THE TRAITOR
V. S. Alexander

Copyright

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © V. S. Alexander 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

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V. S. Alexander asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008402372

Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008402365

Version: 2020-02-25

Outstanding praise for the novels of V. S. Alexander

The Irishman’s Daughter

“Skillfully blends family ties with the horrors of a starving country and the hopefulness of young love.”

—Booklist

“Written with hope for a better tomorrow, V. S. Alexander gives readers an intimate heart-wrenching account of the unimaginable suffering of those who clawed their way through Ireland’s darkest years.”

—BookTrib

The Taster

“Alexander’s intimate writing style gives readers openings to wonder about what tough decisions they would have body of nuanced World War II fiction such as Elizabeth Wein’s Code Name Verity, Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See, and Tatiana de Rosnay’s Sarah’s Key. Book clubs and historical fiction fans will love discussing

—Library Journal

The Magdalen Girls

“A haunting novel that takes the reader into the cruel world of Ireland’s Magdalene laundries, The Magdalen Girls shines a light on yet another notorious institution that somehow survived into the late twentieth century. A real page-turner!”

—Ellen Marie Wiseman, author of The Life She Was Given

“Alexander has clearly done his homework. Chilling in its realism, his work depicts the improprieties long condoned by the Catholic Church and only recently acknowledged. Fans of the book and film Philomena will want to read this.”

—Library Journal

Dedication

To those who fought and died for freedom

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Outstanding praise for the novels of V. S. Alexander

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1: The White Rose

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part 2: Traitors

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Appendix 1

Appendix 2

Appendix 3

Footnote

A Reading Group Guide

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Kristallnacht, November 9, 1938

The Night of Broken Glass

I n the dark, the mind can play tricks.

That’s what I thought when the sounds entered my ears, faint at first, like the play of droplets in a fountain, followed by distant crashes that cracked and splintered the air. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, reached for my glasses, and peered out the window above my desk. The silver clock on my desk read past one in the morning. It was November ninth, the fifteenth anniversary of the failed Beer Hall Putsch, a time of National Socialist memorials and celebrations across Germany for the martyred Nazis. Everyone should have been asleep, but other equally ominous noises filled the air as well.

Muffled laughs and jeers filtered through my window. I opened the latch, hearing the voices spreading across Munich, which seemed to come from every corner of the city, from the very earth itself. Indistinct voices, broken in the air, chanting, “Juden, Juden, Juden,” fell upon my ears. I shivered against the shouted barrage of anger and hate.

I switched on my desk lamp and a sickly yellow glow washed over the papers that lay upon my blotter—I’d spent long hours studying before bed. I rubbed my tired eyes, put on my glasses, cupped my hands around my face, and peered through the soot-smudged window of my fourth-story bedroom on Rumfordstrasse.

I looked beyond the needlelike spire of the Church of St. Peter, “Old Peter” as my mother and father called it, and past the stone buildings that lined the streets, smoke spiraling up in a corkscrew, pummeling the clouds that concealed the full moon. Flames flickered on the horizon as the dark smoke spread across the sky like ink dropped in a bucket of water.

Munich was constructed of stone and wood, and the fire brigade would be there soon enough to extinguish the blaze. A feeling I had known few times before settled in my stomach. The sensation reminded me of the time, as a child of seven, I had wandered away from my mother in a department store when we first came to Munich. A peculiar fear filled me. A kind old man dressed in a blue suit that smelled of tobacco and spicy cologne helped me find my mother. The man spoke German with a heavy accent and wore a round cap on his gray head. My mother swept me into her arms and forgot about her anger with me for wandering off. She told me later that if it hadn’t been for the Jewish man, someone might have snatched me away. Her voice was flat and calm, nothing like the voices outside my window.

This November evening brought that earlier dread back to me, a crushing culmination, like brick piled upon brick, of the changes that had swept across the city as National Socialism spread at first in small steps then in insidious leaps and bounds. My Jewish friends, who had once been numerous since the time the old gentleman had been my deliverer years earlier, were now distant, many telling me that I was better off without them. Their words saddened me as they drifted away. I wanted to keep them as friends even as they preferred not to be seen or heard, sheltering in their homes like secretive, silent mice.

In 1938, the Reich pressed its incrimination and repression not only upon my family but upon every citizen who wasn’t a fervent Nazi. Sometimes the tension that vibrated through Munich bordered on paranoia, with a terrible, blood-churning excitement that came with a terrible cost—one never knew when the Gestapo might come for your neighbor or you.

As these thoughts raced through my mind, the fire grew larger, the overcast reflecting a hellish mixture of blazing yellow and orange, streaked by flowering blooms of black. Then, there were more crashes, the sounds of ripping metal and breaking glass, but no alarms sounded.

At sixteen, I was too young to leave my parents’ house without permission, but old enough to be curious—and frightened—by what I saw and heard. I tiptoed down the hall and peered into my parents’ bedroom. They slept undisturbed under their blankets, their sleepy breaths rising and falling in rhythm.

I crept back to my room, turned off my lamp, and tried to fall asleep while fearing for the city I called home.

“Talya,” my mother shouted the next morning at my door.

I shot up in bed. “Yes?”

Mary, my mother, tapped her foot as she always did when I had overslept.

“You’ll be late for school.” She turned in the hall toward the kitchen, her black dress ruffling around her body, her shoes clicking on the wooden floor. My mother always kept her bourgeois attitude, despite the fact that living in Germany was harder than both my parents had anticipated after leaving our Russian home behind. She always looked, no matter the time of day, as if she was going shopping. Another habit that she refused to give up was calling me by the diminutive form of my name. That mannerism irritated me because I was no longer a child—I had turned sixteen on the sixteenth of May. All of my girlfriends, and certainly the boys I knew and liked at school, called me by my full name—Natalya.

“There’s no school today—it’s a national holiday.” I yawned and stretched toward the window to see if the fire was still burning.

She returned, her eyes flashing in irritation at my sleepy attitude. “Herr Hitler has canceled the holiday. Herr Hess is speaking tonight. No matter if there’s school. If not, you can find yarn for me so I can mend your father’s socks.”

I was at a loss. If the holiday was canceled, would stores be open or closed? And the task of finding dry goods was becoming almost impossible as the availability of fabrics dried up to support the needs of the expanding Wehrmacht. I washed, dressed, and joined my parents at the breakfast table.

“Did you see the fire?” I asked my mother after I sat down.

My mother busied herself with the pots on the stove and didn’t answer. My father, Peter, lifted a spoonful of porridge to his mouth and gave me a stern look. His eyes narrowed and he said, “Hooligans. Such nonsense.” He took a bite and pointed the spoon at me. “Stay away from them.”

“How do you know they were hooligans?” I asked.

My father’s black brows bunched over the bridge of his nose. “Many people are reluctant to talk these days, but some do, even early in the morning, when neighbors gather in the hall.”

“I don’t associate with troublemakers,” I assured him as I dug into my oatmeal. My father’s approach to life, unlike my mother’s breezier style, was all business, suitable for a strict disciplinarian. As I grew into my teenage years, I resented the absolute commands that he spewed toward me like platitudes. “No” and “don’t” were principle words in his vocabulary.

After eating, I returned to my room and studied the algebra problem I’d been working on the previous evening. Frustrated by my inability to solve it, I tossed the troublesome paper and pen next to my biology text. The book lay open to its title page with the spread-winged eagle perched on the encircled swastika; it gleamed up at me as if its black ink had been printed yesterday. We lived with those symbols every day—we had no choice.

I cleaned my glasses and wondered if I could sneak out with my friend Lisa Kolbe. She was more knowledgeable about life and worldly interests than I was. I believed she was prettier, more outgoing, with a less melancholy outlook than mine—inherited from her German parents—far different from living in my Russian father’s household. Lisa had a way of making friends that I also admired. We’d known each other for years because we were only a few months apart in age and lived in the same building.

Two taps sounded on the floor from the ceiling below. They were soft, but I felt their vibrations through my shoes. Lisa was sending me our long-held signal to meet. I put on my coat and walked to the sitting room.

My father was finishing his tea and reading an illegal book—a German translation of the Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas. He kept it, and a few other illegals concealed behind the bookcase, as if their makeshift hiding place would never be discovered. My father would have refrained from reading a banned book in public, and because our family kept to ourselves, there was little likelihood his cache would be found.

I watched him for a moment as his eyes drank in the words. Soon he would put down his reading and go to the apothecary shop where he worked as an assistant to the pharmacist—a job similar to the one he held in Russia before we moved to Munich.

My mother gave me Reichsmark for black yarn if I should happen to find a store open. This came after a stern admonition from my father, “Make sure you stick to your business.” I kissed my parents good-bye and stepped into the dusty hall, being careful to tread lightly down the steps. Lisa stood in the half-dark corridor, attired in her tights and jacket, her face partially lit by the single bulb at the top of the stairs. Her blonde hair, verging on silver, was cut in a stylish sweep around her face and ears. The upturned mouth I knew so well offered the usual appearance of a pert smile.

“So where are we headed?” she asked.

“Out for yarn.”

“Exciting,” she replied and feigned a yawn.

“I know.”

“My parents have left for work.” Her smile shifted to a mischievous grin. “We must see what happened last night!”

I was as excited as she was about discovering what had gone on, and more than willing to stretch the limits of my father’s orders. We sprinted down the remaining steps and out the door. A listless breeze carried the lingering odor of burned wood.

“Did you see the fire?” I asked as we walked through the narrow streets of the city center. To the west, the twin towers of the Frauenkirche loomed near the central square of the Marienplatz.

“Only the red in the sky.”

We were engrossed by the strange timbre of the day. The streets were quiet, but here and there people strode past, eyes cast downward, barely giving us a glance. Sometimes they disappeared up alleyways like phantoms in the shadows.

Several young men sat on benches smoking cigarettes, or leaned against buildings, looking as if they were fighting off the effects of a long, drunken night. They were members of the SA, “brownshirts,” as we called them. One particularly surly fellow with a thick jaw and full head of sandy-colored hair ordered us to stop. “Juden?” he asked. We shook our heads and said “Nein,” and after we presented our school papers, which we always carried with us, he let us go.

“Can’t they tell we’re not Jews?” Lisa asked, but I knew she was trying to make a joke. Her words dripped with sarcasm. One of our dear friends, a Jewish girl whom we hadn’t seen in several months, was as blonde and blue-eyed as any Aryan could be. Yet, she was subject to the laws oppressing the Jews. Nothing about these restrictions was fair.

Soon we came upon the building that had burned—a synagogue. I had passed by it many times. It was a solid stone building with a large circular window encased in what appeared to be a turret, but the flames had charred everything, leaving the window a round, empty hole like the removed eye of a Cyclops. Most of the roof had collapsed upon itself. The stone masonry stood blackened, but some parts had been turned the color of ash by the intense flames. The structure with its burned-out arched windows and doors was as ugly now as the naked trees that stood apart from it.

We dared not move too close because members of the SA guarded the building, keeping those away who might want to loot it or perhaps save an artifact. Two women stood behind us, tears streaming down their cheeks as they dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs. From their muffled sobs, I could tell they didn’t want to call attention to themselves.

They shuffled away and a nicely dressed young man strode to my side and took off his hat. He was tall with hair a mixture of blond and brown, parted on the left and swept back to the right in the style most men wore. His wide-set eyes were framed by an attractive face, and even with a glance I surmised that he was intelligent and a bit on the cunning side. From his rigid stance to the set jaw, he exuded those qualities.

“The SA set it on fire with gasoline, and then tried to throw the Rabbi in the flames,” he said in a low voice while staring at the synagogue. “He wanted to save the Torah scrolls.”

Lisa and I looked at each other, not sure what to say.

“They’re dogs, all of them,” he continued. “They had the Rabbi arrested. He’ll end up in Dachau for sure. Pigs.” He turned our way. “Who are you?”

I started to answer, but Lisa stepped in front of me and said, “It’s none of your business. Who are you to ask?”

