In Marianne’s mind, he appeared as he had the morning he carried Benita back from the woods: a giant man cradling a girl in his arms, covered in blood. Like some monster from a legend. What had happened that morning was something she had never understood. Benita had ventured out to warn Herr Muller of the Russians camped in front of the stable and had been attacked. She had stabbed her attacker. And the man had run off. Herr Muller had found her and carried her back. This was the garbled story that Benita recited. But Marianne never believed it. The next day, the Russians had come looking—one of them was missing. Marianne had said nothing, but of course she wondered. She could not imagine birdbrained, fragile Benita stabbing anyone. No, Marianne felt certain it was Herr Muller who killed him. Possibly in defense of Benita, possibly not. What was one more murder to a man who had served in Lublin? She had been right to tell Peterman to reassign him. Only she had been too late.

But now suddenly he was back. This time, even closer, popping up beside the little skiff of a family she was steering. All these years, he had been swimming alongside, beneath the surface. It was a shock and a betrayal.

I have failed you, Connie, Marianne thought. It sounded melodramatic. But it was true. Take care of my wife, Connie had instructed her. Look out for my son. Don’t let her marry a Nazi pig, don’t let a murderer take my place. That was implicit.

Marianne swung her legs out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and went to the kitchen. To her surprise, light streamed from under the door—the faintly greenish glow of the fluorescent coil on the ceiling. She hesitated for a moment—what if Benita was there? The idea that this would keep her from her own kitchen gave her a righteous surge of adrenaline.

She swung through the door, grim faced and prepared for battle, but was met with the sight of Martin sitting at the table, reading.

“Tante Marianne!” he said, his expression guilty. His face shifted as he took in her countenance. Dear Martin, poor Martin, sweet boy—Marianne tried to smile and amend whatever anger he had seen.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” she asked. “You have school tomorrow!”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said simply, and it occurred to her that for him this was not an unusual occurrence.

“Have you had milk? Warm milk?” She padded over to the small icebox and removed the bottle. “That always helps.”

He shook his head.

Marianne poured enough for them both and set the saucepan on the stove. “What are you reading?”

“Karl May.” Martin held up the book; it was Marianne’s own ancient copy of Winnetou, its cracked leather binding and faded gold embossing as familiar to her as an old friend. “I borrowed it from Fritz.”

“Do you like it?” Marianne asked.

“I love it.”