Maybe it was a second. Maybe it was much longer. At last, a passing waiter bumped her shoulder hard with a loaded tray, and the jolt brought her back to herself.
Anna forced herself to take a breath. Her hands had gone ice-cold, and she clenched them in the folds of her dress so no one would see them shake. Her mind kept insisting this could not possibly be her husband.
It made no sense. Dmitry had been reported dead in combat. His plane had been shot down. She had received the official notice herself. She had mourned him for two years.
And yet her eyes told her otherwise. The general standing a few yards away held his head the same way. He narrowed his eyes in the same familiar way when listening closely.
Then came the gesture that settled it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Anna felt her knees weaken.
She had seen that gesture hundreds of times in the evenings when he came home from work and talked through his day. But now she had no right to react. She had to go to Major Hoffmann and do her job.
At this moment she had to be Marta Müller—quiet, invisible, a translator with no past and no family. But her legs felt heavy as lead. Meanwhile, the general finished speaking to his aide and slowly turned toward the room.
His cold, assessing gaze moved over the guests, paused on Anna for a fraction of a second, and moved on. There was no sign of recognition in it. No warmth. No flicker that he was looking at his own wife.
He looked through her as if she were part of the furniture, one more anonymous member of the staff. Though perhaps, Anna thought later, in the very last instant something had shifted in his eyes. Just then Major Hoffmann appeared beside her and muttered in German, clearly annoyed.
“Frau Müller, you’re expected at the table. General von Riedel has requested a competent translator remain nearby for his meeting with local officials.” The name echoed in Anna’s head.
So that was who he was now—Kurt von Riedel. And he wore the rank of major general in the enemy army. Anna only nodded, not trusting her voice.
On unsteady legs, she followed Hoffmann toward the group around the new commander. Every step across the polished floor felt like walking on thin ice. She had the distinct sense that one wrong move and everything would crack open beneath her.
Major Hoffmann formally introduced his best translator to the guest of honor. Anna gave a slight respectful bow, as protocol required. The general looked at her directly now, then gave a restrained nod.
“You speak the local language fluently?” he asked in flawless German. “Yes, sir,” Anna answered, to her own surprise hearing no tremor in her voice. “It has been my native language since childhood.”
“Good. I’ll need you tomorrow morning for an important meeting with the local mayor. Be ready at nine sharp.” “Yes, sir,” she said.
He nodded once and turned away to the officers waiting for him. Their brief, strictly official exchange was over. Anna stepped back, then another step.
She found the door and moved toward it slowly, trying not to stand out. She needed air before she passed out in front of the enemy.
She had to be alone and think. Outside, the night was cold, damp, and dark. A sharp March wind hit her flushed face.
She leaned against the stone wall of the mansion and shut her eyes. Her heart pounded so hard she thought the whole city might hear it. There was no longer any doubt: the man in that ballroom had been Dmitry…
