William laid the photo on the small table. Ruth didn’t flinch. She leaned forward and squinted at the image. “I haven’t seen this in decades,” she murmured. She looked up at William, her expression unreadable.
“His name wasn’t Henry,” she said softly. She continued, “It was Heinrich.” William felt the air leave his lungs, but he wanted to know more. “The orphanage?” he asked. “The Baltimore story?”
“All invented,” she replied. “Once the war turned, a German immigrant here was not safe. He was a dangerous thing to be. Your mother helped him build that story. They needed a background that wouldn’t get him investigated or turned away. It was a necessity of survival.”