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Rose on the cheek.
    “And thank you,” I whisper. “But if you aren’t feeling well…”
    “I’m fine,” Rose replies softly. “And I’m really happy for you, Marta.”
    I race out of the ward and back through the foyer. When I reach the patio, I stop. The spot where Paul sat minutes earlier is deserted. He’s gone, I think. My heart sinks. Perhaps he became tired of waiting for me and went after the other soldiers into town. Hurriedly, I scan the banks. Paul is standing farther to the right along the edge of the lake, head down, back to me, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the last rays of the setting sun. Studying the way his torso tapers to his narrow hips, I feel a tightness in my chest, strong and sudden. I have never felt this way before, not even with Jacob. Easy, I think. It is just a walk, something for him to do while he waits to leave again. I force myself to breathe slowly, struggling to regain my composure.
    I start toward him, and as I near, he turns, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Look,” he says in a low voice, gesturing toward the water with his head. Closer, I can see that his attention has been caught by a mother duck and four fuzzy, yellow ducklings that have drifted close to the bank, heads tucked in sleep. I study his face, boyish with wonder as he watches them.
    “Ready?” He looks up from the water, his eyes meeting mine. He blinks, and the serious expression I noticed earlier on the lawn appears on his face once more. Not pity, I decide. Something else.
    I swallow over the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. “Y-yes.” I follow him toward the low white gate that marks the edge of the palace grounds. He holds the gate open for me and I step through onto the dirt path. A few meters farther along the water’s edge, an elderly man sits in the grass, holding a fishing rod, a small dinghy docked at his feet. He eyes us warily as we pass. What a strange pair we must make, I realize. The American soldier and the refugee. But Paul does not seem to notice. He whistles softly under his breath as we walk, looking up at the mountains through the trees.
    “It’s just beautiful here,” he remarks. “Reminds me of our ranch in North Carolina. My family farms tobacco, just at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Our mountains aren’t as dramatic as these.” He gestures toward the Untersberg. “But it’s still beautiful countryside.” He steps too close to me on the path and our sides brush. “Sorry.”
    I feel a twinge of disappointment as he moves away. “I’m from the country, too,” I offer, eager to have this in common.
    He looks down at me. “Really?”
    “Yes, our village, it’s called Bochnia, is close to the Tatra—” I stop midsentence, interrupted by the sound of voices. Down the path, there is a group of teenagers coming toward us, laughing loudly. A knot forms in my chest.
    Paul notices my reaction. “What is it?” I do not answer, but gesture with my head toward the youths. “Do you want to go back?”
    “No,” I reply quickly. “It’s just that…” I hesitate, my skin prickling. I have seen so few people, other than the camp staff and residents, since coming here. Staying on the palace grounds, it is easy to forget that we are in Austria, a country that embraced the Nazis so readily. But now, seeing the teenagers, I am terrified.
    “I understand. Wait here.” Before I can respond, Paul walks back in the direction from which we had come, leaving me alone in the middle of the path. Despite my anxiety about the teenagers, I cannot help but notice Paul’s long legs, his awkward coltlike gait. He approaches the fisherman, gesturing toward the boat. But Paul does not speak German, I realize, watching the fisherman shake his head. I see Paul reach into his pocket and hand the man something.
    I walk toward him. “What are you doing?”
    Paul gestures to the boat. “Your chariot, milady.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You wanted to get