Carsten himself noticed nothing. He treated her with embarrassed caution, darting glances rather than direct looks her way. During their half hour after supper he made a great show of turning on the radio for her, helping her to her chair. It would have driven her crazy if she weren’t so distracted. As it was, she barely registered his ministrations.

And she saw Rainer everywhere: outside the bakery, driving Herr Darmler’s gleaming new combine harvester, walking up the road from town. Every time the dog barked, Ania was certain it was at him. What would she do and say when he arrived? She had a million thoughts and none. She could see his hard, slight body, and the jerky way he looked over his shoulder, the firm set of his mouth when he embarked on unpleasant tasks. He was a body washed up in her mind, dragging the tangle of her own bad choices like so much kelp.

One day, Marianne came to visit with a basket of fine rolls from Bemmelman’s. It was still strange to receive her as Frau Kellerman, farm mistress rather than tenant. Ania was embarrassed at the disorder of the kitchen and her own rumpled dress. As she looked at her familiar friend’s face, she was oppressed by her own secrets. Dear, difficult Marianne, who had been so generous and optimistic from the start. She had taken in Ania and her boys without hesitation, without question, and never looked back. This blessing had turned into a burden. At any moment, it would blow up in Ania’s face.

Awkwardness made Ania formal. She pulled out Carsten’s precious supply of tinned cookies and arranged them prettily on a plate.

“Don’t make me feel a visitor,” Marianne said, waving them away. She seemed distracted herself. “I have to ask you something,” she blurted, and Ania’s heart raced.

“Have you ever known me to be cruel?”

Ania almost laughed. “Never.”

Marianne sighed.

“Why do you ask?”

Marianne turned from the window she had been staring out. “Did you know Benita stayed in touch with Herr Muller? The prisoner? Do you remember him?”

Herr Muller. In Ania’s mind, an image presented itself. A tall man, square jawed, pale eyed. She saw him as he had been the morning of the Russians, carrying Benita: a man with a guarded, uncertain face. A fellow keeper of secrets.

Marianne waited.

“I remember him. Why?” she asked, glancing out the window. The barnyard was empty. Her constant checking had become a nervous tic.

“Apparently she has been seeing him. All this time—writing letters and visiting—he lives nearby—in Momsen! And she imagines she loves him!” Marianne stopped. “I never even heard a word about it. All this time.”

Ania poured a cup of coffee and set it before Marianne. She was surprised but not shocked. She had wondered whether there was something between them at the time. But she had not imagined that their affair would have continued from that life into this. Benita, unlike the prisoner, was no keeper of secrets.