Spring was coming to New Bedford, and the trees lining the street turned green. If you squinted along it, you could almost imagine that you were in the Hauptallee in the Prater, and that none of this had happened—the Nazis coming, the family sundered. Kurt could already sense—if it hadn’t been for the lack of his mother and father, and of Fritz, Herta, and Edith, and the vast distance that lay behind him—that he had found something that felt like a home.
