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too.”
    Stella swayed as she crouched against the floor; images exploded in her mind. Anna’ s sweet face . . . brightest, most beautiful star at Dachau’s makeshift school . . . Anna . . . her own precious child after Bella Horowitz died . . . Anna . . . small, trembling hands . . . holding up a piece of cloth, a blouse to cover Stella’s nakedness as the guards dragged her toward the shooting pit . . . Anna . . . those little hands dragged behind Stella . . . an explosion of gunfire . . .
    “Noooo!” she cried, pulling the surprised boy into her arms. Grief overwhelmed her as she held him close, the way she would never again hold Anna; offering comfort and needing to be comforted . . .
    His small body stiffened an instant, then clung to her with unspoken ferocity. The two were strangers, yet in that moment they were more closely linked in their desire for human touch than any bond of blood.
    Stella pressed her cheek to the unruly brown curls at the side of his head, so baby soft against her skin. “Where are your parents?” she finally managed to ask.
    “Dead,” he whispered. “Mama and Papa got real sick while we were at Neuengamme.”
    Cold crept along her spine. “Neuengamme?”
    “A work camp. Near Hamburg, I think.”
    “How did you get here?”
    “Herr Van dee Moss said I could be his assistant. He was a famous painter in Amsterdam, so they let us both come to Theresienstadt. He died last summer.”
    The child’s words trailed off against her shoulder. Stella could only hug him again.
    He finally raised his face to her. “Will you pray for my mama and papa . . . even though they were Jews?”
    How could she tell him God had abandoned their people? “I’ll pray,” she lied, holding back her bitterness.
    “On my honor, I’ll look out for you while you are here.”
    Stella’s eyes burned at his earnest expression. Suddenly he seemed much older than ten. “Thank you, Joseph. I’m proud to know a man who still values honor.”
    He flushed at her praise. “Please, we must go. Herr Kommandant is waiting.”
    Stella rose from the bed, nauseated at the prospect of returning downstairs. “Give me a minute.” She then went to the bathroom to wash most of the dirt and dried blood from her body.
    Downstairs, glassware and silver clinked as they arrived at the archway connecting the kitchen and dining areas. A silver-haired woman wearing a bright green neckerchief with her black-and-white service uniform bustled back and forth between the two rooms.
    She halted before Stella and then raised a questioning brow at the boy.
    “Helen,” Joseph explained, “meet Fräulein Muller.” To Stella, he said, “She doesn’t speak, but she hears real good.”
    “Helen.” Stella forced a smile and offered a hand in greeting. The other woman made no move to reciprocate and merely eyed her with derision.
    A water kettle on the stove whistled. Smells of sauerkraut, fried onions, and something rancid seized Stella’s nostrils as she waited with mounting humiliation. Only when she started towithdraw her hand did the stout woman brusquely wipe her own on the apron and thrust it at her. Helen didn’t smile but merely jerked her head in acknowledgment and returned to her tasks.
    Stella’s face burned. She raised a self-conscious hand to the stubble at her scalp.
    “Don’t worry.” Joseph squeezed her arm. “She’s like that with everyone.”
    Stella eyed him dubiously. She’d bet money the woman didn’t treat the colonel that way.
    Helen swept back by them long enough to tug at a lock of Joseph’s hair. She pointed to the dining room.
    “Come, Fräulein. Supper is ready. I’ll fetch Herr Kommandant.” He pulled Stella through the archway into the dining room before disappearing around the corner.
    Helen might not be personable, but she set a beautiful table. Stella eyed the snowy linen tablecloth. Two complete settings of silver-rimmed china were placed at either end,