Like Lydia, Helene was dressed in Trachtenkleidung. Unlike Lydia, Helene did not wear a scrap of makeup, and her light hair was clumsily braided. Was my modern style the reason for Otto’s displeasure?

“Do you have children?” she asked me quietly.

“Two,” I told her, smiling. “Georg has just turned five, and Laura is three.”

“Your husband is a gifted man, Sofie,” Otto said. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to bear his children for the Führer. The Reich needs Aryan families to be productive.”

I lifted my wine to my mouth to take a sip, only to choke as I swallowed. Jürgen gently tapped me on the back—the gesture both comfort and warning. We did hope to have more children—but we were also unconcerned that I hadn’t got pregnant again. I was only twenty-four, after all. There was plenty of time left for us to expand our family.

Just then, Lydia sailed past me on her way to the kitchen. I excused myself, insisting she required my help. I caught up with her in her kitchen, where she was delivering sharp chastisements to her staff about a delay with the starters. When she was done, she turned to me. My gaze dropped to her clothes automatically and she grimaced.

“Yes, I know. I look like I’ve just come in from the fields on some godforsaken farm,” Lydia whispered. “But it’s the newest style, apparently. I picked it up from the Deutsches Modeamt today.”

The Deutsches Modeamt was a fashion department backed by the Nazi government, advocating for German designers and German fabrics. I’d heard they made beautiful clothing, but as I took in Lydia’s outfit, I struggled to hide my confusion.

“I think this was the style some time ago. Didn’t we move on to more modern clothing?”

“And did you notice Helene isn’t wearing makeup?” Lydia murmured, as we walked back toward the party. “I bought a traditional outfit when Karl asked me to, but if he tells me to stop wearing my eyeliner, I’ll throw myself off a cliff.”

“I doubt Karl even knows what eyeliner is.”

She laughed. “Otto says it’s unfeminine for women to wear modern clothes or makeup. But the worst…” She groaned and touched a careful hand to her blond bob. “He says German women should never dye their hair. I can’t go back to mousy brown, Sofie. I just can’t.” Lydia visited the salon so often, I never noticed a shadow at her root line.

“You really needn’t concern yourself with what Otto thinks,” I said quietly. “He’s not your husband.”

“Sofie,” she scolded. “Don’t you realize how important Otto is? Our husbands have the ear of a man who has the ear of the Führer.”