It was not until the news of the extermination camps reached Albrecht—not the rumors, but the undeniable firsthand accounts he had access to through his work in the Abwehr—that he agreed. Assassination was the only way.

Downstairs, Marianne sank into the cool leather of the chair at her husband’s desk with the intention of going through their accounts. She had taken over the bookkeeping when Albrecht’s work in government—and more important, in the resistance—became too demanding. Sitting here, at this great desk, where he had drawn up many plans and documents, Marianne was struck, as if for the first time, by the possibility that their plot might fail.

Outside the window, she caught a flash of black flapping across the lawn, followed by a brown-gray blur, which resolved itself into a cat chasing a crow. As she watched, the cat managed to bring one outstretched paw down on the bird’s wing. The crow half flew, half jumped forward, wing crooked at an alarming angle, and the cat, satisfied with the damage, turned and streaked back into the bushes. The bird staggered and flapped. It began to utter a throaty, guttural sound. Three other crows flew down from the treetops and stood at a respectful distance, watching, heads cocked, as it hobbled before them with its terrible trailing wing spread out as evidence.

Then, as if they’d passed judgment and found their comrade beyond hope, they flew away.

The sight was at once horrifying and addictive; Marianne could not avert her eyes. It was just the two of them now, though the crow did not know she watched. She stood frozen at the window with a hard, knotted feeling in her chest. If the cat returned, she would open the window and shoo it away—or go outside and throw a rock. But it didn’t. It was content to leave the bird to die.

Marianne was not a believer in signs and portents. These were the recourse of the powerless. But all the same, in that instant, she had the clearest sense the coup had failed. In the end it will hang on chance, Albrecht had said when she last saw him. She had nodded but had not understood it in her heart. She had never really allowed herself to consider the opposite of success. She had believed, almost superstitiously, that to admit doubt would invite failure, and to imagine success would bring it about. And her imagination was docile. It conjured what she told it to, no more, no less. She did not imagine crevasses and hidden boulders when the children skied; she did not picture an accident when Albrecht drove too fast. It was part of what made her confident rather than anxious. It was part of what made her an optimist.

She had pushed Albrecht to support the plan and championed taking action almost from the start. Inaction was impossible. Once you knew—really knew—of the women and children being shot in the woods, of the shower rooms constructed for the sole purpose of killing, how could you not act? But now, here was the obvious reason she had repressed: the cost. If the plan failed, all that she cherished would be lost.