“He is an artist, isn’t he?” the countess proclaimed.

It was nearly six o’clock. Guests would begin arriving at any moment.

Marianne hurried upstairs to the chilly hall of bedrooms where her girls were holed up in an ancient curtained bed, a relic from the castle’s feudal past. Her one-year-old son, Fritz, was at home in Weisslau with his nurse, thank God.

“Mama!” Elisabeth, age six, and Katarina, age four, shrieked with delight. Elfie, their sweet, mild-mannered au pair, glanced up at Marianne with a beleaguered expression.

“Isn’t it true that Hitler is going to take back Poland next?” Elisabeth asked, bouncing on the mattress.

“Elisabeth!” Marianne exclaimed. “Where did you get this idea?”

“I heard Herr Zeppel saying it to Papa,” she said, still bouncing.

“No,” Marianne said. “And why would you think that was anything to be excited about? It would mean war!”

“But it’s supposed to be ours.” Elisabeth pouted, stopping mid-bounce. “And, anyway, Herr Zeppel said the Poles can’t manage themselves.”

“What nonsense,” Marianne said, irritated that Albrecht had allowed the child to hear such talk. Zeppel was the overseer of their estate in Silesia and an ardent Nazi. Albrecht tolerated the man’s nonsense because they had grown up together: Weisslau was a small town.

“But it was ours, wasn’t it?” Elisabeth insisted. “Before the war?”

“Elisabeth,” Marianne said, sighing, “you concern yourself with what is yours, please—and that includes the book you are supposed to be reading with Elfie right now.”

The child exasperated Marianne with her endless obsession with possession. She seemed to have absorbed the national sense of aggrievement, as if she, personally, were the victim of some great unfairness. She had so many advantages but always wanted more—a newer dress, a prettier skirt. If she received a bunny, she wanted a dog. If allowed a bonbon, she wanted two. In her mind, the world seemed to lie entirely at her disposal. Marianne, whose upbringing had been characterized by firm parsimony and restraint, was constantly appalled by this demanding, presuming creature she had raised.

“Elfie—” She turned to the au pair. “Will you see to it that the candles are out by eight? The girls may come down to the landing, but no farther.”

“But—” Elisabeth began, and Marianne shot her a look.

“Good night,” she said, giving an extra squeeze to sweet, quiet, dark-haired Katarina and kissing Elisabeth’s maddening little brow.

On her way downstairs, Marianne paused on the landing to observe the hall below, its stone archways illuminated by candelabras. The flickering light lent the room an exciting, almost spooky glow. Early guests had begun to arrive: the men in waistcoats and tails, a few in uniforms with gaudy new Nazi insignias stitched on the lapels; the women in fine new dresses. Under Hitler, the economy was growing strong: people had money, once again, for silk and velvet and the new Parisian styles. From a throne-like seat in the middle of the hall, the countess greeted her guests, her wheelchair carefully hidden away for the evening. She was a mountain of blue and green silk, the likes of which no other German woman of her age (or any other) would wear. Her laugh rang out strongly for someone in poor health—had there ever been a woman who loved a party more? And there, bowing before her, was the guest who elicited this peal of laughter: Connie Fledermann. Marianne felt a rush of excitement. Who else received such a welcome? Connie was a great favorite of the countess’s, a star in his own right, a man whose boldness of character, wit, and intelligence rendered him beloved by all—a charmer of ladies, a receiver of men’s trust and confidences. No one, from crazy Hermann Göring to somber George Messersmith, was immune to Connie’s charisma.