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Twenty-One

He was a ghost. The words that Kraus’s cousin had written about Christian hovered always in the back of his mind, despite that he’d only heard them thirdhand. He’d never read them. Hadn’t seen that stark print upon the page.

If he had, would he have recognized the script? Known the student? Or was he one of just too many hazy images from last year?

Christian sat in his usual chair in Corinne’s living room, his ear attuned to the street.

It was unseasonably warm today, enough so that Corinne had cracked the window open just a bit.

Enough to get fresh air into the flat without sacrificing any precious warmth they’d likely need tonight.

Enough to hear the chatter of neighbors and the rhythmic plodding of Kraus’s feet next door.

It was the closest thing he could risk to freedom. An inch of breeze through the window. An inch of noise from the street.

He’d never thought himself the restless type, the kind to get irritable if he was cooped up inside too long. But then again, he’d never been faced with a situation where putting foot on pavement could mean disaster for everyone he cared about.

Though a book lay open on his lap, he hadn’t read more than a chapter since he groaned his way into his favorite chair an hour ago. According to the doctor, he needed to begin moving as much as possible to restore strength to atrophying muscles.

Corinne’s lips had gone tight at that. She’d exchanged a look with her uncle. We’ll find a way. A place, Georges had sworn.

But where? Christian had been to too many parts of Paris, both in his duties and to weave that image he’d wanted to present to Ackermann. And in his dratted quest to be seen as more than one more Nazi, he’d had too many conversations with too many people.

Every librarian and many library patrons in Paris would recognize him. Many teachers. Professors. That certainly left plenty of the city that wouldn’t know him if he slunk down their sidewalk, but it would only take one chance encounter to put everything, everything at risk.

“Here, Vati.” Felix walked on his knees to Christian’s chair from his pile of blocks, holding out a paper with a grin.

“Papa,” Christian corrected him, even though he hated to do it. He had always been Vati . But no French boy would call his father such a thing.

Still, it tore him up every time he had to remind Felix of it, every time he made his little boy frown. “Sorry. Papa. I drew us a Christmas tree!”

It required no effort to smile at the drawing, bright with color and hope and dreams. “And what a marvelous tree you’ve drawn. I imagine Tante Corinne will hang it right on the wall, where her tree usually goes.”

“That’s a fine idea,” Corinne said from the doorway to the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

His heart swelled at the sight of her—just a woman, doing normal things.

Here. With him. She’d been gone most days during his recuperation, first interviewing for different positions at lycées around the city, and then daily once she landed a prime job at a girls’ school.

It was farther for her to go than the Sorbonne and didn’t pay nearly as well, but it was security.

He hated that he couldn’t provide any of his own.

That he was not only too weak to stand more than ten minutes at a time, but that there was absolutely nothing he could do to contribute to this household.

This family that he wanted to be his, and yet was keenly aware he was nothing but a drain on. Worse, that he was a danger to them.

“I have an idea,” Corinne said, moving into the room and grinning down at Felix. “Why don’t we tape paper all over the wall here and you can color us a life-size Christmas tree? We can cut out decorations to paste on it and everything.”

Felix’s eyes went wide with delight, clearly not pausing to think that the task would take all day. Perhaps several of them, if his attention lagged. Corinne would know, though, that it would keep him occupied for countless hours.

Small children might never have been her focus, but she was good with them. With Felix, and with her new students too, given the stories she told.

He watched with a smile as they made a plan—to lay the papers out on the floor and sketch out the tree, then color it in.

The smile froze when he heard a sound he knew too well coming from the window—the growl of a German engine, not just approaching but cutting out right outside.

Then the squeak of the gate from the library next door.

Of their own volition, his eyes flew to the clock.

Not a time Kraus usually took a break or left his station—and cars rarely came here.

An auto door slammed, and more footsteps sounded. Christian’s stomach dropped seconds before Kraus’s voice made it plummet even lower. “Good day, Oberstleutnant. Can I help you with something?”