Being the introvert, I fell silent, feeling somewhat sorry for the man who had expressed his sympathy for the Rabbi and the tragic arson. Out of kindness, I smiled at him and his eyes locked upon mine. A jolt of attraction sparked between us for a second, and the hair on my arms prickled with gooseflesh.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I won’t forget you,” the man said and tipped his hat. After giving me a look, he disappeared around a street corner behind us.

“That was strange,” I told my friend, while absentmindedly positioning my glasses on my nose. The electric thrill still lingered on my body. Lisa stood composed, sassy, and stylish a few steps away. I’d never considered myself to be pretty, always judging myself: tall and gangly with perhaps too much black hair. My glasses didn’t help my confidence with boys either.

“Let’s leave before we become more conspicuous,” Lisa said, implying that by merely observing the synagogue we had already done so.

She was right. One always had to toe the line—to be the good German and not make waves or create a fuss, because any action outside the law could lead to misfortune.

As we left, I asked Lisa, “What has become of our Jewish friends? I fear for them now more than ever.” And behind that question was a broader indisputable fact: Lisa and I didn’t agree with the Reich’s laws and doctrines. There was no exact day we formed that viewpoint, but the propaganda from the state-run newspapers and radio, the men who marched off to war and never came back, the rationing, the building tension in the air allowed us to reach that conclusion. We silently understood what the consequences were for such thinking. But what could we do about the Nazis?

As we walked about Munich, we saw the destruction that was perpetrated for the “protection” of Jewish property—the looting of goods by the SA and others. Many people emerged to look at the damage, walking like the dead as they passed broken windows, burned storefronts, and looted showrooms. Lisa and I knew that the world was changing for the worse.

At the Schwarz Restaurant windows were broken out; Adolf Salberg Fineries on Neuhauserstrasse had been firebombed—the large Salberg sign was a twisted mass of metal; Heinrich Rothschild’s hat and finery store had been vandalized and words against Jews whitewashed on the windows; the Sigmund Koch music store looted; display windows smashed at Bernheimer home furnishings and art store; and perhaps most shocking of all, the large, popular department store, Uhlefelder on Rosental, had been looted and vandalized.

My father worked for one of the few remaining Jewish business owners in Munich. Lisa and I found him standing on the sidewalk in front of the broken windows of the apothecary, shards of glass like fractured diamonds littering the street.

“What are you doing here?” my father asked sternly when we approached. His broad jaw, so typical of the men in his Russian family, was clenched. “Your mother sent you out for yarn, not to roam the streets.” He picked up a broom propped against the side of the shop and pointed the handle at us. “Go home! Now! You’ve seen enough.”

Mr. Bronstein, my father’s boss, poked his head out of the shattered window. His pinched face, red eyes, and trembling hands showed the pain incurred by the destruction at his shop. Two brownshirts strolled down the street. My father threw the broom down, grabbed Lisa and I by the shoulders, and whispered to us to stand still.

“Are you a Jew?” one of the men shouted from down the street.

My father shook his head but stared defiantly at them.

“Go on, then,” the man ordered, strolling toward us and placing his hand over his holstered pistol. “Where is Bronstein?”

The owner, small and thin, appeared in the doorway. The man rushed at Mr. Bronstein, shoved him inside the store, and shouted, “Clean up your mess, dirty Jew. Is this how you run a business? Well, you won’t for long. You have to pay for this damage.” A slap and a cry echoed from the shop.

My father swiveled us on the sidewalk toward our home, his arms trembling as he guided us. We walked home in silence. As we neared our door, I realized that overnight Germany had embraced death over life.

The yarn was forgotten.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

July 1942

If I had believed the world was flat, the steppes would have provided the proof as the earth spread in an unbroken line to a distant horizon. The vast land stretched before me, a patchwork of green grasses that undulated in wind-whipped waves along with the brown stubs of harvested winter wheat, other fields dissected only by the gray bark of infrequent trees or the cubed wooden frames of farmhouses not destroyed in the Wehrmacht’s advance.

I was on a cramped train, separated from the army men, heading to the Russian Front as a volunteer nurse for the German Red Cross.

Some of the fields had been burned and only the blackened earth remained, but as surely as the sun rose, the ground had to be tilled and tended by the solitary figures of peasant farmers, who stood with pitchforks in hand or sat upon a horse-drawn wagon—if the poor people could force another crop from the ground.

Somehow a lucky few had survived. Perhaps the Wehrmacht needed the workers, toiling under slave labor to transport grain back to Germany, or perhaps they had been spared from death by a “beneficent” Nazi officer.

It was the first time I had been in Russia since our family had fled from Leningrad during the first phase of the Five-Year Plan in 1929. I was seven years old then. My father had seen firsthand the disappearance of those who didn’t meet the work quotas set up by Joseph Stalin—they vanished in the night never to be seen again, usually sent to their deaths in labor camps. My father had scraped enough money together for us to move to Germany, where he hoped we would have a better life. Because my mothers’ parents were German, we were granted citizenship before the full rise of National Socialism.

But the war was in full bloom after the September 1, 1939, invasion of Poland and depending on the train’s location, we looked out upon a land that retained its raw beauty or rolled past a landscape blasted by conflict. In Warsaw, I witnessed the desperation of Polish nationals, who had surrendered everything to the Nazis except their humanity, as I slipped a piece of candied sugar to a little girl who offered me a flower, while gazing upon the brick ghetto walls that confined so many Jews. Soldiers herded emaciated people in and out of the gates, marching them in lines toward some unknown destination. I had become numb to the horrors, learning over the years that I could do little to fight against the Reich.

In those lands yet untouched by war’s deadly grip, the tall birches shimmered in East Prussia, the wide steppes of Russia opened to gently swelling hills; and, at those times, with the train windows open, the wheels clacking in rhythmic motion along the tracks, the July heat dissipating with the setting sun—in those times—one could almost forget the cares of war and pretend that all was right with the world.

But there were other distractions on the long trip to the Front. I traveled with a young woman named Greta, also a volunteer nurse, whom I knew little about other than she had her own plans, as I did, to eventually return to Munich.

Because my father worked in a field related to medicine, I was drawn to it and, furthermore, I had no better idea what to do with my life. I had come to volunteer nursing after my experiences in the League of German Girls. Administering medical care to the ill gave me satisfaction. Changing bandages, helping children who suffered from cuts and scrapes, and learning about the body became my “profession” in the years following 1939. Although nursing allowed me to get away from my strict father and not immediately give in to the pressure to marry and produce children, as the Reich demanded, one strong disadvantage remained. The German Red Cross became a potent arm of the Nazi regime. We were expected to embrace the Reich’s teachings on Aryan supremacy and blindly follow Hitler—both of which I innocently ignored in thinking and action. My father’s strictness had inadvertently instilled an anxious tension inside me, which fed my natural shyness. But something stronger bubbled in me as well: an urge to be free, to be my own woman, a nascent rebelliousness.

One night Greta offered me a smoke as I read a biology text in our cramped quarters. The book offered little excitement, but any gathered kernels of knowledge I hoped would help me secure a medical career as a woman under National Socialism.

Not being a smoker, I declined her offer. Cigarettes weren’t cheap and were often sold on the black market. I wondered where she had gotten them. “Good” women weren’t supposed to smoke, but one of the reasons many became volunteer nurses was for the occasional freedom it offered from such restrictions. Mostly, cigarettes went to soldiers. She also held up a bottle of clear liquid. The red label, printed in Polish, read Wódka, and when Greta pulled out the stopper, the odor of the sharp, medicinal spirit floated past me.

She looked older than her years. The emerging frown lines on her face and the chewed cuticles on her fingers led me to believe that her life had not been happy. Perhaps they were signs of anxiety about the war, or life in general, but she couldn’t have been much more than my age of twenty. Still, she made herself pretty in a way that was aimed at the men traveling with us.

Greta sat in the chair opposite mine, sitting backward to the forward motion of the train as we sped over the vast plain. She lit her cigarette and a plume of smoke rushed to my face but dispersed quickly out the open window. I closed my book.

“Have you spoken to any of them?” She hitched her right thumb over her shoulder and rested her left elbow on the lip of the window, keeping the lit end of the cigarette near the opening. The spark flared red in the rushing wind.

“A few,” I replied. “I try not to get too familiar.” I had no desire to foster romantic relationships with army or medical corpsmen. I was headed to the Front to do a job, not get a husband; and, after all, being somewhat fatalistic, I wondered how long a potential mate would be alive in these dire times. The war on the Eastern Front was dragging on despite the Reich’s claims of victory after victory. To be held by a man, to taste his lips upon mine, would be nice had such a prospect occurred, but a relationship seemed a matter of secondary importance considering how men were dying for the Reich.

Greta took a drag on her cigarette, took a gulp of vodka, and then held the bottle out to me.

I pulled down the shade on our compartment door. “Where did you get this contraband?”

“A lady never tells.” Greta smiled wryly and tapped her nails on the bottle. “Some of them are very good-looking, including the Russian. Whatever happened to all those lectures about racial purity we had to sit through? Natalya Petrovich? Alexander Schmorell?”

Her question irked me—I was a native Russian living in Germany—my parents never let me forget that fact. We knew the Reich rumblings about the Untermensch, the subhumans, but non-Jewish Russians living in Germany had mostly been able to live as citizens, particularly those already assimilated. One had little choice in the Reich but to obey; still, I was proud to be traveling to my homeland on what I considered a mission of mercy. I took the bottle and tipped it back, the strong drink burning my throat, the fire settling in a warm ball in my stomach.

“We’re all German now. Have a look at my papers. The Reich needs men … and nurses.” After what had happened to my Jewish friends since the Nazis came to power, I wanted nothing to do with creating a new racial order in the East—a thought repugnant to me. All I was concerned about was saving lives, and if that compassion extended to my fellow Russians, so be it. Of course, I didn’t really know what the future held.

She shrugged off my rebuff and continued her daydreams about men. “It’s hard to choose from among them,” she said, her eyes on my mouth as it puckered from another swig of liquor.

“Not the best vodka I’ve ever had,” I said, although my experience with drink was limited.

“One of them is Russian, he told me so. Alexander. Nice-looking …” Greta puffed on her cigarette, which had prematurely burned to her fingertips in the train’s rushing wake, and then tossed it out the window. “But the one he’s traveling with—a real doll.” She fanned her fingers in front of her face.

I took another gulp of the vodka and a dull stupor overtook me. I yawned and stretched out in my seat, which served as an uncomfortable bed. “The sun has set. We need to pull down the blackout shades.”

“Another dull night with only dreams to keep me company,” Greta said, and settled back in her seat. “Things will pick up when we get to the Front.”

I wondered if she was right, for I feared the Front would bring only tragedy and misery. My excitement about returning to Russia was tempered by the prospect of what might lay ahead. Secretly, I wondered if I was prepared to deal with what I might witness. I deflected the phantom images of dead and wounded soldiers, the bombed-out buildings that filled my mind—mental pictures reinforced by the destruction I had seen in Warsaw. They didn’t fade easily.

After what seemed like an endless trip through Russia, we arrived in early August at Vyazma and the home of the 252nd Division, to which the men were assigned. Greta and I stepped out of our car to stretch our legs. Our eventual stop would be to the northwest in the town of Gzhatsk, about 180 kilometers west of Moscow.

I had barely stepped onto the ground to the sound of blaring military music when Greta cocked her head toward the men she had spoken about. “There they are.” She discreetly pointed at them as they exited their car, located farther up the train from ours. “They hang together like thieves.”

Greta identified them: Hans, tall with dark hair and the handsome profile of a movie actor, a pleasing face of wonderful proportion, a thin nose over sensuous lips, a slight cleft to the chin, and inquisitive eyes under dark brows; Willi, with slick-backed blond hair, which sometimes hung in wind-pushed wisps across his forehead. He was handsome as well, with an oval face and broad chin, a man who looked the most prone to silence and grave thoughts of the three. The last was the “Russian” as Greta called him, a man she had heard the others call “Alex.” He was tall and lanky, with a full head of hair sweeping back from his face. He seemed to be the one who smiled the most, with fun in his soul, who perhaps didn’t take life as seriously as the others.

