraw-line. Ayin beer, biddy,' and that sort of thing.") The less people thought you knew, the more you usually learned.

That evening, for example, he learned that, even if he was a goy, well, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, because he seemed nice enough, with very good manners, and not so bad looking, either, except that he was far too old for their Kaysele, but then again she wasn't a spring chicken anymore, any port in a storm, after all, and it was more than time that she settled down.

He dragged his attention back to the English portion of the conversation when the old ladies started debating names for the first four or five children, because he wasn't sure if he could keep eavesdropping without either starting to laugh or crawling under the table in mortification. That was the problem with gathering information. Sometimes you ended up learning more than you wanted to know.

He glanced over at Kay, who was, at that moment, mopping up a minor flood of applesauce courtesy of a toddler—either Mrs. Steiner's neighbor's niece's, or her niece's neighbor's, he couldn't remember exactly which—and just for a moment, he found himself imagining her tending instead to a little girl with glossy dark plaits and bright green eyes that would never, ever have the shadow that never quite left Kay's. Or, he more than suspected, his own.

Dragging himself back to reality, he stuffed another bite of brisket into his mouth before he could say anything foolish. Where in hell had that thought come from?

But all good things must come to an end, and that includes holiday gatherings. Eventually, the last cups of coffee were drained, the candles had guttered, small children were discovered fast asleep on, in, or under various pieces of furniture, and everyone began conceding that it was time to go home. Slowly, the guests trickled out in ones and twos. As she closed the door behind the last of them, Kay stifled what was either a yawn or a relieved sigh behind her hand. "All right, then," she said. "Just a few thousand dishes to wash, and then I'd better get back home; it's late. Jack, if you don't mind waiting a bit longer, we can split a cab?"

"Sure. But if you'll show me where things go, I'll give you a hand with the washing up," Newkirk offered. "I did my share of KP duty back in the day, after all; my CO insisted on it. Frequently."

"Why does that not surprise me in the least?" she asked, with a mischievous glitter in her eye. She knew all about his CO, after all.

"I'm sure I don't know," he said loftily. "But anyhow, dirty dishes are well within my grasp. That and peeling potatoes."

"No, no," said Ruth. "I won't hear of it. Don't trouble yourself, either of you; they can wait for the morning. But Kay, dear, before you go, I made up a plate for Mrs. Solomon next door, and I want you to run it over to her. She wasn't feeling well enough to come, poor thing, and I know she wanted to wish you a happy holiday."

Kay hesitated. "It's awfully late," she hedged. "She's probably sleeping. There's another seven days of Hanukkah; I can come back and see her on one of the others."

"Nonsense," said Ruth, firmly. Somehow she was already wearing a coat, and she handed Kay her own. "She's always been a night owl. And she's always so glad to see you; she asks about you all the time. Mr. Selden, you just sit right back down and be comfortable. We won't be too long."

Kay, who was being summarily steered towards the door, plate in hand, flicked an apologetic glance at Newkirk; he fielded it with a faint grin. Every last one of them, quite possibly including poor unwell Mrs. Solomon from next door, knew that this was a transparent excuse to get her out of the room while the prosecution built its case, and everyone knew that everyone knew it, and everyone, furthermore, knew that there was no possible protest that either he or Kay could make that wouldn't sound more damning than anything he might actually say under questioning.

Well, no one could say that she hadn't warned him, or that he hadn't known what he was signing up for; unless and until they brought out the thumbscrews, he was pretty sure he could handle it. Ruth, triumphant, hustled Kay out of the house; the door clicked quietly shut behind them.

He looked at her uncle. Her uncle looked at him.

"…Do you really want to have the 'young man, what are your intentions' conversation?" asked Max, after a long moment.

"Not especially," Newkirk said honestly.

"Oh, good," said Max. "Neither do I. Let's pretend we've already had it and skip all that nonsense."

Newkirk grinned. "Sounds like a good plan," he said, and settled himself a bit more comfortably in his chair.

"That's what I thought. Refill?"

"No, thanks."

"Well, don't mind if I do," said Max, and splashed a bit more into his glass. He swirled it around, watching the amber liquid as if he expected it to hold answers. "So. What was it you said you do, again?"

"Records department. Steadiest job on earth. That's one thing about a government job; there's always a lot of paper kicking about, and it all needs to be kept safe in case they ever want it again."

"I see," said Max, ironically. "So that's how you met Kay, then? Did that stupid fool she works for need something from the archives? It all sounds just fascinating."

"I detect a faint note of disapproval," Newkirk said. "Slightly insulting to her co-workers, but none of my business either way. If you're not happy with her career choices, then that's between her and you. Why are you dragging me into it?"

"Because you're already in it up to your ears," Max snapped. There was silence for some considerable time.

"Hitler, may his name and memory be erased, tried to make her into a ghost. He nearly succeeded," Max continued. "The camps tried to make her into an animal. They came even closer. Ruthie and I, we tried to make her human again, but then she fell in with your organization, and I've never been able to figure out how or why it became the center of her world. But it did. You, dear fellow, are the first colleague she's ever brought home, so you must be important to her. My question is this. What is it you're trying to make her into?"

