“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.
“Gnädige 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
So there were to be new chapters. This was the happy feeling that filled Marianne after Ania’s wedding. To see her friend married to a good man, a good German man (almost an extinct species!), this was a hopeful thing. Her dear Ania—stalwart companion, comforting presence, perpetual enigma—was to begin a new life.
But if she was honest with herself, Marianne also felt a twinge of grief. It was the end of their partnership. In the past years, she and Ania had volunteered together at the local displaced persons camp. Even now, two hundred thousand refugees remained in German camps. But Carsten would need Ania on the farm. It was half the reason he had married her, anyone could see that. He was aging, and Ania was strong. She would have to work like a horse. And she would have no more time for Marianne’s schemes and projects and lists. Marianne would have no one to bounce her ideas off, to type up her letters, to help her sort boxes of library books.
Today, Marianne was hosting a send-off party for the last DPs at the camp, a group of Estonian Jews. This was the camp Ania had first landed in, re-created in the last years as a camp for Jewish survivors. In the beginning everyone had been mixed up: Nazi collaborators thrown into the same dormitories as Polish nationalists, Gypsies, and Jews. Concentration camp guards with former inmates. Thank God they had changed that.
Over the past year, Marianne had completed enough paperwork on the Estonians’ behalf to sink a ship. And her efforts had finally paid off. They were granted entry to the United States.
Signor Carfolo, the International Refugee Organization official responsible for the camp, had been skeptical about the celebration—For such an emotional thing, the last refugees, the final survivors of their small community . . . a party? The man was not very Italian. But Marianne knew that if she planned it, he would enjoy himself.
It was the Tuesday after Ania’s wedding: blustery and cool. Marianne waited at the camp’s front gate for Ania and also for Benita, who had reluctantly agreed to help them set up. The area looked desolate now—the barracks empty except for the building where the Estonians lived, the delousing station long since shuttered and the cook fires replaced by kitchenettes. Good riddance. But today, as Marianne stood in the silence, she missed the old bustle and restless energy. It had served as a physical manifestation of the war, evidence. And now it too would be erased. With the departure of these last refugees, the camp would be demolished and rebuilt as modern apartment-style housing.
What would you think of all this? she asked Albrecht. And Connie. Connie would have been especially disgusted by the town’s proposals. After all, before the DPs, the site had been a Wehrmacht barracks and training camp. Burn the place down, erect a terrible monument, he would have declared. He had never been a pragmatist.
You’re not a real German, Marianne had so often teased him on account of this. He was a romantic and an idealist.
Just as her thoughts turned glum, Marianne saw Ania arrive, driven by Herr Kellerman. Two fine new horses pulled his wagon, but the wagon itself was the same one he had first met Marianne and her children with so many years ago.
“Won’t you join us for the celebration?” Marianne asked as he helped unload the food.
“Nha.” Kellerman shook his head with a sheepish smile and offered no excuse.
“What a feast you have prepared!” Marianne exclaimed, seeing the two cakes her friend had baked. There was a whole pot of sausages, and bread and cheese as well. Ania always knew how to feed a large group. Where did you learn to cook in such quantities? Marianne had once asked. Just instinct, Ania demurred.
“Let’s set up in the library,” Marianne said. “The dining hall is too gloomy for a party. Never mind what Signor Carfolo says. After all”—she turned to Ania slyly—“it’s our library, isn’t it?”
The library was nothing fancy, a large room with bookshelves and a comfortable table and chairs. But it had been Marianne’s idea, and she had been right—it was a great success. The DPs had relished access to books. And Marianne had collected and organized them herself.
As Marianne and Ania approached, a few children ran toward them—Aarne Alver, Lev Pulvel, Janna and Eha Masing. These last two were sweet, rosy-cheeked twins born right here in the camp, members of a surprising peacetime baby boom.
“Have you brought things for the party?” Lev asked in his near-perfect English.
“Kuchen?” Eha asked, bouncing with excitement. This was a German word all the children had learned, whether or not their parents approved.
“Cake, yes,” Marianne corrected, in deference to their mother, Jutta, who stood in the doorway of their apartment. “And lots of spinach soup.” The children squealed and shrieked in mock horror. Spinach soup was what they had eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner during the early days of the camp.
