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my chest. I would rather remember him as I had seen him the day of my liberation, not like this. I finish processing the last refugee, then put the extra forms back into the box and stand up. “I do know you!” a voice exclaims behind me. Startled, I drop the box, sending forms scattering across the grass. I turn to find Paul standing there, arms crossed.
    Suddenly it is as if someone knocked the wind out of me. “You startled me!” I say, when I am able to speak again. I bend and start to gather the forms.
    “Sorry.” He kneels beside me to help pick up the papers. The smell of alcohol is gone, replaced by spearmint gum, and his movements are steadier now, as though he has begun to sober. “It’s just that I remembered where I know you from.” He reaches toward me for one of the papers near my right ankle, bringing our faces close. “You were the girl in the prison at Dachau. Mary? Martha?”
    “Marta,” I say, staring hard at the grass.
    “Oh, right, Marta. Sorry.” I feel him studying my face. “It’s just that you look so different. And I didn’t think you spoke English,” he adds.
    “I didn’t.” My cheeks begin to burn again. “I mean, I don’t, very well. I’ve had the chance to study since coming here.” I am suddenly aware of my accent, of the way I struggle to choose each word.
    “Well, you’ve done great.” He finishes gathering the papers. As he puts them in the box, the back of his hand brushes mine. Reminded of his strong, gentle touch as he tended to me in prison, I am suddenly light-headed. Then he leaps to his feet, extending his hand to me.
    “Allow me,” he says. I look up and our eyes meet. A troubled expression flickers across his face, so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. Pity, perhaps, for the girl he rescued in prison?
    I hesitate, then put my fingers in his. Warmth, too strong to ignore, rises in me once more. “Th-thank you,” I stutter as he helps me to my feet. He releases my fingers slowly, eyes still locked on mine. Finally, I turn away, struggling to breathe normally as I place the box on the table and brush the dirt from my dress. Across the lawn the other soldiers are loading supplies onto trucks. “Are you leaving again fast?” I ask, looking up at him. His brow wrinkles. “I mean, soon?”
    He nods. “We’re trying to make Munich tonight. Then we’re shipping out. Haven’t told us where, but I’m guessing the Pacific.”
    “Oh.” I take a deep breath. “I never had the chance to thank you. For saving me, I mean.”
    He waves his hand. “It’s not necessary. I was just doing my job.”
    Before I can reply, another soldier approaches the table. “Hey, Mattie, change of plans. One of the trucks has a busted axle.” The soldier’s words come out in rapid bursts, making it difficult for me to understand. “It’s going to take a few hours to fix. Major Clark ordered us to camp here, then head for Paris at first light.” Paul is not leaving yet, I realize, suddenly excited. The other soldier continues, “He said we can take the jeep if we want, go into Salzburg to have a look around and get some food.”
    “I could use a drin—” Paul begins. Then he stops, turning to me.
    “Want to come with us?”
    I hesitate, surprised. Paul is asking me to join him in town. My head spins. But camp residents are not allowed to leave the grounds. “I can’t.”
    Paul looks from me to the soldier, then back again. “Give me a minute, Drew, okay?” The other soldier shrugs his shoulders. “I’d better go with them,” Paul says to me when he has gone.
    “Salzburg really is lovely.” I fight to keep my voice even.
    Paul reaches out and touches my sleeve. “It was good seeing you again, Marta. I’m glad to know you’re okay.”
    “Goodbye,” I reply. Then I turn and walk back across the lawn, still feeling the warmth of his touch. As I round the side of the palace, my eyes begin to sting. What is wrong with me? I should be glad that he is gone. He