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Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Later he poured over old newspapers, Life and Time magazines, and the newsreel footage kept by the War Department, looking for her, even though someone told him she couldn’t be photographed. Still, he thought he saw her in at least two of the attempted Hitler assassination sites—as part of the 1939 crowd in the Munich Burgerbraukeller, and bringing coffee to the men at the 1944 Wolf’s Lair meeting. Sometimes he saw a swirl of light, and thought he caught a glimpse of her inside it—just a bit of black hair, a touch of skirt.

He told them to watch out for her in Nuremberg for the remaining trials, but of course, she never appeared there again.

She should never have appeared there at all.


He first met her in Paris, August, 1945. He had no way to describe how he felt then. “World-weary” was too weak a term, “depressed” too passive, and “defeated” put him on the wrong side. From the outside, he looked the same as he always had: Lieutenant Robert Parker in full dress uniform, square shoulders, square jawed, handsome in an All-American sort of way.

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