I am deep in the sea—with icy water on my face and neck. I am turning over repeatedly in the waves. Shivering. So cold. I hear echoing voices far away. They are speaking German. I can’t understand. Is it Johanna? What have they done with Johanna? I try to call out. “Adrie! Frieda!” My voice is garbled. A man is speaking. He is forcing my mouth open. Get away from me. Are you Himmler? Do not take Johanna! Now . . . I feel cool facecloths and comforting words. Is it Mommy? My mommy in New York? Am I in New York? Is that my daddy holding my hand? I miss you, Daddy and Mommy. Please come for me. Over the next several weeks—or so I found out later—I was in a dark place, not knowing much of anything. Night and day dragged into one long nightmare. At times I knew I was in my room. Other times I thought I was back in Maine, or in New York. How disappointing when I realized I was still in Berlin. I was often aware of Frieda sitting me up in my bed, fluffing pillows, coaxing me to swallow the soft food she made for me—scrambled eggs, chicken soup, oatmeal.
