Why did you decide to go back to Frühlinghausen? he had asked in his first letter, and she had answered as best she could: There was no reason for her to rely on Marianne’s hospitality any longer. And it was important to be near her sisters; Lotte needed her help with the house . . . She knew her answers were thin. But Martin seemed to have accepted them because he had not asked again.

In his last letter he had written of an invitation.

A wealthy classmate from an old family had asked him to spend the winter holiday skiing with them in Switzerland. He was reluctant to accept. I don’t want to leave you alone at Christmas, Mother, he wrote. I could stay with you in Frühlinghausen. Does Lotte have room? The thought depressed Benita. She hated the idea of him here among Lotte, Gertrud, and their families. He would have to sit beside Gephardt in the dingy church pew she had loathed as a child. He would have to eat with people who gobbled their food in silence and wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands. This was not what she had raised him to be.

No, she had insisted. Accept the invitation. You can come visit in the new year. It will be good for you to learn how to ski. So he would spend Christmas on the slopes of St. Moritz with some happy family of dukes and duchesses. It was better this way, but at the same time her heart ached. She would content herself with his image and letters and the knowledge that he was happy.

The next day she steeled herself for an interview at Weseman’s.

Lotte, being Lotte, had gone over first thing in the morning and laid the groundwork. God knows what embarrassing things she had told them. In any case, she reported, the owners were happy to meet with Benita. In fact, Trude Weseman remembered her from their days together in the BDM.

This startled Benita. She did not remember a Trude Weseman.

Lotte stared at her impatiently. Trude Schultz. She had married a Weseman.

A face presented itself to Benita: pale and large eyed, with pimply skin and dark hair pulled back into tight braids. Of course! Benita felt the stirring of hope. They had shared experience to go on—not friendship, but a connection: all those long hours with Fräulein Brebel, singing Nazi Volkslieder and slogging through arduous Sunday hikes. All that ridiculous homemaker training, stamping butter and aerating batter and generally learning skills the war would render useless. There would, maybe, be something to laugh about.

But when she arrived, she did not recognize the woman who opened the door. Over the years Trude had grown stout. And her pimples had given way to pockmarks. Her hair had gone prematurely gray. Benita realized with dismay that she had seen this woman around town once or twice already and not acknowledged their connection.

“Trude!” she said warmly, offering her best smile.