Page 44

Seventeen

The collision of his worlds had left Christian on edge—every time he turned a corner, he swore someone was watching him.

It hadn’t helped that he’d escaped Ackermann at the Sorbonne only to have him show up at the library he was visiting later in the day, demanding to know if he’d conducted any more interviews of German ex-pats.

There’d been a look in his eye that Christian hadn’t liked. One that said he was waiting to catch him in something.

It could have been paranoia, yes. But as Vater had taken to saying before his death, after Hitler rose to power, Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean no one’s watching me.

They were—they always were. That was the lesson he’d learned in those last months in Berlin. The Gestapo was always watching. One’s own neighbors were always watching. In some cases, one’s own family was watching—all too eager to prove their own loyalty by turning someone in.

Reich above blood. Reich above neighborhood. Reich above all.

He looked down again at the slip of paper. He’d deflected Ackermann’s question by asking if he had news of any who had come back to Paris, insisting he’d questioned all the names with which he’d been provided—true.

This had been his superior’s answer. An address scribbled on a piece of paper, along with a time. “There will be men there to bring him in. Why don’t you oversee the escort this time? I got a taste of your side of things this morning. High time you bücherwurms experience my side.”

He’d been unable to contain the mockery of a smile. “Oh, I have plenty of experience with your side, Oberstleutnant,” he’d said. “I have a good friend in the Gestapo in Berlin.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that momentary delight—or mentioned Erik Reinholdt, even obtusely. But everyone, even military men, had a healthy fear of the Gestapo. And it had been gratifying to see the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.

He hadn’t dared to refuse the order though. Since his ultimatum, Ackermann had granted him breathing room, yes...but he’d also taken to dropping by his hotel room without notice, always with invitations to this or that which they both knew he’d refuse. Just to check and make sure he was there.

How often did he knock when Christian wasn’t ?

He’d never questioned him on his absences, but he always had his whereabouts ready—at the Deutsche Freiheitsbibliothek.

Sharing a meal with Gustaf. Touring this or that historical site, always careful to be seen in any public setting, to be friendly, to be remembered in case Ackermann questioned clerks about him.

Visiting famous cathedrals...when a Mass just so happened to be underway or a priest was in a confessional.

Though for reconciliation, he inevitably returned to the same smaller church within walking distance of the Library of Burned Books.

The one with the priest who had told him it was no sin to save his son’s life from a bloodthirsty tyrant or his minions.

No sin to lie in those circumstances. That it was bravery.

That it was righteousness, like the midwives in the day of Pharaoh.

He knew which building it was the moment he turned the corner, given the cluster of soldiers waiting at the front door. They were joking with each other, shoving, laughing, paying no attention to the citizens that moved to the other side of the street to avoid them.

They all snapped to attention as he strode near. He gave them a salute. “Good evening, boys. Just starting your shifts, or as eager to be done with them as I am mine?”

They laughed, looking so blastedly young with their smooth cheeks and bright eyes and ready mirth. He felt like an old man, catching children skipping class. He wanted to say, Why aren’t you in school? You still have so much to learn. So much I could teach you, if only you’d listen.

“Just coming on, sir,” one of them said. “We can take care of this, if you’re clocking out.”

“Would that I could.” He motioned them to fall in behind him. “But alas. I too have a superior, who seems to think I need to get out of libraries and conference rooms and see our fine soldiers in action.”

Another of them snorted a laugh. “Hardly action, sir. No one ever does more than complain when we come to fetch them for an interview.”

“Yeah, the hardest part is communication, generally speaking. They don’t always speak German, and we sure don’t always speak French.”

He let himself smile at the self-deprecating humor. “Well, I do, if necessary. Though I don’t even know to whom we’ll be speaking.”

“Here.” Another of the four handed him a slip of paper much like the one Ackermann had given him—except this one had a name, not just an address.

Joseph Henriot.

His blood turned sluggish. Perhaps his feet would have too, had the soldiers behind him not kept him moving.

It wasn’t just the fact that it was Josef’s name that was on the paper—it was that it was his new name. At, presumably, his new address.

