Page 91 of The Little Liar

With Nico, that horror was locked away. Fannie actually preferred that. Perhaps he didn’t acknowledge her because he didn’t want to dredge up what the war had put her through. She viewed that as kind.

They spent more time together after screenings, talking over coffee that Fannie had brewed. Nico spoke about his love of movies, and what he thought made a good story. Fanniespoke about her daughter living in Israel, how proud she was of her. She never mentioned the girl’s father, and Nico never inquired.

Then one night, in early 1983, it was storming outside, and Nico used his umbrella to walk Fannie to her car. The rain was torrential, the wind blowing it sideways. Fannie’s shoe suddenly slipped off and she fell into a large puddle before Nico could grab her. Fannie’s dress was soaked. She started laughing.

“Are you hurt?” Nico said.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Once you’re this wet, what’s the difference? It’s like when we were kids in the summer, remember? If it started raining, we’d just run into the sea with our clothes on?”

“With our clothes on, yeah,” Nico said, grinning.

Fannie blinked. “You remember that?”

Nico’s expression stiffened.

“All kids do that stuff,” he said.

Fannie wiped the rain from her cheeks, then steadied herself with one arm on Nico’s shoulder. As she tried to put her shoe on, she lost her balance and fell against him, and when she lifted her eyes, her face was inches away from his, and he had an expression she had never seen before, like a confused, lost boy.

Then, for the second time in her life, she kissed him. She had done this as a child, in an awkward, pubescent rush. But this time was soft and lingering, and her eyes closed and shelet herself float in the moment, which felt much longer than it actually was. When she opened her eyes, she saw him staring at her.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard, handed her the umbrella, and ran off into the rain.

Nico learned about the Greek march in a meeting.

A few days after that encounter with Fannie, a director came to his office, seeking money to make a documentary about the famous Nazi Hunter. Nico said he was familiar with the Hunter’s work; he had read about the high-profile arrests.

“He would make a great subject,” the director insisted. “Imagine a man who refuses to rest until all the escaped Nazis are brought to justice—as well as those who helped them.”

“Helped them?” Nico said.

“Yes. The ones who collaborated with the Germans are just as guilty, don’t you think?”

Nico shifted in his seat.

“Has the Hunter agreed to be part of your movie?”

“We’ve exchanged letters. He’s considering it. I want to film him next month in Greece. March fifteenth. He’s doing a commemoration event there.”

Nico looked up.

“March fifteenth?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Thessaloniki.”

“Salonika?”

The man grinned. “Actually, the Greeks call it Thessaloniki. Anyhow, he’s leading a march there to honor all the Greek Jews killed during the war. They’ll finish at the old railway station, where the trains took them to the concentration camps. A good spot for an interview, don’t you think?”