Most of what Ania understands about politics comes from Frau Richter. Ania’s father, Herr Doktor Fortzmann, is a man of the old kind and believes children should be silent before their superiors. He is against politics in general and longs for the restitution of the monarchy. They have seen nothing but rioting and inflation in the five years since Wilhelm II abdicated. And Ania knows not to mention the Communists. Her father has not recovered from the shock of their brief takeover of Bavaria, which, for a few weeks in 1919, became the Bavarian Soviet Republic. If he begins on the subject, no one will hear of anything else for days. For Doktor Fortzmann all was better under the kaiser. And he is the kaiser of his own home.

Because her father is a doctor, Ania’s small family is able to live relatively well on a currency of traded goods—eggs and potatoes in exchange for stitches, help stacking wood or cleaning gutters for treating a sick child. And there are always sick children because the local coal factory workers live in such poor conditions. Unlike the many locals relying on cash wages in a period of food shortages and inflation, the Fortzmanns are at least warm and well fed.

Frau Fortzmann has not left her bedroom since Ania’s younger brother died. Back pain. Chest pain. Her delicate constitution. She does not venture beyond the confines of her sitting room. My sweet Ania, she says when Ania brings the breakfast tray Frau Richter prepares each morning. She runs her hand through Ania’s hair and her eyes fill with tears. Ania can barely stand to look at her. Her breath smells of the chamomile tea she drinks, and underneath of something sour—the essence of inaction. Tell me what is happening, she asks. And Ania is nothing if not dutiful: Frau Richter has a new cozy for the kettle, knitted by her sister. Father read from Corinthians last night. In school we studied fractions. Some men in Munich tried to kill the president. All news is equal. She has no idea what to tell her mother, no idea what she might be most interested to hear. Frau Fortzmann listens without really listening. She pats Ania’s hand if she stands nearby, or smoothes the soft skin with her thumb. For Ania, the act of recounting feels like vomiting. When she finishes, she immediately flees to the relative warmth of the kitchen and to more of Frau Richter’s salacious talk of politics.

On this day, when the French troops roll in to occupy the Ruhr, Ania has already visited her mother and completed her daily quota of embroidery. Frau Richter has gone out on “errands” and can certainly be found among the crowds gathered to watch the advancing troops. Herr Doktor Fortzmann is reading in his office, frowning over the latest news of German indignities. Only Ania is at loose ends, trapped in her room with the oppressively dark armoire, the stark painting of her paternal grandmother, and the tightly made bed she is not supposed to sit on. Out there in the world, not two blocks away, a conquering army is taking over her city, and here she is, locked in a chamber of relics.