Benita backed away through the small crowd, careful not to draw Fräulein Brebel’s attention. Once free, she ducked down the little pedestrian allée that led to the old millpond and Beiderman’s Apotheke, where she could buy a bottle of the hand cream that promised to set her apart from all the other wash-powder-chapped girls of Frühlinghausen. For what? Who knew. For whom? Another good question. But the questions themselves excited Benita. She was destined for something better than Frühlinghausen.

Then suddenly, rounding the corner, Benita was confronted by the most handsome, most sophisticated man she had ever seen. He leaned against the wall of the millpond, lighting a cigarette and wearing a good suit. Benita recognized this immediately—it was made of some kind of English wool, and the shoes beneath it were of shiny oxblood leather. He was tall and slim and unmistakably aristocratic.

“Sorry,” he said, straightening and looking over his shoulder, as if to see whether he blocked her path. “Am I—?”

Benita blushed. “Oh no, I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

“Because they’re all so engrossed in the mayor’s brilliant oration?”

She laughed in surprise. His accent was refined, high German, and his sarcasm was as un-Frühlinghausen as his appearance.

“You were listening?”

The man shrugged and took a thoughtful drag of the cigarette he’d finally managed to light. “I was present.”

They were both silent for a moment. Benita felt the urge to smooth her skirt, straighten the little neckerchief that had probably blown askew—but she stopped herself and stood still, staring back at him. “It’s boring,” she said, and her heartbeat quickened at her own recklessness.

The man smiled. “The speech or the Anschluss?”

“Both.” Benita shrugged, feigning a sort of jaded sophistication. The man laughed. A jolt of fear snapped through her: Had she said something stupid?

“The Anschluss,” he said, pushing himself off the wall he leaned against, “is not boring.”

He extended his hand. “Connie Fledermann,” he said. “May I buy you a coffee somewhere and we can debate this?”

The touch of his hand was warm and dry and sent splinters of excitement through Benita’s veins. And his eyes were an almost eerie shade of blue—not pale like her own, but intense—the blue of the North Sea in the sun or of the tiny flowers that took over Frühlinghausen for a few magnificent days each spring.

But how could she say yes? She was bound by her own lack of imagination. Fräulein Brebel and the other girls would be looking for her. It was Heimatabend, and they were to go directly to Olga Meisner’s parlor for a piano concert following the mayor’s speech.

“I can’t,” Benita said formally and with genuine sorrow, “but thank you for the invitation.”

“Why not?” he pressed. “You must get back to that bore?”

“No.” Benita blushed. “To my group.”

“Your group—aha!” He narrowed his eyes and gave her an assessing look. “Aren’t you too old for Hitler Youth?”

“Oh, it isn’t that—it’s Belief and Beauty,” she said, surprised at his mistake.