As the baron said the name, between his thick lips Emil Korsch’s teeth clenched in hatred and unconsciously both hands, which he held at his side, clenched into fists. He managed to maintain his outward composure, however, sufficiently to continue on with the conversation.

Otto, meanwhile, was on the verge of a coronary at the dreadful turn of the discussion. Korsch was likely to double or triple the fee for his silence! How could Heinrich be such a fool! Couldn’t he see that this man had Gestapo written over every inch of his pockmarked face and greasy skin?!

Slowly, by degrees, he began distancing himself from his brother, keeping an eye out for someone whom he might legitimately move across the floor to greet and speak with, leaving Heinrich and Korsch to themselves.

As he glanced nervously about, his eyes fell on Countess von Schmundt as she made her elegant descent down the wide stairway into the Grand Hall. This was the moment she had been waiting for! She swooped down into the room with full ceremonial triumph, to scattered adoration and applause, as her husband strode forward, took her hand, kissed her lightly on the cheek and then began making renewed rounds of greeting, introduction, and well-wishing.

Marion watched the display with compassion, grief in her heart for what her old friend had allowed herself to become.

After some time had passed, she approached the hostess.

“Hello, Ingrid,” said Marion. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you, Frau von Dortmann,” replied the countess, with noticeable formality, vouchsafing not even so much as a condescending smile.

“Everything looks so nice—the flowers, the decorations—it’s very elegant.”

“It is very kind of you to notice,” rejoined Ingrid, still stiff. “Be sure to partake of the refreshments. The best caterer in Berlin prepared them. Now, if you will please excuse me,” she added, “I must see to my other guests. There are many important men and women here from the city.”

With a flourish of her dress, she spun around, leaving Marion standing in the middle of the floor alone. Ingrid had intended to snub her, and thought to herself that she’d pulled it off rather well, judging by the look on Marion’s face. She smiled smugly with satisfaction, then floated away toward a group of fashionably attired military wives.

In truth, she had only succeeded in grieving Marion further. The expression that followed Ingrid was one of pity, not offense.

After a moment or two, Marion returned to where her husband and the Gestapo agent from Berlin continued to discuss the implications of spiritual loyalty to God and country.

“Yes,” Baron von Dortmann was saying, “I believe with all my heart in rendering to caesars and Führers alike all that rightfully belongs to them.”

“One might easily interpret your words otherwise, Baron.”