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milk at night. She was generous too, sharing the child with his mother. And, although she would never admit it, deep down she felt that Pepik loved her more.
    Anneliese bent down in front of her son. She looked up at Marta sharply. “What happened to his face?”
    Marta hesitated. “He fell, Mrs. Bauer,” she said.
    The lie gave her a little thrill, a tiny moment of retribution. Besides, to explain about the Ackerman boy would mean explaining that she hadn’t been properly supervising Pepik. Anneliese was already suspicious about Ernst; Marta did not want her to guess she’d been paying attention to him instead of Pepik.
    Marta told herself that she shouldn’t bother Anneliese with the truth. Anneliese was still upset by Hitler’s speech the previous night: he was asking for the surrender of the Sudetenland. The Bauers had stood over the radio, fuming. Hitler had said that after the last war Germany had given up all sorts of places—Alsace-Lorraine and the Polish Corridor—and now it was Czechoslovakia’s turn. Pavel had translated rapidly, almost under his breath.
    “He doesn’t mention that Germany was
forced
to give those places up,” Anneliese had said to her husband, her fists clenched by her sides.
    No, now was not the time to further upset Mrs. Bauer with this new injustice against her son. It was for Marta to know, who already knew everything about the boy. She kept the secret, along with all the others. She told herself it was for Anneliese’s own good. And that Anneliese deserved to be deceived.
    In the early evening Marta glanced out of Pepik’s window to see Ernst looking up at her from the street. He held her eye for a moment, gave a little nod. Almost indiscernible, but there it was.
    She pulled Pepik’s nightcap down over his ears and kissed his forehead, inhaling the scent of soap from his bath. “Sweet dreams,
miláčku
.” His breathing softened to sleep almost before she could extinguish the lamp. The Bauers were sitting beside the radio in the parlour; she bid them goodnight and went into her own narrow room. Took off her sturdy shoes and lay down on top of the blankets, fully clothed. The voices from below rose like woodsmoke, a warm, unintelligible murmur. She drifted off but woke to the sound of Pavel climbing the stairs and the Bauers’ bedroom door closing down the hall.
    She waited another hour, just to be certain.
    The factory keys were cold in her hand, and she wished she had thought to bring gloves. The nights were getting cooler, she thought. Winter, like a bad premonition. She crossed the footbridge, let the heavy iron gates fall closed behind her. The factory foyer was dark; the shadow of a black trench coat hung on a hook by the door. Ernst’s face made her think of the train station, of the little boys throwing stones at Pepik, but there was nothing she could do about it now, and she pushed the thought out of her mind.
    Flax dust coated the floor like snow. Ernst got her up against the chilly wall, pressing his weight into hers. The rough cement grabbed at her stockings. He leaned in to kiss her; Marta turned her head coyly. “Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
    He laughed. “Hello, lovely.” He brushed his hands lightly over her bottom. “What’s new in your world?”
    She tried to think of something of interest, something notable, but her days were all the same. “The Bauers are getting nervous,” she said.
    “About?”
    “About Hitler.”
    She said nothing about her earlier comment at the train station—that Anneliese suspected their liaison—and Ernst didn’t ask. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. “I think he might succeed after all,” he said.
    Marta moved his hand off her rear end. “Hitler? At what?”
    Ernst moved his hand back, smiling. “At liberating us. From the Czechs.” He gave her backside a little squeeze.
    “From the Czechs? Aren’t you one of them?” She paused. “One of us?”
    “I’m German,” he said quickly.
    Well, of