“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” a French guard asked when they arrived at the gate. The camp was housed in some sort of military barracks—a collection of low buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. Wolfgang answered in German—“We are here to see our father.” Martin looked over at him, confused. NO VISITORS EXCEPT FAMILY MEMBERS, the sign read.

“The greeting area is over there.” The guard waved them through and pointed toward a stretch of fence to the right. A number of people, mostly women and children, waited there with gifts—cigarettes, potatoes, lard, and slices of salt pork, wrapped in bundles small enough to press between the links.

Prisoners were lined up on the other side of the fence.

“Who are you looking for?” asked a thin, long-necked prisoner in a tattered Gestapo uniform with all the insignias cut off.

“Franz Muller,” Wolfgang answered with a glance at Anselm. Martin was filled with a combination of nerves and embarrassment. They had not seen Herr Muller since the Russian incident.

The long-necked man called the name over his shoulder, where it was picked up by another and another until it disappeared into the barracks. Then they waited, claiming a small section of fence for themselves. On the other side, small groups of prisoners walked past with their hands buried deep in their pockets, their breath escaping in clouds. Others leaned against the building despite the cold, caps pulled low over their eyes. And then, almost miraculously, Franz Muller appeared and walked toward them, his broad, impassive face transformed by surprise. It was awkward to see him here, among this sorry lot. Behind the barbed wire, he was more intimidating now than he had been while chopping trees in their woods. Martin glanced over at Anselm and Wolfgang. But to his surprise, their eyes had already moved on, as if they were looking for someone else.

“Here!” Martin was the first to speak. “We brought this for you.” With frozen fingers he pushed his half candy bar and tin of cheese through the fence.

“For me?” Herr Muller asked, studying their faces.

Martin nodded.

“Do your mothers know you came here?”

Martin shook his head.

“Ah.” Muller seemed to consider this. “It was kind of you.”

The boys stamped their feet against the cold.

“Have you met anyone named Brandt?” Wolfgang asked, and his words were slightly breathless, as if he had pushed them out.

Muller frowned. “I don’t think so. From where?”

The Grabareks exchanged another glance. “The Warthegau.” Anselm answered this time.

Muller shook his head.

“Your father?” Martin asked, unable to stop himself.

“No,” Wolfgang said, his tone harsh. “Our father is dead.”

Who, then? Martin wanted to ask, but didn’t.

Muller regarded them in silence. “Well, thank you,” he said finally. “Take care of yourselves. And your mothers. And don’t come back here.”

On Christmas Day, the Catholic Church of Ehrenheim offered an open mass, and all the inhabitants of Burg Lingenfels traipsed down the hill through the cold. Never mind that aside from Martin’s mother, they were all Protestant.