In her room, Benita pulled on the battered brassiere and the vest that she had washed and worn so many times its seams were nearly gone, the drops of blood across the belly now faded to innocent-looking brown splotches. She found a washbasin and a pitcher of water on an otherwise empty shelf. She splashed some on her face and pulled back her poor brittle hair, knotting it at the nape of her neck.

There was a loud rap on the door. “I’m leaving shoes here for you,” Marianne’s voice said. “See if they fit.”

Benita’s own were a badly worn pair of boots she had stolen from a bombed-out flat that she had joined the women of her building in combing through. No one asked what had become of its inhabitants—lying dead under the rubble of the bombing or safe in the countryside or killed in a concentration camp. The shoes had been cheap to begin with and were now nearly worn through.

Benita waited until Marianne’s footsteps receded to retrieve the new boots. They were certainly the finest she had ever come into contact with: dark green, barely worn, with an elegant, distinguished heel. The leather was soft and smooth, and against it, her finger felt monstrously chapped. They were too fine for a woman with such hands, the kind of boots she had once dreamed of wearing. It seemed a cruel joke that this would be that day. Be careful what you wish for, they seemed to taunt. She could not put them on.

When she emerged, dressed, Martin sat at the kitchen table between Elisabeth and Katarina. His mouth was stained with raspberry juice, his eyes round at the sight of so much food.

“Ah, that’s better!” Marianne said of the clean white shirt and wool skirt Benita now wore. “The shoes didn’t fit?”

“No,” Benita lied.

Suddenly there was a gurgling sound from Martin, and the little boy’s face turned red.

On either side of him the girls blanched.

“Oh!” Benita exclaimed, feeling his shame as if it were her own. Of course his poor belly was not used to all this fruit. He had probably eaten God knows how many bowls of porridge, and now the berries, and whatever else. The stink was putrid—full of the bile of a dysfunctional gut.

“Poor boy,” Marianne said. “We should not have fed you so much!” She held out a hand to him, taking charge in her usual calm, competent way. “We will have to find you a new pair of pants.”

Slowly, humiliatingly, Martin rose, the back of his pants stained and the stench growing worse.

“Come.” Marianne nicked her head. “I know just the thing.

“Benita,” she added over her shoulder, “would you give that pot a stir?”

Benita nodded and watched as Marianne disappeared with her son.

CHAPTER TWO

THURINGIA, LATE MAY 1945

In the Children’s Home, Martin Constantine Fledermann was not Martin’s name. He was Martin Schmidt, just as Berthold von Stauffenberg was Berthold Meister and Liesel Stravitsky was Liesel Falkman, and so on. All the children were given good, ordinary German names. And the shameful thing was that Martin had almost forgotten he was a Fledermann.