When they arrived at the Kellermans’, there were no outward signs of festivity. But in recent years, the farm had undergone its own sort of metamorphosis. There was a pungent stench from the new pigsty Kellerman had built, and a red tractor gleamed from the stables where Gilda used to live. Under Ania’s care, the gardens were full of more than mere essentials like potatoes, cabbages, and carrots. There were peas, parsley, and leeks, even a small gooseberry bush. Along the fence, a line of sunflowers bobbed their clumsy heads. When Ania and her boys had first moved to the farm as tenants, she had taken over the gardening in lieu of rent. Well, that rooming arrangement worked out well for Herr Kellerman, Elisabeth joked.

Benita, Marianne, and the children climbed out of the car and carefully removed the serving dishes Marianne had brought: a white soup tureen with lion heads, three platters inlaid with pink roses, and an elegant, gold-rimmed glass punch bowl that had belonged to Albrecht’s grandmother.

“They don’t need any of this,” Elisabeth grumbled, unloading it. “Frau Grabarek is only being polite saying yes.”

“Don’t begrudge,” Marianne scolded, with a cutting look that reduced Elisabeth’s point to one of mere selfishness. Which was not fair. Benita understood what the girl meant: Ania would be embarrassed by her connection to Marianne’s fine things. She would not want to stand out from her guests. Ania did not like to set herself apart. Marianne could not grasp this.

“Guten Tag, guten Tag,” Ania greeted them nervously.

Benita kissed her on both cheeks in the manner of Connie’s high-society friends, which made Ania blush. And, for a moment, her face was transformed into something shy and girlish. Benita squeezed her hand.

“Congratulations!” Marianne said, beaming and hoisting the punch bowl aloft. “Herr and Frau Kellerman!” They were already husband and wife, wed in the town hall that morning. The party was simply a celebration. “Put us to work,” Marianne directed, depositing the bowl on the kitchen table, where it looked completely out of place.

“But you’re wearing such fine clothes.”

“Don’t be silly. What do you think, we can’t roll up our sleeves and work?”

The wedding guests began to arrive around four o’clock: somberly clad farmers and townspeople, like pigeons in their gray and brown suits. They brought strawberry jam and beeswax candles, meat loaves, sides of ham, and fine tortes. Benita knew these people. If she were dropped back into Frühlinghausen right now—God forbid—it would be just like this.

They clustered around the parlor table, drinking beer and local wine and Herr Kellerman’s homemade plum schnapps. Their faces began to come alive beneath their impassive masks. The men loosened their new polyester ties, removed their jackets, and lit cigarettes. It was still remarkable to see so many men gathered in one place. Even the longest absent had returned from their various prisoner-of-war camps—thinner, balder, absent eyed, and closed faced. Benita wound her way through the crowded rooms, nodding and murmuring hellos but mostly keeping to herself.