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 Mitl?ufer, 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.
“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?”
“Ah, of course.” He crossed the room in three great strides.
Benita smiled brightly at Clotilde.
Franz rejoined Benita at the door with the valise. “Frau Fledermann and I are betrothed,” he announced, almost fiercely, taking her arm. And for a moment, they—Benita, Herr Muller, and Clotilde—all stared at him gape-mouthed.
Clotilde was the first to speak. “Congratulations!” she said shyly.
“Thank you,” Benita said, smiling broadly at Franz, surprised at the enormity of her own happiness.
Chapter Eighteen
Ehrenheim, June 1950
The photograph in the newspaper made Ania look frightened, and Carsten proud and foolish.
“You were right,” he announced bitterly. “It would have been better not to invite that photographer.”
“No, no,” Ania lied. “No one looks at those pictures anyway.”
A month had passed and, so far, this seemed to be true.
But each night she had terrible dreams. In these, she was no longer on the march. She was a girl, in her father’s house. Ania, Herr Doktor Fortzmann would say in his stern, sonorous voice, it is vanity to think you can change fate. She would wake in a sweat, her feather bed soaked. And when she saw her own dim reflection in the mirror, she mistook it for a ghost.
Married life was not very different from her life as a tenant. As a paying boarder on Carsten’s farm, Ania had grasped his intentions early. He was certainly not flirtatious—God forbid! Even the idea was alarming—but he was solicitous. And her responsibilities were already those of a wife: cooking, cleaning, ironing his shirts . . . So Carsten’s unadorned offer of matrimony had not come as a surprise. And once she agreed, there was no sense in abiding by old-fashioned traditions of propriety. Neither of them was religious. Neither was a virgin. And for both, their union was a utilitarian arrangement. Carsten favored swift, silent encounters with no pretense of romance. They slept in separate bedrooms, but from the first day of their engagement, he had maintained a regular schedule of visits: Tuesdays and Fridays. He had not deviated from it once.