Peter Hoffmann blinked quickly before sucking in a deep breath. He refused to cry. He clenched his jaw as he refolded the letter and jammed it back into the envelope. I’ll hide it, he decided. Maybe it was wrong to stuff the letter into a book, but he didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t bear to see it.

His ploy didn’t work. Every time he passed the small study, his conscience pricked at him like small needles. 

“Dear Peter and family,” his father had written, “With broken heart and sorrowing soul I answer your letter.” 

I know, Papa, Peter thought again and again. I know you’re hurting. I’m hurting, too. Your lost wife is my lost mother. 

This day was worse than most. Kneading dough, employees’ distractions, customers—nothing diverted his thoughts from the letter for long. His father’s letter begged a reply, but he could think of how to answer. If he didn’t care about hurting his father, he knew what he’d write. 

Papa, I wish I could be there for you, but I can’t. My life is here now—my business and home, my wife and my children. This is where I belong. You ask me to leave it all to return to Germany. You ask too much. 

Do you understand how difficult it is for an immigrant to start a successful business in this country? I can’t simply leave and expect to come back to my bakery anytime I want. And the house I built with my own two hands? Would you have me leave it as well? As for Kristina, I fear if I took her to Germany as you suggest, she would never return with me. And the children would surely stay with her. 

Besides all that, to return to Germany and live for even a year in the land ruled by Adolf Hitler is an intolerable thought. Maybe you feel insulated from him and his policies in Wolsfeld. But can you promise me it’ll always be that way? Could I subject my family to life under such a brutal regime?

I’m most concerned about losing Kristina. You know what it is to love a woman more than you love your own life. I know you loved Mama that way. Well, I love my Kristina just as much. Only I’m afraid this love isn’t mutual. 

For the first year of our marriage, Kristina complained of everything here. Nothing was good enough. 1923 was a prosperous year in America and in New York City, but Kristina was always negative. She couldn’t get used to life in a big city, especially in a foreign land. “It’is not like Kottweiler,” I heard over and over. “The air is dirty. The streets are dirty. The place is overflowing with people, but they’re all the wrong people. I miss my family and my friends in Germany. I miss my mother’s beautiful home and garden. People shouldn’t have to live in apartments piled on top of one another. And I cannot even talk well here! I’ll never learn this dreadful language. Peter, must we stay in this horrible place?”

Her complaints drained me, like the unrelenting drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet. Her mood changed only after she became pregnant with Ralf. Later, her heart lightened when Katrin and Elsa came along. The glow that first attracted me to Kristina gradually returned. 

But, Papa, it was not a love-glow for me. 

Even when we were dreaming, planning, and finally building our house, I somehow suspected it was our new home, outside of the city in a small and quiet community, which made her smile. 

She doesn’t complain anymore; she gave that up many years ago. But my heart weeps when I think that, if she were back in Germany for even a short time, there would be no hope of her and the children returning with me. 

I simply can’t take that risk. Do you realize you’re asking me to give up the life I’ve spent seventeen years building? I can’t. I won’t. 

I know that you and Mama never wanted me to leave Germany. “You’re our baby, Peter,” Mama always said. It didn’t matter that she had three other children. Papa, you’ll have to be content with Daniel, Stefan, and Anna’s visits. I know they don’t live nearby, but they’re still in Germany. I have no prospects in Germany. My life is here now. You must understand.

The comfort Peter yearned for by verbalizing his thoughts didn’t come. He had never articulated his thoughts about Kristina to anyone, not even to himself. And now the sad, sick reality that his wife didn’t really love him—had never truly loved him—washed over him like a wild storm overtaking a beach.

*****

It was Monday, cleaning day. As usual, Kristina went about her housework quickly and efficiently. First came the dusting, which was not an altogether tedious task. It gave her time to hold and revisit memories from Germany. Her mother’s tatted and crocheted doilies graced nearly every room in the house. Miniature cedar chairs, wardrobes, and tables, delicately wrought, reminded her of her father. Frames held faded but treasured family portraits. 

