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younger brother Max had died in combat, a tragedy that had us reciting prayers for days on end, although I’d barely known Max. More exciting was the fact that one of my paternal uncles had flown a daring zeppelin raid over London and earned a newspaper mention for it. Uncle Willi, however, had avoided the draft because he oversaw the Felsing business and the kaiser had requisitioned the clock-making factory as a munitions facility. To earn money, Willi had also rented out the top floor of the main store to a man who’d invented a revolutionary new optical device for film projection, which the kaiser commissioned to document the war. I looked forward to hearing about my uncle’s ventures, eagerly awaiting his occasional visits with my grandmother, who resided with Willi at the Berlin family home. Regardless of the tribulations, they always brought a tangible sophistication when they came to see us, my uncle exuding the scent of his Russian cigarettes—a luxury he refused to part with—and Oma as pristine as ever in her sable and pearls. It never failed to strike me, as well, that had Mutti only asked for their help, we might have moved in with them in Berlin instead of a stranger’s house.
    “Travel is difficult now. You will stay with them when I depart for the front,” replied Mutti, with a sharp glance at me that preempted my exclamation.
    “We . . . we will stay with them in Berlin?” I asked, trying to subdue my excitement.
    “Of course.” Mutti’s voice was terse. I might not have dared question, but she knew I saw far more than she wanted me to see. “I cannot leave you alone here, can I? Now,” she said, lifting her voice to forestall my questions as to when we were leaving, “have you finished your work? No, I see you have not. Lena, this intolerable malaise reflects poorly on us all. There is a war going on. Now, tu etwas .”
    I gritted my teeth and resumed my knitting. I couldn’t wait for her to leave for the front, wherever that might be, if only so I’d be spared another reminder of the war. It had been going on for four years now, consuming everything in sight. But I knew little about it besides the fact that whilethousands died, blown apart by artillery or gassed in trenches, Mutti believed that delivering boxes of mittens could somehow hasten its resolution. Mittens! As if the kaiser could offer them by the truckload to appease our foes.
    My stomach rumbled. I was so exhausted and constantly hungry, I didn’t know what to feel anymore. I realized I should be grief-stricken—it seemed a requisite—for the death toll was immense; the lists grew longer every day, so many young men like those I’d seen marching down Schöneberg’s avenue perishing in terrible ways. To emphasize the gravity, Mutti had even embroidered and framed a needlework rendering of the poem by Freiligrath over our parlor mantel like a commandment:
O love, while it’s still yours to love!
O love, while love you still may keep!
The hour will come, the hour will come,
When you shall stand by graves and weep.
    She murmured it to herself as she went about her work, a constant litany like the prayers with rosary beads I’d seen the cook engage in whenever I sneaked into the kitchen to find something to eat. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought Mutti enjoyed the upheaval that had turned the world against us and brought Germany to its knees.
    I should be as resolute as she was to see us triumph. I should take pride in our sacrifices and the dogged defense of our blighted honor. But all I could think about when I had the energy was Mademoiselle. I wondered where she had gone. Back home to France, I supposed. There could be no dream of becoming an actress now.
    By nightfall, we had to stop. Lamp oil was scarce and we relied on stinking tallow to illuminate our paltry meal before we trudged to bed, our sole refuge from the long winter night.
    Liesel slept like a stone. Her fortitude astonished me. For a