"I'm not trying to make her into anything. She's her own person," Newkirk said. A split second later, his stomach plummeting into his shoes, he remembered Stephens' original introduction.

I'm trusting you to make her into the sort of agent I think she could be. It's not a small task.

"Judging from the look on your face, you've just realized that you're lying," Max said calmly. "So let's try it again, shall we? What is it you want from her?"

"Nothing you'd object to. We're friends. And I thought we were skipping this conversation."

"We did. You're both adults and these are modern times; so long as she's happy, I'm not asking for details and I don't care to hear them. I'm asking you what you want her to be."

"Anything she bloody well wants," he said. Because that was true, wasn't it? She'd wanted to be an agent, and had been one since long before they'd met; all he had ever done was help her fine-tune her abilities a bit. Surely that didn't put him on a level with Hitler, did it? "I don't make her choices for her; hell, I couldn't if I wanted to. Stubborn as the day is long, that one."

"Are you sure about that?" Max looked guardedly hopeful for the first time. "Look. A lot of this goes back to the war. She'll never understand why she made it when so many others didn't, and I think she's still trying to prove to herself that she was worth saving."

Newkirk managed not to wince. "That's not my fault."

"I didn't say it was. But she's trying to prove it to you, too. And Ruthie and I, and everyone else. And she'll go to any lengths." Max looked away. "Any lengths."

"Is she even really your niece?"

Max gave him a level look. "She is now." He sighed. "It's possible, at any rate. I never met my brother-in-law, and neither of us ever met his wife. We know they had a daughter in '33. We know where and when he and his wife were murdered. And that's all we know. No word on what happened to their little girl, and too many of the camp records were destroyed in the last days of the war for any certainty."

"So you just picked an orphan at random?"

"Not quite. We're fairly sure she's ours. Friemann is a common name, but she's about the right age and Ruthie swears there's some family resemblance. It doesn't matter. Just… be careful with her. That's all I'm asking. Please. She's all we've got."

"I am," Newkirk said, because what else could he say?

At that interesting juncture, the door opened again, and Ruth and Kay walked back in. "The cookies have been delivered," she announced, and walked over to join the men. "They won't last the night, but they've been delivered. And speaking of not lasting the night, I'm about to fall asleep on my feet. Are you finished terrorizing poor Jack?"

Max snorted. "This one? He's not afraid of God or the devil, let alone an old man. Give me a kiss goodnight and then get out of here, you disrespectful thing, you."

She laughed, and did both of those things. There was the usual flurry of goodbyes, and fussing, and hugs, and then a few more goodbyes, but eventually she and Newkirk found themselves safe in a taxi.

"I'm sorry about that," she said. "I really expected them to go after me, not you."

"No, not at all," Newkirk said. "He was a gent. I liked him. And your aunt, too, and all their friends. Nice people. I'm guessing most of them came here after the war?"

"Right before or right afterwards," she confirmed, and nervously raked her fingers through her hair. "Nowhere else to go, mostly, and no one else to go to."

"Yeah, I got that impression," Newkirk said. "Rebuilding a community from the ground up isn't an easy task. I take my hat off to them, and no mistake."

"They had no choice in the matter. After the war, well… my aunt and uncle went searching for survivors. They were both from big families—we're talking about parents and siblings and cousins by the score. And that's before you start counting their friends. Neighbors. Everyone they'd ever known." She looked away. "They found me. Just me."

"They were lucky."

"In a way. Everyone you met tonight, they were all frantically searching, too, and a lot of them didn't find anyone at all. One is better than nothing, I suppose, but it's still not…" She didn't finish the sentence, just turned a hand palm-up helplessly. "In a lot of ways, I kind of stand in for all of the people they didn't find."

"So, as far as they're all concerned, you're everyone's daughter or sister or niece or what-have-you?" He nodded, mentally replaying a few of the conversations he'd overheard that night. "That's rather nice."

"Yes and no. It's… not always easy when everyone you meet is looking at you, and you know that they're each seeing who they wish you were."

"Or who they want you to be," he finished, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Who they need you to be," she said quietly. Then, like flipping a switch, she snapped back into the cheerful demeanor she'd been using all night. It didn't make him feel any better. "Still, it's not all bad. Useful skill to have in my line of work, wouldn't you say?"

"There are worse," he agreed, as the cab came to a stop outside her building.

"Want to come in?" she asked, opening the door.

"…Not tonight," he said. "Thanks, luv, but, like you said, I think I need to go sleep off those potato pancakes."

She grinned. "Fair enough. And Jack—thanks again for the backup. You're a lifesaver." With a quick, undemanding peck on the cheek, she was gone.

After a long moment, the cabbie said, "…Well?"

"Well what?" he asked.

"Where to, mate? I'm not sitting here all night while you stare at your girl's front door. Give me an address or get out."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, chum," he said, and reeled off his own address.

"Got it," said the cabbie, and expertly merged back into traffic. He didn't say anything else until they were back in front of Newkirk's building. As he paid the fare, the cabbie said, "Damned if I can figure out why you'd want to come here, is all."

"I live here," Newkirk pointed out.

"Sure," said the cabbie, and stuffed the money in his pocket. "But if you go about turning down better offers, you've only yourself to blame when they stop coming."