“But how is that fair to me,” she demanded, face flushing, “when I have spent hours upon hours discussing this project with this lieutenant? Refining the design to this point? I cannot start over with anyone else, Reinhard. I will not.”

  He did not like her tone, her overly agitated demeanor. Her melodramatics, he was familiar with, but this was different. She displayed a genuine, frantic concern that was improper. He heard it in the pitch of her voice, saw the alarm on her face. Her interest in the Englishman seemed to extend beyond his utility as a handyman for her project. As he formulated the words to confront her with this, to accuse her of being inappropriate and regain control of the direction of this conversation, she switched tactics, making this a question not of her power but of his.

  “Reinhard,” she asked evenly, “Do you mean to say, as the commandant of this Stalag, you are unable to get him medication to make him well?”

  The camp commandant blanched at the way she said “unable”—her over-articulation that seemed to signify an inalterable failing, a near-criminal act. Rather than risk her thinking him impotent, he assured her he could secure whatever he needed with a snap of his fingers. Anything.

  “Then I trust you will do it, Reinhard, not for the Kriegie, of course, but because the Kriegie is useful to me, your wife, and therefore useful to you.” She smiled, but it was forced and pinched, an effort to camouflage intense emotion. She transitioned swiftly to a new topic—yet another discussion of Clara’s shortcomings—the gummy quality of the potatoes she had prepared. What could Annalise possibly do to improve the woman’s skills? As she continued to talk, slipping casually from one thing to the next, her husband had a grave, uneasy sense that there was more at stake than the arbor. Well, fine, he thought. Perhaps the lieutenant will recover and complete this project—but after that, he need not return to this house.

  That night, Annalise approached their lovemaking with such passionate enthusiasm that Reinhard concluded he had misjudged her intentions. She was kind, that’s all, and simply wished that an unfortunate man not die prematurely when there were means to save him. That was surely her position, he believed, that and her wish to complete this new garden piece about which she was so enamored. He reached this conclusion because, in his pride, he simply could not conceive that the sexual aggressiveness and willingness his young, eager wife directed toward him could be contrived. His failure of imagination would prove costly.

  . . .

  The following day, Annalise called the driver to take her to the camp, where she slipped inside the medical building to see Gordon’s condition for herself. He lay completely still, his skin hot and dry, the rash profuse. She asked the nurse if she had given him the medication the commandant had authorized.

  “Not yet, ma’am. We attend to the patients on a schedule and we have…”

  Annalise exploded in fury. “You have purposely ignored an order from the commandant?” she spat. “How dare you? Where is your supervisor?”

  “Frau Schröder,” the woman sputtered, “I am only an aide and I do as I’m directed. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Bring the medication now, so I may be assured this man is being treated as my husband ordered. If he dies, it will be due to your insubordination.”

  The woman ran to get the head nurse, terrified and confused at the Frau’s sudden anger. This was a prisoner. Prisoners died every day. Why was this one getting unusual consideration? Usually, the staff was informed why a prisoner merited special treatment.

  Within twenty-four hours of the first infusion, Gordon opened his eyes and gestured that he needed some water. Annalise was unsure if he realized it was she who gave it to him, she who cooled his face with a wet cloth. The next day, his fever broke, the rash receded, and the medical staff determined he had a good chance of survival. Two days after that, Annalise returned with soft bread Clara had baked for him, along with sweet fig preserves. She was so relieved to see Gordon’s smile, the color beginning to return to his face, that she ignored the comments from the medical staff, who told her directly that her interference was irregular and unwelcome. Some quietly discussed how best to report her, but the fact that her husband ran the camp made it especially complicated. She would have time to repair all this later, she decided, once this crisis had truly passed. Gordon was returning to her. That’s what mattered. She sat at his bedside and watched him sleep, the miracle of his recovery convincing her that he returned the feelings she had developed for him. He must, she thought. He has responded to every small gesture. This is evidence of his regard for me. And believing there was very little to tie him to his home country, believing they had formed a bond that transcended countries and roles and allegiances, she began to daydream a life in which he stayed with her—always—even if they both had to pay a high cost.

  The next week, she brought fruit—a rare commodity—along with bread and three bottles of splendid French wine to the staff of the medical building, saying she owed them an apology. As she explained it, the ill English prisoner was halfway through a vital project at the commandant’s home and had left the place torn apart and in pieces. She had desperately needed the prisoner to return to untangle it all and put things back together, her anger at him causing her to become overwrought at the notion of having to find another work detail to finish this important project in advance of a big event she was soon to host. She was so very sorry and begged them to forgive her childish tantrum. She found them happy to do just that. And while they were enjoying the warm bread and toasting one another with the lovely Bordeaux, Annalise managed to insert a card into a waiting stack of documents that would soon be sent through the post. They comprised the latest tally of men who had been treated in the medical building, details of which were sent every three months to the International Red Cross. The card had formerly indicated that Gordon S. Clarke had received a diagnosis of typhus, had recovered, and would be returned to the general POW population. But with Annalise’s slight revisions, the card now indicated that Gordon had succumbed to his infection. That evening, the same very nursing aide whom Annalise had blasted for not quickly administering Gordon’s antibiotic shuffled through the cards, ostensibly reviewing them for error. But after a long day—many long days—her eyes spotted no mistakes.

