by a triangle, until the A and B series took over from May 1944.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” There was a slightly hysterical edge to her voice now. Tom sensed that this time she really was on the verge of breaking down.
“Because the number on your father’s arm didn’t follow any of the known Auschwitz numbering series.”
“What?” Even her makeup couldn’t disguise how white she had gone.
“It was a ten-digit number with no alphabetical or geometric prefix. Auschwitz numbers never rose to ten digits . . .” He paused. “You see, Miss Weissman, it is possible that
your
father
was
never
actually
in
a
concentration
camp.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
3:16 p.m.
They sat there in embarrassed silence as she rocked gently in her seat, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking. Tom gently laid his hand on her arm.
“Miss Weissman, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice muffled by her fingers. “I’ve almost been expecting something like this.” “What do you mean?” Turnbull leaned forward, his brow creased in curiosity.
She lowered her hands and they could see now that, far from the tears they’d been expecting, her face shone with a dark and terrifying anger. With rage.
“There’s something I have to show you . . .” She got up and led them out into the hall, her heels clip-clipping on the tiles.
“I haven’t touched anything in here since I found it.” Her voice was strangled as she paused outside the next door down. “I think part of me was hoping that one day I would come in and it would all just be gone as if it had never been here.”
She opened the door and led them inside. Compared to the rest of the house, it was dark and smelled of pipe smoke and dust and dogs. Boxes of books were stacked in one corner of
the
room,
their
sides
compressing
and
collapsing
under
the
93 the black sun
weight. At the other end, in front of the window, stood a desk, its empty drawers halfopen and forming a small wooden staircase up to its stained and scratched surface. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtain open. A thick cloud of dust billowed out from the heavy material and danced through the beams of sunlight that were struggling to get through the filthy panes.
“Miss Weissman . . .” Turnbull began. She ignored him.
“I found it by accident.”
As she approached the bookcase, Tom saw that it was empty apart from one book. She pushed against the book’s spine. With a click, the middle section of the bookcase edged forward slightly.
Tom sensed Archie stiffen next to him.
She tugged on the bookcase and it swung open to reveal a flaking green door set into the wall. She stepped forward and then paused, her hand on the door handle, flashing them a weak smile over her shoulder.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? You love someone all your life. You think you know them. And then you find out it’s all been a lie.” Her voice was flat and unfeeling. “You never knew them at all. And it makes you wonder about yourself. About who you really are. About whether all this”—she waved her arm around her—“is just some big joke.”
Tom had to stop himself from nodding in agreement, for she had described, far more coherently than he’d ever managed, the way he’d felt when he unmasked Renwick. It wasn’t just that he’d lost a friend and a mentor that day. He’d lost a good part of himself. The door swung open and Tom gave a start as a featureless white face suddenly loomed out of the darkness. It took a moment for him to realize that it was a mannequin in full SS
dress uniform. Behind it, on the far wall of what appeared to be a small chamber, a vast swastika flag had been pinned, the excess material fanning out across the floor like a sinister bridal train. The right-hand wall, meanwhile, was lined with metal shelving that groaned under the weight of a vast collection of guns, photographs, daggers, swords,
“Why are you telling me all this?” There was a slightly hysterical edge to her voice now. Tom sensed that this time she really was on the verge of breaking down.
“Because the number on your father’s arm didn’t follow any of the known Auschwitz numbering series.”
“What?” Even her makeup couldn’t disguise how white she had gone.
“It was a ten-digit number with no alphabetical or geometric prefix. Auschwitz numbers never rose to ten digits . . .” He paused. “You see, Miss Weissman, it is possible that
your
father
was
never
actually
in
a
concentration
camp.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
3:16 p.m.
They sat there in embarrassed silence as she rocked gently in her seat, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking. Tom gently laid his hand on her arm.
“Miss Weissman, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice muffled by her fingers. “I’ve almost been expecting something like this.” “What do you mean?” Turnbull leaned forward, his brow creased in curiosity.
She lowered her hands and they could see now that, far from the tears they’d been expecting, her face shone with a dark and terrifying anger. With rage.
“There’s something I have to show you . . .” She got up and led them out into the hall, her heels clip-clipping on the tiles.
“I haven’t touched anything in here since I found it.” Her voice was strangled as she paused outside the next door down. “I think part of me was hoping that one day I would come in and it would all just be gone as if it had never been here.”
She opened the door and led them inside. Compared to the rest of the house, it was dark and smelled of pipe smoke and dust and dogs. Boxes of books were stacked in one corner of
the
room,
their
sides
compressing
and
collapsing
under
the
93 the black sun
weight. At the other end, in front of the window, stood a desk, its empty drawers halfopen and forming a small wooden staircase up to its stained and scratched surface. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtain open. A thick cloud of dust billowed out from the heavy material and danced through the beams of sunlight that were struggling to get through the filthy panes.
“Miss Weissman . . .” Turnbull began. She ignored him.
“I found it by accident.”
As she approached the bookcase, Tom saw that it was empty apart from one book. She pushed against the book’s spine. With a click, the middle section of the bookcase edged forward slightly.
Tom sensed Archie stiffen next to him.
She tugged on the bookcase and it swung open to reveal a flaking green door set into the wall. She stepped forward and then paused, her hand on the door handle, flashing them a weak smile over her shoulder.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? You love someone all your life. You think you know them. And then you find out it’s all been a lie.” Her voice was flat and unfeeling. “You never knew them at all. And it makes you wonder about yourself. About who you really are. About whether all this”—she waved her arm around her—“is just some big joke.”
Tom had to stop himself from nodding in agreement, for she had described, far more coherently than he’d ever managed, the way he’d felt when he unmasked Renwick. It wasn’t just that he’d lost a friend and a mentor that day. He’d lost a good part of himself. The door swung open and Tom gave a start as a featureless white face suddenly loomed out of the darkness. It took a moment for him to realize that it was a mannequin in full SS
dress uniform. Behind it, on the far wall of what appeared to be a small chamber, a vast swastika flag had been pinned, the excess material fanning out across the floor like a sinister bridal train. The right-hand wall, meanwhile, was lined with metal shelving that groaned under the weight of a vast collection of guns, photographs, daggers, swords,
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