To my wife, Benita Fledermann was written across the front in a familiar, elegant script. The blood rushed to her head and away, leaving her faint. Here was Connie’s letter. The one Marianne had given her so many years ago. The one she had never opened. She had entirely forgotten that it existed.

From downstairs Benita could hear Lotte and Gephardt’s conversation, the shrill warble of her sister’s voice and her husband’s low, insolent grunts. Raindrops pattered on the sloped roof. She lifted the letter gingerly, half expecting it to disappear at her touch.

How could she have forgotten?

The fact was preposterous. What kind of woman would forget a letter from her dead husband? Why had she never read it? In the beginning, she had been too angry. This was true. But afterward . . . afterward she had simply let it slip. It filled her with shame.

Benita opened the envelope. The letter was not long. But at first, her eyes refused to make sense of the words, which swam and jostled on the page. Gradually, though, they fell into place.

My dearest Benita, it read. She could hear Connie’s voice. It had been so many years since she had heard it. If you are reading this, it means the plot I have given my life for has failed. That Hitler is still in power and I am dead.

She felt that time rise up around her—the flat in Berlin, Martin playing marbles on the floor. The restless loneliness and anger. The shriek of the air-raid siren.

I am sorry then that I put this spike between us for nothing. That is what I most regret.

I never meant to keep secrets from you, my love. I only wanted to protect you. The less you knew, the safer you would be. I could not let you bear responsibility for my actions. And I don’t even know if you agree with them. Our love is not a part of world events and politics. Our love has always been its own country.

Benita, I am so sorry for the ways I have hurt you. I know I have not been the husband you dreamed of. I have been foolish. I have been selfish. I have acted sometimes with my own interests, and our country’s interests, at heart. But I have always believed our future as individuals is fused with Germany’s. If I, as a human being, don’t act against Hitler, I cannot live with myself. If we Germans don’t put out our own demon, he will never be exorcised.

My dearest, I write this by way of explanation, if you should want one.

But what I most want to say is that I loved you from the moment I saw you on the day of the Anschluss, by the millpond, in your solemn little uniform. And I never stopped. Even now, as you read this. Be happy. Care for our son. Raise him to know happiness as you do. And I will be with you.