And then the baby died. Lifeless, its small body huddled stubbornly inside her like a stone. She knew it was dead long before her body expelled it. The delivery was horrific. Her womb became infected, and she remained in the prison hospital until the Russian soldiers arrived.

And while she lay there swimming in and out of fever, she had immersed herself in a strong, oddly sustaining fury at Connie. It was his fault that she was there. His fault that Martin had been taken. His fault that the baby had died. If she had not been in prison, surely the baby would still be alive. He had abandoned her for his lofty ideals and secret conspiracy—and his affairs with other women. Gigi Flagstaff, that brassy American, who had the gall to court Benita’s friendship; Margarete Vederlander, the notorious Berlin glamour girl . . . and who knew how many others? And meanwhile, Benita had miscarried one baby after another.

She and Martin had spent countless long nights alone in their hot, unlavish flat (so different from the one she had imagined when she married), staring out at the empty city streets. Connie hadn’t sent them to the country, like the other aristocrats’ wives and children. His widowed mother did not invite them to stay with her in the drafty old Fledermann estate, and Benita was too proud to ask. Anyway, it was a horrible, formal place that would ultimately be destroyed by the Russians, his mother shot along with what staff remained. But in Berlin, Connie was always busy, always traveling. So Benita and Martin were abandoned to the roar of bombers, the endless trips to the bomb cellar, and the increasingly stark governance of the city.

All this she resented while she lay mourning the baby in her hospital bed. And beneath this, she was angry at her own ignorance. Why had Connie left her in the dark about his work when so many other widows had known so much? Did he think she was too stupid to understand? It was the final proof of their estrangement. She had listened to the radio report on July 20, 1944, with only the faintest inkling of unease.

Later still, Benita would be ashamed of her own oblivion. And of the rage and self-pity she had wrapped around herself during those feverish months. But at the time, it had kept her alive.

From her pallet in the fruit cellar of Burg Lingenfels, Benita began to hear a dull thunk, repeated rhythmically. It was faint but distinct. Gray light glowed through the casement windows. It was a new day. Thursday, to be exact.

Thursday! She realized with a start that the sound was Herr Muller’s ax. It was his last day in these woods. Next week he would be transferred to a camp in the French occupation zone. And anyway, Marianne did not want his help. This morning, he would have approached the castle from the back side of the mountain, through the woods, and not seen the prisoners. If he had seen them he would have turned around. Or if they had seen him, they would have turned him around. Or worse. They would not take kindly to the sudden appearance of an ex–German soldier, an ex-Nazi. Benita did not need rumors to tell her this.