“Marianne, you’re shocked,” Benita said, some combination of her light mood and Ania’s presence making her brash.

“Me?” Marianne asked, although it was true. She had never shared this sort of banter with Ania—or Benita, for that matter.

“Of course!” Benita smirked. “Ania can’t very well shock herself.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ania said, surprising Marianne into laughter that chased away the echo of her old schoolmarmishness.

“That I’d like to see,” Benita said. “Frau Kellerman shocking herself.”

Their laughter subsided into comfortable silence. From outside they could hear the children playing. And with the tablecloths and food unpacked, the library took on a festive look.

“I almost forgot!” Benita said. “I brought us Eiswein!” She reached into her bag and held a bottle aloft. “Herr Reiner said it was the best.”

Benita opened the bottle and poured them each a glass. “To you two,” she said. “And all the hard work you have put into this place.”

“Posh. We can’t drink to ourselves. To the travelers—” Marianne began.

Benita cut her off. “Then to marriage. To love. And to whoever is next.” With a coy smile, she brought her glass to her lips.

Marianne regarded her, suddenly curious. “Why—is there someone—?”

Benita shrugged mischievously. “Who knows? Where Ania goes, we may follow.”

“You don’t mean Helmut.” Marianne frowned, perplexed. The wine had gone straight to her head.

“How do you know I mean me and not you?”

“Benita!” Marianne exclaimed. “What on earth can you be talking about?”

Benita sashayed over to the window and rested her forehead against the glass. For a moment, Marianne was reminded of the girl she had first met. Then Benita straightened, cocked her head, and smiled. “Nonsense,” she said. “And daydreams. Don’t you ever have those?”

“Oh, Benita.” Marianne shook her head. She stabbed a knife into the cake on the table and began slicing. “Isn’t it time for the party to begin?”

“You should.” Benita smiled, ignoring the question. “A few daydreams would do you good.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MOMSEN, JUNE 1950

As far as Marianne knew, Benita was going to visit her sister.

“Bring her this,” Marianne had said that morning, thrusting a bag of expensive oranges into her hands.

It gave Benita a twinge of guilt. Marianne was a good woman. She knew Benita’s sister Lotte had four children and worked long hours in a canning factory. She did not know that Lotte was an ignorant, hard-hearted bitch and her husband was not dead, but locked in some Siberian camp for ex-SS.

Or that Benita was not actually going to see Lotte.

In Momsen, Benita stood for a moment on the makeshift train platform, blinking in the spring sunlight. Then she spotted him: Franz Muller, always taller and broader in person than he was in her mind. It was as if he belonged to another species—all parts of him well proportioned, but larger. A superhuman. She loved this.

When he saw her, a shy smile spread across his face.

“Franz!” she called, and ran toward him.