Startled, she looked up into his face.
“Aha! You see, I am not as stupid as you think!”
“I have no secrets,” she said, but her heart gave an anxious lurch.
“You ladies of the castle think you’re better than everyone else,” he said with a dry laugh. “But I can smell a cunt lover a mile off.”
“Ah.” Benita relaxed. “You’d like to imagine that.”
With a quick stab of her elbow to his ribs she managed to loosen his grip. But she could not continue over to Marianne and Herr Kressing now. She needed to compose herself.
Benita wound through the dancers and stepped out into the courtyard behind the house. It was so ugly. The peace and plenty of this time were like a thin quilt spread over a pile of shit. No one was innocent. The Russian prisoner in the woods flashed in her mind: the inhuman sound he had made when she struck him, the squeak of air into his cut throat. Her own personal pile of shit.
She straightened and pushed the hair off her face. Above her, the moon was high and round, laying a coat of silver over the young wheat. And the air was cool, thick with the smell of roses and pigs, slightly damp.
Movement caught her eye—a figure in the entrance to the barn. No, it was two figures, leaning together, hands entwined, white against the darkness, lovers seeking a quiet spot. How amazing that this could still exist. It made her think of her own love. And of the letter she had stowed away in the little wooden chest.
Without it, she would be lost.
Chapter Fifteen
Ehrenheim, May 1950
Ania surveyed the party from her seat at the head of the long table, which Wolfgang had assembled using planks from the old hayloft. There were so many cousins, neighbors, and old friends of Carsten’s in line to shake her hand and offer congratulations in their formal small-town manner. Beyond Marianne, Benita, and the children, there was no one here from Ania’s own life. Is there really no family? Carsten had pressed. No aunts and uncles? No friends from childhood? Ania stood firm. Family dead. Friends lost. It’s only a party, she had reassured him. I have my boys. This last part she meant. It was the most important thing, the thing from which all others stemmed. This marriage was for them, although she had not seen either of her boys since the party began. Wolfgang was probably outside somewhere, his stiff new shoes cast aside, playing soccer with his school friends. And Anselm—shy Anselm—was probably holed up in his room studying. Wolfgang would take over the farm someday. By the old German laws, it should have been Anselm as the oldest son, but Anselm wanted to attend university and become a scientist.
“Herr und Frau Kellerman.” An old man donned his cap and beamed—the aging father of the town dressmaker, and a known pervert. “To be married is to be closer to heaven,” he said, a strand of spittle gleaming from one corner of his mouth.
This was rich, coming from Herr Betz. The town was full of pretense. No one here demanded truth. Which was fine by Ania. To them, she was simply a DP from the east, one of those desperate people they had been forced to make room for in their homes and invite into their children’s schools, and support with their hard-earned deutsche marks. And now she was Carsten Kellerman’s wife. They did not want to plumb the depths.
God bless you, may God keep you . . . The guests approached with their pieties and gifts. Now that Hitler was gone, they had all returned to being devout Catholics. But who was Ania to judge? Ania clasped their hands and ducked her head and gave thanks.
“What a lovely party,” Marianne said, suddenly standing beside her.
Ania smiled, happy to see her friend. Marianne was much taller and bonier than the Ehrenheim Hausfraus and looked out of place in her fine dress. Out of her element too, as a guest. The woman was most at ease when she was in charge—striding around the DP camp with donated blankets, conducting interviews, or dictating letters for Ania to type.
“Don’t get up,” Marianne said. “You are the king and queen of this celebration. You must stay on your thrones. Herr Kellerman”—she turned to Carsten—“you have outdone yourself.”
This was not Carsten’s kind of talk.
“Gn?dige Frau,” he stammered. “We are honored to have you here.”
“And we are honored to be here,” Marianne said, slipping into her more formal, talking-across-barriers voice.
“Will you bring some of the food home, Marianne?” Ania began, and then stopped as she saw a short, round-faced man approaching with his camera: Herr Bremer. At this point in the evening, she had thought she was safe.
“Frau Grabarek!” Herr Bremer called, and then stopped. “No—Frau and Herr Kellerman.” He swept his cap off his head and folded himself into a theatrical bow. “My apologies for being late. But there is an excuse—” He reached behind his back. “My new flash! In the paper you will look beautiful and bright as day even in the middle of the night.”
Ania blanched. It had been Carsten’s idea to have their photo accompany the wedding announcement. Ania had protested. But the decision was made. In his desire for their marriage to be recorded, she had stumbled on some hidden strand of vanity in him, a wish to show the world his new life.
“This will be a fine place for our work,” Herr Bremer said, his eyes twinkling as he set the camera down and attached the flash. He was an insidious little man, the former photo editor of the local Nazi paper, famous for his extensive catalog of “racial portraits,” though of course no one talked about this. Ania shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“A few casual pictures first,” Herr Bremer said, lifting the black box to his eye. Ania blinked and the camera flashed. Beside her, she felt Carsten draw back. The guests began to gather around, and the fiddle player stopped.
The camera flashed again, and Ania gripped the edges of her chair as if she might fall off.
“Now, one standing—over here,” Herr Bremer directed, pointing the camera into the circle of guests and taking a few candid shots. Several of the men drew back.
“Like an interrogation,” someone grumbled.
Ania tried to smile.
“Ready?” Bremer said.
“Jawohl,” Carsten answered with surprising strength.
Then they stood together, side by side against the wall like victims of an execution, pinned by the flash.
Chapter Sixteen
Tollingen, May 1950