Marianne was in the middle of a dream when the doorbell rang. A sweet, long-ago dream from her last life, of sitting in the garden at Weisslau, a picnic under the chestnut tree with her children, the dogs, and Albrecht. And then all the gaiety disappeared. She was not in Weisslau but in her flat in Tollingen. The plot had failed. Weisslau was lost. Albrecht was dead.
Marianne sat up. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes and uneven layers of floor wax. It was still day. Without her work at the camp, she found herself napping at odd times and reading deep into the night. It was embarrassing. She swung her legs off the sofa. It was likely Benita, having forgotten her key, of course.
“Welcome home!” she said, opening the door, hoping there were no telltale wrinkles from the pillow on her face. “Where are your keys?”
“I’m sorry.” Benita blushed. “I must have left them on the table—or when I was—”
“Come in, come in,” Marianne commanded. “It’s too cold in the hall. How is your sister?”
“My sister.” Benita looked surprised. “Oh, yes—she’s well. Thank you.”
“She’s well?” Marianne asked. “I thought she was ill again.”
“As well as possible.”
Marianne studied Benita. She was, as usual these days, in a state of heightened spirits. She seemed overexcited, in fact. Something had happened. She could not step over a dead cat on the sidewalk without it appearing hours later on her face.
“Here, you must be tired from the trip. Come have some coffee and raisin cake,” Marianne said, starting toward the kitchen. “The children ate almost all of it, but I asked them to save some for you.”
Benita followed her.
“Wash up and I’ll make the coffee,” Marianne said, as if Benita were a child. And like an obedient daughter, Benita did as told.
“I’ve been thinking,” Marianne began as soon as she returned, “that we should take a trip together with the children, show them something of Germany. We could go to Berlin first and visit Georg Bucher—did Connie ever introduce you to him? They were always such dear friends . . . or maybe into Munich to see Marienplatz and the Asamkirche? The boys are getting so old and what do they know of their country? Nothing but all the bad things.”
“All right.” Benita nodded, poking at her slice of cake.
“Or,” Marianne ventured, “we could visit Helmut Kressing—What is it?” She broke off at the sight of Benita’s face. “Do you really dislike him so much?”
“No! No, no,” Benita said, shifting in her seat. “I just—there is something I need to tell you.”
“Of course,” Marianne said, sitting back. “You look so serious.” She laughed. “Is it a matter of life and death?”
To her surprise, Benita did not smile.
Marianne could not sleep that night. She tried to believe it was the nap. But of course it was not. Benita’s news was like a mouse crawling around in her head, nibbling on the wiring, pissing and shitting on her memories, creating electrical storms. Benita Fledermann, wife of Martin Constantine Fledermann, was to marry an ex-Nazi, an ordinary carpenter turned member of the Orpo, a man with God knows how much blood on his hands.
In Marianne’s mind, he appeared as he had the morning he carried Benita back from the woods: a giant man cradling a girl in his arms, covered in blood. Like some monster from a legend. What had happened that morning was something she had never understood. Benita had ventured out to warn Herr Muller of the Russians camped in front of the stable and had been attacked. She had stabbed her attacker. And the man had run off. Herr Muller had found her and carried her back. This was the garbled story that Benita recited. But Marianne never believed it. The next day, the Russians had come looking—one of them was missing. Marianne had said nothing, but of course she wondered. She could not imagine birdbrained, fragile Benita stabbing anyone. No, Marianne felt certain it was Herr Muller who killed him. Possibly in defense of Benita, possibly not. What was one more murder to a man who had served in Lublin? She had been right to tell Peterman to reassign him. Only she had been too late.
But now suddenly he was back. This time, even closer, popping up beside the little skiff of a family she was steering. All these years, he had been swimming alongside, beneath the surface. It was a shock and a betrayal.
I have failed you, Connie, Marianne thought. It sounded melodramatic. But it was true. Take care of my wife, Connie had instructed her. Look out for my son. Don’t let her marry a Nazi pig, don’t let a murderer take my place. That was implicit.
Marianne swung her legs out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and went to the kitchen. To her surprise, light streamed from under the door—the faintly greenish glow of the fluorescent coil on the ceiling. She hesitated for a moment—what if Benita was there? The idea that this would keep her from her own kitchen gave her a righteous surge of adrenaline.
She swung through the door, grim faced and prepared for battle, but was met with the sight of Martin sitting at the table, reading.
“Tante Marianne!” he said, his expression guilty. His face shifted as he took in her countenance. Dear Martin, poor Martin, sweet boy—Marianne tried to smile and amend whatever anger he had seen.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” she asked. “You have school tomorrow!”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said simply, and it occurred to her that for him this was not an unusual occurrence.
“Have you had milk? Warm milk?” She padded over to the small icebox and removed the bottle. “That always helps.”
He shook his head.
Marianne poured enough for them both and set the saucepan on the stove. “What are you reading?”
“Karl May.” Martin held up the book; it was Marianne’s own ancient copy of Winnetou, its cracked leather binding and faded gold embossing as familiar to her as an old friend. “I borrowed it from Fritz.”
“Do you like it?” Marianne asked.
“I love it.”
Marianne felt a swell of love for him. He was more like her than her own son, who had pronounced the book unrealistic and dull.
“It was my favorite,” she said.
They were silent. The milk simmered on the stove, and the light ticked overhead.
“You’re happy here, aren’t you, Martin?” Marianne asked. “I mean living with us—all together, you and your mother and my family?”
“Of course!” The boy looked surprised.
“You don’t wish”—she turned off the milk, placed two cups and saucers on the counter—“that your mother were remarried, that you lived somewhere else with a stepfather?”
Confusion crowded across his young face. For a moment, Marianne regretted the question.
“No,” he said. “Why—do you think my mother and I should be on our own?”
“Oh, no! No, no,” Marianne exclaimed, nearly scalding herself. “Certainly not. I just wondered how you felt about it.”
She studied his already shockingly handsome face. He looked away from the intensity of her gaze.
“Martin,” she said seriously, “you know your father would have wanted it this way.”