I gave them a cursory glance, more interested in putting names to faces than in cultivating romantic notions.

I was unprepared for what I saw after my gaze shifted from the men. Vyazma was little more than the shattered remains of buildings surrounded by craters blasted into the earth. One wooden church, the only intact structure in the village, stood perched on a small hill. Nothing moved among the rubble except the German troops. I wondered where all the life had gone. Had its people been killed, all animal life destroyed by the advance?

The loudspeakers installed by the Wehrmacht blared into my ears. I walked away from the train, leaving Greta and the others behind, and stood next to a burned-out home, nothing more than blackened timbers and the shell of a window. The smell of death, like rotted meat, filled my nose. I spun away, unable to stand the stench, and discovered the source. Beyond the house lay the corpse of a decaying dog. Swarms of black flies buzzed around its body. The animal reminded me of a dog left to fend on its own after a Jewish family in Munich had disappeared. It was taken care of for a time by neighbors, but then it too vanished, like the village before me. Nothing but desiccated earth remained in a town that had once brimmed with life.

After boarding the train, on our way to Gzhatsk, my mood deepened as the shadows lengthened over the plains. I found it hard to believe that the war in Russia had been going on for more than a year with hundreds of thousands of men, maybe a million or more, traveling this route in the military surge to take Moscow, Leningrad to the north, and the Russian cities to the south. Greta must have recognized my reluctance to talk, because even though we were compartment mates, she left me to my thoughts and socialized with the two other nurses on board.

Something—at first inexplicable—was happening. When I gazed from the train at the vast landscape, the summer wind lashing the birches, the rain and the sun painting the trees in resplendent splashes of silver, I felt at one with the earth, at one with my native country, profound memories resurrecting from my distant childhood. A kind of “Russian fever” had overtaken me as if I had become part of the land of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, and Pushkin, leaving Goethe and Schiller behind. Something stirred in my soul, opening me to unfamiliar feelings that disturbed me but at the same time thrilled me. An ecstatic emptiness, a heaven filled with stars yet undefined by space, melancholy tempered by shining hope, overcame me. Deeply buried yearnings stirred within me as I recalled what it was like to be a child in Leningrad, unaware of my parents’ worries about Stalin, and, later, Hitler.

Instead of life on the busy streets of Munich, I understood what it was to be free of constraints. Ribbons of rivers, lush meadows, and verdant woods spread out before me. I saw for the first time what Hitler desired in his perverted megalomania, his Lebensraum, the territory he desired for Germany and the ever-expanding Reich. The “subhumans” would be the tenders of the fields, the Aryan race the masters. But Hitler and his henchmen had not taken into account the fullness and determination of the Russian spirit, and a splinter of that essence pricked my skin. That fact was never clearer to me than when we reached Gzhatsk.

The city, like Vyazma, lay in ruins. Churches, shops, and homes had been obliterated in the drive to subjugate Moscow. The Front was a mere ten kilometers away, and shells burst within earshot. A few even landed near Gzhatsk, shaking the earth with their explosions. What people remained here, outside of troops, wandered about the destroyed city with soil smeared on their ragged clothes and shock in their eyes. Little emotion showed as they passed us—well-fed Germans on our way to a medical camp in the woods safely away from the danger of bullets and bombs. A strong and prevailing sadness filled my heart upon seeing these people.

For several days, we set up additional tents, made sure our uniforms, aprons, and supplies were unpacked, listened to medical lectures from stuffy Wehrmacht doctors, played cards, and offered aid to the small number of wounded in camp. Some of the medical corpsmen, including Willi and Alex, passed around vodka in the evening. I could tell by the sighing and excessive cigarette smoking that everyone was itching to do something besides sit in camp. At night, the shells would crash near the city and light up the woods with their explosive flares.

The first truckload of new casualties arrived about a week later. Everyone jumped into their roles, the medical corpsmen and the nurses attending the doctors. One physician ordered me to help Alex, who leaned over a man with a nearly severed leg. The soldier’s head lolled on the gurney and he mouthed words I couldn’t hear above the shouted orders, the clanging of metal medical tables and instruments, and moans of the wounded. Alex pulled on his gloves and apron and I did the same.

“What’s he saying?” I asked.

“Something about killing Hitler,” Alex said. “He says if he loses his leg, he’ll shoot the Führer.” He bent down and studied the tourniquet and the large gash in the man’s limb. The bandages, soaked with blood, had turned from crimson to brownish red. “I have bad news for him. When he comes to, he’ll find his left leg missing. The shrapnel cut most of the way through. All we can do is make him comfortable until the doctor lops it off.”

I sensed that Alex was horrified by the man’s injuries, but that, as a medical corpsman, he fought against the nightmarish atmosphere of the tent. The joie de vivre that ran through him lifted his spirits.

“Natalya, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

His eyes brightened despite the misery around us. “Get fresh bandages and we’ll clean the injury and apply antiseptic.” He studied his surroundings as the medical staff dashed about the large tent. “It’s going to be a while before the doctor can operate.” Hans and Greta hovered over a nearby bench where a man lay bleeding from a gaping shoulder wound.

I gathered the bandages and returned to the gurney. The now delirious soldier had clutched Alex’s shoulders and pulled him so close he was screaming in his ear. My comrade shushed the man and pushed him down on his makeshift bed. Alex attempted to calm him as an orderly administered a shot of morphine. Alex and I worked as a team until the wound had been cleaned and dressed. Under the influence of the drug, the soldier slipped into sleep.

When the wounded in our care had been attended to, Alex and I stripped off our gear and stepped outside, clear of the tent and away from the commotion. He ran his fingers through his cliff of hair, lit his black pipe, and puffed on it. The smoke dispersed in hazy shafts in the few rays of sun that penetrated the thick canopy.

“You do good work,” Alex said between puffs and stretches of his long legs. “You hope to remain a nurse?”

“Probably,” I said, and sat on the damp earth beneath a pine tree. The cool air bathed me with its woody fragrance, a refreshing change from the stifling conditions and antiseptic smell of the stuffy tent. “That’s why I’m here—to find out. I’ve passed my Abitur and I may decide to go on in biology or philosophy at the university.” I picked up some decaying brown needles and threw them absentmindedly in the direction of the tent. “That soldier was out of his mind with pain, but then we’ve all been under strain the past few years—dealing with rations … conditions we have no control over …”

Alex sat beside me. The smoke from his pipe encircled us with a pleasant, earthy scent that reminded me of a fall campfire—and it kept the mosquitoes away. “Yes, he was saying things he shouldn’t have … words he could be executed for if anyone was to report him.” He chomped down on the pipe stem. “That is, if someone felt it necessary to betray him.”

“… necessary to betray …” His words astonished me. “War changes everything, despite our rules and regulations,” I replied after his comment had sunk in. “Drinking and smoking are forbidden, yet nearly everyone does it. Greta wears makeup when she can. Why should we worry about things like getting tipsy or having a cigarette when our next breath could be extinguished by a bullet?” I looked toward the medical tent, partially obscured by pine branches. “No court would convict a man who was crazed with pain.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure … We are dealing with the Reich.” He leaned back in the circular shade of the tree and thought for a moment. “How would you like to do something that’s strictly forbidden?”

A thrill raced through me at his unexpected question. “I guess I’d have to know how forbidden this something is?”

“You can keep a secret—after all, you’re Russian like me.”

“Yes,” I said, and added to protect myself, “but we’re Germans too.”

He paused and then said, “Fraternization with the enemy.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if the words meant nothing more than “let’s have breakfast.”

I assumed he didn’t mean clandestine meetings with Russian soldiers or partisans, but I wasn’t really sure of his objective. No matter his exact intent, such activity was risky. I must have displayed some hesitation, because he settled against the tree as if nothing had been said.

“I’ve met a woman who has welcomed me into her home—Sina,” he said. “Willi and Hans have met other Russians, but I’d like to take you to Sina’s if you’re game. We drink and sing songs, sometimes dance. It’s something to look forward to in this terrible time.”

“You’d never met her before coming here?”

Alex laughed. “Never. Hans, Willi, and I like meeting the people. We feel we can learn something from our enemies.” His voice lifted on the last word in a sarcastic jibe and then lowered. “All Russians are family to me.”

Half of me wanted to go, but the other half was worried about being found out. If we were caught, the least punishment for me might mean expulsion from my work and a trip back to Munich shrouded in disgrace, at worst conviction of a crime and imprisonment. I’d often thought of prison, and my neighbors and friends who had disappeared. Even talking about them was like committing a crime.

Alex’s eyes retained their sparkle despite the deep shadows. I found it hard to resist his charm, bordering on good-natured innocence, so I nodded despite my natural inclination to stay at the camp. “It would be an adventure, Alex. I’d like to meet a fellow Russian.”

He smiled broadly and tapped the embers of his pipe on a patch of soggy ground. “Tonight, then. Please call me ‘Shurik’—all my best friends do.”

That evening, as we walked to a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city, Alex told me about his Russian family. His mother had died when he was small, and his father, a doctor, decided to move the family to Munich when Alex was four years old. A nanny became his surrogate mother and spoke to him in Russian, as my parents had after we left Leningrad. Therefore, we were both fluent in Russian and German.

Alex was even more rhapsodic about Russia than I, although both of us were affected by our rediscovered love of the country. Weaving in and out of the woods, we talked about customs and holidays and pranks we remembered from our childhoods, filling us with laughter. We traveled several kilometers down a dirt road far away from the military camp. The evening breeze whispered underneath the pines like a soft brush stroked against velvet. But on the eastern horizon, gunfire traced in yellow streaks and volleys of shells exploded in vibrant bursts against the deepening twilight.

The farmhouse, on the southern edge of a forested patch of land, resembled a string of huts jumbled together. There was no electricity here; an oil lamp burned brightly in the window. A cow lowed from one of the huts to the south of the main house, and near there stood a chicken roost smothered in downy feathers.

A grasshopper flew on waxy wings from a weedy patch in the middle of the road and I jumped from the sudden scare. I landed against Alex and he laughed at my girlish behavior. A large white moth circled us and then flitted away toward the yellow lamplight.

Alex grabbed my hand and pulled me to a stop. “There’s something I want you to know before we go inside,” he said. “Sina loves me and I believe she will love you, but I’ve told her certain things that only a few people know.”

“Your chums, Hans and Willi, I suppose,” I said without thinking.

He turned toward the east, facing the indigo light layering the horizon. I followed his gaze and was still able to make out his eyes, which had transformed from their usual joyful look to one of solemnity. “Hans knows more about me than almost anyone.” He dug his bootheel into the soft earth. “I never wanted to be here. In fact, I didn’t want to swear allegiance to Hitler and the Wehrmacht. I asked to be discharged from service, but my request was denied.” He turned and looked at me with large, questioning eyes. “You may understand …” He pointed to the hut. “As Sina does …”

I did understand, but the only courageous affirmation I could muster was a nod.

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “Sina will be waiting.”

Alex stepped to the door, knocked, and called the woman’s name. Sina, probably not much older than we, welcomed “Shurik” and me with a kiss on both cheeks and invited us in. Even though the war raged only a few kilometers from her home, she seemed to be in good spirits and looked nothing like the peasant woman I had pictured in my mind. She was thin, with long black hair braided artfully around her head. She wore no babushka or long apron covering a simple dress. Instead, she was attired in a feminine version of a navy man’s suit, a blue pinstripe blouse with an overlapping collar held together by white buttons and a matching skirt, which flowed to her bare ankles.

The hut was comfortable and warm. An additional kind of warmth came from the glow of life inside. The meager furnishings consisted of a small table, a chair, and a pine bed large enough to fit the woman and her two small children, Dimitri and Anna. They sat on their knees at one side of the table and spooned soup from wooden bowls. A samovar and several books sat on the opposite end; a guitar and balalaika lay with their fingerboards crossed at the foot of the bed; red and gold weavings of poppies, and bold geometric designs in red and blue stitching adorned what would otherwise have been bare wooden walls. A painted icon of a weeping Christ hung above the bed in a sparkling silver frame.

