When Hitler spoke, his voice was as absurd as always, but this time tinged with a special, bellicose fury:

The claim by these usurpers that I am no longer alive is at this very moment proven false, for here I am talking to you, my dear fellow countrymen. The circle which these usurpers represent is very small. It has nothing to do with the German armed forces, and above all nothing to do with the German army. It is a very small clique composed of criminal elements which will now be mercilessly exterminated . . .

The word exterminated repeated itself in Marianne’s ears. There would be executions, certainly. Claus von Stauffenberg. Ludwig Beck. And Connie. Connie! There was no way he could escape. He was too central to the plot. She held her hands together in her lap so no one could see them shake.

But what of Albrecht? What of the children and Weisslau? What of herself? She had to remain calm and think straight. Albrecht had many powerful friends, even among Hitler’s regime. It was possible this would help. And she had heard nothing from him yet. So she would need, first of all, to wait. They had discussed what she should do in the case of his arrest, but until she had confirmation, she must carry on as normal.

Somehow she managed to get the children to bed that night.

Then, unable to help herself, she looked out the window for the crow in the semidark. The sun sank late this time of year; it was nearly ten and still the meadow glowed. The patch of woods beyond was enveloped in black. At the edge, a form distinguished itself. Still broken, still hobbling, no better, no worse.

Marianne pulled on her boots and jacket and quietly let herself out. There it was. As the door closed, the crow stopped. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. She approached quietly, and it remained still until she was a meter away. Then it swelled up, puffed its feathers, and seemed to sigh without lifting its head from its chest. It blinked, and its beak glinted faintly in the dark. The wing was beyond repair; a bit of bone protruded from the black feathers, which were stripped away by the cat’s claws, revealing a patch of bluish, reptilian skin.

They stood for some time together. It observed her with wariness, even intelligence. Wind rustled the trees. Marianne hunched inside her jacket, chilly despite the night’s warmth. The bird would die here alone in the darkness. Would it gradually starve? Or would the cat return to finish it off? Or some other night creature—a fox or weasel or barn owl?

She did not want to leave it.

You are not alone, she thought. Don’t be afraid. You are beloved. And the words filled her mind, big enough to transcend and spread out into the night. Marianne was not a religious person, but she felt the presence of something divine. The bird was an angel. The bird was Albrecht.