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“I’m sorry,” I said weakly.
“No, no.” Jürgen waved a vaguely dismissive hand in my direction. “I know you wouldn’t have spoken without provocation. It’s just...you know how men can be about their wives. He’s protective of her, as he should be, and so knowing you two had that disagreement... I suppose things have been tender between us. I figured it was for the best that we just got on with work instead of trying to hash it out. But now—how am I going to talk to him aboutthis?”
“I think this must be his wife’s doing,” I whispered. Jürgen frowned. “She made it pretty clear she doesn’t want us here. Maybe she’s just trying to cause trouble for us. Calvin might not even know.”
“So...do I talk to him about it tomorrow?”
I shrugged.
“To what end? So he goes home and argues with his wife?”
Jürgen nodded slowly.
“He has a lot of influence, Sofie,” he murmured, closing his eyes briefly. “I really cannot afford to get on Calvin Miller’s bad side. His recommendation will make or break my citizenship application one day.”
We woke up the next morning to find graffiti had been painted on our street again. Bright red letters, over the black paint from last time, all across the entrance to the street. It was already dry by the time Klaus walked out his front door to go to work and noticed it. He came to let us know.
“Lucky I took Detective Johnson’s advice and bought the paint in bulk,” Jürgen sighed.
“This is ridiculous,” Klaus muttered, glancing at the paint resentfully. Other families were coming to their doors now, but the women quickly shepherded their children back inside after they saw the paint. There was a brief meeting between the German men after that, most of them already dressed for work as Jürgen was.
I watched through the window as they stood on the street and stared at the paint. What were they thinking? The truth was, many of these menweremembers of the Nazi party. Did they feel shame at the reminder, or just frustration at the inconvenience? The answer was there in the slumped shoulders and downturned mouths.
After a few minutes, Jürgen returned to the house, already unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are we going to do?” I asked him. He shrugged sadly.
“There isn’t much we can do if the police aren’t interested in helping us. We thought about a roster of men to watch the street and try to catch the perpetrator, but there seems little point—what would we do with them once we did? The men are in agreement that the best strategy is to paint over it and hope the culprit gets bored of the game.”
I stood on the porch and watched as Jürgen got to work, carefully rolling paint over the words on the street. The events of the previous night, and now this, left me unsettled and confused. I was trying to keep perspective, reminding myself I’d expected a transition period where things might be uncomfortable—but then a man rounded the corner into our street, on the sidewalk opposite our house. I’d seen him before, on that first day as we arrived from the bus station. Maybe he had to pass through our street as he walked to and from work.
The man stopped a dozen or so feet from where Jürgen was painting over the graffiti. Jürgen looked up at him and offered a nod in greeting, which the man did not return. He just stared at the road for a long moment, his face twisted into a smirk. Then the stranger continued casually on his way.
I waited until he was well out of earshot before I walked down the porch stairs and onto the front path. As I approached Jürgen, he turned back to me and shrugged.
“I thought being in a neighborhood with the other German families would be for the best, but it seems there are some downsides to everyone knowing which street we all live on.”
“Yes, I’d say there are some downsides,” I muttered. “I saw that man the first day we arrived and he was no less hostile then.”
“It will get better. This is still new for everyone. The town will adjust to our presence here in time.”
“I hope so,” I said softly, extending my hand. Jürgen took it and squeezed it gently. “And this time, at least we’re together through the struggle.”
