“What if the loved one decides to communicate their own version of the truth?”
Mr. Baker steps up beside me, eying Dr. Nemeth as if he might go to battle himself. A married man with a lovely daughter is hardly competition, but Mr. Baker doesn’t know that the man in front of me is married.
I ignore Devon’s dad, talking directly to Dr. Nemeth. “Actually, I believe now is a good time to talk. Perhaps Ella can play while we step outside?”
As the other children begin to fill the castle, Ella slides down and races toward her father, taking his hand. “I like it here,” she tells me.
“I’m glad.”
She looks at the refreshment table. “Do you think there’s any hot chocolate left?”
“If not, I know where my sister keeps her stash.”
“You have plans again tonight?” Mr. Baker asks, seconds after Dr. Nemeth and Ella step toward the table.
“I do.” I glance toward the professor and his daughter as if they’re spending the rest of the day with me. And I wonder if Mrs. Nemeth is shopping nearby or if she’s waiting for them at home.
“I have plans as well. A date.” Mr. Baker studies my face, gauging my reaction.
“I’m glad for you.”
He’s disappointed at my enthusiasm, but I really am happy.
I motion Dr. Nemeth toward the door, and he follows me outside to a wrought-iron table under the awning where people typically congregate to enjoy their ice cream. He’s balancing a cup of coffee and another of hot chocolate in one hand, the balloon book under his arm, and in the other hand, a mug of tea that he sets before me. “Your sister said you’d need this.”
“Thank you.” I unlatch my cape and drape it over the back of my seat. One of my kids comes bounding out of the store with his parents and bumps my fist before continuing on toward the square. “Are you ready for your trip?”
“Everything’s done except the packing,” he says.
“Were you able to translate the handwriting in Annika’s book?”
He nods. “One of my TAs helped me verify the items to make sure I translated them correctly. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“Me either, and I’ve found all sorts of things in books.”
He pulls out a computer tablet from his bag and opens a document with the translated list. It looks the same as what Charlotte and I have worked together to translate—necklaces, jewels, candlesticks, small pieces of artwork. And the initials at the end of eachline.
“It’s like a catalog,” he says.
“Or a wish list.”
“It seems too specific to be wishful thinking.” The chair creaks when he shifts his legs. “My assistant thinks this Annika was a very creative child who developed some sort of code with her friends. Perhaps they passed around their books with the notes to read.”
“But you don’t think that.”
He shakes his head.
“What about the teenager in the photograph?”
His eyebrows rise. “Her brother?”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure it was a crush. Maybe she was writing something to him....”
“Perhaps,” he replies in a somewhat-polite way of disagreeing with me.
“You said that Nazis were hiding things in this district.”
He nods. “Sometimes they forced locals to help them.”