  . . .

  Fully two months after he’d fallen ill, Gordon returned to the commandant’s home. Hearing the car pull into the drive, Clara met him at the garden gate, hands clasped in front of her, smile wide. As Friedrich walked ahead toward the guest house, where he presumed Gordon would begin the day, she whispered that she and Helene considered Gordon’s recovery an answer to their prayers. Gordon squeezed her hand in thanks and followed Friedrich up the stairs, eager for his first bath in more than two months. He returned to the kitchen where he handed his uniform over for washing. Clara, Helene, and Friedrich then departed for the dining room, saying Frau Schröder would be down shortly, Clara saying pointedly that she had a new bread recipe she intended to prepare for him in the coming days.

  Annalise appeared silently at the kitchen threshold. Her hair fell down around her shoulders, blonde strands against a powder blue dress that matched her eyes. She had taken pains to prepare for his return.

  “You’re here,” she said simply, the words catching in her throat.

  “I am, ma’am. That I am.”

  “Thank God it worked,” she continued.

  “Worked Frau Schröder?” he asked quizzically. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “The medicine that cured you. Thank goodness they could secure it for you and that the treatment was successful, Lieutenant.”

  “Was this something out of the ordinary protocol, Frau Schröder? Did the commandant keep you apprised of what was happening?”

  At this, she gave a rueful laugh, disappointed that he was unaware of how she had saved him.

  “I insisted Reinhard administer you Prontosil. It is a drug produced here in Germany, grown from a fungus, that reverses infection. That is what cured you. You were near death when I intervened.”

  And then he remembered, realizing that it was indeed her voice he had heard berating the workers in the medical building, that it was she he had smelled as he lay near death. He owed her his life.

  “My deepest gratitude, Frau Schröder,” he said finally. “I am in your debt.”

  Later that afternoon, Annalise followed Gordon as he returned to the car for the trip back to camp. As he climbed in the back seat, he did not see the driver hand Annalise a packet of envelopes—just one or two this time. There would surely be more.

  . . .

  By spring, the cement was poured and the posts were planed smooth, installed with the intricate trellis above. Annalise had even ordered the vines she planned to train up and over the top. They would be shipped in from Spain, and she hoped they would do well in Germany’s cooler climate. She was delighted with the result and grateful to both her husband and the lieutenant for seeing the project through. All would be ready for the party she would host in several weeks’ time for the Waffen-SS officers arriving to review camp operations. They would be impressed with the outdoor elegance she had introduced; it would reflect well on her husband. With the arbor completed, Annalise asked Gordon to assist with planting some new annuals to give the garden early color. She then requested he attend to smaller projects around the house—the warped floorboards in the guest house, the water stain that had appeared in the kitchen ceiling, the re-hanging of drapery rods that had come loose from the plaster. Reinhard did not object, finding her ongoing use of the POW—the evident distance between them and the absolute command he observed her exercise over him—satisfying. She required him to bathe as one did a child and made him follow her around the house, attending to this and that like a puppy. "The feckless British,” he observed to Friedrich. “Chamberlains, all of them.”

  Gordon worked one morning on the upper floor of the guest house, late spring sunshine streaming through the many windows, the sparrows completing their morning trills as the sun moved higher in the sky. His strength and stamina had returned, aided by the fruit and meats and breads Clara and Annalise continued to provide. His hair had begun to grow again and his nails had lost their yellow cast. As he worked, enjoying the warmth on his arms and face, Annalise appeared, waiting quietly, watching him from the door frame until he took notice of her. He was surprised that she was alone: Friedrich did not appear behind her to pace the hallway, as had become his custom.

  “Just a few more minutes of sanding this window frame, ma’am, and then I’ll need to paint it. After that, you’ll be able to open and close it as necessary to move air through these rooms.” He turned back to his work.

  She approached, arms crossed, standing close behind him, observing aloud that he had not yet made use of the bath.

  “Apologies, Frau Schröder. I had expected to stay out of your way today and spend my time finishing this. But certainly, I do not wish to offend you. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Danke, Lieutenant. We shall meet after you’re finished. Be quick.” Their eyes did not meet.

  Gordon entered the bathroom and closed the door, heartbeat accelerating, a vague sense of anxiety settling in his gut. On the vanity had been laid a razor, cup and brush for lathering, items he had not seen in the guest house bathroom before this day—a silent request from the lady of the house. He obliged, taking care to smooth the stubble on his face, working slowly so as not to cut himself and leave drops of his blood on the towel or the tile. He stepped into the warm bathtub and did not rush, despite her admonition to hurry. He needed time to consider the contest that lay before him. Gordon soaped his body, defined musculature having returned to his chest and arms because of the physical work that filled his days and the fortifying provisions Annalise afforded him. She seemed determined to do this. For months now, they’d engaged in a delicate dance, she taking the lead, endeavoring to camouflage their growing intimacy, the boundaries they no longer observed, and probably failing. Clara and Helene, he didn’t worry about. But a word to the commandant from Friedrich or an observation shared by the driver would have grave consequences. But Annalise seemed determined to press down this path.

