“We meet here once a week to discuss our efforts for the Resistance,” Ilse explained as Mitzi started filling steins of ale. “Though unfortunately there isn’t much we’ve been able to do yet, since we cannot transmit safely.”

“We’ve been listening, though,” Mitzi said. “I monitor the radio waves from the keg room. That’s how we found out you were coming.”

“So what exactly have you accomplished for the Resistance?” Simone asked.

The pause grew thick enough to stuff a parka in winter as Ilse’s mouth flapped open, closed. “Well, nothing, yet,” she finally said. “But we’ve been gathering intelligence—like the Magpie’s requests. I record the minutes of my commanding officers’ meetings, their research projects.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Simone asked.

Ilse narrowed her eyes at her. “When it’s safe for us to make contact with someone, we will.”

“Oh, I see. You’re waiting until you have nothing left to lose—”

Ilse sputtered. “That isn’t—”

“Surely our intelligence can help.” Mitzi shrugged her shoulders. “The soldiers like me well enough. They tell me things sometimes. They all want to sound more important than they really are when they’re trying to get me into bed.” She looked at her nails. “And our other friends, they all work in the castle, too. We hear things.”

“We’re doing what we can, don’t you see? We hate the Third Reich—we know this isn’t Germany, not really,” Ilse insisted. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get our country back.”

“But this is Germany,” Rebeka said. “Germans did this. Germans continue to do this.”

Mitzi sighed. “Well, not all of us. This whole business with sending the Jews and Communists to camps and so on, that isn’t right.”

“But those are German laws. Germans agreed to do those things,” Rebeka pressed.

“Well, I’m not doing it, and I think it’s gauche, and I’m not even a Jew.” Ilse folded her arms. “So there you have it.”

“One of my best friends in grade school was a Jew,” Jürgen piped up. “He was always so kind and honest and eager to talk to everyone. Not at all like . . . well, you know, like they say. Isolated. He didn’t speak Hebrew. Hell, he probably spoke better German than me.”

Mitzi brought a tray of ale toward them and gestured toward the booths in the alcoves. “Sit, sit, this is too dire a topic to discuss sober.”

“So your friend didn’t deserve this treatment . . . but the ‘standoffish’ ones do? The ones whose German isn’t perfect?” Rebeka asked. Phillip gently guided her into the booth, but her limbs were like steel, bending under considerable strain as she sat.

“That isn’t what he meant,” said Ilse. “Only that, you know, stereotypes aren’t . . . Well, you get my point.”

“Clear as mud.” Phillip scooped up one of the steins.