“Sit, sit,” Sina insisted. “I don’t have enough chairs. Shurik, you sit on the floor on the old rug.”

Alex obliged, crossing his long legs and exposing the black military boots under his gray uniform pants.

“I have no tea,” Sina said, “so let us drink vodka.” She dipped like a graceful swan and withdrew a brown bottle from under the bed. Taking three samovar cups, she poured the vodka, and handed us our two.

“Za Zdarovje,” Alex said, raising the cup to our health, followed by toasts to our meeting and friendship.

Sina sat on the bed with her legs folded underneath her thin body. Dimitri and Anna put their bowls in a washbasin and took their places on either side of their mother. “So, you are new to Russia,” she said to me.

I put the samovar cup on the table, having drained its contents. “I was born in Russia, like Shurik, but I haven’t been back since my parents left Leningrad when I was seven. I’m a volunteer nurse.”

Sina lifted her hands in a wild flourish. “You’ve missed nothing. Stalin and Bolshevism have ruined our country and killed more of our people than we can count—”

I interrupted her. “That’s why we left—because of the Five-Year Plan. My father had friends who disappeared in the night never to be seen again.”

“Then came the purges of the Terror,” Sina continued. “It’s lucky we have an army at all. Many military officers were liquidated because the General Secretary thought they might be a threat to his power.” Her eyes blazed from across the room. “And we believed the Germans had come to liberate us from Stalin … We were wrong.” She lowered her head and shook it slowly. “Instead, they’re killing us where we stand, and we are burning our homes and crops so the Wehrmacht will get no use from them.” Her hand crept toward the pillows to her right. “We’ve been instructed to kill Germans.”

“Do you have a husband?” I asked, wanting to steer the subject away from killing.

“Oh, yes, a strong, handsome man whom the Nazis would shoot on sight if they could get their hands on him.” She lifted her hands from the bed and fluttered her arms like wings. “But he’s free as a bird now. I see him when he can sneak away, deep in the night, in the dark, when we both can take refuge from our troubles.”

“He’s a partisan,” Alex said, turning his head toward me from his seat on the rug. “A man of conviction and principles fighting against …”

He stopped, but I suspected the next word to come from his mouth might have been “evil.”

Alex reached for a book on the table and lifted it in front of him. “Crime and Punishment—one of my favorites. We can read from it if you’d like.”

Sina’s right hand inched toward the pillows until her fingers rested underneath one of the slipcases. I considered her movement a bit strange, but had no idea what she was doing until she withdrew a black pistol from its hiding place.

I gasped and felt the blood drain from my head.

Alex thumbed through the book, apparently unaware of Sina’s action. “Dostoyevsky,” he said, without looking up, “is the most Christian of all the Russian writers, in my opinion.” He lifted his gaze from the pages for a moment and glanced at our host.

The black barrel was pointed directly at us. I was behind Alex and, from above, a rich thatch of brownish hair swirled around the part in back. I couldn’t see his face, but I wondered if the color had drained from his as it had from mine.

Without raising his voice, he said, “Sina, please put that away—you might accidentally shoot one of us.”

“It wouldn’t be an accident,” she replied. Her children sat calmly by her side looking intently at both of us—me in the chair and Alex sitting on the rug in front of me.

“We’re supposed to kill all Germans,” she said and paused. “But you aren’t like all Germans. In fact, you’ll never be rid of the Slav in your soul.”

The trigger clicked and the hammer popped into its resting place. I yelped, but there was no explosion, no bullet smashing into my skin.

“See, you’ve done nothing but frighten Natalya,” Alex calmly shook a finger at her. “Shame on you.”

I clutched the side of the chair to keep from shaking out of the seat. “You scared me to death, Sina. That was a dirty trick.”

“An old trick,” Alex said. “I lived through it the first night we met, and I should have warned you, but I didn’t know she repeated it for all the Germans she meets.” He turned his head and gave me a wink.

“I’m not stupid enough to keep a loaded pistol around my children.” Sina smiled, returned the weapon to its place under the pillow, and swept up Dimitri and Anna in a bear hug. “Soon they will be old enough to handle the pistol themselves. I look forward to seeing them kill their first enemy fighter.”

The thought of Russian children taking shots at German soldiers appalled me. Dimitri and Anna would be slaughtered like pigs. “May I have another drink?” I asked, lifting my cup.

“Please, help yourself,” Sina said.

I poured another vodka. The liquor took over and my shock faded to a shaky tension; we sang and laughed for several hours until Sina played a melancholy folk song on the balalaika. The melody seemed somewhat familiar from long ago in my childhood, but was now too distant in my memory for me to join in. Alex knew it by heart and sang with Sina while I did a slow clap in time with the beat. The children danced in front of the bed, joining arms and moving their legs in unified step.

The hour grew late and rain pattered against the walls, keeping us there longer than we’d anticipated. The oil lamp flickered, but rather than replacing the fuel, Sina allowed it to sputter out and we talked in the dark as the children settled into bed. We adults looked through the open window as shells exploded in the east, illuminating the starry expanse, now free of clouds, with brilliant bursts of yellow and white.

As the night lingered, Sina, slowed by vodka and perhaps her own sadness, sang a melody that brought tears to my eyes. It started low, never leaving the minor key, and then grew to a high pitch, until I thought the wooden rafters would split from the sound. Finally, the tune dissipated in a soft shift to a major key and died on the breeze that wafted into the hut.

I nudged Alex’s head, which rested against my legs. “It’s time to get back to camp, or we’ll be reported missing.” My words tripped thick and heavy off my tongue.

“Yes,” Alex said, and pushed himself up on all fours before standing on wobbly legs.

We said our farewells, kissed Sina, and promised to visit another night. Alex vowed that on our next trip he would abstain from vodka long enough to have an intelligent discussion about Pushkin and Tolstoy. Sina agreed and, with a final wave of her hand, shut the door.

“She’s delightful,” I said to Alex, and wondered if that was the best way to describe her. Sina was exotic to me, different in a way I had never experienced except in the far reaches of my memory when vague images of Leningrad came to mind. But even those people dredged up from the past were different from her. There was no way to compare the city folk I knew as a child to country folk ravaged by German troops.

We weaved up the road toward camp as I looked into a sky profuse with stars. “I can reach up and touch them,” I said, shifting my glasses and craning my neck toward the heavens.

Unaware of where I was stepping, I missed a large puddle by the width of my foot and decided to take off my shoes to avoid coating them with muddy water. I wrapped my arms around Alex’s waist and savored the still warm feeling of the vodka in my stomach and the cool, damp earth squishing between my toes. In the morning, I would pay dearly for my excess. However, rinsing off the mud would be easier than ridding myself of a hangover.

In spite of the evening’s indulgences, I’d found a true friend in Alex. That alone made the night worthwhile.

The rain began in earnest a few days later and turned the camp into a morass of swampy earth and dripping branches. I imagined what the colder fall and winter weather would bring, when conditions would truly worsen.

Wounded soldiers poured into the camp daily, and the onslaught of injuries, many horrific, made me question my decision to be a nurse. Often I stumbled to bed bone weary and bleary eyed from long hours in the medical tent. One stiff-necked surgeon in particular was a stickler for rules and regulations, including limited rest breaks; no small talk among medics, aides, and nurses; and no smoking in the camp. He made everyone’s life miserable, including my own, performing his surgeries while criticizing my dressing of wounds, my administration of medicines and hypodermics, thus further eroding my confidence. I was thrilled and relieved when he was transferred unexpectedly to a unit farther north.

Alex, Hans, Willi, and another medic, Hubert Furtwängler, often ate lunch together on nice days at a spot near camp, their table dappled in the sunlight coursing through the overhanging limbs of an oak. The men were a snapshot in time, their canteens and tin cups scattered between half-eaten loaves of bread and thick slices of cheese. When the workload was light or they could sneak away for a break, they sat on a fence post near a damaged building and smoked. The thought struck me that they had banded together in a fraternal bond.

The three of them, minus Hubert, often gathered in hushed conversations that ended abruptly when an outsider approached. On the few times I was asked to join them—mostly I passed by with a quick hello—the talk turned to the mundane: the weather, the thrill of duty or its opposite, the drudgery of the medical tent, our longing for home and friends.

I was certain these men, when alone, talked about other things as well—forbidden topics—that only this group dared discuss. I had no proof of this other than the way they interacted with one another: cautious, quiet, hunched, as if secrets were being shared. Any astute Gestapo agent would have questioned them for their actions. One time when they sat smoking, I spotted the remains of a swastika carved into the dirt. Alex had hurriedly tried to blot it out with his boot. The top half of the symbol had been crossed out with a large X.

By September, Willi and Hubert had been deployed to other battalions on the Front and Alex had taken ill. I received this news from Hans.

“Alex has diphtheria.” We stood in a grove of birch trees whose tops had turned to a brilliant burnished gold.

“Diphtheria?” I was shocked because most of us had been immunized against the disease.

“He’s burning up from a high fever, and confined to his bed,” Hans said. “Apparently, he didn’t get the vaccine.” His handsome face looked drawn in the pale light, his cheeks sunken as if the medical corps and its uneven rhythm of work, from boredom to frenzy, and the effects of lackluster army rations had taken their toll. He took off his cap and swatted at a buzzing fly. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t come down with it myself. We’ve given too much blood for the troops, our resistance is low—and there are so many infections in Russia. Well, I don’t need to tell you that …” His lips parted in a half smile, the facial expression I had seen him display most often.

“Please give him my best wishes, if you see him before I do,” I said.

“I will.” Hans placed his cap back on his head. “Walk with me … please.”

I stepped in sync beside him as we headed in the direction of Sina’s home, away from the birch forest and into a clearing where the land stretched to the horizon on all sides and the gray clouds skimmed above us.

Hans took a deep breath, and he seemed to grow lighter from the air. “I’m tired of death … and the war.”

“You need something to take your mind off it,” I said.

“It’s hard being alone now that Alex is sick and Willi and Hubert are gone.” He uttered a faint laugh. “I can never take my mind off it—war will be on my mind as long as we are in it … and probably long after.”

“You’re very serious,” I said.

His gaze narrowed, his brows tightened, as if I had maligned him.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” I said quickly. “I meant that you look at things in a different way from other men. The war has touched you.”

We stopped near a rivulet that swirled in a shallow pool on the road and then bubbled into a nearby field. I bent down and stuck a finger in the cool water. I looked back to our camp, which lay hidden by the trees, to the east and west, where the land ended in rolling hills, and then to the south, where the fields spread out to the horizon. Down the road, Sina’s hut stood outlined against the haze.

“I’ve been to Sina’s with Alex,” Hans said. “Did he tell you what we did the other day?”

Not having seen Alex for several days, I shook my head.

“We buried a Russian we found on the plain not far from here.” He squatted near the flowing water and dipped his hand into it. “His head had separated from his rump and his private parts had decayed. Worms crawled out of his half-rotten clothes. We had almost filled the grave with soil when we found another arm. We made a Russian cross, which we put in the earth at the head of the grave.” He paused. “Now his soul can rest in peace.” Hans bowed his head. “Maybe that’s how Alex contracted diphtheria.”

He looked up at me. “I feel such sympathy for the Russian people—knowing what they’ve been through at the hands of our army. I fear that there’s much more going on that we don’t know about as medics and nurses. I think the SS keeps their actions a secret even from the generals. You’re Russian—I’m sure this killing bothers you as well.”

The water reflected the tortured look on his face, but before I had a chance to answer, his mood shifted to one of joy. “Have you heard my choir? I put it together with a few Russian girls and POWs … We do the best we can. I love music and I long to dance. The other night we danced until we collapsed.”

I’d heard the songs, sometimes joyous, sometimes faint, often somber, drift through the medical tent, but work, darkness, and fatigue had kept me from investigating. The voices seemed to come from far away, at odd times of day and night, like the songs of distant angels. “I’d like to hear them. My friend in Munich, Lisa Kolbe, knows more about the arts than I do, and I’ve learned something about music from her.”

