Benita followed.
Had Trude not liked her as a girl? She could not remember. But often someone had been sweet on someone who was sweet on Benita and this had made for hard feelings . . . Maybe Trude had hankered after Paul Henike? Or Axel Pittman? Those years were a great meaningless fuzz in Benita’s mind. Following the woman’s stiff back down the hall, Benita reproached her teenage self. What had she done back then? And why had she cared so little?
In the parlor, Horst rose from behind a messy desk. He was a thin, balding man with stooped shoulders and a tired air, quite like Lotte’s imitation.
Benita extended her hand. “So nice to meet you,” she began. “Frühlinghausen is lucky to have your store.”
Trude made an impatient gesture. “Ach, sit down, sit down.” She waved away Benita’s words.
Stung, Benita complied. So did Horst. It was clear who was in charge. Horst offered an apologetic smile.
“So Frau Gruber—pardon—Frau Fledermann is looking for a position as a clerk,” Trude stated flatly. “What are the days we need help on our schedule?”
“Well.” Horst rustled the papers on his desk. “We could work around the times Frau Fledermann has available as—”
“Come, Horst,” Trude broke in. “What are the hours on the schedule in front of you?”
“I’m very flexible,” Benita offered. “I’m sure I could—”
“Do you have experience with a cash register?” Trude interrupted.
“Not with a cash register, no,” Benita began. “But I could learn—”
“So you don’t know it already?” Trude asked, as if this were preposterous.
“No.” Benita shook her head.
At his desk, Horst cleared his throat.
Trude let out a sharp bark of laughter. “So then—surely you did not think we would hire you out of charity?”
Benita looked at her. Her face was the embodiment of Frühlinghausen, all the meanness and small-mindedness Benita had always despised—only transformed from an indifferent force to a specific, ugly power, a highly evolved venom to which she was uniquely susceptible. “No,” Benita said with as much dignity as she could summon, and gathered her bag and hat. “I know you have none of that.”
She walked through the town like a blind woman. And in her humiliation, she did not notice the telltale signs that Gephardt had returned—the hat and boots in the doorway vestibule, the dirty plate and napkin on the table. She made her way upstairs without even removing her coat.
In her small room under the eaves she was greeted by a surprise: an unfamiliar steamer trunk, an old suitcase, and a carpetbag she recognized.
The sight jolted Benita, momentarily, from her misery. Her belongings. She had asked Marianne to pack them for Gephardt to retrieve; his mother lived not far from Tollingen. Marianne had objected. Wouldn’t Benita come herself so they could have a chance to visit? But Benita had remained steadfast. And Gephardt, for all his usual crankiness, was oddly amenable to playing porter. Maybe he was curious to see where Benita had been living, or to meet this “Countess Marianne” (a meeting that was at once comical and horrifying for Benita to imagine).
In any case, he had obviously returned. And with him, her old life.
Benita stood in the middle of the room and listened, but the house was silent. Her possessions, piled on the small rug, seemed utterly unassimilable. The fine porcelain jewelry box Marianne had given her, the pretty scarves, the high-heeled shoes she had bought in Munich last year, her favorite dresses. The idea of these treasures here, in this house, in Frühlinghausen, depressed her. Who was there to look pretty for? Even if there were someone, she wouldn’t want him. She missed Franz with a physical ache. He had known her—really known her, the best and the worst parts. He was the narrow bridge that connected the two.
A step sounded in the hall outside her room.
“I nearly broke my back carrying all that upstairs,” Gephardt grumbled from the doorway. He was a glowering, unpleasant man, once a catch by Frühlinghausen standards, but he had thickened and calcified over time. Now he had a gut like a pregnant woman’s belly and restive eyes that made Benita shudder—God knows what he had done during his time in the SS.
“I’m sorry.” Benita sighed. “Thank you.” She looked down, feeling the sting of her own dependence. Trude Weseman was right—she was a charity case.
Gephardt did not move from the doorway.
When Benita lifted her eyes, he was staring at her with a scornful, evaluative expression, one arm braced across the door, blocking the exit. It gave her a start.
“Where is Lotte?” she asked.
He made a choked snort. “Where’s Lotte?” he repeated, still staring. With a chill, she recognized this look, with its particular mix of anger and lust.
Benita drew herself up. “Come now,” she said. “There’s no need to be childish.”
“Childish?” he repeated, taking a step toward her, breathing fast.
Mercifully, from downstairs came the sound of the front door opening.
“Lotte?” Benita called in a falsely light tone. “Is that you?”
“Who else?” Lotte snapped.
Gephardt glared at Benita.
“Gephardt?” Lotte exclaimed, apparently noting the signs of his return that Benita had missed. “Are you back?!”
For a moment he didn’t speak. Benita returned his glare. “I’m here,” he answered finally, turning on his heel.
After he left, Benita shut the door behind him and leaned against it for what seemed like an eternity.
That evening, she feigned a headache and did not go downstairs to dinner. Instead she stayed in her room and opened the chest. She did so with a sense of duty rather than pleasure. First there were the creams and perfumes she had collected over the past year, as the stores again began to stock such items. Then the combs for her hair, the scarves, the brooch Franz had given her.
And beneath these, papers—the forms Marianne had helped her fill out as an Opfer, Martin’s notes from school, her marriage license, written in stark indecipherable Nazi script she shuddered to look at. She had half a mind to burn it. And then the shoebox of Franz’s letters, tied prettily with a red-and-white ribbon. She had knotted the packet herself and imagined rereading the letters together with Franz, one day when they were old. She could barely look at them now. But as she moved to replace the lid, she caught sight of something else. A longer, thinner envelope much handled and slightly yellowed.
To my wife, Benita Fledermann was written across the front in a familiar, elegant script. The blood rushed to her head and away, leaving her faint. Here was Connie’s letter. The one Marianne had given her so many years ago. The one she had never opened. She had entirely forgotten that it existed.
From downstairs Benita could hear Lotte and Gephardt’s conversation, the shrill warble of her sister’s voice and her husband’s low, insolent grunts. Raindrops pattered on the sloped roof. She lifted the letter gingerly, half expecting it to disappear at her touch.