Excerpt
The opening day of the trial, I found a seat at the back of the crowded courtroom. Listening to the appalling charges, I wept for the victims of her treachery. I knew that she had worked for the Deutsches Reich, a decision that led to my parents separating and to my mother lodging me, aged sixteen, with Walter Fertig, a kindly gentleman who kept rooms at 45 Schlüterstraße, a five-story building that housed artists and professional people, and where I first met Gemma Rosselli.