A few of the men darted glances at Marianne. There was the sound of bodies shuffling forward, soup being slurped, and her own breathing, loud in her ears. She waited for some recognition of her own suffering.

Finally the tall man spoke. He said: “The soup will not be enough.”

Marianne blinked and stared. Maybe he had not understood her Russian. An odd shame washed over her. It was as if she had stripped down and proffered herself, naked, before him—dry skin, stretch marks, raw elbows and all, in the bright sun—and he had merely looked away.

She drew herself up and swallowed. “It’s all we have.”

The man looked at her. “There is a horse.”

For a moment she did not understand.

“Where is it?” he asked. “It was here recently. Its shit stinks.”

She stared at him. He was talking about Gilda, Herr Kellerman’s horse.

This was what her soul-baring had led them to: he was suggesting they eat Gilda.

Her shame congealed into stunned, irrational fury. She had shared something sacred and essential, and this was his response.

“The horse is old,” she said, as calmly as possible. “The farmer needs her.”

The man leveled his gaze. “So do my men.”

More of them stared at her now. They were not really men, she felt with a burst of anger, but animals. They had been boiled down and stripped of anything that made them human.

“There are rations for liberated prisoners at the DP camp in Tollingen,” she said coldly.

The man said nothing for a moment. “We have had enough of camps.”

The shorter, burlier man who had first come to the door stepped forward. In an abstract way, it occurred to Marianne that he might harm her. To him, she was no better or worse than any other German. They were victims and she the agent.

But the blood beating in her head made her fierce.

“I can offer you shelter and all the food we have,” she said, crossing her arms recklessly. “But I cannot offer you the horse.” She steeled herself.

But then their focus shifted. It became clear they were not looking at her, but beyond her, toward the castle. Turning, Marianne saw Ania hurrying down the hillside with a stern, concerned expression on her face.

“Can I help with something, Frau von Lingenfels?” she called when she was close enough.

“We are hungry,” the tall man answered before Marianne could open her mouth. “We would like the horse.”

Ania slowed to a halt. “The horse?”

“Herr Kellerman’s,” Marianne said, folding her arms. “It’s not possible.”

Ania looked from Marianne to the men and back. Then she spoke slowly and reasonably. “The men are starving. There is no more soup.”

Frau Grabarek went with the group’s leader to Herr Kellerman’s to make the request herself. Kellerman did not put up a fight. He was too old and pragmatic to engage in futile argument. Gilda was decrepit and expensive to feed. He had a younger gelding he used for the harvest.