Mrs. Wallenberg: a Holocaust romance by J. Michael Dolan
Join me in a story from days gone by that, if you can get past my handwriting, you won’t soon be forgetting.
To look at its author is to see a wrinkling old woman, hair as faded and brittle as pressed flowers. But don’t hold your breath waiting for me to complain. I was twenty once, and by most accounts a beauty–five-foot-nine, hair the yellow of ripe wheat, lips bee-stung, eyes emerald–but no one save she condemned to die ere her time escapes the insults of old age.
It’s enough that a merciful Providence has condescended to keep my memory young. And what memories they are! Of a momentous, murderous era, a time when darkness swept the land, and of a man who in his courage, his compassion, dared raise a lamp against that darkness–a man that, until the day they stole him from my arms, I had the great good fortune of calling my lover.