  A towel wrapped at his waist, he returned to the bedroom where, as he expected, Annalise waited. Gordon held no power in this moment and knew that whatever happened next would proceed only on her terms, not his. He could protest, finally giving a name to what had been developing between them over these weeks and months. But if he had misread all this—if it was not sexual desire but a trap she’d set, a bit of fun to alleviate the humdrum and not her plan to move into the narrative he expected—she could summon Friedrich instantly and construct another story, a plausible story with an allegation that could imperil his life. He waited, head bowed.

  “Lieutenant—Gordon—Friedrich has been summoned back to the camp,” she said. Her eyes, unblinking and vulnerable, met his. “Clara and Helene have gone to market for last-minute things for tonight’s supper. There is no one else here.” She stepped back several paces, feeling with a trembling hand for the bed. She sat.

  “This is dangerous for me, Frau Schröder, being alone with you.”

  “I have notified my husband you are ill—a vestige of the typhus. I have told him you are indisposed and therefore not in need of an armed guard. He believes you are shut away here in our guest house, sleeping, weak with fever.”

  “And how long am I to be ill, Frau?”

  “The entire day, Lieutenant. Until the driver returns at dusk.” She heaved a deep sigh, gathering herself for what she planned to say. “Lieutenant—Gordon—would you say you and I have become friends? It feels artificial that I continue to call you lieutenant, after all the time we have spent together, all our lovely conversations. They have meant a great deal to me. Do you agree? Have we not created a kinship? Despite the difficult circumstance, I’m sure you would say that I have been kind, yes? With the intervention for your medical care, food that has nourished you and…” she waved a hand through the air “… all these make-believe projects in the house and the garden that I have devised to keep you here—away from that godforsaken camp. And now, this free time I have found for you.”

  Gordon stood unmoving, still clutching the towel, runnels of water falling from the hair at his neck, dampening his torso and back.

  “You have been more than kind, Frau. You have made these months bearable for me. You have. You restored my health and my sanity—and the health of other POWs, if I might say so—with your generosity. I am grateful for your protection.”

  “Then for me—if you are grateful—I would have a different request today. One that goes beyond protection, as you call it. Would you, I mean, I would like to ask—could you consent to remove that towel for me? That is, if you wish it too.”

  He stood frozen for a moment, then nodded, eyes locked intensely on hers. She leaned toward him and pulled his hand so the towel fell. Her eyes fell on his clean, naked body and she reached for him. He moved over her on the bed, pulling her free from her sweater and skirt, reaching at last for the body she had used to tease him from the moment they met. He covered her neck and chest and arms with his mouth, inhaling her strong, musky scent, forgetting she was his enemy, breathing her name for the first time, reciting it again and again. With that, she was unleashed, pinning him on his back, sitting astride him, eyes fixed on his, her straight pale hair hanging like a curtain, swinging as she moved.

  Afterwards, they lay intertwined, listening to the soft rustle of the leaves outside the open window, Annalise curled under his arm, nestled into his side, hand on his chest.

  “It is me now, Gordon, who is the prisoner,” she whispered, moving her hand down the length of his stomach. “But there is something I must ask you, now that we have become closer: who is it you write to in London if, as you say, you suffered a tragic end to your love affair?”

  He stilled, holding his breath to think. Of course, they’d been reading his letters home, gathering what facts they could about him. His duties had continued here, so clearly, they had discovered nothing disqualifying. How else to explain the wide freedoms he enjoyed and Annalise’s determination to assign him this latest household duty—to bed her under her husband’s nose? He reached his free arm around her, cupping her cheek, kissing the top of her golden head.

  “She’s no one, really. A wartime marriage that will not last, so it did not seem important to share. I write only to get news of people we know, and of home. She is no more than a friend who had the misfortune of finding me after my ill-fated affair.”

  Annalise looked him hard in the eye. “May it be as you describe,” she said. “We do not need additional complications.”

  “Annalise,” he said. “Am I to understand you want to pursue an affair? Despite the risks? Friedrich and the household staff will surely notice. I am a dead man if we’re discovered. And what would happen to you? Even if your husband wanted to protect you, the SS could execute you as a spy.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve considered this over your many months here?” she asked. “This was hardly an impulsive act on my part. It is not simply that I have tired of my husband. I am fascinated by you—by your artistic gifts, your love of music, the way you attend to my point of view in any number of languages. And yes, your physical attributes. I enjoy this especially. I have tired of this life, Gordon, this all-consuming loyalty to the Reich by which my husband and all others are measured. It has begun to exhaust us all and more than that, it has grown dangerous, even to me and Reinhard. Thousand-year Reich? Germany could not even beat back the Russians. There is talk the Americans will invade and we may not prevail. I do not intend to wait for them to find me here when that happens.”

  He looked at her with concern. “Annalise,” he began and upon hearing her name on his lips—something she had longed for and waited so many months to hear—she cut off their discussion, reaching for him again and finding him ready for her.