“I know the papers say the war is going well, but we are struggling against the Soviets,” Jürgen admitted. I’d heard whispers of the same in Berlin. “The way my program has made such rapid progress has been through constant experimentation—that’s an incredibly expensive approach. We used to have an unlimited budget. Then we had a generous budget… Now we’ve had a series of budget cuts. Otto has become worried that the program might shut down if we don’t deliver something war-ready soon.”

“But…if a rocket reached space—” I said, trying to cheer him up, but he shook his head.

“That’s only part of the picture, my love. We fired several rockets over these past few weeks. Most failed. One succeeded. We don’t actually know how to produce these things reliably yet—let alone to mass-produce them, and on a shoestring budget.”

“What are you going to do?” I whispered.

“I fantasize about finding ways to undermine our progress, but I am surrounded by brilliant men. If I attempt sabotage, it will quickly become obvious to them.” His gaze drifted over my shoulder again, to land on the children. “I’m trapped on this path where my work is building to something heinous.”

Otto and Helene threw a party that Christmas at their lavish home in Dresden. He had climbed the ranks of the Nazi party and been invited to join the SS—awarded the prestigious role of Hauptsturmführer.

When we arrived at the party, Otto greeted us in his full SS uniform—the high leather boots, gray jacket and pants, patches on his collar and shoulders that bore his rank. Helene was pregnant yet again. I’d met her a number of times over the years, and every single time I’d seen her, she’d either been pregnant or holding a newborn. That night, she looked exhausted. Her eyes kept drifting to the ceiling, as if she’d rather be upstairs in bed, or anywhere but that bustling holiday party.

“Congratulations,” I said politely, motioning toward her stomach.

“Number eight,” she said, and although this was clearly intended as a boast, her exhausted tone, coupled with the way she sighed as she said it, suggested eight was perhaps a few more children than she’d have preferred.

“Still only the three children?” Otto asked me pointedly. At Lydia’s suggestion, I’d left Georg, Laura, and Gisela back in Berlin with her children and staff of nannies. “No chance of Mother’s Cross for you, then. That must be very disappointing for you both.” The Mother’s Cross was a medal given to encourage fecundity. The gold rank was the most prestigious, reserved for women with more than seven children. Both Helene and Lydia were awarded theirs the previous August. Otto’s gaze slid to Jürgen. “Perhaps we are keeping you away from your bride too much?”