eyes
the photograph. Taller, healthy looking despite the obvious weariness and grime—and wearing a uniform.“That’s Tom Stearns. Michael’s grandfather. He was a sergeant in the American unit that liberated Buchenwald from the Nazis.”
He put the photograph back on the mantelpiece. “Most people don’t know it, but West Virginians—in terms of percentage, of course, not absolute numbers—have provided more soldiers for America’s combat units than any other state in the nation, in every major war we fought in the twentieth century.” He turned back to face Abrabanel. “That’s why my father moved here, when he emigrated to the United States after the war. Even though he was the only Jew in Grantville when he first arrived. Tom Stearns had invited him to come, you see. Many others went to Israel, but my father wanted to live near the man who took him out of Buchenwald. It was the safest place he could imagine.”
Morris stared down at Rebecca’s father. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Balthazar Abrabanel?”
“Oh, yes,” whispered the doctor. “We had that dream, once, in Sepharad.” He closed his eyes, reciting from memory:
“Friend, lead me through the vineyards, give me wine
And to the very brim shall joy be mine . . .
And should I pre-decease you, friend, select
Some spot where vineyards twist, my grave to sink.”
Morris nodded. The nod turned sideways, pointing. “My father is buried in the town’s cemetery. Not far from Tom Stearns, and not far from Michael’s father, Jack.” His eyes came back. “And that’s all I’ve got to say, Dr. Abrabanel.”
Balthazar’s shrewd eyes turned to Melissa. “And you?”
Melissa chuckled. “I’d hardly call Michael Stearns a ‘prince’!” Then, cocking her head sideways, she pursed her lips. “Well . . . maybe. As long as we’re talking about Prince Hal, the rapscallion.”
Balthazar was startled. “The prince from Henry IV?” he asked. “You’re familiar with the play?”
It was Melissa’s turn to be startled. “Of course! But how did you—” Her jaw dropped.
“I saw it, how else?” replied Balthazar. “At