The comment jarred him. He was so rarely around anyone who spoke of his mother.

“But she lived in one,” Martin said.

“I think of that man she saw,” Marianne continued, fixing her gaze on the dock. “After the war. The ex-Nazi.”

“Herr Muller,” Martin offered, though his own memory of the man was hazy at best. He had been astonished when Marianne told him of his mother’s affair, so many years ago. But he had not been alarmed. His own memories of the man were positive. He had shared his Christmas chocolate with him on that long-ago day.

“I was very hard on her about him,” Marianne continued. “I think, if she loved him and he loved her . . .” She shook her head. “This is the main thing, isn’t it?”

At that moment, Alice reappeared, carrying a cereal bowl half filled with sugar.

“Aha, well,” Marianne said, breaking the somber mood, “we live in elegance here, don’t we, Alice?”

“Maybe so.” Alice smiled shyly. She had a scar on her neck, Martin noticed, a thin white line that snaked down from her ear.

“Love is the thing, we agree, is it not?” Marianne asked.

Alice looked from Marianne to Martin. “Yes, ma’am,” she said when it became clear that Marianne was addressing her. “Love is great.”

“You see?” Marianne said to Martin. “This is what I mean to say: love is great.”

Martin felt suddenly consumingly tired. The heaviness of the exchange, the awkwardness of the moment—what had he expected?

“Would you like anything else?” Alice asked in her soft, pleasantly accented voice.

“No, no—except a schnapps for Martin. He needs one, I think.”

It was maybe an hour or two later, with the sun softening to forgiving afternoon ripeness, that Marianne posed the question. It wasn’t a question, actually.

She placed a card in front of him—thick white stationery like a wedding invitation. The return address caught his eye: Burg Lingenfels.

Inside was a postcard with a black-and-white photograph of a woman squinting at the camera, shielding her eyes against the sun, one rubber booted foot propped on a low wall. Marianne, at the cistern.

MARIANNE VON LINGENFELS: MORAL COMPASS OF THE RESISTANCE was printed underneath.

Martin looked up at her, surprised.

“Yes, it’s me. A biography.” Marianne made a gesture of dismissal.

“That’s wonderful,” Martin said, turning the card over. “A remarkable story of a woman at the heart of one of the most courageous stands against evil in our time . . .” he began to read.

“Oh, it’s a little much,” Marianne said, though she could not fully conceal her pride. “But that’s not the point. There is a party. This fall. At Burg Lingenfels.”

Martin sat back. “A weekend of talks, discussions, and meditations on the subject of resistance,” he read aloud.

“Martin,” Marianne said, leaning forward, “I want you to take me there. And I want to find Ania and bring her, too. I want to invite you both—as my guests.”