“Franz,” she said, rising on her elbow sometime before dinner on the second day. Her stomach rumbled. They had eaten nothing except Marianne’s oranges and chocolate, and the sugar made her light-headed. “Let’s go to Lufner’s. I could eat five schnitzels.”

Franz rolled onto his back. They were pressed against each other and lying on his cot—a rudimentary thing that he didn’t entirely fit into even on his own. He slept on this, his father on the couch, and Clotilde in the bedroom. The flat Benita envisioned for the future Frau Muller was to be much bigger, with a room for each and a proper wardrobe for Clotilde. She had spent hours daydreaming of this.

“Jawohl,” Franz said, swinging his giant legs off the bed. “Whatever Frau Fledermann wishes.”

While Franz was in the washroom, Benita scribbled a note to tuck into his underwear drawer. It was a silly little thing on a scrap of package paper—I love you and a picture of a goat with hearts for eyes. She did not mean to snoop. But suddenly, when she pulled out the drawer, here were his most intimate things—not only underwear, but a framed photograph of a woman who must have been his mother (square jawed and regal faced, with Franz’s high forehead), another of Clotilde as a baby, and a box full of letters Benita had sent to him. Beneath these, she noticed the corner of another letter, something official and typewritten. Almost without thinking, she pulled it out. It was a directive from the Spruchkammer, the local denazification council, dated August 1946. We have found Franz Muller to belong to Group III, Lesser Offenders, subject to sanctions accordingly.

Group III was an unlucky designation, a step beyond Mitläufer, or “fellow traveler,” which was the title every German liked to think he deserved. It was not as bad as Belastete, or “loaded,” meaning guilty (a strange term in itself). But it signified guilt nonetheless. A Group III designation entailed restrictions; you could not, for instance, teach or play a role in politics. Why had Franz kept the letter? In the last year, under Adenauer, such designations had become nearly irrelevant. Germany was in the Cold War now. The Soviets were their enemy once again, not the Nazis.

“I’m sorry,” Franz said, his voice startling her.

“For what?” Benita asked, coloring. The letter was still clutched in her hand.

“I should have told you.”

“Told me what? That everyone is guilty?” Franz did not seem angry, to her relief. “Don’t you think the Americans have made that clear?”

Franz remained solemn. “You’ve never asked me about the war.”

“Why should I?” She approached him. “You were in the reserve—you went to the east. You fought the Russians. I don’t need to know any more.”

Franz was silent.

“What? I don’t!” Somewhere inside a small pod of fear split open, sending doubt rattling. “Do I?”

“I don’t know, Benita.” Franz sighed. “I can’t tell you what you need to know.”

Benita stopped a meter away and felt the distance between them open like a vise. It filled her with panic. She could not lose him. She could not survive this.