“Süssigkeiten?” Janna tugged Ania’s skirt. Sweets? The children loved Ania, who spoke little English, and no Estonian, but somehow seemed, always, to grasp what they wanted. In the presence of these children, Marianne saw her smile far more than she ever did with her own sons.
Ania had cared for some of the children since they were newborns. When the camp administration had placed an ad in town for local women to serve as nannies for babies whose mothers were too sick after the war, or too traumatized, Marianne had pressed Ania to apply. And Ania had proved a deft and patient nanny, swaddling the babies in old army blankets, coaxing them to swallow their sugared vitamin water from medicine droppers. Her silence put the families at ease. You’re so good at this! Marianne had once remarked, and was startled to see tears spring to her friend’s eyes.
“Let us arrange the party and we’ll call you in,” Marianne said to the children. She nodded her head toward the residence where she could see Jutta waving. How tall and strong the woman looked—so different from the diminished figure she had once been. Marianne waved back, surprised to find tears pressing at her own eyes. All the men in Jutta’s family were dead: executed by one of Hitler’s Einsatzgruppen.
“Now,” she announced, once they had entered the library, “we must make a beautiful end.”
The party was set to begin when Benita burst through the door. “There you are!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed. “I can never find my way in this place!”
She looked particularly lovely this morning—and the waft of high spirits she brought with her was contagious.
“Ania,” Benita said, beaming. “How is this new married life?”
“Not so different than before.” Ania shrugged.
“Oh really,” Benita said with a twinkle in her eye. To Marianne’s surprise the other woman did not blush.
“A man wants what he wants,” Ania said demurely, and they both laughed.
Marianne busied herself with the tablecloth.
“Marianne, you’re shocked,” Benita said, some combination of her light mood and Ania’s presence making her brash.
“Me?” Marianne asked, although it was true. She had never shared this sort of banter with Ania—or Benita, for that matter.
“Of course!” Benita smirked. “Ania can’t very well shock herself.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Ania said, surprising Marianne into laughter that chased away the echo of her old schoolmarmishness.
“That I’d like to see,” Benita said. “Frau Kellerman shocking herself.”
Their laughter subsided into comfortable silence. From outside they could hear the children playing. And with the tablecloths and food unpacked, the library took on a festive look.
“I almost forgot!” Benita said. “I brought us Eiswein!” She reached into her bag and held a bottle aloft. “Herr Reiner said it was the best.”
Benita opened the bottle and poured them each a glass. “To you two,” she said. “And all the hard work you have put into this place.”
“Posh. We can’t drink to ourselves. To the travelers—” Marianne began.
Benita cut her off. “Then to marriage. To love. And to whoever is next.” With a coy smile, she brought her glass to her lips.
Marianne regarded her, suddenly curious. “Why—is there someone—?”
Benita shrugged mischievously. “Who knows? Where Ania goes, we may follow.”
“You don’t mean Helmut.” Marianne frowned, perplexed. The wine had gone straight to her head.
“How do you know I mean me and not you?”
“Benita!” Marianne exclaimed. “What on earth can you be talking about?”
Benita sashayed over to the window and rested her forehead against the glass. For a moment, Marianne was reminded of the girl she had first met. Then Benita straightened, cocked her head, and smiled. “Nonsense,” she said. “And daydreams. Don’t you ever have those?”
“Oh, Benita.” Marianne shook her head. She stabbed a knife into the cake on the table and began slicing. “Isn’t it time for the party to begin?”
“You should.” Benita smiled, ignoring the question. “A few daydreams would do you good.”
Chapter Seventeen
Momsen, June 1950
As far as Marianne knew, Benita was going to visit her sister.
“Bring her this,” Marianne had said that morning, thrusting a bag of expensive oranges into her hands.
It gave Benita a twinge of guilt. Marianne was a good woman. She knew Benita’s sister Lotte had four children and worked long hours in a canning factory. She did not know that Lotte was an ignorant, hard-hearted bitch and her husband was not dead, but locked in some Siberian camp for ex-SS.
Or that Benita was not actually going to see Lotte.
