Benita decided she was well enough to walk down to the farm of Herr Kellerman, the castle caretaker, for the eggs he supplied. She had imagined going with Martin, walking down the hillside with her long-lost son, continuing their reacquaintance, which was still a work in progress. He was a different boy than the one the Nazis had taken from her—at six he seemed a young person rather than a child. But he had wanted to stay with Fritz. So Benita walked alone.
On her way, she noticed a figure below—Herr Kellerman, maybe. But the person was too tall to be Kellerman and walked without a limp. As she watched, the figure became clear: it was Herr Muller. She smiled and lifted her hand. He returned the greeting, though neither of them called out. She heard nothing but the sound of the warm wind in her ears. When he finally reached her, he stopped and removed his cap.
“Are you going to Burg Lingenfels?” she asked.
He nodded.
“But it isn’t Thursday.” She lifted a hand to shield the sun from her eyes. She could smell the dust and sweat on his clothes.
“I came to give you something,” he said, reaching into his pockets. “I made these for the boys.”
In his hand he held two wooden soldiers: intriguing, roughly carved figures, each around the size of a carrot.
“They’re beautiful,” Benita said.
“Take them.” He held out his hand.
She hesitated. Marianne would not like her to accept a gift from him. She did not like Herr Muller. This much was obvious. “I don’t think—” she began. “I don’t think Frau von Lingenfels would like it.”
The smile on his face faded and he looked down the hill. Benita regretted her words. “Never mind,” she said swiftly. “She doesn’t have to know.”
Muller regarded her. “I don’t want to make trouble.”
With growing conviction, Benita smiled. She slid the soldiers into her pockets, one on each side. “They will make the boys happy.”
Herr Muller smiled back. And she felt her old self stir, the Benita who knew how to make a man smile.
Chapter Seven
Burg Lingenfels, August 1945
Marianne did not discover the toy soldiers for some time, and then only because she was looking for the cat. The animal had appeared one day outside the kitchen door, an ugly thing, half its tail missing, unbeautifully brindled. Cats were rare these days—starved, or worse. Rumor had it that people in the bombed-out cities ate them. But this one was brave and proud and unafraid. The girls fed it scraps from a bowl they left beside the kitchen steps. So now the cat was probably better fed than most of Germany’s children.
Then suddenly it stopped coming. The scraps lay in the bowl uneaten, picked over by the birds, which then twittered and shat all over the kitchen stoop. The girls were beside themselves. Stop worrying about that creature, Marianne chided them. Don’t create drama. But secretly she worried, too. There was something cheering about the cat’s pluckiness. Even Martin liked to play with it. It brought a certain lightness to their makeshift family—and its absence seemed unaccountable. It was far too pragmatic a creature to forsake such a good situation. So Marianne went looking. Perhaps it was trapped somewhere. God knows the old stables and barns were full of dangerous rotting floorboards and menacing holes.
This was what brought her to the stable.
When she entered, she was surprised to hear Fritz and Martin. Since Martin’s accident they were forbidden to play here. She followed the sound to the back of the building and found them sprawled in a patch of sun. At her approach, they looked up guiltily, and Fritz tucked something behind his back.
“What are you doing here?” Marianne asked.
“Just playing,” Fritz said.
“With what?” She extended her hand. “May I see?”
Fritz did not move.
“Here.” It was Martin who placed his carved soldier in her palm.
Marianne frowned. The little figure was beautiful—carved with rough tools but still quite detailed, a soldier crouching with a rifle. Reluctantly, Fritz handed her his as well: a soldier standing at attention, wearing a long coat.
“They’re lovely,” she said, confused by the boys’ diffidence. “Where did you get them?”
Neither spoke.
“My mother,” Martin said finally.
“Why such long faces?” Marianne laughed. “I thought you had something terrible. Did you think you weren’t allowed to play?”
“Tante Benita said not to show you,” Fritz blurted. “She said you wouldn’t like it because Herr Muller made them.”
Marianne’s face fell. “Ah,” she said. “I see.”
In her palm, the figures suddenly seemed heavy and sharp, their forms weirdly undefined.
“Well, you have them now. I won’t take them away. But in the future—” She broke off. What did she want to say? Don’t listen to Benita? Don’t take gifts from a Nazi? Don’t hide things from me?
“In the future, you are not to visit with Herr Muller,” she finished. “Don’t—” She raised a hand at the protest she knew Fritz was forming. “I don’t want to hear your complaints.”
Marianne brooded over this all afternoon. So Benita had cast her in the role of righteous humbug, and about something you couldn’t expect two young boys to understand. And what was worse: Benita was right. Marianne didn’t approve. And Marianne didn’t want Herr Muller making things for the children. She didn’t want him working his way into their family. Benita had known that and had given the toys to the boys anyway. It was bad enough that they hung around Muller as he worked. That they spent hours in the woods watching him split wood, talking about God knows what. The man was a prisoner of war, an ex-Nazi, and she knew nothing of his character. She did not want him playing a paternal role for these fatherless boys. She had been wrong to accept his help.
It wasn’t until that evening that Marianne remembered the cat and went looking again. But like half the living creatures on the continent, it could not be found.
The following day, Marianne went to Lieutenant Peterman.
“I should have asked for Franz Muller’s file before I accepted his help,” she said, standing before the man’s cluttered desk.
Peterman looked amused.
“His file?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Do you think we’re as organized as the Nazis?”
Marianne frowned. “Well, presumably he has filled out a Fragebogen?”
Peterman sighed and turned to one of the overstuffed cabinets behind him. He opened a drawer and began rummaging.
The Fragebogen was a questionnaire the Allied occupiers used for denazification. It consisted of six pages of questions, ranging from height and weight to membership in the Nazi Party and whether the subject had ever been involved in the destruction of Jewish property. No one thought highly of it, including the Allies. What was to stop people from lying? But Marianne saw its value—weren’t most Germans too literal and unimaginative to lie? And how else were the Allies supposed to begin sorting ordinary Mitl?ufer fellow travelers from true Nazi criminals? But apparently she was nearly alone in this sentiment. Even Peterman took a dim view of the forms, which were proving a great hassle for the Americans to process.