"Although the body of Heinz Weber lies in a mass grave in the Soviet Union, his soul is now in heaven, rejoicing with the angels," the pastor's voice intoned. To Jo, it seemed strange to have a funeral with no body. Mrs. Weber had called it a 'memorial service.'

"Mr. Weber loved his country, and gave his all for it," the pastor continued. "He was a devoted husband and father, and he will be sorely missed. We ask ourselves why, but words are never sufficient. In the midst of our heartache, we must keep our eyes on God, knowing He is in control and will always work things out for the best."

Jo looked over at Mrs. Weber and Renate, who were both weeping. She just felt numb all over. Recent experiences flashed through her mind. Is this what he died for? So people can live behind walls, terrified of discovery? So policemen can go around measuring people's body parts?

A single tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. She missed her true home more than ever before.

The ceremony drew to a close, and the attendants slowly filed out of the chapel.

Life returned to the former routine of working at the factory all week, sneaking milk, eggs, and any other available food to Frieda's, and church on Sunday. One day, Renate returned from Frieda's still holding the shopping bag.

"They're gone!" she told Jo. "The whole family just disappeared! I waited at the door for a long time for someone to come, but nobody ever did. I tried the door and it wasn't locked, so I went inside and walked all the way through, looking into every room - nobody was there!"

"Oh no!" said Jo. "Do you suppose they got caught?"

"Either that, or they had to go into hiding themselves."

"What about the Messers?"

"They're gone too, as far as I know. I can't move that dresser by myself."

The sisters spent several agonizing days wondering what had become of their friends. Had they been sent to a concentration camp - or worse?

Summer became autumn, and one day in October, Mrs. Weber had news for Jo.

"Your grandmother is in the hospital," she told her younger daughter. "She just had surgery. She's lonely and wants you to come stay with her for awhile."

Jo smiled, recalling the two days she'd spent with her grandmother in this life. That now seemed like a million years ago.

"I think you should go." Mrs. Weber patted her arm. "The change of scenery will do you good."

"I agree, and I'd love to see her again."

"It's settled, then."

Jo went to find Renate and say goodbye to her.

"I'll miss you," Renate said as she hugged her younger sister.

"I'll miss you, too." Although she longed to escape the tense and depressing life she was now living, Jo felt much as she had when she'd said goodbye to Beth before leaving for New York City. "You'll write, won't you?"

"Every single day!"

Jo felt a thrill of excitement go through her as she boarded the train the next day. She couldn't wait to find out what riding in a 1940's passenger train would be like.

The inside of the car was made of dark brown varnished wood, and a chandelier hung from the middle. The floor was also made of varnished wood, and a row of light blue seats went down each side. Clutching her purse, Jo found an empty seat and slid into it.

As the train began to move, she was mesmerized by the passing scenery outside the window. She saw beautiful gardens and greenhouses, elegant buildings and restaurants.

How could so much beauty and so much evil co-exist in the same place? she wondered.

At last the train pulled into the station. From there, it was only a brisk walk to the hospital. She climbed the steps, pulled the heavy door open, and approached the front desk. Behind it sat a plump, stern-looking, middle-aged woman with wispy white curls and steely blue eyes.

"Heil Hitler." The woman raised her arm in a Nazi salute.

"Heil Hitler." Jo gave the salute, being careful to keep her face blank. "Can you please tell me what room Rita Klein is in?"

The woman checked the roster. "Room 224, upstairs."

"Thanks." Jo turned away quickly.

Down the dimly lit hall she walked, until she came to the carpeted staircase. She passed white-coated doctors and nurses as she climbed, and when she reached the top, she walked down that hall until she reached a brown door labeled '224.'

She knocked softly, then pushed the door open to see Mrs. Klein lying in bed beside a window with white blinds, which had been pulled open to allow sunlight into the room. Beside the bed was medical equipment and a table with a vase holding flowers. On the wall facing Mrs. Klein was a large portrait of Adolf Hitler in full military uniform. Jo grimaced involuntarily.

"I have to lie here day in, day out, staring at that infernal thing," Mrs. Klein mumbled.

"Sh!" Jo whispered, pulling the door shut behind her. "Someone will hear you!"

"What can they do to a little old lady with bad eyesight?" Jo saw that her left eye was completely covered with a large bandage. "I've already lived my life. I'm ready to join your grandfather, and if my journey is hastened, then so much the better."

"Don't talk like that, Granny." Jo kissed her cheek. The skin was as soft as tissue.

"My Martina." Mrs. Klein gave a contented sigh. "Out of all my grandchildren, you're the one I wanted most to see. All they do is feed me and change my bandages. I need company."

Jo slipped her hand into that of the elderly woman, wondering whether she had any idea of the turbulent existence her granddaughter had just been rescued from.

"Your mother wrote and told me of the loss of your father," said Mrs. Klein.

"They wouldn't even give Horst time off to come home for the memorial service."

"Of course they wouldn't. What else would you have expected?" Mrs. Klein's good eye burned a hole in the Hitler portrait. "I'm just glad you, Renate, and your mother had each other to lean on in your time of grief."

The door swung open, and Dieter Baumgartner entered the room. Jo gasped, startled to see him in this setting. He looked right at her, his eyes soft with tenderness and compassion.

"Dear one, your grandmother told me you have lost your father."

"He died at Stalingrad," Jo told him. "The Russians buried him in a mass grave."

Suddenly, all the tears which had been welled up inside her came gushing out, and Jo hid her face in her hands as she sobbed. A moment later, she felt him beside her, stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort.

He had no way of knowing the father she mourned was not the one lost at Stalingrad, but the one back in Concord.