He pulled a chair out for her and sat down.
“Herr Muller,” Marianne began. “I won’t waste your time—you are a busy man, I can see. I wanted, however, to tell you that Benita has informed me of your plans.” She made an effort not to look away. In all the hopeless meetings with Nazi officials that she had conducted when Albrecht was in prison, she had learned how to return a gaze.
“Our plan . . . ?” he asked.
“Your plan to marry.” She let the word sit between them. “And I would like you to know that I am against it.”
“Ah.” The man looked stricken.
“Benita’s first husband was my good friend,” she continued. “A very dear friend, and a man of great character. He gave his life fighting against Hitler and the Nazis, and I don’t believe it is right that his widow, and more importantly, his son, be joined”—she hesitated, gathering courage—“to a man with your past.”
Outside, a wagon clattered down the street. But in the room full of coffins, Herr Muller mounted no defense. He had shockingly blue eyes. Marianne had forgotten this.
“Does Benita know you’re here?” he asked finally.
“No.” Marianne swallowed.
“Ah.” He nodded.
Marianne waited for an outburst of indignation. She had prepared for this. But still he said nothing.
“I hope to keep this conversation between us,” she said into the silence. “I promised her husband before he died that I would look out for her. And that I would look out for his son.”
“I understand.” Herr Muller nodded.
“You understand?” Marianne repeated.
The man lifted his eyes.
“I love Benita,” he said. “She is a good woman and she deserves a good life. And I . . .” He paused. “I wish it were different. I wish my life had not been as it was.” His blue eyes flashed at hers. “And I am deeply sorry for the loss of your husband and hers. They were brave men.”
Marianne stared at him. To her horror, she felt that she was going to cry. Or worse—that she was about to snort and sob and explode with all the ungraceful, unholy sadness that she had locked up inside her. And once she started she would never stop.
She could not let this happen. So she sat straight as an arrow and focused on the coffins—the dark knots of pine and the stippling of oak, the gleam of the hinges. Silence welled around them, this time not awkward but necessary, like a cocoon. From upstairs came the sounds of footsteps, muffled voices—the sweet chirp of the girl and the lower, grumpier tone of the grandfather, whoever he was. Marianne held on to these like a lifeline, trying to make out the words of their conversation. The effort calmed her. The hard knot in her throat dissipated.
With as much dignity as possible, she rose.
Herr Muller followed, jumping to pull back her chair. When they arrived at the threshold, he bowed. “I will consider your words,” he said.
“Thank you,” Marianne managed, ducking her head.
When she was around the corner she stopped, her chest heaving. She had intended to mention the Russian, Muller’s time in the east, and the fact of Benita’s innocence, her trust, her na?veté. What had happened? Somehow Muller’s lack of argument had rendered her preparations irrelevant. She had gotten what she wanted.
Albrecht, she called out in her mind, I did what was right, didn’t I? But it was almost as if she were talking to herself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tollingen, July 1950
Benita was meeting Franz to talk about the future. She had not seen him since their engagement—first Clotilde had been sick, then his father, and then work had been too busy (too many dead people, Benita joked in a moment of lightness). But she had finally managed to corral him. Their marriage plans would need to be accelerated. Marianne’s response to their news was even worse than Benita had imagined, and she hated living with her in this new, uncomfortable silence. Every day was like a punishment—and for what? Loving a man Marianne did not approve of? It was insulting, and worse, condescending. As if she had no right to her own future. Benita owed Marianne gratitude for finding Martin when she had given him up for dead, and for that she would be forever grateful. But she did not owe Marianne the rest of her life. She waited for Franz at Bemmelman’s Café in a state of agitation, clinking the spoon in her cup of coffee.
Usually Bemmelman’s made Benita happy. It was new, for one thing, and she liked new. She liked the high, gleaming windows and chic metal tabletops. She liked the sweetened cream and the selection of modern tortes with their bright out-of-season fruits and glossy layers of gelatin.
Benita held no reverence for anything old or historic. History was horrible, a long, sloppy tail of grief. It swished destructively behind the present, toppling everyone’s own personal understanding of the past. It was, in part, why she felt such an urgent need to remarry. For Marianne, history came above all else; for Benita, it was death.
From the moment Franz walked in, though, Benita knew something was not right. His usually calm, placid face was edged with worry. And he looked as though he had not slept in weeks.
“Franzl,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “What is it? You look like a man who has swallowed a monster.”
He shook his head and sat across from her. “It isn’t right” were the first words from his mouth. Not Hello or How are you or You look beautiful. The rudeness was utterly unlike him.
“What isn’t?” she asked.
Franz looked out the window at the drizzle. “I can’t marry you, Benita.”
Benita pretended that she had not heard him.
“You can’t what?” she asked.
On the street, a group of jabbering teenage girls scuttled past.
“I can’t marry you, Benita. It wouldn’t be right.”
For Benita, the whole world lurched.
“Right?” she managed to ask. “For who?”
“For you.” Franz sighed. “For Martin. You deserve better.”
“Better than what? Is this about the flat?” The thought flooded her with relief, and she grasped it like a life raft. “I don’t care about the flat—we will move someday, and in the meantime, we can find a place for your father—a room in the house on the corner, maybe, or—”
“I don’t mean that,” Franz interjected, his voice harsh.
Benita sat back.
“You are the wife of a resister. You deserve a man who has done better with his life.”
Benita stiffened. This was not a term Benita had ever used: resister, referring to Connie and Albrecht and the others. It was Marianne’s word. “Why do you say this?” she asked, reaching across the table for his hand. “Did Marianne say something to you? Did she come here—”
Franz looked away, and his voice was tired. “It’s the truth.”
“According to who?” Benita demanded. “According to Marianne? She came here, didn’t she? She talked to you! Look me in the eye and tell me she didn’t!”