Ania set down the photograph. Outside, the afternoon sun yellowed, and bits of dried linden blew in the wind. It was time to prepare Carsten’s coffee and send Wolfgang out to the field with it. In the pasture, the bereaved mother cows bellowed for their babies still. They were not finished mourning yet.

The next day, Ania visited the return address from the first letter. The trip required a bus, a train, and a long walk. Ania left Inge, the house apprentice, in charge of supper, afternoon coffee, the wash, the cucumber pickling, and tending the garden—and set off.

It was an uncomfortable journey for a woman six months pregnant. On account of the heat, her swollen feet, and the sharp pain that shot up her spine, Ania had little time to think en route. So when she arrived in front of 19 Mauer Strasse, she was filled with a sense of shock. It was a real place, with real windows, and a real door. There was a front bell and a list of names beside it: a rooming house. The neighborhood was shabby; it stank of urine and cabbage soup.

An older man emerged from the door of the building as she stood there. Not Rainer, but certainly someone who had fallen on hard times. He scowled at her with blind resentment.

“Nha?” he said rudely. “Does it look good enough for you?” It took her a second to realize that he mistook her for someone looking for a place to stay.

Ania squared her shoulders and mounted the steps.

A hard-looking old woman came to the door. “No children allowed here,” she said, looking pointedly at Ania’s belly.

“No, no—I’m not looking to stay,” Ania said. “I’m looking for someone—”

The woman’s frown deepened. She had small, scrutinizing eyes. “I’m not an information service,” she snapped.

“I’m looking for a man—” Ania withdrew the envelope with the return address and showed it to her.

“This is a personal matter?” the woman said.

Ania colored. “It’s not—” she began and broke off. What did it matter? “Personal, yes,” Ania said. “Rainer Brandt.”

The woman’s eyes glanced briefly at the name without recognition. Rainer had always been the sort to slide by unnoticed, a man with an unremarkable manner and face. The woman shrugged. “There is no one by that name here anymore.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?” Ania asked.

The woman cocked her head to the side. “What would I do with that?” she asked. “Go on.” She shook her head and her voice softened slightly. “Finding him won’t be worth much.”

So Ania was forced to wait for Rainer to show himself. She went about her daily life half-present, botching her usual tasks. She cut herself pitting cherries, burned the potatoes she was boiling, left a pail of milk to sour in the barn.

“Are you all right?” Inge asked.

“Just wait until you are this pregnant,” Ania replied, more harshly than she intended. It was a convenient excuse. The weeks passed, and with each one she grew more irritable. Daily, she was tempted to confide in Anselm and Wolfgang, and then stopped herself. Anselm was locked in his studies, and Wolfgang spent his days with Carsten, preparing for the harvest, feeding the livestock.