“I know you,” she said, flinging her arms around him. “That’s all I need.”

Franz stiffened and averted his face.

“Franzl,” she pleaded. “We are new people now. This is our second life.”

For a terrifying moment he did not move. Then slowly, as if navigating some viscous substance, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around her and touched his lips to the crown of her head. Thank God! But as she held him tight, she could feel the presence of the past—a great unknowable continent of experience pushing up between them, full of treacherous mountains and dry valleys. She did not want to explore it.

When they returned to the flat from Lufner’s Biergarten, the door opened from within.

“Papa!” Clotilde cried. Her eyes lit up and then widened as she noticed her father was not alone in the hall.

“What happened?” Franz stuttered. “You came home early—is everything all right?”

“Barbel was sick—not terribly sick, just not well, and so we took the earlier train to allow her peace and quiet.” She continued to stare at Benita.

“You remember Frau Fledermann,” Franz said, collecting himself.

“Frau Fledermann,” Clotilde said, politely ducking her head, then raising it to peer curiously back and forth between Benita and her father.

“Don’t let the draft in,” old Herr Muller called from within.

“Have you bought the meat for supper yet?” he asked as they entered. He was reclined on the yellow sofa, facing away from the door.

“Father—” Franz said, and, turning slightly, Herr Muller caught sight of Benita. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

“You remember Frau Fledermann?” Franz said, placing a hand at her elbow.

Herr Muller nodded but remained speechless.

“Don’t get up,” Benita said, crossing the floor with her hand extended. The old man stared at her. He was tall, even now, and his face was much like Franz’s, although not as handsome or as kind. A series of emotions—confusion, anger, and suspicion—passed across it. And Benita remembered her valise, lying open on Franz’s cot. Had Herr Muller seen it?

“Have you had a comfortable trip?” she asked hastily. For a moment both Clotilde and the old man stared.

“Frau Fledermann is on her way to the train herself,” Franz interrupted. His own face had turned a florid red. “I will take her to the station and pick up the meat on my return.”

Herr Muller gave a peremptory nod. In his manner, and in Franz’s sudden uncertainty, Benita saw their history. Here was the domineering father for whom Franz had married a sickly woman and become a carpenter.

“May I come, too?” Clotilde asked, breaking her silence. “Please?”

“I don’t think—” Franz began.

“Oh, why not?” Benita said warmly. “We can hear all about your trip.”

“Please,” Clotilde pleaded.

“All right.” Franz ducked his head.

“Is that your valise?” Clotilde asked guilelessly, pointing to the cot.

“Thank you!” Benita answered smoothly. “We stowed it there for the day so we could walk in the park. Franz?” She turned to her lover, who had suddenly become an overgrown boy in his awkwardness. “Can you get it for me?”