Marianne followed Herr Muller into the shop. It was a long, narrow place, with coffins lining one wall, and the planks and boards they were made of stacked high on the other—so much wood and so many supplies for preserving the dead. It was an ugly business. In the corner was a modest table and four chairs. Perhaps this was where Herr Muller sat to sell his wares to vulnerable, grief-stricken clients. This too shored up her resolve.

He pulled a chair out for her and sat down.

“Herr Muller,” Marianne began. “I won’t waste your time—you are a busy man, I can see. I wanted, however, to tell you that Benita has informed me of your plans.” She made an effort not to look away. In all the hopeless meetings with Nazi officials that she had conducted when Albrecht was in prison, she had learned how to return a gaze.

“Our plan . . . ?” he asked.

“Your plan to marry.” She let the word sit between them. “And I would like you to know that I am against it.”

“Ah.” The man looked stricken.

“Benita’s first husband was my good friend,” she continued. “A very dear friend, and a man of great character. He gave his life fighting against Hitler and the Nazis, and I don’t believe it is right that his widow, and more importantly, his son, be joined”—she hesitated, gathering courage—“to a man with your past.”

Outside, a wagon clattered down the street. But in the room full of coffins, Herr Muller mounted no defense. He had shockingly blue eyes. Marianne had forgotten this.

“Does Benita know you’re here?” he asked finally.

“No.” Marianne swallowed.

“Ah.” He nodded.

Marianne waited for an outburst of indignation. She had prepared for this. But still he said nothing.

“I hope to keep this conversation between us,” she said into the silence. “I promised her husband before he died that I would look out for her. And that I would look out for his son.”

“I understand.” Herr Muller nodded.

“You understand?” Marianne repeated.

The man lifted his eyes.

“I love Benita,” he said. “She is a good woman and she deserves a good life. And I . . .” He paused. “I wish it were different. I wish my life had not been as it was.” His blue eyes flashed at hers. “And I am deeply sorry for the loss of your husband and hers. They were brave men.”

Marianne stared at him. To her horror, she felt that she was going to cry. Or worse—that she was about to snort and sob and explode with all the ungraceful, unholy sadness that she had locked up inside her. And once she started she would never stop.

She could not let this happen. So she sat straight as an arrow and focused on the coffins—the dark knots of pine and the stippling of oak, the gleam of the hinges. Silence welled around them, this time not awkward but necessary, like a cocoon. From upstairs came the sounds of footsteps, muffled voices—the sweet chirp of the girl and the lower, grumpier tone of the grandfather, whoever he was. Marianne held on to these like a lifeline, trying to make out the words of their conversation. The effort calmed her. The hard knot in her throat dissipated.