Movement caught her eye—a figure in the entrance to the barn. No, it was two figures, leaning together, hands entwined, white against the darkness, lovers seeking a quiet spot. How amazing that this could still exist. It made her think of her own love. And of the letter she had stowed away in the little wooden chest.

Without it, she would be lost.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EHRENHEIM, MAY 1950

Ania surveyed the party from her seat at the head of the long table, which Wolfgang had assembled using planks from the old hayloft. There were so many cousins, neighbors, and old friends of Carsten’s in line to shake her hand and offer congratulations in their formal small-town manner. Beyond Marianne, Benita, and the children, there was no one here from Ania’s own life. Is there really no family? Carsten had pressed. No aunts and uncles? No friends from childhood? Ania stood firm. Family dead. Friends lost. It’s only a party, she had reassured him. I have my boys. This last part she meant. It was the most important thing, the thing from which all others stemmed. This marriage was for them, although she had not seen either of her boys since the party began. Wolfgang was probably outside somewhere, his stiff new shoes cast aside, playing soccer with his school friends. And Anselm—shy Anselm—was probably holed up in his room studying. Wolfgang would take over the farm someday. By the old German laws, it should have been Anselm as the oldest son, but Anselm wanted to attend university and become a scientist.

“Herr und Frau Kellerman.” An old man donned his cap and beamed—the aging father of the town dressmaker, and a known pervert. “To be married is to be closer to heaven,” he said, a strand of spittle gleaming from one corner of his mouth.

This was rich, coming from Herr Betz. The town was full of pretense. No one here demanded truth. Which was fine by Ania. To them, she was simply a DP from the east, one of those desperate people they had been forced to make room for in their homes and invite into their children’s schools, and support with their hard-earned deutsche marks. And now she was Carsten Kellerman’s wife. They did not want to plumb the depths.

God bless you, may God keep you . . . The guests approached with their pieties and gifts. Now that Hitler was gone, they had all returned to being devout Catholics. But who was Ania to judge? Ania clasped their hands and ducked her head and gave thanks.

“What a lovely party,” Marianne said, suddenly standing beside her.

Ania smiled, happy to see her friend. Marianne was much taller and bonier than the Ehrenheim Hausfraus and looked out of place in her fine dress. Out of her element too, as a guest. The woman was most at ease when she was in charge—striding around the DP camp with donated blankets, conducting interviews, or dictating letters for Ania to type.