“Did you know I have a brother serving here in the same sector?” Hans asked.

“No. Do you see him?”

He stood up from the rushing water and looked to the west. “A few miles from here. His name is Werner. I ride over on horseback when I can.” Hans opened his arms in a grand gesture, which seemed to unleash a sweep of energy into the air. “I’ve developed a passion for riding, and it won’t let go of me,” he said, his voice filling with enthusiasm. “There’s nothing to beat galloping across the plain astride a fast horse, forging your way like an arrow through the head-high steppe grass, and riding back into the forest at sunset, weary to the point of exhaustion, with your head still glowing from the heat of the day and blood throbbing in every fingertip.” He paused, seeming on the brink of fatigue from his description. “It’s the finest delusion I’ve succumbed to, because in a certain sense you have to delude yourself. The men call it ‘Russian fever’ but that’s a clumsy, feeble expression.”

“I’ve used the term myself,” I said, somewhat embarrassed by the admission.

“It’s something like this: When you see the world in all its enchanting beauty, you’re sometimes reluctant to concede that the other side of the coin exists. The antithesis exists here, as it does everywhere, if only you open your eyes to it. But here the antithesis is accentuated by war to such an extent that a weak person sometimes can’t endure it.”

We stepped across the rivulet and walked into a field filled with tall grasses. We had traveled for about ten minutes, when we came to a Russian cross sticking out of the ground. “This is where we buried him,” Hans said. “He was probably a good man, a Christian man, with a family and children. No one will ever know because he will lie here until the end of time.” He looked up from the grave toward the broad steppe, the grass swaying in the wind, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “So, you intoxicate yourself. You see only one side in all its splendor and glory.”

As I watched, he bowed his head and said a silent prayer. A wave, like an electric charge, prickled up my skin, a sense of joy akin to ecstasy washed over me, unlike any feeling I had experienced before. The sensation jolted me so much that I leaned against him.

Flushed from their feeding by an unseen visitor, a flock of gray-and-black jackdaws flew over our heads, cawing their shrill cry. A burst of sunlight lit the grave and then was consumed by the murky clouds as quickly as it had appeared.

Hans moved away from me, his hands clutched by his sides. “I don’t know you … I shouldn’t be talking of such things … Alex likes you and trusts you.”

I didn’t know what to say. What was he offering me—friendship, something more? Was he testing me, in slow steps, to see if I could be trusted? His face flushed almost to the point of red-hot anger. Whatever he carried inside was eating him up, although I got the sense that such an intimate display of passion was a rarity.

“Our days and nights are ruled by those who would commit evil and immoral acts,” I responded, attempting to placate him. “We can only do what’s right and offer praise and support when it’s deserved and condemnation when it’s justified. We must be strong in the face of moral corruption.”

“The Reich must be condemned.”

I stepped back, stunned by his words, and took a deep breath as we stood near the grave. I agreed but was unwilling to say so to a man I barely knew. “That thought must remain between you and me. You should not repeat it to anyone else.”

“This is why I fight—not for Germany, but for all men.”

I squeezed his hand and he smiled. We left the grave and proceeded back to camp, saying little as we walked. The overcast sky, except for a few sparkling breaks of sun, held fast through the afternoon and portended a bleak and dreary fall. That evening, as I sat in the dark with Greta, I recalled Hans’s words, and the bleak grave and the cawing jackdaws appeared in my head. Feeling a bit light-headed, I was overwhelmed by contrasting thoughts of a hopeful peace and a long war filled with death and destruction. I didn’t sleep well for several nights.

Alex recovered but Hans exhibited symptoms similar to diphtheria that put him in bed for several days. Alex withdrew a bit after his illness—not that he was unfriendly—but he, like Hans, seemed to be carrying an increasing weight on his shoulders. Our work kept us busy when the trucks and wagons rolled in carrying their cargo of dying and wounded men.

One late September morning, I decided to take advantage of some free time. I bundled up and walked along the dirt road leading to Sina’s. About halfway there, I reached a path, turning into a field alongside the birch forest, which had been cut into the tall grasses by trucks. Large puddles were scattered along its route, but the trail fueled my curiosity and I welcomed a change of scenery from my usual walk southward.

I had never been down it; in fact, it had escaped my attention. The vegetation lay crushed and dead under the weight of the tires while the brown and green stalks swayed in the air on each side; the earth was tamped hard in spots like rock, but spongy in other places.

The wind had picked up overnight as the first breath of winter poured in from the north. The small patches of sunlight on my shoulders did little to warm me, and I tried as best I could to stay out of the shade. The muddy tracks kept me sidestepping in and out of the shadows.

The birch branches, holding leaves that had turned from gold to a reddish purple, shuddered and bent in the gusts as their branches knocked against each other, and if not for the gale, the forest would have been silent. The path turned into a section of woods that had been cleared of trees. My senses sharpened in the gloom as the sound of an engine took me by surprise.

The engine revved behind me and tires spun in the mud. There were no Verboten signs at the beginning of the trail, no posted reason for me not to be here, but instinct told me to keep out of sight. The ground squished underneath my shoes as I knelt behind several trees that had been chopped down and piled upon one another. Through a narrow opening between the logs, I spotted a large truck, open in the back, with the black-and-white iron cross on its doors. About twenty people, surrounded by four armed SS guards and their commander, huddled against the wood panels that held them in back. The people were easy to identify as Russian by their attire; and, to my deepening horror, I recognized the faces of Sina and her two children, Dimitri and Anna.

The truck sped past me at a fast clip, bouncing over the rough path, splashing muddy water in its wake and coating the surrounding trees with the sloppy mix. As soon as the vehicle disappeared around a curve, I dashed back to the path in pursuit until I found a suitable hiding place nestled in a thick grove of trees. I had to see what was happening to Sina and her children.

The truck, its human cargo shuddering like tenpins as the brakes screeched, came to a halt near a shallow ravine within the forest. After that, my mind became foggy, hazy, in a scene that played out before me like a film in slow motion.

SS guards open the wooden gate on the back, one of them so kind as to even help an older woman wrapped in her flannel coat and kerchief to the wet ground. Russian men, mostly older with gray beards and long hair, some in work clothes, some in what look like pajamas, join the line of captives. Children look at their mothers with wide eyes, while grasping at coat sleeves as they totter along in small, hurried steps. The SS herd them along like cattle, shoving their machine gun barrels into the prisoners’ backs. The wood, silent, without song, without air, is claimed by the cold hand of Death.

The SS line them up between the two hillocks, the men with their hands clasped behind their necks, the women with heads bowed, the children, their eyes flashing between their guards and their mothers. Twenty or more here to die like animals led to slaughter.

“Scum. Subhuman.” The SS taunt them from their superior position atop the hill.

A song floats on the air, the one that Sina played in her home for Alex and me, and one by one the others join in until it fills the air with its melancholy melody.

A man shouts, “Quiet, pigs,” while the Commander counts down—four, three, two, one—then four SS armed with machine guns fire at once, a terrible volley of bullets, spent casings flashing copper in the air, smoke searing the air gray and black.

They fall like limp dolls to the ground, holes exploded in flesh, the exiting bullets striking in watery puffs against the damp earth, the prisoners’ blood turning dark on their coats and shirts.

I want to scream but no sound comes from my mouth. Horror. Blood, much more blood than I’d ever seen on the operating table, or on the gurneys as men die. Sina is spread-eagled on the ground, Dimitri and Anna, also dead, clutching her coat.

My hands rushed to my mouth to stop a scream as I fell back against a tree. Any uttered word, the fact that I’ve seen the unbelievable, could mean my death. I ran from my hiding place, loping along the path, hoping that the truck wouldn’t bear down upon me, fear punching me with adrenaline. I would be at peace if I were dead—after what my eyes had seen, I didn’t know if I would rest again. Then, I questioned what I had seen. Was it just an illusion caused by a fevered mind?

Soon I came to the dirt road and collapsed in tears near the path. When I was able to walk again, I discovered another horror. On the southern horizon a fire burned, sending black smoke spiraling into the sky. Sina’s house was engulfed in flames.

I wiped my eyes and staggered back to camp, like a woman overcome with sickness, unsure what to say or do. The truck caught up to me and slowed until one of the Wehrmacht drivers greeted me with a wave. The grim SS guards and the Commander in the back of the truck stared at me while they smoked their cigarettes, white stubs clenched between gritted teeth.

When I reached camp, I didn’t want to talk to anyone and kept my distance from Alex, Hans, and Greta.

After a sleepless night, I assisted a doctor the next day with a soldier who died on the table from a horrible chest wound. His last words to me as the doctor deserted him were, “Tell my parents I love them.”

My heart ached for the solider and for the slaughtered Russians who had died because a tyrant had deemed them unworthy of life. I was a Russian, too, but my family and I had been of service to Germany and in fact were accepted as Germans—but how long would that last?

Grief dragged me down for days before finally transforming into a growing rage against the man who had spawned the horrible crime I had witnessed—Adolf Hitler.

Hans was only half-right in his assessment that the Reich needed to be condemned. The Reich needed to be destroyed. The thought thrilled and horrified me at the same time.

CHAPTER 2

I never told anyone about what I had seen in the birch forest. I tried to wipe the barbarous crime from my memory if only to keep from going mad. A slip of the tongue, even to men I trusted, like Alex and Hans, might end in disaster. The SS guards and their commanding officer in the back of the empty truck occupied my thoughts like an ever-present, insidious disease. Their blank, white faces hovered like death heads over me.

Hans’s father, Robert, was arrested in August for making a derogatory remark about Hitler and was sentenced to four months in prison after being turned in by a woman in his office. Still, Hans went about his medical duties in September and October in his usual careful way, but I could tell he was seething inside about his father’s arrest, as was Alex for a different reason. He went into a period of withdrawal and mourning after Sina’s death. The two of them were like pots about to boil over on a hot stove.

Hans was so stubborn about his resistance to the Reich that he wouldn’t sign a petition for his father’s clemency hearing that his mother had sent along in a letter. His pride was too great to give in to Hitler. He was even so bold as to tell me that he wondered why people feared prison, and, by logical extension, its outcome—death. When he was younger, he had been imprisoned for participating in youth groups that weren’t sanctioned by the Nazis. According to Hans, prison could be a time for reflection, self-assessment, even a religious awakening.

As we struggled through the short days and the long nights of October, we learned that we would be leaving Russia soon. This news depressed Alex because he had grown fond of our homeland, as I had. He promised to keep Russian mud on his boots and confessed that he had kept his vow never to shoot a Russian or a German soldier because he wanted no part of killing.

After we left Gzhatsk, Willi and Hubert met up with us at our assembly point in Vyazma on the thirtieth of October. Despite the reunion, Alex’s sadness at leaving was palpable; his face was sallow, drawn, and careworn, and he moped about like a lost puppy. He told me one day that he suspected that Sina and her children had been imprisoned after the farm had burned. I wanted to tell him what happened, but I feared for both of our lives if the truth came out.

On the first of November, we left Russia for Germany. I was eager to be home, but also anxious because I faced an uncertain future in nursing. My traveling companion, Greta, sensed my reluctance to talk and spent her time flirting with men or gossiping with the other women.

“Did you hear about their adventures?” she asked me one day as we chugged toward Poland.

“Whose adventures?” Of course, she was baiting me with her question.

She flicked at her index finger with her thumb and smiled coyly at me. Her lips were painted flame red, lipstick and powder never far from reach in her leather purse. Men, smoking, and drinking were her weaknesses, but loyalty to her friends, especially those in the Reich, was her strength. The cigarettes and other contraband she obtained so easily led me to believe that she was well acquainted with those in high places in the black market.

“You know who,” she said and pouted. “You spent a lot of time with them.”