Christian’s thoughts barely had time to spin through the denial before the last voice he ever wanted to hear again made its way through that crack in the window. “Back to your post, Kraus. This has nothing to do with you.”

“You’re not...you’re not here for the Bastien woman, are you? We both know that Sonderführer Gustaf warned—”

“My business here is no concern of either him or you, soldat .” He practically snarled the reminder of Kraus’s rank.

A thousand words, none of them particularly suited to his son’s young ears, vied for a place on Christian’s tongue.

His gaze snapped to Corinne’s. She’d gone still, her pencil clutched in her fingers.

He saw no fear on her face, none of the panic that he felt rising in his own chest. Just calculations, dozens of them whirring through her eyes as fast as they were surely whirring through her mind.

She set the pencil down. Stood.

Christian did too, as quickly as he could.

They had a plan for this, for any time someone came to her door unexpectedly. They’d already done it twice when a neighbor knocked on her door.

But a neighbor wasn’t Ackermann. A neighbor wouldn’t be looking for anything, absolutely anything to hold against her. A neighbor didn’t already count her an enemy against whom he had a score to settle.

He felt his hands and feet going through the necessary motions—shelving the book he’d been reading, picking up his glasses, removing all evidence of himself from the room.

He glanced again at the clock, his mind screaming a plea to heaven.

Georges should be back any moment. Please, Lord, send him quickly.

Corinne had already proven that she could take care of herself, but he didn’t want her to have to.

His eyes snagged on Felix. Every paternal instinct he possessed made him want to scoop his son up and take him with him into the corner of the closet he’d be stuffing himself into. It wasn’t part of the plan—Felix was officially Corinne’s ward, part of her life, expected to be there.

But the panic gnawed. What if Ackermann had somehow gotten his hands on more details of Christian’s life? What if he knew he had a son who matched Felix’s description? What if he’d somehow seen a photo and recognized him?

No. No, it was unlikely. He knew it was unlikely. More, he knew—hoped, prayed—that Felix’s presence could perhaps keep Ackermann in check.

Plus, there was no way to hide evidence of Felix so quickly, and if Georges returned while Ackermann was still here— Please, God!

—without Felix, then how to explain where he was?

Ackermann too much liked knowing every facet of his targets’ lives so he would know what to use against them to let something as obvious as a child under Corinne’s care go unquestioned. Unexamined.

Unthreatened.

Felix had been as well drilled as the rest of them. After a squeeze to Christian’s legs and a silent look up at him that promised he would be a good little mouseling, he went back to his drawing.

Christian moved silently toward the bedroom he’d been staying in, into the corner of the closet he’d already prepared to fit him.

Chest aching, that his son had to learn these lessons.

Breath fisting, that Ackermann was no doubt even now climbing the steps.

Prayers thumping, the same litany over and over again.

Lord, protect them. Lord, send Georges home now. Lord, blind his eyes.

He had barely managed to get the suitcases rearranged in front of his legs, the long winter coats in front of his torso, the closet shut again, when the pounding came on the door.

Even given the complete darkness of his hiding place, still Christian squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow make him vanish, or make his prayers reach heaven the faster.

“Who is it?” Corinne sang out, her voice as cheerful and bright as if she truly expected it to be a neighbor or friend on the other side of that angry fist.

Why? Why was Ackermann here, after all these weeks of silence?

They’d hoped he’d decided Corinne wasn’t worth retribution, not with Gustaf acting as her champion, not with him apparently having two high-ranking officials as relatives.

They’d thought it had been enough to convince Ackermann to cut his losses. To ignore her.

“Oberstleutnant Ackermann. Open the door immediately.”

He could all but hear the purse of her lips. “With all due respect, Oberstleutnant, I’m uncomfortable doing that, given our last encounter. But my uncle will return momentarily from his errands, so if you would—”

“Open the door or I kick it down. Your choice.”

She heaved a sigh, nearly lost to his ears. “Very well, but please be aware that I have a child here, and I expect you to behave civilly.” The slide of her chain, the click of the dead bolt. “I’m certain you don’t want France’s children to cower in fear of our liberators .”