Laura was tugging at her sleeve, saying over and over ‘Mamma, Mamma,’ but Dagmar paid her no mind. She was so tired of hearing that demanding, whining voice, and the word was repeated so often that she thought it would drive her mad. Slowly she leaned down and picked up the paper. It was late in the afternoon, and she was having trouble seeing clearly, but there was absolutely no doubt. In black type it said: ‘German ace pilot Göring returns to Sweden.’ ‘Mamma, Mamma!’ Laura was pulling at her even harder, and Dagmar gave her such a swat that the girl tumbled off the bench and started to cry. ‘Stop your whining!’ snapped Dagmar. She hated that phoney sobbing. The child lacked for nothing. She had a roof over her head, clothes to wear, and she wasn’t starving, although they had little enough at times. Dagmar returned to the article, haltingly spelling her way through it. Her heart started pounding very fast. He’d come back, he was in Sweden, and now he would be coming to fetch her.