I knew perfectly well she was referring to Alex and Hans, but I was determined not to give her the pleasure of prying into my business. She pulled down the window, lit a cigarette with a flourish, and watched as flecks of ash and smoke fluttered away on the wind. The compartment air mixed with the telltale odor of burned tobacco and the cool freshness of the Russian steppe.

“In Gzhatsk, they got into a fight with a few men from the Party,” Greta said. “It was an ugly scene and fists were thrown. They got out of that scrap without being arrested—they must know how to evade the law.” She laughed.

She took another drag and absentmindedly pulled brown specs of tobacco from her pink tongue. Her lips left a bright red smudge around the end of the cigarette.

“How do you know they were in a fight?” I asked.

“People see things,” she said, and leaned forward in her seat as if she was telling me a secret. “And people talk. I’d be careful of the company you keep. I’ve heard they read books they shouldn’t.”

My lips quivered, and I hoped I hadn’t given away my irritation, let alone my annoyance at the implication that the “company” I kept was less than desirable, perhaps even traitorous.

“And they skipped the delousing line in Vyazma to go shopping.” She inhaled and blew the smoke toward my face, but the wind whipped it away. “Now they have a samovar for hot tea anytime they want it. Quite a luxury to spend your hard-earned medic money on.”

We had all gone through the delousing process before boarding the train, but I didn’t recall seeing the men there. Had they gone on a spending spree instead? “It’s none of my business what they do,” I said.

“Ah, but it is your business.” Her lips curled into a cagey smile. “It’s the Reich’s business … everything is the Reich’s business—if we are to win this war.”

I picked up my biology book and ignored her while she finished her cigarette. Greta soon wandered off to find a more personable companion. I read the rest of the evening, before going to bed.

A few days later, at the Polish border, we stopped at the gate. I had a clear view from my opened compartment window on the left side of the train.

Three army guards herded shabbily dressed Russian prisoners into a nearby field. One by one, the guards kicked, spit on, and smashed their rifle butts into the prisoners’ backs.

In a split second, Hans, Willi, and Alex leapt from the car behind me and assaulted the soldiers.

“You son of a bitch,” Willi screamed over the commotion while pummeling one of the guards on the back with his fists. He ripped the rifle from the man’s shoulder and threw it on the ground.

“Keep your hands off them, bastards,” Alex yelled as he confronted another.

Hans, for his part, shoved one of the guards to the ground and kept him pinned there with his foot.

The train stopped only briefly, and by the time the dumbfounded guards knew what had hit them, the cars had started to roll again.

Hans, Alex, and Willi darted for their compartment door as the guards regrouped. I looked back as my three friends, in running turns, clasped the railing and hoisted themselves aboard. Willi was the last in, and, in a final act of defiance, turned round and saluted the guards with his finger.

I took a deep breath and leaned back in my seat. As I feared, Greta had witnessed the incident from another car. When she took her seat across from me, she shot me a look that reinforced her “be careful of the company you keep” attitude. She said nothing, but her furrowed brows and constricted facial muscles revealed all I needed to know about what she’d seen. I was sure she might report them to the SS when we arrived in Munich.

Berlin was only a blur from the train window, a dark and somber city as gray as the autumn weather, its buildings slick and spotted black with rain.

My mother and father welcomed me after I arrived in Munich. While I waited for classes to begin, I pondered what to do with my life. My parents had moved in January of 1940, a little more than a year after Kristallnacht, to a smaller apartment in Schwabing near Leopoldstrasse. This came about for two reasons: The house was closer to the university, where my father felt I belonged, and the rent was cheaper—he had taken a pay cut in his new position as a retail clerk for a German pharmacist.

Many students lived in the district, so the housing turnover was great, making it easier for my parents to find a new apartment, although the building wasn’t as nice as the one we had moved out of. My parents lived on the third floor of a nineteenth-century wood-and-stone structure that had been covered later with white stucco.

Despite settling back into a strained familiarity with my mother and father, I never mentioned the atrocity near the camp. I knew they would be better off not knowing, if the SS knocked on their door. In the Reich, your grandmother was as likely to turn you in as your grandson. Everyone in Germany had that fear—even Nazis knew they had to watch their step.

Since Kristallnacht, my father had kept to himself, preferring to keep his personal and business life private and away from Nazi eyes. My mother suffered under his recalcitrance, and the days and nights of laughter and dance had disappeared. I couldn’t wait to find another living arrangement, paying my own way, allowing me to be on my own and away from my father’s strict silence.

When I did speak of Russia, I told my parents about the happy times with Sina and Alex, my feelings for the country, and my reluctance to continue nursing as a profession, an outgrowth of my experiences at the Front. After seeing the horrors of war firsthand, I told my father that I didn’t have the stomach for it. He strongly suggested I continue in the profession, telling me he wanted a “better life for his grandchildren” than he had given his daughter. The job security would be better than other courses of study, he said. I was touched by his concern for my future, but still undecided. My tales of the Russian Front left my parents wistful, but, like me, caught in the middle of a war. There was no going back to a devastated Russia. Our only choice was to accept what was happening in Hitler’s Germany.

On a Saturday of the break between classes, I met up with my friend Lisa Kolbe, who had been continuing her art and music studies at the university. We decided to visit the Haus der Deutschen Kunst, for it had been many years since I had visited a museum.

Since my parents had moved, Lisa and I hadn’t seen as much of each other as we used to, although we did run into each other occasionally at the Café Luitpold. The trip to the museum was more suited to Lisa’s tastes than mine, but I was happy to do anything to get out of the apartment rather than look through rain-spattered windows on a cold and windy day.

“I can’t be a doctor in the Reich, and I’ve had my fill of nursing,” I complained to Lisa as we climbed the steps to the museum and took shelter under its massive portico on Prinzregentenstrasse near the Englischer Garten. We had met near the Odeonsplatz in the center of Munich, where the memorial to the fallen Nazis of Hitler’s failed Putsch had been erected at the Feldherrnhalle. Walking quickly through the rain, we bypassed the east side of the Feldherrnhalle, with its massive Gothic arches and stone lions, where Germans were required to honor the “martyrs” by giving the Nazi salute, or face arrest.

We shook the rain from our umbrellas and coats and stepped past the museum’s massive doors. The monumental size of the building, one of the first in Hitler’s architectural plan for the Reich, always awed me with its huge galleries, long halls, and tall ceilings with recessed lighting. A solemn woman, wearing a gray suit with a Party pin tacked to it, hair tied back in a bun, took our trappings and handed us our coat check tickets.

“I think you should do what makes you happy,” Lisa announced as we proceeded to the first gallery. “Biology is a good major. Sophie Scholl is studying biology and philosophy.” She was referring to Hans’s sister, whom Lisa had befriended at the university, but I’d not met.

The thought of changing my life’s direction unsettled me, but perhaps Lisa was right. My head whirled as I listened to my internal arguments: obey my father or do what instinct told me was best for me. Since returning from Russia, I’d been haunted by nightmares of the vilest kind: large, festering wounds; severed limbs; decapitations; soldiers with the cruelest injuries; and, the vision I feared most, the slaughter of Sina, her children, and the other Russians. Those horrors played in my mind at night, conjured by my fevered brain. Often I got only a few hours of sleep.

“You look tired,” Lisa said, and smoothed her silvery-blonde hair behind her ears. Her locks had grown longer in the months since I’d seen her, but she looked healthy and pretty in her impish way, her demeanor seemingly unaffected by the war. We walked into the first gallery, where the lighting accentuated her intense blue eyes, upturned mouth, and cheeky smile.

“Still tripe,” she whispered to me as she viewed the artworks and spread her arms in a wide circle. “Goebbels can spout off all day about the ‘triumph of German art,’ but it’s still boring as hell.”

I surveyed the gallery and concluded that Lisa was right despite my limited knowledge about sculpture and painting. The monumental sculptures of naked men shaking hands in comradeship, the boring and classically carved busts that sat like severed heads on pedestals, left me cold and unmoved as if I were standing in a mausoleum rather than a museum. Nothing about the pedestrian Bavarian landscapes, the massive paintings of bucolic German farmers pitching hay, or the tastefully composed female nudes generated an emotion in me. We continued on to an equally boring room.

“We’ve been through a lot,” Lisa said as she observed the paintings, including one of Hitler in battle armor. “Do you remember how excited we were when we first became members of the Young Girls League?”

“Yes, we thought the world would be different and good,” I said.

We sat on one of the tufted benches in the center of the gallery and stared at the grotesque caricature of Hitler attired in gleaming silver, carrying a Nazi flag in his right hand while astride a black horse. It was propaganda at its best—not art—mythologizing, romanticizing a demon who appeared unshakable, invincible.

I shook my head and said, “We were wrong.”

“And then those monotonous stints in the League of German Girls and the Reichsarbeitsdienst,” Lisa said. “Imagine us working on farms and then me teaching children music and art—and you volunteering as a nurse’s aide.” She laughed and flexed her right arm. “At least we got some exercise on the farm.”

“Monotonous is right.” I thought back to the endless days and nights, it seemed, of work, National Socialist stories, home parties to discuss German culture and arts as long as the topics fit the Party’s requirements; days and nights of rules and regulations: no smoking, no makeup, no sexual relations. No, no, no.

“Tell me about Russia,” Lisa said as she looked toward the opposite end of the gallery, where a couple of uniformed soldiers passed through another chamber.

Lisa was my best friend in Munich, but I didn’t want to burden her with my nightmares. I felt somewhat guilty about keeping her in the dark, but my horrible secret had to remain buried. “There’s not much to tell,” I pretended. “Russia was fascinating—wonderful, in fact—the work was depressing and exhausting.” Someday, I knew I’d reveal what I had seen; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

As if reading my thoughts, Lisa responded, “When the time is right, you’ll tell me … when you’re ready.” She sighed. “Remember how excited we were when our teacher took us to the Degenerate Art exhibit? The president of the Reichskammer called it an ‘exorcism of evil.’ More people attended that exhibit than you’d ever see here. You could drive a Panzer through these galleries and not hit anyone.”

I recalled my feelings on that day in late July 1937 as we toured the narrow, arcaded rooms of the Residenz near the Hofgarten, where the Degenerate Art exhibit had been hastily housed. What a difference from the museum we sat in now! That day we were greeted by the stark wooden figure of the crucified Christ as we climbed the stairs to the first room. His tortured face, the crown of thorns thrusting out from his head, the ribs painfully showing through his emaciated skin, the wound in his side spurting a brown plug of blood, horrified us, but forced us to imagine the pain He had endured. A piece of wood, ugly, yet so supremely powerful in its carving, elicited emotions in us from compassion to revulsion for His suffering.

Our art teacher, Herr Lange, a zealous Nazi, had laughed so hard at the “perverted spectacle” that he’d taken off his horn-rimmed glasses to wipe away tears. A black-coated SS officer, who also happened to be in attendance, congratulated Herr Lange on his good taste and championed him to “teach these young minds a thing or two about good art.” I’d looked at Lisa, and we silently communicated our displeasure at the officer’s remarks. Of course, we couldn’t say anything in opposition to the Reich, or even roll our eyes at the effrontery and stupidity of the SS man and our teacher. I found the art fascinating and many of the pictures touched my emotions with their raw power, particularly the expressive and colorful landscapes, and the arching composition and expressive painting of Franz Marc’s Two Cats, Blue and Yellow.

The exhibit with its abstract forms and geometric landscapes, its misfit subjects, nearly all denigrated with Nazi slogans labeling the art as “effrontery,” “filth for filth’s sake,” blaming the Jew and the Negro for the “racial idea of degenerate art,” sent shock waves through the crowds. One slogan painted on the wall excoriated the artists with the words They had four years’ time—four years to adjust their artistic styles to conform to Hitler’s ideals—four years to cleanse their souls and change their way of thinking.

Many Germans snickered and laughed their way through the exhibit, and I wondered if this response was a true indication of their feelings or a nervous reaction masking their shame. But many held on to their hats or purses and, like sad dogs, skulked their way through the rooms, their blank faces reflecting a deeper despair. They knew. They knew and could do nothing about it.

