Page 4 of A Song in the Dark

chapter One

Tension hummed in the crowd as Rick Zimmerman pointed to the third fish on his left. Hopefully the code hadn’t changed. He held his breath.

Harold the fishmonger nodded, wrapped the selection, and then handed it to Rick.

The sour and salty smell of fish mixed with the musty scent of the newspaper assaulted his senses as he allowed himself to breathe again. Swallowing hard, he tucked the package under his arm. He tipped his hat to the older gentleman and turned on his heel, taking long, steady steps down the block.

The market was busy this morning, but his contact hadn’t flinched. Nazi police and soldiers seemed to be everywhere. None of the shoppers looked anyone in the eye. They made their purchases, then scurried to the next store.

Or left altogether.

Rick threaded through the crowd, the fish feeling heavier with every step. With his free hand, he turned up the collar of his jacket. The chill in the air grew with every heartbeat. Five more minutes until he was home. Until he found out the location of his next assignment.

Shrill whistles pierced the air. “Halt!”

His heart kicked into a higher gear as he broke into a jog with the crowd around him.

Footsteps thundered in all directions, but who had shouted the command?

With a quick turn to his left, Rick slipped into an alley and tuned in to all the voices around him.

Officers in the distance spoke in harsh tones to someone.

Rick slid up against the wall as close to the corner of the building as he could. Only then did he dare to glance back.

Four Geheime Staatspolizei officers surrounded the fishmonger.

Rick flinched as they punched Harold in the gut.

One of the officers let out a laugh when the old man crumpled to the ground.

Another picked up basket after basket, dumping the contents into the street.

Harold moaned and rolled to his side. The Gestapo officers jerked his arms behind his back, hauled Harold to his feet, and dragged him off.

Rick broke out in a sweat. Harold was one of the few contacts he had left in Berlin.

He leaned back against the wall for a moment, his head thumping against the brick.

They all knew they were in danger of arrest, or worse.

Every contact was trained, made aware of the dangers of the job.

Harold knew the risks. But he’d become more than a contact—he was a friend.

Rick clamped his lips tight. Emotions were a weakness, but the loss tugged at him.

Please help him, Lord. Protect him.

Whistles sounded again, pulling Rick out of his prayer.

He’d stayed here too long. One more glance told him the officers were headed the other direction.

For now. It was time to make a run for it.

He thrust the fish inside his jacket and tugged the zipper all the way up to his chin.

He made quick work of the distance to his flat, running all the way up the stairs, checking at each landing to ensure no one followed.

He slipped his key in the lock, entered the flat, and closed the door with a soft click. There was no time to lose. He put his other security measures in place.

A chair under the doorknob.

Drapes pulled shut.

Glass bottles upside-down on each window ledge.

With deft pulls, he closed the extra layer of thick curtains over the first, then dropped the fish on the table. He made a survey of the room.

No one had been there since he left.

He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and slit the fish, his fingers trembling. What if he didn’t have the right one? Would the Gestapo find it in Harold’s baskets? He paused and held his breath for a moment before releasing it in measured bursts. If he wasn’t careful, he’d slice a finger.

He cut the rest of the fish open and pulled it apart. There, the tiny message was intact! His shoulders eased a bit as he unfolded the small slip of paper.

Father says Mother is in Holland to care for her great-aunt. She misses you. Here’s hoping your French and your driving skills aren’t rusty.

Back to Holland, and as a driver no less.

Disappointment simmered in his chest, but he shoved it away.

He would take any assignment they offered, any opportunity to prove he was worthy of more responsibility.

Besides, his work as a driver last year had produced an abundance of reliable intelligence.

It was amazing the secrets people revealed in front of someone they considered invisible and beneath them.

But the snippet about French sent a thrill up his spine.

Perhaps this assignment was with a diplomat or a government official.

His superiors had often used his fluency in multiple languages when there was a higher-up involved.

This could be better than he first thought!

He glanced at the small clock on the kitchen wall.

