CHAPTER NINETEEN

TOLLINGEN, JUNE 1950

Marianne was in the middle of a dream when the doorbell rang. A sweet, long-ago dream from her last life, of sitting in the garden at Weisslau, a picnic under the chestnut tree with her children, the dogs, and Albrecht. And then all the gaiety disappeared. She was not in Weisslau but in her flat in Tollingen. The plot had failed. Weisslau was lost. Albrecht was dead.

Marianne sat up. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes and uneven layers of floor wax. It was still day. Without her work at the camp, she found herself napping at odd times and reading deep into the night. It was embarrassing. She swung her legs off the sofa. It was likely Benita, having forgotten her key, of course.

“Welcome home!” she said, opening the door, hoping there were no telltale wrinkles from the pillow on her face. “Where are your keys?”

“I’m sorry.” Benita blushed. “I must have left them on the table—or when I was—”

“Come in, come in,” Marianne commanded. “It’s too cold in the hall. How is your sister?”

“My sister.” Benita looked surprised. “Oh, yes—she’s well. Thank you.”

“She’s well?” Marianne asked. “I thought she was ill again.”

“As well as possible.”

Marianne studied Benita. She was, as usual these days, in a state of heightened spirits. She seemed overexcited, in fact. Something had happened. She could not step over a dead cat on the sidewalk without it appearing hours later on her face.

“Here, you must be tired from the trip. Come have some coffee and raisin cake,” Marianne said, starting toward the kitchen. “The children ate almost all of it, but I asked them to save some for you.”

Benita followed her.

“Wash up and I’ll make the coffee,” Marianne said, as if Benita were a child. And like an obedient daughter, Benita did as told.

“I’ve been thinking,” Marianne began as soon as she returned, “that we should take a trip together with the children, show them something of Germany. We could go to Berlin first and visit Georg Bucher—did Connie ever introduce you to him? They were always such dear friends . . . or maybe into Munich to see Marienplatz and the Asamkirche? The boys are getting so old and what do they know of their country? Nothing but all the bad things.”

“All right.” Benita nodded, poking at her slice of cake.

“Or,” Marianne ventured, “we could visit Helmut Kressing—What is it?” She broke off at the sight of Benita’s face. “Do you really dislike him so much?”

“No! No, no,” Benita said, shifting in her seat. “I just—there is something I need to tell you.”

“Of course,” Marianne said, sitting back. “You look so serious.” She laughed. “Is it a matter of life and death?”

To her surprise, Benita did not smile.

Marianne could not sleep that night. She tried to believe it was the nap. But of course it was not. Benita’s news was like a mouse crawling around in her head, nibbling on the wiring, pissing and shitting on her memories, creating electrical storms. Benita Fledermann, wife of Martin Constantine Fledermann, was to marry an ex-Nazi, an ordinary carpenter turned member of the Orpo, a man with God knows how much blood on his hands.