James left for work earlier than she did most days. His role in the American military government had become more complex, more political, more exhausting. But each morning he paused at the apartment door, kissed her lightly, and whispered the same thing:
“One day at a time, Helga. We keep building.”
She clung to that sentence on days when the world outside their apartment felt like shifting sand.
A NEW THREAT
Suspicion followed her like a shadow.
Some Americans still looked at her and saw only the enemy. Some Germans saw her and saw betrayal—proof that she had crossed an invisible line by marrying the occupier.
One afternoon, as she was leaving work, she overheard two German clerks whispering.
“That’s the one. Married the Yank.”
“She must have done something during the war. Women like that don’t marry soldiers for love.”
“Or maybe she learned to survive by attaching herself to power.”
Helga kept walking, her face blank, her posture perfect, the way she had learned to survive under the Reich. But inside, something tore.
That night, she told James.
He didn’t respond with anger—not the loud, furious kind. His anger was quiet, controlled, dangerous in its stillness. He closed all the blinds in their small apartment as if protecting her from the world outside.
“Listen to me,” he said, kneeling in front of her, both hands on her knees. “You do not owe anyone an explanation for existing. Not the Germans. Not the Americans. Not the war. Not the past.”
His voice cracked—not from rage, but from helplessness.
“I wish I could burn every lie they say about you.”
She touched his cheek. “You cannot burn what they carry in their hearts.”
“Then I will out-love it,” he whispered.
And he did.
THE UNEXPECTED VISITOR
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