Ten thirty-seven. The next train left in forty-five minutes.

No more time to waste. Leaving Berlin was a relief to the side of him that was always on edge—even as he slept.

Which meant he didn’t sleep much. But his conscience and humanitarian side warred with the decision to leave.

Would he be able to do what was needed in Holland?

He grimaced. It wasn’t like it was his job alone to stop Hitler and his amassed army and followers. But with British contacts diminishing in number, would there be anyone left to stop him?

He couldn’t think of that now. He had a job to do. He emptied drawers and the small closet in his bedroom, then shoved everything he owned into one bag. He burned the message—and anything else that could identify him as anything other than a Nazi sympathizer—in a small metal pail.

Harold’s arrest meant one thing. Someone was onto Rick’s small band of informants left in Germany. He passed a hand over his face. How could he leave when there were so many who couldn’t escape the hostile regime?

He shook his head. Pushed the thought away.

He had a job to do and little time to think about anything but getting on that train.

He wiped down everything as he made his way backward out the door, ensuring nothing was left behind.

He raced out of the building and down the street toward the train station.

Whistles continued to split the air. The Gestapo were everywhere.

Rick saw three more men arrested just in the time it took him to get to the station.

The Gestapo must have tortured someone who pointed them to an underground band of rebels. Was it his?

Scanning the train station, he got in line and watched several Gestapo interrogate travelers. When it was his turn, he stepped forward, purchased his ticket, and strode to the waiting train.

One hurdle down. Prayerfully, none of them followed him.

Climbing aboard, he resisted the urge to look around or behind him. A man with nothing to hide would just go about his business, after all.

He pulled out a newspaper and counted down the minutes until the train departed. Although a moving train didn’t mean that he was safe, he could at least breathe easier once they were on their way.

The edge of his paper crumpled with the weight of a black-gloved hand.

Rick held his composure and met the stare of a Gestapo officer. The man wasn’t one of the young, fresh-faced, eager-to-please officers Rick had seen of late. No. This man was seasoned. And the hardness of his eyes gave away his devotion to the Nazis.

“ Papiere ,” the officer demanded.

Rick handed over his papers. His ticket was tucked inside his pocket. Prayerfully, the man wouldn’t ask for it as well—because if it was taken away? Well ... things could get much more difficult in an instant.

“ Wohin reisen Sie ?”

Why did the officer want to know where he was traveling? And why did the question hold a sharp edge? He opened his mouth to answer, but a scuffle in the back of the train escalated to shouting, and a woman’s screams pierced the air.

The officer shoved Rick’s papers back to him and shouted commands to remove the passengers from the train as he marched away.

It took several minutes for Rick’s heart to return to normal as he hid behind his newspaper. Not until the train reached full speed, and his ticket and papers had been examined one more time, did the tension in his shoulders ease a bit.

Rick set aside his reading material and inspected each person in the car. All seemed safe for the moment. He slumped against the seat, but relief wouldn’t come.

The barren landscape blurred before his gaze. Escape had come at a high price. The violence of the Gestapo was well-known. Could he be the only one who made it out? Rick rubbed his face, his eyes heavy. It was the middle of the day, but a nap sounded like heaven.

No. He needed to stay alert. Safety was an illusion until this train crossed the border into Holland.

Contacts for the British spies were disappearing in droves.

But it was worst in Germany. And Hitler had full control of the military.

His power and influence were growing at an alarming rate.

Add to that the anti-Semitic laws he’d enacted in the last few years since President Hindenburg died, which had changed the landscape of Deutschland .

Many of Rick’s Jewish friends and contacts had been driven from Berlin, prohibited from doing their jobs or even sending their children to school.

Jewish families weren’t even considered citizens of Germany anymore.

His chest burned. The injustice was horrific. How could so many citizens be content to ignore Hitler’s ever-growing power? Did they really not know of the hold he had on their part of the world? Germans were a people proud of their heritage and country.