How? How had they learned his new identity—and so soon?

And why had Ackermann insisted that Christian be there to collect him for interrogation? Did he know there was some link between them? Or was he simply intending to rub in the fact that he had found one of Christian’s “missing ex-pat writers” when he’d failed to do so?

Don’t overreact, he told himself. Don’t assume. If you assume, you’ll give away more than they may know.

It could be coincidence. It could be nothing. Someone could have reported Josef for something altogether different—a new neighbor, suspicious of a stray word or phrase or accent. They may not know who he was—though if not, why would he be here?

No, they must know who he was—but it could have been an old acquaintance who saw him and followed him home and saw he was living under a fake name. It didn’t mean the whole game was up.

It didn’t mean Felix was in danger.

His throat nearly closed as his feet took him up to the second floor.

What if Felix was in danger? Was he still here, with Josef? Was he still trained to hide in his room the moment someone knocked at the door, or had he grown lax? Had Corinne picked him up yet? If not, at least she would be here soon. His boy wouldn’t be left alone for more than a few minutes.

Please, God. Please, may they both be safely away from here. Please, give me your words and wisdom now. Please, make a way for Josef.

Oh, please, God... what if Felix reacted to his voice as he had the last time and came running out?

But no. He wouldn’t. This time, they hadn’t been separated for nearly a year. This time, he was used to hearing his voice again.

But he was used to hearing his voice again and used to running to greet him. He wouldn’t pause to listen to what was being said, he’d just react like a little boy who loved his vati . Please God, may he be gone!

There was no reason to believe the worst.

But every reason to fear it.

All too soon, the door stood before them, its brass letter-number combination mocking him.

He shot what he hoped was a challenging grin at the soldier who had mentioned his lack of French.

“Perhaps we should work together on the communication. You take point—but I’ll give you the words, quietly. Practice will improve your skill.”

The soldier made a face but didn’t argue. He slid into position in front of the door and raised a hand.

Before his knuckles could rap on the wood, heavy, slow footsteps sounded from the opposite stairwell.

He knew those steps, and welcome they were not. Christian craned past the soldiers, praying his face looked only mildly curious—and perhaps a bit put out—but not as panicked as he felt. “Ackermann. I thought you wanted me to handle this.”

The oberstleutnant shrugged, his smile lazy and far too pleased.

“I decided this would be too fun to miss.” He gestured at the door.

“Go ahead, soldat . Knock.” Ackermann kept up his easy pace, skirting the four soldiers to stop beside Christian as the knock rang through the corridor.

“Perhaps I should have had you bring your aide—that Kraus is hungry for action, like a soldier ought to be.”

The others exchanged confused looks. “There’s never any action for these, sir,” the same one who had claimed it before said.

Ackermann’s low chuckle made a shiver of warning scrape up Christian’s spine. “There will be this time. Isn’t that right, Bauer?”

Christian had to swallow past the rising bile. “Sir?”

“You know what I realized this morning, sitting in that woman’s classroom?

You university types, you ‘men of letters’ as you call yourselves—you all know each other.

And you, you’re no young thing, like your idiot friend Gustaf.

You were professor already when Hitler was elected, weren’t you?

Already doing your great work in the university library.

When swine like this were still sullying our lecture halls. ” He jerked a thumb toward the door.

It was all Christian could do to lift his brows in question as shuffling came from behind the door. “I’ve never met anyone by the name of Joseph Henriot.”

Ackermann leaned close, hatred gleaming in his eyes. “And what about Josef Horowitz? Hmm? Will you claim not to have ever met him ? Your father’s old friend?”

Christian held his gaze. Just one blustering scholar who thought he knew something, staring down another with an opposing view.

He was going to be sick. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Who is it?” Josef called from within in French, his voice sounding every bit as miserable and weak as it had that morning on the phone.

“You don’t know? That’s not what Kraus said.

” Ackermann sneered and turned back to the door, pushing the others aside.

“This is Oberstleutnant Ackermann, along with several of my soldiers.” He spoke in German, as much bark as words.

“Open up.” He pounded his fist for emphasis, as if Josef wasn’t clearly on his way already.