Lisa nudged me from my reflection and I wondered what I, or we, had done to necessitate such a gesture. I looked at her and she responded by rolling her eyes and flicking her head backward. I glanced to my side and caught sight of a man who had taken a seat behind us on the double-rowed bench. His broad shoulders and muscular back pushed against his jacket and although I only got a glimpse of his face, I judged him to be handsome.

“Yes, this art is wonderful,” I said to Lisa, and with a hurried look acknowledged her cue. “I’m so glad you brought me here.”

“Let’s move on to the next gallery,” Lisa added, and rose from her seat.

A finger tapped my right shoulder. Taken aback, I flinched but turned to face the man. He looked vaguely familiar, bringing up the disconcerting feeling one has of trying to remember an acquaintance from the past. He was handsome with a strong, angular chin, dimpled cheeks, and wide-set blue eyes. Most German women would have considered him an ideal Aryan husband.

Lisa stopped, rooted to her spot on the marble floor.

“Pardon me,” he asked in a charming baritone voice, “do you know where the Josef Thorak sculpture Kameradschaft might be?”

I was of no help because I had little interest in the boring art. Lisa’s mouth narrowed and her blue eyes flashed under her almost white eyebrows. “I don’t know how you could’ve missed it,” she said. “It’s in the gallery behind us, with the other large sculptural nudes.” She pointed to the last room we had been in.

He laughed halfheartedly and smiled. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to go but halted, looked back, and said. “Have we met? I believe I’ve seen you both before.”

Suddenly, it struck me who he was; the intelligent, cunning, smile gave him away—I remembered his face from that disturbing day—he had talked to us in November 1938 during Kristallnacht, the day after the destruction.

“On the morning after the synagogues were burned, if I’m not mistaken,” I said. “You stood behind us … and then disappeared.” I recalled the electric jolt of attraction that I felt at the time—one I’d thought he’d sensed as well.

His already dazzling smile brightened and he skirted the bench. “Of course,” he said, and put a finger to his temple as if attempting to recall the memory. “And other times as well … long ago at the Degenerate Art exhibit … and at Café Luitpold.” He walked closer and stopped within an arm’s length of me. “You both have coffee there sometimes? Am I right?”

An uncomfortable, nerves-taut tingle prickled over me. Clearly, he knew much more about us than we knew about him. Lisa stood rigidly by my side, exhibiting the same unease.

“I’m sorry,” he said and bowed slightly. “I’m Garrick Adler. I shouldn’t have been so forward, but it’s rare that I’m in a museum and I found myself wandering—a bit lost.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it, his grip firm and warm.

Garrick approached Lisa and with some reluctance, she shook his hand and said, “You seem to know a lot about us, and we know nothing about you.”

He sat next to me on the bench and encouraged Lisa to sit to his right. “I can remedy that quickly,” he said as Lisa took her seat. “It’s wonderful to sit between two such lovely ladies.”

I cringed. My assessment that he had a wife or many girlfriends apparently had been wrong. “Flattery is unnecessary, Herr Adler. We’re in no need of it.”

Lisa nodded and smiled through clenched teeth, showing her impatience and ready willingness to withdraw from Garrick’s company.

“I’m sure you’d like the Arno Breker sculptures,” Lisa said after her smile settled. “We can guide you to them on our way out.”

“Isn’t he the Führer’s favorite?” Garrick asked in a voice overflowing with sincerity.

“Yes,” Lisa replied, “and he’s fond of Adolf Ziegler’s female nudes as well.”

He swiped his fingers through the voluminous wave of hair flowing away from the part on his head. “Oh, I’ve seen them … very nice.” His eyes glazed a bit in a thoughtful look. “Was your teacher Herr Lange? I must have been a year or two ahead of you, but I could swear I saw you at the Degenerate Art exhibit.”

“So, what do you do?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from us. Lisa exhaled and sank against the bench.

“I work for the Reich insurance agency here in Munich. Pretty boring, really, but it makes me feel I’m doing some good for people—keeping those who are ill from falling into poverty and despair.”

“Just like Clara Barton,” Lisa said.

Blood rose to my face.

Garrick jerked his head toward her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lisa said.

When he turned back to me, rage smoldered in his eyes but subsided as he spoke. “I’ve taken enough of your time—I should be going if I want to see the Thorak sculpture.” He got up from the bench.

Lisa tapped her wristwatch. “We should be going too.”

“Before I leave … I don’t believe I’ve gotten your names.”

“Natalya Petrovich,” I said, “and Lisa Kolbe.”

“It was a pleasure to see you again,” he said and started to raise his hand in the Nazi salute. Instead, his arm fell to his side as if shame, or some other emotion, had caused him to reconsider. “Perhaps I’ll see you at the café.” He walked around the bench and into the gallery behind us.

I scowled at Lisa after he left. “Clara Barton? It probably wasn’t smart to needle him.”

“It was intended as a jab,” Lisa replied. “I doubt if he even knows who she was. I wish you hadn’t given him our names.”

“Why not? It would only make him suspicious if we didn’t.”

“Make something up. He’d never know.”

I shook my head in amazement at her paranoia, but perhaps she was right; we didn’t know Garrick Adler. But why was Lisa so concerned about giving her name? If anything, I was the one who needed to watch what I said after what I’d seen in Russia. “Why don’t you want your name known?”

She shook her head.

“Do you recall seeing Garrick when I was at the Front?” I asked.

“I’ve never seen him, other than after that terrible night in 1938. If he’s seen us, he was spying. We need to be cautious—I don’t trust anyone who can overhear a conversation.”

We left the gallery and strolled through the building until we were back at the entrance. We put on our coats, gathered our umbrellas, and stepped out on the portico. The wind whipped around the stone columns in a cold blast. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the gusts rendered the umbrellas useless.

Apparently, Garrick had had his fill of the museum, for I spotted him a block ahead of us, his build and long stride unmistakable.

“It seems he’s headed my way toward Schwabing,” I said. “I’ll see where he goes.”

“What do you think he’s up to?” Lisa asked.

Her question deflated me, my sadness festering from the cruel fact that we had to watch every word we said, censor every public conversation, look with distrust upon every human interaction and emotion, and spend sleepless nights wondering whether the Gestapo was surging up the stairs to arrest us. “I don’t know, but he’s certainly attractive.”

Lisa clicked her tongue and pointed the tip of her closed umbrella at me. “Those are dangerous words. He’s good-looking, but I’d be careful.”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character,” I said, wiping the mist from my glasses.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What then?” I asked irritably.

“A man like that can make you fall in love. Away from your father’s clutches you’re susceptible.”

“Don’t be absurd. No man is going to make me fall in love.”

“And why isn’t he in the army?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he has some medical condition—I’ve seen plenty of men who couldn’t serve for one reason or another—or the work he does is critical.”

“Not in insurance. He could be replaced by a hundred others.”

We came to the large avenue that led toward the apartment building my parents used to live in. Lisa and I hugged each other and said good-bye, promising to meet again after I had decided upon my course of study.

I trundled on through the drizzle, clutching my umbrella with my right hand, clenching my coat tightly about my neck with my left, trying to keep up with Garrick as he disappeared around a corner, turning north onto Ludwigstrasse. Large stone buildings lined each side of the street leading to the university, each one as gray and dreary as the falling night, blackout curtains clinging to the windows.

Garrick passed under the triumphal arch of the Siegestor, with its sculpted chariot atop, and into Schwabing, where I lived with my parents. He turned onto one of the shadowy streets, the trees stripped of leaves by November winds, bark wet and dripping from the drizzle, the two of us nearly alone in the fading day. Smells permeated the chilly air, so different from the fresh, clean sweep of the wind on the Russian steppes. Here, the odors of cooked sausage, potatoes, and eggs mixed with car exhaust and spent heating fuel.

He opened the door to a two-story house, its arched doorway, stones, and gabled roof neat and tidy in their Bavarian cleanliness. I stood behind a tree on the other side of the street and watched as a dark figure pulled the curtain down on a front window on the upper story. A warm yellow light flared from a side window and Garrick appeared with a notebook in hand, pen resting on his lips. He removed the pen from his mouth and wrote in his book; and, as if pleased with his words, he held it like a hymnal before closing it. Then, the shade was drawn and the room went black.

I gripped my umbrella and headed toward my parents’ apartment somewhat ashamed that I was stalking a man, as he had perhaps stalked us.

As I walked, I wondered what he had written. Whatever he had penned, it had taken only a moment. A strange sensation came over me, and, in my mind, I was standing next to him as he wrote the names in his book.

Natalya Petrovich and Lisa Kolbe.

CHAPTER 3

The early weeks of November were filled with excitement, and I rarely had time to think about anything except the university and moving.

I decided upon biology as a major, rearranged my class schedule, and removed myself from the rolls of volunteer nurses. My father, less than pleased with my choice, still hoped for a nursing career for me. He was somewhat mollified because my new major was at least related to my previous field and might allow me to work in a research capacity. Both he and my mother hinted (in their own ways, but the meaning was clear) that it was time for me to think about finding a husband, in addition to getting a job. That way, if I couldn’t find work after my studies, or the Reich came calling on me to produce children, I’d have a husband to support me. They didn’t take into account that men were scarce. These conversations with my father were one-sided and precipitated tension between us. I was treated like a child, I thought.

After several stressful weeks of living at home, I resolved to find an apartment of my own.

As luck would have it, my father had made friends with a widow by the name of Frau Hofstetter, who lived a few blocks from my parents in Schwabing. He would often slide her a few extra aspirin, or hard-to-get packets of bath salts, across the apothecary counter. The Frau always expressed her eternal gratitude, secretly, of course, because giving such “gifts” was a crime.

One day, she told my father of her hope to find a young woman to help care for her: to do dishes, tidy up, and to “make sure I’m not dead in the morning.” These responsibilities came with a small payment each month and the free use of an extra bedroom with its own entrance on the front of the house.

The bedroom joined the other rooms by a main connecting hallway. The opportunity to hear “movement” in the dull rooms and to “know that someone is there” gave the widow great satisfaction. The new tenant would have kitchen and bathroom privileges, and, if required, access to the small sitting room where the Frau spent most of her time.

Spending my free time caring for a seventy-five-year-old woman was less than thrilling, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. My father’s income was barely enough to support my mother and him, food shortages were rampant, and, most important, I needed my freedom. The time had come to make my own way in the world.

It didn’t take long for me to pack the few things I owned and move to my new home. I accomplished it all in a couple of trips, and, by the time classes were in full swing, I was settled into the Frau’s residence.

My room was pleasant and faced south, toward the street. A few streaks of November sun splashed through the window in the early morning. As the seasons changed, the room would be brilliantly lit in the spring and summer, perhaps dappled with light from quivering oak leaves. The furniture consisted of a bed, framed by an antique walnut headboard with carved foxes and hunting dogs cavorting across its top, a modest curved kneehole dresser with a bluish mirror from the 1920s, and a simple, but solid, mahogany chair, which sat next to a small table.

The inside door led to a hallway lit only from the sunlight coming in from the main entrance. The other rooms extended from this hall and led also to Frau Hofstetter’s bedroom at the back of the house. I surmised my landlady was more comfortable away from the street noise and also enjoyed her access to the tiny garden behind her room.

We saw each other daily, as I completed my list of tasks. For the most part, the Frau ambled about her home clad in a housedress with her gray stockings rolled down to her ankles. When the temperature would fall, the stockings would rise. Often she fell asleep in the small sitting room with a newspaper or book covering her lap. I was responsible for cleaning, but she insisted on cooking. If my studies prevented me from eating, she would knock on my door while balancing a plate of food, usually extra potatoes and fried eggs from her supper. She was generous, but also insistent that I be meticulous in my work.

Much of my time was spent studying at my dresser under the glare of my old desk lamp, or curled up in bed, attempting to read from the soft glow of an oil lamp. My only company at night was the hiss and rattle of the radiators.

