There was only one person left who might know the truth. Aunt Ruth was ninety-seven. She was his mother’s younger sister. She had been there when Henry and Eleanor married in 1942. If anyone had heard the truth, it would be her.
William drove to the assisted living facility, the photo tucked into his coat pocket. His hands were shaking. He felt like an intruder, but he couldn’t stop now. He needed to know who his father had really been and why he had fled from his country of birth.
Ruth was sitting by the window when he arrived. She was frail, but her eyes were still sharp. When he told him why he was here, she looked at him with understanding. “You look like him today, William,” she said. Her voice was thin but steady.