nearest door lock, she hung back for an instant. Her heart kicked against her ribs like a recalcitrant mule.
She was about to break into a stranger’s apartment with a Jew as her accomplice. While her brother’s boss and his comrades raced through the city toward them. She stepped closer to the stairs. She couldn’t do this.
Cohen crouched on the floor, frowning at the lock. “Why won’t it open?” he muttered to himself, then glanced at Gretchen. “Going somewhere?”
“I—I c—I an’t do this,” she faltered, and he threw his tool down in frustration.
“Neither can I.” He surged to his feet. “Maybe I can break the door down.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his arm to stop him. “Röhm and his men will certainly notice a destroyed door! And do you want to bring all the neighbors running because of the racket?” She picked up the tool. It was a slender pick with a needle-sharp point. Gently, she fitted it into the lock, twisting with feather-light fingers until she heard a satisfying click. She turned the knob and the door swung open.
Cohen let out a low whistle. “Impressive. How’d you learn to do that?”
“My father taught me.” She didn’t add that Papa had instructed her how to pick locks so they could sneak into their apartment building’s cellar and steal coal for their stove. It hadn’t been his fault—the postwar inflation had been slowly killing everyone—but she didn’t want to say anything about Papa that a stranger might misinterpret.
“Your father . . .” Cohen sounded amused. “What interesting lessons you National Socialist children are taught. My upbringing must seem boring to you—my father only taught me more prosaic things, like how to read and tie my shoelaces. Never mind,” he added when she glared at him.
They stepped into the room. Walking inside felt like walking into a black night unrelieved by stars. Shutters had been fastened across the solitary window, leaving only slivers of light showing. Gretchen ran a hand over the wall, searching for a light switch, but there wasn’t one.
When Cohen flung the shutters back, she saw the window was the old-fashioned sort, without any glass, just a rectangle cut into the wall. Street sounds rushed into the room: pigeons crying, shoes tramping on cobblestones, schoolchildren shouting at one another.
Dearstyne’s home was nothing more than a small, cramped room: a sagging sofa that clearly doubled as a bed, for there was no mattress anywhere; a long countertop where an iron ring constituted a stingy stove; a scarred bureau under the window that must hold most of his possessions, because there was no armoire; and a couple of cardboard boxes filled with odds and ends. A single photograph lay on a low table.
Cohen dove for the boxes. Gretchen headed toward the bureau, but something about the photograph trapped her eye.
The paper was rough and yellowed. Not a photograph, but a snapshot that had been neatly clipped out of a newspaper. It had been snipped without a caption or accompanying text, and it showed five men shoving their way through a massive crowd. A young-faced Uncle Dolf walked in the lead, wearing his belted trench coat, with his slouch hat pulled low, which always made Mama roll her eyes and mutter that he looked like a gangster. Following him were four other men, Alfred Rosenberg, grim-faced beneath a dark hat, then Ulrich Graf, Hitler’s old bodyguard.
The next man seemed vaguely familiar. He was squat and barrel-chested, like a boxer, but so short that he resembled a dwarf. The top of his head barely reached the other men’s shoulders. She thought she had seen him before, but perhaps only at the important Party functions everyone attended, a minor cog on the wheel circling far away from the center of the NSDAP machine.
A few steps behind, her father was frozen in midstride. He must have been cold, for he wore no coat over his Great War uniform, but his expression betrayed no physical discomfort. His
She was about to break into a stranger’s apartment with a Jew as her accomplice. While her brother’s boss and his comrades raced through the city toward them. She stepped closer to the stairs. She couldn’t do this.
Cohen crouched on the floor, frowning at the lock. “Why won’t it open?” he muttered to himself, then glanced at Gretchen. “Going somewhere?”
“I—I c—I an’t do this,” she faltered, and he threw his tool down in frustration.
“Neither can I.” He surged to his feet. “Maybe I can break the door down.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his arm to stop him. “Röhm and his men will certainly notice a destroyed door! And do you want to bring all the neighbors running because of the racket?” She picked up the tool. It was a slender pick with a needle-sharp point. Gently, she fitted it into the lock, twisting with feather-light fingers until she heard a satisfying click. She turned the knob and the door swung open.
Cohen let out a low whistle. “Impressive. How’d you learn to do that?”
“My father taught me.” She didn’t add that Papa had instructed her how to pick locks so they could sneak into their apartment building’s cellar and steal coal for their stove. It hadn’t been his fault—the postwar inflation had been slowly killing everyone—but she didn’t want to say anything about Papa that a stranger might misinterpret.
“Your father . . .” Cohen sounded amused. “What interesting lessons you National Socialist children are taught. My upbringing must seem boring to you—my father only taught me more prosaic things, like how to read and tie my shoelaces. Never mind,” he added when she glared at him.
They stepped into the room. Walking inside felt like walking into a black night unrelieved by stars. Shutters had been fastened across the solitary window, leaving only slivers of light showing. Gretchen ran a hand over the wall, searching for a light switch, but there wasn’t one.
When Cohen flung the shutters back, she saw the window was the old-fashioned sort, without any glass, just a rectangle cut into the wall. Street sounds rushed into the room: pigeons crying, shoes tramping on cobblestones, schoolchildren shouting at one another.
Dearstyne’s home was nothing more than a small, cramped room: a sagging sofa that clearly doubled as a bed, for there was no mattress anywhere; a long countertop where an iron ring constituted a stingy stove; a scarred bureau under the window that must hold most of his possessions, because there was no armoire; and a couple of cardboard boxes filled with odds and ends. A single photograph lay on a low table.
Cohen dove for the boxes. Gretchen headed toward the bureau, but something about the photograph trapped her eye.
The paper was rough and yellowed. Not a photograph, but a snapshot that had been neatly clipped out of a newspaper. It had been snipped without a caption or accompanying text, and it showed five men shoving their way through a massive crowd. A young-faced Uncle Dolf walked in the lead, wearing his belted trench coat, with his slouch hat pulled low, which always made Mama roll her eyes and mutter that he looked like a gangster. Following him were four other men, Alfred Rosenberg, grim-faced beneath a dark hat, then Ulrich Graf, Hitler’s old bodyguard.
The next man seemed vaguely familiar. He was squat and barrel-chested, like a boxer, but so short that he resembled a dwarf. The top of his head barely reached the other men’s shoulders. She thought she had seen him before, but perhaps only at the important Party functions everyone attended, a minor cog on the wheel circling far away from the center of the NSDAP machine.
A few steps behind, her father was frozen in midstride. He must have been cold, for he wore no coat over his Great War uniform, but his expression betrayed no physical discomfort. His
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