“I have something for you,” she made herself say after Benita swallowed the last spoonful of broth.

Benita lifted her eyes.

Marianne pulled out the letter. It was dirty and crumpled. But it had survived—the Russians, the flight from Weisslau, the end of the war.

To her surprise, Benita did not startle at the sight of her husband’s handwriting. She did not even move to take the letter from Marianne’s hand.

“I’ve had this for too long,” Marianne began. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know how to get it to you, and when we were on our way from Berlin, it seemed so—it seemed that you should have a quiet place to read it.”

Still Benita said nothing. From outside, Marianne could hear the sound of the children playing.

“I didn’t even know, you know,” Benita said finally, looking up.

“Know what?” Marianne asked.

“What they were planning.”

“They told almost no one.”

“But they told you.” Benita’s tone was startlingly fierce.

Marianne searched the girl’s pale face. It was both hard and hurt, tinged with petulance. For a moment, she felt the full weight of Connie’s words to her that night after the party. She is a simple girl and she won’t deserve whatever mess I might drag her into.

“It was different.” Marianne sighed. “I was a part of their conversations. If I were a man . . . the Nazis would have hanged me, too.” She paused, considering. It was the first time she had spoken this aloud.

Benita looked away.

Between them the letter lay where Marianne had placed it. She felt its presence like a living thing. Like a child or an animal, waiting to be held.

“How did you—” Benita began, and then dissolved into a fit of coughing. “How did you keep them from taking your children? And from sending you to prison?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne said, though in truth she could guess. The Nazis had never liked Connie, whereas Albrecht had maintained the frustrated respect of a few among them until the very end—through his natural diplomacy, maybe. Or, more likely, on account of his deeper and more illustrious roots. Connie was from an old, once-rich Junker family, but Albrecht was a von Lingenfels, descended from a long line of revered German generals, a vital “stem” of Hitler’s beloved master race. “We were lucky.”

“Ah,” Benita said, “and we were not.” Finally she picked up the letter.

But the look in her eyes was neither sad nor loving. She regarded the envelope in her hands like an object from outer space.

“Here,” Marianne said, gathering the soup bowl and spoon. “I will leave you to read in peace.”

Benita nodded.

But as Marianne closed the door, she saw Benita set the letter down unopened and lie back, flat as a corpse.