“How do I look?” she asks.

“Beautiful,” Alice says. “Like yourself.”

In the mirror, an old woman with a stern expression stares back.

Downstairs, the first party of the weekend has begun.

Various fellows—mostly Europeans and a few Africans, a small cadre of Chinese dissidents—mill around a table of wine and hors d’oeuvres: fancy cheeses and pickles and ham toasts, platters of shrimp cocktail and chicken satay, a funny mixture of European and American cuisine. The countess would approve of such eclecticism. But the Falkenberg Institute itself would be far too serious for the countess’s taste.

Marianne is overwhelmed by the internationalness of the world represented here. So many cultures and backgrounds in a castle built to protect some probably illiterate, surely small-minded feudal overlord. There was a point in her life, not so long ago, in which the castle’s transformation, the diversity of this audience, would have seemed like insurance against the rise of another Nazi-like regime. But now the connection feels obscure. Her hip aches, and her face is stiff. There are so many people in the world. This, above all, is what Marianne sees demonstrated here.

Claire arrives and makes a beeline for Marianne, full of questions and ideas, accompanied by people she would like to introduce. She is lovely with her thick, dark hair piled messily on top of her head, wearing a bright red low-cut blouse. Marianne thinks of Benita, who lived at a time when it was impossible to be both intellectual and voluptuous. It gives her a pang of sadness. Unlike Claire, Benita was a prisoner of her own beauty.

“How was the trip? Did you request the vegetarian meal? What do you think of the renovation?” Claire takes Marianne’s arm and leads her through the party, whispering information and making introductions. There is a German woman studying Sophie Scholl and a Swiss “fan” of Marianne’s, and the man organizing Albrecht’s letters into a new book. Marianne shakes hands and tries to listen and absorb. But her eyes keep flickering to the door. How silly that she did not arrange for a more private place to first meet Ania.

And then there she is. An old woman stands in the doorway with someone who must be her daughter: little Mary, Marianne’s namesake. Ania is smaller than she remembers and uses a cane, but her back is surprisingly straight. Her hair hangs around her face in a neat and sensible bowl cut. But her face! It is old, wizened with wrinkles of every direction and stripe. She looks into the room with an expression that is at once tremendously sorrowful and alert. When her eyes land on Marianne, they ignite. And she is Ania again—full of the same unique and unflappable strength. How familiar she is still, from the forward jut of her head to the intense seriousness of her gaze.

“Ah, this is the guest you have been waiting for,” Claire says, following Marianne’s gaze. “You must introduce me!” It has become clear to Marianne that she has spoken remarkably little of Ania or Benita to Claire, despite all their long hours of interviews. The fact makes her uncomfortable, as if the women are secrets she has kept.