Wilhelm woke with the fire diminished, and the room dark. He dragged himself to his feet and whispered for Hans to come to bed. Hans followed him under the fat comforters, and they fell asleep.

Plumpe asleep: the circulation of his blood, his measured breathing, the delicate function of his kidneys, the world of dreams in his head—all linked to the power of fate.

Hans woke him. The fire was out. The winter outside howled through the darkness. The lodge’s welcoming bell clinked under its ice sheath.

His hand on Wilhelm’s belly moved to his sex, cupping it as it grew. His fingers encircled and pulled, as if drawing out the erection. He quoted Xenophon again, to give Wilhelm courage. “All these soldiers have their eyes on you,” he whispered, lowering his face to Wilhelm’s hip. “If they see that you’re downhearted, they’ll become cowards; while if you are yourself prepared, they will follow.”

He held Wilhelm still, as if pondering something. For Wilhelm it was a thrilling moment of privacy violated, as if his life had taken a leap that made everything more worthwhile. Poor Spiess, he thought, feeling his happiness rise; poor Veidt; poor Else.

“My Wilhelm,” Hans whispered. “My cold boy of understanding.” He put Wilhelm to his lips. Wilhelm gave himself over, wanting to let himself be taught, and to let himself teach. A phrase of schoolboy Apollonius streamed through him: ψνχὴ γὰρ νεφέεσσι μεταχρονίη πεπότητο (“For her psyche had taken flight high among the clouds”). Hans lifted him off the bed with his hands and his mouth, and eased him back down.

In such a situation, Wilhelm dreamed. He dreamed he was free and that people loved him. He’d done nothing wrong and was fully happy, and the one he loved most was kissing him. He felt that unsettlement at his heart, that absolute stripping down. What he learned, shockingly vivid, dimmed immediately, as illness does for convalescents. It was a glimpse into that other world.

He slept. In the moments before he woke, he savored his existence as someone else, without future or past.

The next morning, when he emerged dazed and dripping from a bath, Hans had arranged before them on their dressing table an English breakfast: strong red tea from a teapot Wilhelm could hardly lift, with jam, scones, bacon and eggs, oatcakes, potted meat, and home-baked bread.

He was changing his name, Wilhelm announced. It was the first thing he’d said that morning. He was no longer Wilhelm Plumpe. From that moment on, he was Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau. He was breaking with one family to better signal his allegiance to another.