“Don’t get up,” Marianne said. “You are the king and queen of this celebration. You must stay on your thrones. Herr Kellerman”—she turned to Carsten—“you have outdone yourself.”

This was not Carsten’s kind of talk.

“Gnädige Frau,” he stammered. “We are honored to have you here.”

“And we are honored to be here,” Marianne said, slipping into her more formal, talking-across-barriers voice.

“Will you bring some of the food home, Marianne?” Ania began, and then stopped as she saw a short, round-faced man approaching with his camera: Herr Bremer. At this point in the evening, she had thought she was safe.

“Frau Grabarek!” Herr Bremer called, and then stopped. “No—Frau and Herr Kellerman.” He swept his cap off his head and folded himself into a theatrical bow. “My apologies for being late. But there is an excuse—” He reached behind his back. “My new flash! In the paper you will look beautiful and bright as day even in the middle of the night.”

Ania blanched. It had been Carsten’s idea to have their photo accompany the wedding announcement. Ania had protested. But the decision was made. In his desire for their marriage to be recorded, she had stumbled on some hidden strand of vanity in him, a wish to show the world his new life.

“This will be a fine place for our work,” Herr Bremer said, his eyes twinkling as he set the camera down and attached the flash. He was an insidious little man, the former photo editor of the local Nazi paper, famous for his extensive catalog of “racial portraits,” though of course no one talked about this. Ania shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“A few casual pictures first,” Herr Bremer said, lifting the black box to his eye. Ania blinked and the camera flashed. Beside her, she felt Carsten draw back. The guests began to gather around, and the fiddle player stopped.

The camera flashed again, and Ania gripped the edges of her chair as if she might fall off.

“Now, one standing—over here,” Herr Bremer directed, pointing the camera into the circle of guests and taking a few candid shots. Several of the men drew back.

“Like an interrogation,” someone grumbled.

Ania tried to smile.

“Ready?” Bremer said.

“Jawohl,” Carsten answered with surprising strength.

Then they stood together, side by side against the wall like victims of an execution, pinned by the flash.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TOLLINGEN, MAY 1950

So there were to be new chapters. This was the happy feeling that filled Marianne after Ania’s wedding. To see her friend married to a good man, a good German man (almost an extinct species!), this was a hopeful thing. Her dear Ania—stalwart companion, comforting presence, perpetual enigma—was to begin a new life.

But if she was honest with herself, Marianne also felt a twinge of grief. It was the end of their partnership. In the past years, she and Ania had volunteered together at the local displaced persons camp. Even now, two hundred thousand refugees remained in German camps. But Carsten would need Ania on the farm. It was half the reason he had married her, anyone could see that. He was aging, and Ania was strong. She would have to work like a horse. And she would have no more time for Marianne’s schemes and projects and lists. Marianne would have no one to bounce her ideas off, to type up her letters, to help her sort boxes of library books.