There was moonlight and the softness of blue-black hair against his face as she drowsed in the curve of his arm. He waited until her breathing told him she was just between sleeping and waking. Lips close to her ear, he whispered in Polish, "It has been years. The time perhaps they will let your people go." Her arms tightened convulsively, but she didn't awaken. In the same language she mumbled, "I don't believe it...still a chance...pigs..."
1960.