Why had this faux familiarity been the starting point for them? It confused and flustered Benita, but at the same time seemed essential—vital to the excitement. She would wonder about it later, when the time to wonder about such things returned. By then Connie and old Frau Gruber were dead, and her brothers had been killed on the front. And there was no one left with any insight.

At the Golden Onion, Benita and Connie sat beside a pleasantly flickering fire, and Connie ordered them each a glass of the local cider and a schnitzel. It struck Benita as comical—a fancy staff officer from Berlin, ordering this. “So tell me,” he asked when their cider was before them and the Jägerschnitzel steamed greasily on its plate. “What do you really think of all this marching and saluting and repatriating the German peoples of Europe?”

Benita was shocked at his question—the implication and glib tone. It was, maybe, a trick, she thought. After all, had he not said he was here on some official business?

“I think it is a kindness by our Führer to bring them back into their motherland. And also the German people need more room and space,” she parroted Fräulein Brebel in a confused rush.

“Who told you that?” Connie asked, laughing.

“No one—it’s what I think,” Benita said, drawing herself up straight.

“And what of all the opponents and Communists and Jews who’ve been arrested?”

Benita stared at him in disbelief. It was a traitorous line of questioning. And the basis for the question was fuzzy in her mind—certainly in Frühlinghausen no great number of people had been arrested. She stared down at her hands and could feel the blood racing to her cheeks.

“Oh no! I have upset you! My dear maiden,” Connie said, again using his cheerful playacting voice. “Don’t let my talk confuse you. Here—we will talk about Frühlinghausen’s famous cider. Is it really as good as your arrogant distillers boast?” He took a swig and made a comically evaluative face. “Do they put socks in every barrel?”

“Only in the barrels they save for visitors like you!” Benita recovered and was delighted to hear him laugh.

“Well, it’s delicious,” he pronounced, setting his glass on the table. “In Berlin we have only beer.” He made a face.

“And champagne,” she said. “Isn’t it so? There are bars in Berlin where they serve nothing but champagne?”

“Absolutely.” Connie leaned forward and took her hand. A thrill raced through her at the touch. “Will you come to one with me, Mademoiselle Gruber?”

“You are an odd one!” Benita could not help exclaiming, and for a moment she worried that she had ruined their game. Connie threw back his head and laughed.

“I am sure you are right, fräulein. And you must promise to remind me of that whenever I am being a boor.”

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. There was no further talk of politics, and Connie seemed truly interested in learning all about her. Benita had never been asked so many questions—about her family, her childhood, her town, and Fräulein Brebel’s BDM group, about which Connie was remarkably curious. The cider made her feel free and light. And through Connie’s eyes, she saw herself anew. Not only was she beautiful and young, a future bearer of bold and strong Aryan children, but she was also a woman who could tell funny stories. And her life—the boring, small-town monotony of Frühlinghausen—had become a subject worthy of this man’s attention: the carnival at which she was crowned queen last year, the crabby town butcher who mixed up everyone’s orders, the time Frau Meltzer’s pigs escaped onto the mental hospital grounds. Connie had a seemingly bottomless appetite for her tales. And every time his knee grazed hers, she felt a jolt of electricity.