Yael’s name was already in the history books (inked—forever and always—beside Luka Wotan Löwe), but this did not stop her from accomplishing more. She followed the ratlines to South America and marked every Maskiertekommando she could find. She stood at the end of the Avenue of Splendors and watched the Volkshalle’s dome crumble to dust; the shock waves of its demolition shook the roots of her molars. She thought of the dead and fought for the living, entering the battleground of Neuberlin’s politics to make sure the voice of her people was not lost, would never be lost again.

She ate challah. She laughed. She wept. She wore herself proudly: short sleeves, first-face forward. The wolves and the lion went with her, always with her, running across warm skin, under daylight. The sun kept shining, and there was nothing left to her that was a lie.

Happily, sadly, humanly ever after…

Yael Reider lived.