Yours always,

Connie

Benita set the letter down. Connie—her dear Connie, whom she had never even said good-bye to. Whom she had hated—really hated—for so long. But he had always been strong. He had lived his life on a plane of grand ideals and all-encompassing rights and wrongs. His view had been much longer than the trappings of his own life. And she had been the little mouse who could see no farther than her own nose, stumbling over roots and stones, oblivious to the oncoming storm.

She sat for a long time. Night deepened outside. The rain passed and stars shone. A sliver of a moon rose, shedding no light.

Her collection of objects lay in heaps, no more substantial than the scraps of leaves and paper a bird might use to shore up her nest. Somewhere, out in the world, Franz Muller moved through life, serving dinner to Clotilde and his father on the yellow tablecloth, or working late in his coffin shop. And somewhere Marianne was doing . . . God knows what: writing, organizing, dining with friends—Marianne never just sat. And Martin, her own son—Benita imagined him in his room at Salem, head bent over his books, improving his life.

There was a purpose to each of their lives. Even Franz was responsible for old Herr Muller and Clotilde. Only Benita had no purpose. She had already raised her son. All she could do now was hold him back. She was a woman built for love. But love was dead—at least to her and to her generation. There was no place left for it in this world. And yet, she had never wanted anything else.

In the dark, she removed her dress and jewelry and lay down on the bed. She took one of the pills Lotte’s doctor had prescribed to help her sleep. And as the warm, floating feeling of a dream came on, she shook another pill into her hand. She saw Connie’s face as it was when he had come to her that last night, and it felt almost possible to go back, to turn to him and say Good-bye and Good luck. To give him her blessing. And she saw Martin in her arms, as a baby, his sweet, innocent face lighting up when she bent toward him. To this too she could return.

She took a few more pills, and then the rest, swallowed them with one gulp. And then she lay back down.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FRÜHLINGHAUSEN, DECEMBER 1950

The train ride from Tollingen to Frühlinghausen was long and full of transfers. Three minutes to change trains in Frankfurt, seven in Kassel, twenty in Göttingen . . . everything was once again on time. In the cities, bombed-out remains of buildings had been oddly integrated into the general forward motion of life—like assimilated amputations, noticeable only to strangers, such as those passing through on trains.

Marianne and Martin managed, for the last leg of their journey, to find an empty compartment. It was not a busy travel time: midday, midweek, children at school, adults at work. Everyone was caught up in the reassuring web of industry. Only the travelers had come unstuck.