In Momsen, Benita stood for a moment on the makeshift train platform, blinking in the spring sunlight. Then she spotted him: Franz Muller, always taller and broader in person than he was in her mind. It was as if he belonged to another species—all parts of him well proportioned, but larger. A superhuman. She loved this.
When he saw her, a shy smile spread across his face.
“Franz!” she called, and ran toward him.
Circumspect as always, he extended his hand.
“Oh, stop,” Benita said, wrapping her arm around his waist. She turned her face up to his. “You can at least give me a kiss!”
He obliged with a furtive peck on her lips.
“You would think I’d be the one who didn’t want to be seen!” She laughed.
“Come.” He swung her bag over his shoulder, where it perched ridiculously.
Benita thrust her hand into his. Wrapped in the warmth of his calloused palm, her own felt like some small, vulnerable mollusk. She trailed a step behind, enjoying the feel of following, of being led by someone so much bigger and stronger than herself. And of knowing it was an illusion. When they were together, she was the one in charge.
When Franz had been released from the internment camp, he was a thin, hollow-eyed man with an apologetic stoop. He had hitched a ride to Braunschweig—first with a transport of American soldiers, who called him “old man” and offered him a candy bar that later had him retching in a ditch, and then with a friendly Tommy driving a jeep. This was the freezing winter of 1946. Benita knew all this from the letters he had written her soon after his release. Such sweet, simple letters, asking how she was, what Martin was doing, whether the castle was warm enough . . .
At first she had been self-conscious about writing back. She had never been good with words or spelling in school. But then it had seemed cruel not to answer. And she liked Franz Muller. She missed his strong, quiet presence in the woods. So she had made herself respond.
And what fun this turned out to be! It made her notice more, think more, and find the humor and interest in little things. The chickens Marianne was raising proved endlessly entertaining—it was a miracle that they survived under her care! And Fritz and Martin’s mischief became less galling when she wrote about it. Life was so much brighter and more vivid once she had a reason to observe it closely.
Everything was fodder for her letters. Except for the Russian.
But of course he hung between them, their personal ghost. A man she had killed and Franz had buried. To everyone else he didn’t exist. He had simply vanished from the face of the earth. On that day in the woods, Franz had seen Benita’s most hideous self, and still he did not hate her. Somehow it saved her from hatin
g herself.
Through their letters, they learned more about each other. Franz was the oldest son of a carpenter, who made fine cabinets and furniture. At nineteen, he had married the daughter of his father’s partner in order to consolidate the business. She was a sickly girl, five years older than he was. They had one daughter, Clotilde, and his wife died two years later. So Franz and his father had raised the girl, who was now eleven, the same age as Martin. He was not conscripted until 1942; he was older, for one thing, already thirty-five when the war began, and the sole proprietor of a business. But finally he had been sent east as part of a local group of reservists. What it was like there, where he had been . . . he did not write about this. Anyway, she knew where he had ended up: Burg Lingenfels, cutting down trees.
After he was released from the internment camp, he had gathered up his small family. Their flat had been bombed, his business destroyed, and he found Clotilde and old Herr Muller living in a dank, overcrowded apartment with neighbors. So he had packed their things and moved south to the American sector, where there were more opportunities. And there was Benita.
In the city of Momsen, he could find work as a carpenter. Why not Tollingen? Benita wrote. Come back as a free man! But Franz had a cousin who had a friend who owned a coffin-making business in Momsen, and Franz was assured of work there. Demand for coffins was steady, he joked. And it was not far from Tollingen.
So their letters had continued. But now there were also visits.
Over the last two years, Benita had been to Franz’s flat above the coffin business several times. She had met old Herr Muller, who was bitter and unpleasant and spoke to his son as if he were still twelve years old—how did Franz stand it?—and little Clotilde, who was a sweet thing, all skin and bones and large, soulful dark eyes. She clearly needed a mother—someone to teach her how to put her hair back in something other than a plain braid, how to look people in the eye, how to keep the house. They had sat on the makeshift furniture Franz crafted from coffin scraps and eaten Clotilde’s homemade, nearly inedible, cookies. And Benita had daydreamed of all the ways she could improve on this.
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