After he was released from the internment camp, he had gathered up his small family. Their flat had been bombed, his business destroyed, and he found Clotilde and old Herr Muller living in a dank, overcrowded apartment with neighbors. So he had packed their things and moved south to the American sector, where there were more opportunities. And there was Benita.

In the city of Momsen, he could find work as a carpenter. Why not Tollingen? Benita wrote. Come back as a free man! But Franz had a cousin who had a friend who owned a coffin-making business in Momsen, and Franz was assured of work there. Demand for coffins was steady, he joked. And it was not far from Tollingen.

So their letters had continued. But now there were also visits.

Over the last two years, Benita had been to Franz’s flat above the coffin business several times. She had met old Herr Muller, who was bitter and unpleasant and spoke to his son as if he were still twelve years old—how did Franz stand it?—and little Clotilde, who was a sweet thing, all skin and bones and large, soulful dark eyes. She clearly needed a mother—someone to teach her how to put her hair back in something other than a plain braid, how to look people in the eye, how to keep the house. They had sat on the makeshift furniture Franz crafted from coffin scraps and eaten Clotilde’s homemade, nearly inedible, cookies. And Benita had daydreamed of all the ways she could improve on this.

Today, Benita and Franz were alone. Clotilde and her grandfather had taken the train north to visit Franz’s ailing sister.

As soon as they entered the flat, Benita turned and hooked her hands into his waistband.

Franz took her fingers in his and brought them to his lips. Still holding them, he walked her backward to the brand-new sofa—yellow with stiff cushions—under the open window.

“What are you doing?” Benita laughed, pulling away her hands.

“Bringing you to the sofa,” Franz said. “Making you sit. Getting you a cup of tea.”

“But I don’t want tea!” she protested, catching his hand as she sat back, with a poof, on the cushion.

“I insist,” he said, pulling away. “A lady deserves tea after a long journey.”

“Oh, a lady!” she said. “How fine. And how has the gentleman been?”

“Lonely,” Franz said, lighting the gas under the kettle. “Waiting for your visit.”

“But now he wants to wait even longer?” Benita teased, batting her lashes and watching him blush. A widower, a soldier, a man nearing forty-six, and still such an innocent! With him, she adopted the old role of flirt and temptress that had once been her signature. She slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her on the sofa.

“How was the wedding?” he asked, measuring tea into the strainer. He was so careful and considerate—traits she would have hated in her young life, but that now endeared him to her. His carefulness made her feel safe.