Luke’s only once, on the twentieth anniversary of its completion. Her mother had asked her and Giselle to accompany her to services that day, just three years ago. So much had changed since then. Her father had stopped attending services first, just as the food shortages worsened. Her mother had told them all that they needed to pray more, but he’d refused. And the prayers Annaliese prayed had gone unanswered. The tall dome, the brown brick, the colorful stained glass of St. Luke’s all remained the same. For a moment she stared at the ornate threshold and imagined her mother nearby, both their arms looped with Giselle’s. The three of them together, worshiping a God who loved them. So long ago. She followed Christophe inside, wishing he would take her arm. Funny how quickly she’d abandoned her distrust of him. She’d never been able to connect him to the hatred those letters had shown, not even when she’d read them. She thought the war might have changed him, but after seeing him here in Munich, she knew it hadn’t.
