“You can’t what?” she asked.

On the street, a group of jabbering teenage girls scuttled past.

“I can’t marry you, Benita. It wouldn’t be right.”

For Benita, the whole world lurched.

“Right?” she managed to ask. “For who?”

“For you.” Franz sighed. “For Martin. You deserve better.”

“Better than what? Is this about the flat?” The thought flooded her with relief, and she grasped it like a life raft. “I don’t care about the flat—we will move someday, and in the meantime, we can find a place for your father—a room in the house on the corner, maybe, or—”

“I don’t mean that,” Franz interjected, his voice harsh.

Benita sat back.

“You are the wife of a resister. You deserve a man who has done better with his life.”

Benita stiffened. This was not a term Benita had ever used: resister, referring to Connie and Albrecht and the others. It was Marianne’s word. “Why do you say this?” she asked, reaching across the table for his hand. “Did Marianne say something to you? Did she come here—”

Franz looked away, and his voice was tired. “It’s the truth.”

“According to who?” Benita demanded. “According to Marianne? She came here, didn’t she? She talked to you! Look me in the eye and tell me she didn’t!”

“This is not about Marianne,” Franz said. “It doesn’t matter what she did.”

“How dare she! She came here and talked to you behind my back! As if I were a child—smaller than a child, a toy—something to move around as she likes! She never liked you.” She lowered her voice to something like a hiss. “She blames you for that dead Russian in the woods, and you know what? I would kill him again if I had to! Just to show her it was me who did it—”

“Benita—”

“It’s true, Franz. You know that. She doesn’t understand—she sees everything through her principles and ideas. And it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter what she thinks! What about you? Aren’t you happy when we are together? Don’t I make you happy?” She paused. “Connie is dead!” It came out harshly, catching in her throat. She was aware that her voice had risen but didn’t care. Let all the sheeplike patrons of Bemmelman’s be shocked. Let them whisper and avert their eyes. “But we are alive! And we have suffered, too! Don’t we deserve this happiness?”

“Deserve?” Franz asked quietly, his eyes remote. “I don’t deserve anything, Benita.”

“You had to leave your family! You had to march into the east and nearly starve and freeze, and God knows what else—and now it’s over! The war is over! And finally we can begin something new!”

“Stop!” Franz commanded. “You can’t say this! Your husband, Marianne’s husband, they died for something they knew was right—and the rest of us followed along, did as we were told, and looked away. I can’t erase that—I can’t just begin again—”

“Why not? Is there any other choice?”

Dishes clinked and voices murmured around them. The cash register chimed. Someone laughed.