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“They’re gone. They’re both gone.”

“I know. I know.”

“I have no one.”

“You have me. You will always have me.”

The hospital in Malmö is like a dream. There are clean sheets and real food. There are doctors who speak kindly to her and treat her like a human being. They operate on her feet, removing dead tissue, saving what they can. She’ll keep her feet, and her legs, but the damage is permanent. She’ll never walk the same way again. Her hands will recover in time.

“You’re lucky,” the surgeon tells her. “A few more weeks and we would have had to amputate.”

Lucky. The word sounds absurd. But at least she’s alive and she has her feet.

After the surgery, they move her to a rehabilitation home. It is a beautiful building surrounded by gardens on the edge of the city. Huge windows that let in the light. There are other survivors, all working to regain their strength, to remember how to be human.

Andrée learns to walk again, slowly, painfully, and with a cane. Her feet will always hurt, will always act as a reminder of Rechlin, of the forest, of the cold that nearly killed her.

As soon as she is feeling stronger, she writes a letter.

Maurice taps on the door with an envelope bearing Swedish stamps. It is addressed to M. Louis and Mme Augustine Levallois in handwriting that makes Tina’s breath catch.

“It arrived just now,” Maurice says. “I thought I should bring it straight up.”

Tina stares at the envelope. It’s Andrée’s handwriting!

“Shall I . . . ?” Maurice gestures to the door.

“No. Stay. Please. I don’t think I can . . . Please stay.”

He nods and sits.

Tina opens the envelope with shaking hands and pulls out the letter. It is Andrée’s handwriting, a bit shakier than before, but unmistakably hers.

She reads:

Dearest Maman and Papa,

I am alive. I am in Sweden, in a city called Malmö. I am receiving medical treatment and will be here for some weeks more. I was liberated from a work camp called Rechlin on the first of May. The Russians came and then the Swedes brought me here.

I am injured, I’m sad to say. My feet were badly frostbitten, but I have had surgery so I will keep my feet, but I will not be able to chase Josie around the way I used to. I will probably always need to use a cane.

I don’t know when I will be well enough to come home, but the doctors say I am slowly improving.

Maman, Papa, I need you to do something for me. Please do not tell Josie I am alive. Not yet. If my recovery does not go well, if I do not survive, I do not want her to have hoped and then lost again. I do not know if Ruth and Léon have returned. Please let me know anything you can when you reply. Please let her believe I am still missing until I am well enough to come home. Until I am certain I will make it back to you.

I know this is asking a lot. But I cannot bear the thought of her waiting for me if I do not return. Please understand.

I pray you are both well. I pray Josie is safe. Tell me everything when you write back. The address of the rehabilitation home is at the top of this letter.

I love you both so much. I am coming home. I promise. I am coming home.

Andrée

Tina lowers the letter. Tears stream down her face. Maurice puts his hand on her shoulder.

“She’s alive,” Tina whispers. “Maurice, my daughter is alive.”

“Yes, she is.”