It quickly became clear that what Otto thought about any particular subject was of great concern to the rest of the dinner party, and he monopolized the conversation that night. It didn’t matter who was speaking or what the discussion was about—Otto found a way to interject, often to disagree.

I always loved Lydia and Karl’s dinner parties, in that beautiful dining hall with its high ceilings and elaborate chandeliers. That night had all the makings of a fun evening—dressing up, socializing with clever and important people, beautiful surroundings, excellent food. Jürgen was seated to my right, beside Otto, and on my left was Aldo Radtke, a recent university graduate and the youngest scientist present. As the scent of roasting pork knuckle wafted from the kitchen, I sipped on my wine and turned to Aldo, trying desperately to ignore Otto’s booming voice.

“I’ve only been working at Kummersdorf for about six months, Mrs. von Meyer Rhodes—”

“Please, call me Sofie.”

“Sofie,” the young scientist said, his cheeks turning pink. “I’m an electrical engineer. You see, there are many ways to control—”

But once again, Otto was delivering a sermon. My ears pricked up, and I turned ever so slightly toward him.

“…when a man is sick, you cannot just treat the symptoms. You have to rid him of the underlying cause of the sickness—the germs. It is like this with the Jews, you see. While the Reich is riddled with Jews, society cannot function as it should. That’s why the Party’s highest priority is addressing the scourge.”

I turned fully toward Otto, but I was looking beyond him at the reactions of those at the table. Whenever I’d encountered such hateful comments in the past, I’d noticed a split-second pause after the words—as if the audience held their breath to see how others would respond. Even if no one spoke out, that pause reminded everyone that a line had been crossed.

But there was no pause when Otto spoke. Every single guest seemed enthralled. A chill ran down my spine when my gaze landed on Lydia. She was seated beside Karl. Her cheeks were rosy red, from the fire or the wine or the excitement of the evening, her eyes bright. I wanted so much for her to look at me, even for a second. What would I see in her eyes? We once had a good friendship—a solid friendship—but my respect for Lydia was disappearing by the minute.