Even the low oak bookshelf carried treasures. Some of the volumes were with Kristina and Peter when they landed at Ellis Island as newlyweds. Pausing from her chores to sit on the floor in front of the bookcase, Kristina’s mind turned to her arrival to this country. Everyone on board squeezed onto the ship’s deck, each searching the horizon for the Statue of Liberty. 

This was not Peter’s first trip to America. He had already lived here for four years before he briefly returned to Germany to marry. His bakery was already a successful business in their neighborhood in New York City when Kristina arrived in 1923. Peter was so excited to introduce Kristina to her new country. 
How funny, she thought. She didn’t remember the statue at all. Instead, she recalled Peter’s excitement, the jostling crowds, crying babies, frantic parents calling out for children, and a blurring buzz of conversations around her. 

Kristina shook herself loose from the memory and reached for the family Bible on the shelf. Reverently opening the Holy Book, her fingers tenderly traced the inscriptions inside the first page, names of each member of her family for three generations.

Then, flipping the pages to the comfort of the Psalms, she found a letter still in its envelope. Strange. Who else reads from this Bible?, she wondered, turning the letter over. It was from Peter’s father and addressed to the Peter Hoffmann family. Surely Peter’s father intended for her to read it as well. Why would Peter have hidden it?

Kristina rose from the floor and moved to the loveseat. There, she pulled the letter out of the envelope. With some anxiety, she began reading:

Dear Peter and family,

With broken heart and sorrowing soul I answer your letter. You were kind to send your letter of comfort, my dear son, but I am still so heartbroken I can hardly write without crying. My grief at the loss of your Mama breaks my heart in two. What a wonderful and good-hearted wife and mother she was! Many times in the days before she died, she said, ‘Papa, I won’t leave you!’ But she did leave me, so lonely and dejected I can hardly bear it. She didn’t leave my utterly, though. I see her pictures tucked into books and albums and hanging on walls. 

Daniel, Stefan, and Anna console me as best they can. Somehow, though, I am not comforted. I sit alone in this large house with memories all around me. I think you’re your return—you, Mama’s and my favorite son—would comfort me in a way your brothers and sister can’t. Daniel and his wife have suggested I go to live with them in Berlin. But what would I do in such a large city? Anna spent a week with me and tended Mama’s garden. She thinks I should move as well. But, how can I bear to leave this place which echoes the memory of your Mama? I can’t. 

Why, Peter, did you leave your home and family? Capable workers are needed in Germany as much as they are in America. Others have gone there and returned. Why not you? 

If only you hadn’t built that house! If you had sent the money here, capable builders would have constructed a fine home for your family. 

Now that Mama is gone. I’m asking you to return and share this house with me. Why does one old man need such a palatial home? Here, you and Kristina and the children could live comfortably, surrounded by fruit trees, meadows, forests, and gardens. 

Come. Come back and live here with me for a year—or longer. You can sell your house and save the money for your children’s future. You’ll find all you need here and more. 

Before Mama left me, she read a little devotional. It was entitled, ‘Too Late!’ My dear Peter, don’t wait until the right moment has passed. You and Kristina must decide what to do. I can only pray you’ll make the right decision. Come home.

With tears and hopes, 
Papa

Kristina slumped back, exhaling as she did so. She knew the loss of Peter’s mother would be difficult for his father, but she didn’t know how much he wanted Peter and their family with him in Wolsfeld.

Why hadn’t Peter shown her the letter? She wondered if Peter knew how she felt about living in America, in this house. She should tell him. He had a right to know. 

But Kristina was not in the habit of sharing her feelings with her husband. Her mother had even cautioned her about it before their wedding. “Tina, don’t burden Peter by telling him all your thoughts and feelings.” Kristina remembered the conversation vividly, even after thirteen years of marriage. 

“I don’t understand, Mutti. Don’t you tell Vati what you think?”

