On her way, she noticed a figure below—Herr Kellerman, maybe. But the person was too tall to be Kellerman and walked without a limp. As she watched, the figure became clear: it was Herr Muller. She smiled and lifted her hand. He returned the greeting, though neither of them called out. She heard nothing but the sound of the warm wind in her ears. When he finally reached her, he stopped and removed his cap.

“Are you going to Burg Lingenfels?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But it isn’t Thursday.” She lifted a hand to shield the sun from her eyes. She could smell the dust and sweat on his clothes.

“I came to give you something,” he said, reaching into his pockets. “I made these for the boys.”

In his hand he held two wooden soldiers: intriguing, roughly carved figures, each around the size of a carrot.

“They’re beautiful,” Benita said.

“Take them.” He held out his hand.

She hesitated. Marianne would not like her to accept a gift from him. She did not like Herr Muller. This much was obvious. “I don’t think—” she began. “I don’t think Frau von Lingenfels would like it.”

The smile on his face faded and he looked down the hill. Benita regretted her words. “Never mind,” she said swiftly. “She doesn’t have to know.”

Muller regarded her. “I don’t want to make trouble.”

With growing conviction, Benita smiled. She slid the soldiers into her pockets, one on each side. “They will make the boys happy.”

Herr Muller smiled back. And she felt her old self stir, the Benita who knew how to make a man smile.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BURG LINGENFELS, AUGUST 1945

Marianne did not discover the toy soldiers for some time, and then only because she was looking for the cat. The animal had appeared one day outside the kitchen door, an ugly thing, half its tail missing, unbeautifully brindled. Cats were rare these days—starved, or worse. Rumor had it that people in the bombed-out cities ate them. But this one was brave and proud and unafraid. The girls fed it scraps from a bowl they left beside the kitchen steps. So now the cat was probably better fed than most of Germany’s children.

Then suddenly it stopped coming. The scraps lay in the bowl uneaten, picked over by the birds, which then twittered and shat all over the kitchen stoop. The girls were beside themselves. Stop worrying about that creature, Marianne chided them. Don’t create drama. But secretly she worried, too. There was something cheering about the cat’s pluckiness. Even Martin liked to play with it. It brought a certain lightness to their makeshift family—and its absence seemed unaccountable. It was far too pragmatic a creature to forsake such a good situation. So Marianne went looking. Perhaps it was trapped somewhere. God knows the old stables and barns were full of dangerous rotting floorboards and menacing holes.

This was what brought her to the stable.

When she entered, she was surprised to hear Fritz and Martin. Since Martin’s accident they were forbidden to play here. She followed the sound to the back of the building and found them sprawled in a patch of sun. At her approach, they looked up guiltily, and Fritz tucked something behind his back.