He looks down at me. “Really?”

“Yes, our village, it’s called Bochnia, is close to the Tatra—” I stop midsentence, interrupted by the sound of voices. Down the path, there is a group of teenagers coming toward us, laughing loudly. A knot forms in my chest.

Paul notices my reaction. “What is it?” I do not answer, but gesture with my head toward the youths. “Do you want to go back?”

“No,” I reply quickly. “It’s just that…” I hesitate, my skin prickling. I have seen so few people, other than the camp staff and residents, since coming here. Staying on the palace grounds, it is easy to forget that we are in Austria, a country that embraced the Nazis so readily. But now, seeing the teenagers, I am terrified.

“I understand. Wait here.” Before I can respond, Paul walks back in the direction from which we had come, leaving me alone in the middle of the path. Despite my anxiety about the teenagers, I cannot help but notice Paul’s long legs, his awkward coltlike gait. He approaches the fisherman, gesturing toward the boat. But Paul does not speak German, I realize, watching the fisherman shake his head. I see Paul reach into his pocket and hand the man something.

I walk toward him. “What are you doing?”

Paul gestures to the boat. “Your chariot, milady.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wanted to get away from those kids, right?” I nod. “But you didn’t want to go back. So I rented the boat from this man. Indefinitely, if need be.” The fisherman turns back to his rod, disinterested. He would not have loaned his boat to a stranger; Paul must have paid him enough to buy it outright. “Ready?” He holds out his hand.

I hesitate. I have never been on the lake and it is nearly dark out. But the teenagers are almost upon us now, their voices growing louder with each second. I reach out and Paul’s fingers, large and warm, close around mine, sending a shiver through me. I let him lead me to the water’s edge. Paul helps me into the boat and I make my way gingerly to the wide wood bench at the far end. The boat wobbles slightly as Paul steps in with one foot, pushing off from the bank with the other. He sits on the middle bench opposite me and picks up the oars. Then he begins to paddle with small strokes, steering us toward the center of the lake. As we pull farther away from the bank, I relax and look around. It is nearly dark now and the gaslights surrounding the lake are illuminated, their reflections large fireflies in the water. I watch Paul as he looks over his shoulder, aiming for the center of the lake. Warmth rises in me once more.

As the boat continues gently away from the shore, the teenagers’ voices fade away and the air grows still. In the distance, a cricket chirps. I swat at a mosquito that buzzes by my ear, then turn back toward the palace. Yellow lights glow behind each of the windows. “Penny for your thoughts,” Paul says. I shake my head, puzzled. “It’s an expression. I was asking what you were thinking.”

“About my friend, Rose. She wasn’t feeling well tonight.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He stops rowing and rests the oars in his lap. “There, that’s better.”

He leans forward, resting his chin in his hands and gazing up at the mountains. I study his face out of the corner of my eye once more. He is really here, I marvel. At the same time, disbelief washes over me. Even before the war, in the best of times, I was never the girl whom boys sought out, took for boat rides. I want to ask him why he is here with me. “So how long have you been in Europe?” I say instead.

“About a year.”

“Do you like it?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘it.’ Europe? It’s beautiful from what I’ve seen. The army? I’ve made some of the best friends of my life, at least those of them that have survived. But this war…my unit, the Fighting 502nd, they call us, dropped in on D-Day. We’ve fought in every major battle since. I mean, I would be happy if I never see another goddamn—” He stops suddenly, noticing my expression. “Pardon my language. I’ve been around soldiers so long, I don’t know how to speak in proper company anymore.”

“I understand.” And I really do. There are some things that only cursing can describe.

Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. “Thirsty?”

I shake my head and cringe as he takes a large swig, remembering his drunkenness earlier. “Do you do that a lot? Drink, I mean.”

He looks away. “More than some, not as much as others. More than I used to. That’s for dam—I mean darn sure.”

I want to know why, but I’m afraid of appearing rude. “What did you do before joining the army?”

“College. I was six months short of graduating from Princeton when I was drafted. Not that I was any great brain—I went on a football scholarship.”

“Will you go back? After the war, I mean?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? I’m not sure of anything anymore. Damn war.” This time he does not bother to catch himself cursing. “My fiancée, Kim, wrote me a letter a month ago, saying that she was through with me and marrying someone else.” Fiancée. The word cuts through my chest. Paul had been engaged when he liberated me. “And I’m one of the lucky ones.” There is a hollowness to his voice I have not heard before. “My cousin Mike was killed at Bastogne. Two guys in my unit died, another lost his legs.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. Paul does not respond but stares out over the water, lips pressed together, jaw clenched. I feel an ache rise within me, my own losses echoed in his. My parents, my friends. I remember lying on the prison floor, realizing that there was no one left who cared, no one who would come looking for me. The idea was as unbearable as any physical pain the Nazis had inflicted. Then Paul had come. Until now, I thought of him and the other soldiers only as liberators, heroes. I never thought of what they sacrificed, how they might resent us for bringing them here. I want to reach out and touch him, to try to offer comfort. “I’m sorry,” I repeat instead.

“It’s not your fault,” he replies, shoulders sagging. “It’s just that sometimes it seems that I’ve lost everything.”

“No,” I blurt out.

“No, what?”

“No, you did not lose everything. Did you lose your parents?” He shakes his head. “Your entire family and all of your friends?” Another shake. “You did not lose your home.” I can hear my voice rising now. “Or your health.”

He looks down, chastised. “You lost much more than me, I know.”

“That’s not my point. I’m just saying that you didn’t lose everything. Neither did I. We’re here. Alive.”

He does not respond. Have I angered him? I look out over the water, cursing myself inwardly for saying too much. “This is so great,” Paul says a minute later. I look back, surprised to find him smiling. Happiness rises inside me. “The quiet, I mean.” My heart sinks. For a minute, I thought he was talking about being with me. “You can’t imagine the noise, the months of shelling and artillery. Even at night when the fighting stopped, there was no peace because you never knew when it might start again. It’s been better since the war ended, but there are still always a hundred guys around, talking and making noise. Don’t get me wrong.” He raises his hand. “I love my unit like brothers. But being in this beautiful place tonight…” He pauses, looking deep into my eyes. “Seeing you again…”

His words are interrupted by a low, rumbling sound. “Storm’s coming,” Paul observes as I turn. The sky over the mountains has grown pitch-dark. Thunder rumbles again, louder this time, and raindrops begin hitting the water around us. “We should go back.”

I look from the darkening sky to the shore. We have drifted toward the far edge of the lake, nearly a kilometer from where we started. “We’ll never make it back in time.”

“Then we need to find shelter somewhere,” he replies. “It’s dangerous being on the water in a storm like this.” The rain is falling heavily now, puddling in the bottom of the boat, soaking through my clothes. “Over there.” Paul points to the bank closest to us.