“Well, of course, but only to a point. Men aren’t emotional like we are. Sometimes it’s better to talk with other women. They’ll understand you better. Peter has enough things to worry about.”

As Kristina reflected on that advice, she realized she had perhaps followed her mother’s instruction too meticulously. As a young woman, she had dreamed for a man she could share every part of life with. In fact, her mother’s counsel had been a quiet disappointment to her. Still, she bravely played the role of silent partner to Peter. Only now did she question the advice given so many years, events, and emotions earlier. Perhaps it would have been better had she told Peter how she felt long ago about him, America, and returning to Germany. “He should know,” she murmured. “Mutti, I think you were wrong about this.” 

She resolved to talk with Peter, at least about this letter and how it made her feel. She owed him that much. She owed herself that much.

*****

The proper moment to speak with Peter never seemed to come. Every day that week, he returned from the bakery exhausted. Sean, a young man in need of a job, had turned up at the Hoffmann Bakery three weeks earlier. Since his arrival, though, money was missing. At first, it was such a small amount, it was barely noticeable. This week, however, Peter saw a great difference in his books. And his mood, uncharacteristically sulky and sullen, reflected the change he saw.

“The bakery is as busy as ever,” Peter explained to Kristina one night after the children were in bed. His accounting book lay in front of him on the table. His eyes rested on the red numbers as he added, “but my profits are dwindling.” He looked at her for the slightest moment, evading her return glance.

Kristina broke the awkward silence. “Do you think Sean may be stealing from you?”

“Think? I’m sure of it!” He slammed his hand down on the table, startling Kristina and knocking over the delicate vase she had filled with the first spring flowers from her garden. 

“Papa!” she cried out, standing quickly to right the vase. It had not broken, but its water spread over the pale blue tablecloth, darkening the fabric like threatening clouds that cover and dim the sky. 

A flash of embarrassment, then confusion swept over Peter’s face. He rose from the table abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over behind him, and strode from the room. 

This is so stupid, Kristina thought. There’s something wrong with a man who can’t speak to his wife. Guilt instantly jabbed her. Oh, and what would you say is wrong with a woman who can’t speak to her husband? the voice in her head mocked in a syrupy tone. She dropped more than sat down onto the chair, feeling entirely defeated.

Her thoughts seemed to grab onto her feelings, yanking them down from discouraged, to dejected, to depressed. She covered her face with her hands as salty tears washed her cheeks.

After some time, the cuckoo sounded the half-hour. Could it be nine-thirty already? She lifted her face to see Peter sitting opposite her. She hadn’t even heard him enter the room. Embarrassed, she quickly wiped her face.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly.

“It’s all right. The vase didn’t break.”

“I’m not talking about the vase.”

Kristina’s forehead scrunched into a silent question.

“I’m sorry I make you so unhappy. I’m sorry I dragged you to this country. I’m sorry I’m not the man you could have married. I’m sorry. For everything,” he said, his words coming quickly, wanting to escape his mouth before he had the chance to retract them.

“What are you talking about?” 

“I know you’ve never been happy living in America. You complained so much that first year. I know life is bearable for you now because of the children and this house. I know you would return to Germany and to your mother’s household in a moment if I only said the word. Life with me has surely been a great disappointment to you, Mama.” His words were bitter. “Perhaps we should do as my father suggests and return to the old country. There at least you could be happy.” 

Now tears were seeping from Peter’s eyes, though he didn’t seem to notice them. With a cracking voice, he said, “So go. You are free to leave me. Do what you must. At least one of us will be happy.” His head dropped to his hands and he began to weep more loudly.

Kristina rushed to his side and knelt next to him. “What are you talking about, Papa? Why would I want to leave you?”

“Wait a minute,” he answered quietly. He stood and left the room. 

Kristina returned to her chair. Perhaps this was the time to tell Peter what she had been holding back these past several days. He surely needed to hear it.

Peter returned, tossed his father’s letter onto the table in front of Kristina, then sat down again. “There. Read it.”

“I already have,” Kristina answered softly.

The lift of Peter’s eyebrows asked his questions. Really? How did you know about it? When did you read it? And the last, what did you think?

“I’ve known about it since Monday. I found it when I was dusting and wanted to talk about it.”

“What did you want to say?” Peter barely managed to squeeze out the words.

Kristina stretched her hands across the table. “Peter, my husband, my love,” she spoke in an awkward tone. She hadn’t called him by his name for such a long time. For the past twelve years, since the happy arrival of Ralf, their firstborn, Peter had been “Papa,” and Kristina, “Mama,” even to each other.

“I know your mother’s death has been difficult for you. For your father, it’s been almost unbearable. If you feel you must be there to help and console him, I’ll go and stay there with you. I’ll give up our home and our life in America. But, Peter, I’d rather stay here.”

Peter’s head shot up and he released a small gasp.

“What is it? Have I said something wrong?” Kristina asked, worried she was perhaps foolhardy to go against her mother’s advice.

“N-n-no. It’s only… I didn’t expect that. I thought you wanted to return to Germany and never come back.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

With a downward gaze, Peter spoke. “I know life here has been difficult for you. Our first year you complained about everything.”

“But—”

“Please let me finish. Not until the children came did you seem happy. Then, when we moved here, you seemed even more content. It was obviously because of this new home away from the city. I realize now you were never really happy to be married to me.”

“I wasn’t happy to be married to you? No, no. It’s always been my feeling—ever since our engagement—you weren’t happy to be married to me.”

“What? Why would you think that? Have I been unkind to you all these years? Have I failed you in some way as a husband?”

“No. It’s…Well, it’s Louisa.”

“Louisa? Who’s Louisa?”

“The Louisa you returned to Germany to marry. The Louisa whose parents decided they couldn’t bear the thought of their daughter leaving the country and so forbade your marriage. The Louisa who was your first choice. Don’t think I don’t know about her. Your sister Anna told me the whole story. I knew you could never really love someone who was only a consolation prize.” Kristina’s face was red and she angrily brushed tears from her eyes.

Peter rose from his chair to stand behind Kristina. She stiffened when she felt his hands touch her shoulders. He waited until she relaxed slightly, then wrapped his arms around her as he bent forward, letting his cheek rest against her soft blond curls. 

He spoke softly near her ear. “I’m sorry Anna told you about Louisa.” He held her more firmly now, wishing to emphasize his words through his arms. “Did you know Louisa and I and were friends from school? I kept in touch with her when I first came to New York City. But we were only friends. I wanted to marry a German girl, so when I returned to Germany, she was the only prospect I saw. We hoped our friendship would be enough. When her parents refused to let her marry me, I was actually relieved.

“You have no idea how happy I was to meet you. You were shy, but gentle and sweet. I loved the sweet little dent in your chin and the way your curls flow wherever they want. I wanted to marry you, my love. I couldn’t find a better match.” 

“So,” Kristina said, nearly choking, “why did you think I didn’t want to be married to you? I loved you from the start. You were so fun and kind. I wondered why such a successful man would want me. I’ve been so happy with you.”

“But you seemed so unhappy, especially the first year. I thought you hated living here and hated me for bringing you here.”

“It was just hard to adjust to all the changes,” Kristina answered. “You’ve talked to other immigrants. Don’t you realize moving to another country and culture is difficult? But I got over it. You—first and most of all you—then our children, and now our new home, have made my life complete. I’m happy here, Peter. And I’m happy to be your wife. I don’t want to return to Germany. That life is in our past. This is a good place. A good country.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, Kristina? I never knew if my decisions pleased you or not.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I followed some bad advice. But I want that to change. I do.”

Kristina stood and the two hugged. Their bodies felt so right together, like they fit. They both thought so. Neither had ever mentioned it, though.