In early December, Lisa and I received an invitation from Hans and his sister Sophie for dessert, wine, and conversation at their apartment on Josefstrasse, where they lived in two large separate rooms. Lisa came for me that frigid night, the air as clean and crisp as ice, and we trundled our way shivering and rattling down the streets.

Sophie, whom I recognized as someone I’d seen in an auditorium class, answered the door. Her brown hair ran down her neck to her shoulders and rested in a rather severe wave across her forehead. A boyish quality infused her face, and depending on how she turned her head, she gave the appearance of having somewhat masculine features. She exuded a seriousness in her manner, a like characteristic of her brother, her eyes searching, her lips often pursed. She welcomed Lisa with an affectionate “hello,” and introduced herself to me. I told her that I was a friend of her brother’s, which elicited an immediate warm smile.

I took off my glasses and swiped at the lenses with a clean handkerchief, the transition from cold to heat momentarily blinding me with condensation. When I put them on again, the rooms came into view. They were sparse but retained a cozy feel: pictures adorned the flowered wallpaper, chairs and pillows invited the visitors to take their places in comfort. The table held cakes, an assortment of chocolate and vanilla pastries, tea, and wine. A bottle of schnapps sat gleaming like a spirit overlord at the end of the table. It appeared that Hans and Sophie had their own connections when it came to obtaining food and drink.

I studied the crowd of guests. Willi Graf and Alex Schmorell were missing from the gathering—I thought they might be attending—but a few others were unexpected.

Professor Kurt Huber, for one. I recognized him as the instructor of the class that Sophie and I attended. He sat hunched in the corner as if he were sitting on pins and needles, crossing and uncrossing his legs, smoothing his pant legs with his hands. His long, oval face was topped by a half-bald pate adorned only by the graying hair that grew halfway back and down the sides of his head. He glanced at me and then turned away. Having no reason to introduce myself, I decided to wait until the evening’s social strictures had relaxed under the influence of the Riesling wine.

But my indifference toward Professor Huber turned to surprise as another face came into view.

Garrick Adler was seated on a pillow embroidered with green vines and the purple trumpets of morning glories, his legs crossed in front of him. I had missed him when I first came in because his body was partially concealed behind a chair. Garrick smiled in his bright way and I felt a blush rise in my cheeks, a signal of his attractiveness. However, my ardor was dampened by the suspicious nature so masterfully orchestrated by the Reich and instilled in all of us.

Lisa wandered off to speak to Hans and an artist friend. Knowing few in the crowd, I found myself drawn to the food and drinks table—my shyness overcoming any urge to converse with anyone. I sat in a chair across the room and couldn’t help peeking at Garrick now and then. He was speaking to a man I didn’t know and as soon as their conversation ended, I felt his gaze upon me before I glanced his way. He got up from the floor, grabbed his pillow, and plopped it next to my feet.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

I found myself admiring his bright smile and broad shoulders, and he looked up at me like an adoring puppy. Then, I pictured him writing Natalya and Lisa in his book the night I had followed him and the thought sent a shiver up my spine. Was it paranoia or reality? Despite that disturbing image, I found his attention flattering.

“A last-minute invitation …”

“How do you know Hans and Sophie?” he asked, filling in my broken thought.

I wondered how much I should reveal, but also considered that anyone who knew the Scholls well enough to be invited to a house party would know something about them.

“I served with Hans on the Eastern Front for three months before we were called home. I was a nurse and he was a medic. We’re both at the university now.” I threaded my fingers together and placed my hands in my lap, trying to quell my social discomfort. “I’ve seen Sophie in class, but we’ve just met.”

“We’ve been friends for about a year,” Garrick offered. Dimples formed at the end of his smile. “They’re interesting people of the right sort.”

I was perplexed by what he meant. “Right sort?”

He placed his arms behind him like pillars and leaned back in a comfortable pose. His long legs stretched in front of mine, blocking me from leaving the chair. “Politically … and they’re nice people. Solid Germans with their feet on the ground. They understand politics and literature.”

Hans had already communicated his feelings to me about the Nazis when we were in Russia. His words, “The Reich must be condemned,” came rushing back. I couldn’t carry on the conversation without lying or incriminating myself, so I nodded in an absentminded way. Thinking of a ploy to end our talk, I asked Garrick, “Would you mind getting me a glass of wine?” I offered a bemused smile. “I seem to be boxed in.”

“Of course,” he said, and rose from his resting place. “Don’t go away … I have a question to ask you.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. A question? I had no idea what he had in mind. I had questions for him but didn’t know him well enough to ask. He glided off to the table and was about to lift a glass, when he was engaged in conversation by a woman, a slim brunette whom I didn’t know.

“I think you have an admirer.” Lisa stood beside me with a wineglass in one hand and a dish holding a chocolate pastry in the other.

“Shhh,” I ordered. “I don’t need a boyfriend or a husband. My studies come first.”

She chuckled. “That’s what you say now, but remember what I said about men who can make you fall in love.”

“Yes. You needn’t remind me.”

Even as I objected to my friend, part of me basked in the attention Garrick offered. I was the quiet and shy one compared to Lisa, who always seemed prettier and more vivacious than I. It was the first time any man had really looked at me, and he was coming close to overriding any objections I might hold. Any woman would have found him a prize, as confirmed by the one at the table, who grasped his arm, touched his shoulder, and threw her head back in flirtatious laughter.

Garrick finally disengaged himself from her; she pouted as he walked away. “Good evening, Lisa,” he said with little warmth upon his return. He handed me the glass and took his spot on the pillow.

“You remembered,” Lisa said flatly.

“I never forget a name or a pretty face.”

“Flatterer,” Lisa said, and turned on her heels.

Garrick sighed and leaned back on his elbows.

“You don’t drink?” I asked.

“Rarely. It doesn’t agree with me.” He tapped his jacket pocket and lifted the flap, exposing the top of a cigarette pack. “I smoke now and then—it calms me down.”

I sipped my wine and let its warmth settle in my stomach. “You don’t seem the type who would get upset easily.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Sometimes the war gets on my nerves. I see what’s happening and there’s nothing at the insurance service I can do about it.” His mood darkened and he stared across the room at nothing in particular. “Our men come home in boxes, and I have to deal with the grieving widows and parents and my nerves can be overwrought.” He tapped his right leg. “I can’t serve.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, sympathy pricking me for the injury he suffered. “The Russian Front wasn’t a day at the fair, either. Much of what I had to deal with was upsetting—so much so that I decided to suspend my volunteer nursing in favor of my studies.”

“That’s a shame.” He pushed himself off his elbows and leaned toward me. “Let’s not talk about the war, it’s too depressing.” His mood brightened in a flash. “Regarding that question I mentioned.” He paused and gazed at the floor before looking up at me. “May I ask you out—that is, if you don’t have other engagements?”

His question caught me off guard, and I’m sure my eyes widened in surprise at his sudden proposal.

Before I could answer, Hans clapped his hands and called for everyone’s attention. I was relieved to be saved by our host as the group gathered around him and took their places in chairs or on pillows and cushions.

Hans, who looked much more relaxed than he had been in Russia, quieted the room in his role as the congenial master of the group. He offered a rare smile, leaned against the table, welcomed us to his home with Sophie, and joked about living with his sister. Their arrangement had fostered a “new amicability,” he said. After sparring with the group, he read poetry from Schiller and Goethe, which went on for some time, and his words were applauded by the crowd except for one—Professor Huber.

The academician rose as the last poem ended, and, after pulling on his coat, walked past Hans and Sophie and out the door without so much as a good-bye. A blast of bitter wind cut through the room. Hans continued his congenial banter with the crowd, apparently unaffected by the professor’s exit. He talked for some time about various subjects: philosophy, ethics, man as a social being. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as the hour grew late; Garrick watched Hans with a studied intensity.

As the evening drew to a close, I still hadn’t answered Garrick’s question about going out. We were interrupted at times by Lisa and Sophie, who spent most of the evening talking with each other.

“How was Stuttgart?” I heard Sophie ask a young woman, and then address a similar question a few minutes later to another woman. “How was Hamburg?”

Both of these young women answered in the affirmative and talked with some animation about the beauty of both cities. The conversations seemed out of place and Garrick must have felt the same way, for he listened with one ear cocked toward them before turning his attention back to me. Mostly, these intrusive discussions were a welcome distraction to small talk with Garrick as I drank my second glass of wine.

Finally, I had to give him some kind of answer. I screwed up my courage, for it was the first time I had been asked out by a man rather than a collegial schoolboy. The image of my strict father intruded in my thoughts. I took a breath. “I’m busy with classes until the break, and I live with a seventy-five-year-old woman who doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

The smile that had graced his face most of the night faded. “That’s not a ‘no.’”

“I guess not.” I put the empty wineglass on the small table next to my chair. “If I can spare the time, I’ll let you know.” He seemed somewhat placated by my noncommittal reply and grasped my hand warmly.

“I look forward to it,” he said. “Let me give you my phone number and address.”

Of course, I knew where he lived, having followed him home after the museum visit. I didn’t reveal my own, only a few blocks from his, as he handed me a hurriedly scribbled note.

Lisa appeared next to my chair with our coats. “Time to make a discreet exit before we’re regaled with more poetry.”

Garrick laughed and stood up on his long legs. He was at least a head taller than I was, and I was considered tall for a woman. Lisa gave me my coat and I put it on, placing the address in the pocket.

“It was nice to see you both again,” he said. “I should be getting home myself.”

We said our good-byes to Hans and Sophie and headed for the door. Lisa pushed me past it with a friendly shove as she hurried us to the street. “Quick, let’s get out of here before your admirer follows you home.”

The streets were pitch-dark, devoid of light from the extinguished streetlamps, the homes shrouded by blackout curtains as we walked. The only sources of light were a small sliver of moon and the steady stars that sent their cold beams cutting through breaks in the swiftly flowing clouds.

Garrick’s interest quickened my thoughts and my step. My kisses had been limited to schoolboys, with little romantic attraction flowering from my lips. Those were minor crushes that came to nothing. My father had kept a close watch on me; my mother didn’t object to his intention of keeping his daughter pure for her marriage day. He didn’t have to worry—I was shy and uncertain with men and certainly wouldn’t have given away my virginity. Any fascination I had with the body came merely from studying it, but with Garrick I had the strange feeling that the world of love might open for me. However, I wasn’t rushing into anything because, in these times, keeping to yourself, not drawing attention, was the best way to stay out of trouble.

“How do you think my hair would look if I cut it shorter?” I asked Lisa, and wrapped a few strands of my shoulder-length locks around my fingers. I was thinking of Lisa’s style, which was similar to the woman who had struck up the conversation with Garrick.

“My God, Natalya,” Lisa replied with horror biting into her voice. “You can’t be serious.” We turned the corner toward my apartment, and I caught the look of concern on her face despite the dim light. “You’re not going out with him?” Her words sounded like a command rather than a friendly question. “You don’t even know him.”

“How can I get to know him, if I don’t go out?” I asked. “He doesn’t seem like a bad man. He said things tonight that made me reconsider my impression of him. He has a leg injury that keeps him from serving.”

We strolled up to my apartment. Frau Hofstetter’s neat, tidy house was as bland and unremarkable, like a dark cube in the shadows, as every other dwelling on the block.

“Forget Garrick for a few minutes,” Lisa said. “Can I come in—out of the cold? I have something to share with you.”

I was somewhat leery of the hour and of disturbing the landlady. “I suppose—as long as we’re quiet.”

“Don’t worry—what I have to tell you requires secrecy—in a way, silence.”

I opened the door and we stepped into the dark, the blackout curtains drawn. By the time I switched on my lamp, Lisa had taken off her shoes, removed her coat, and settled under it on my bed with her back resting against the walnut headboard. As the radiator clanged, I lifted the chair from its normal resting place at the dresser and positioned it at the end of the bed.

“Come closer,” Lisa said and then shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

What is so important! What does she have to tell me?

Intrigued by her somber expression, I moved the chair closer to the headboard and leaned toward her.

She fluffed my pillow and settled back again. “Have you heard of the White Rose?”

I shook my head.

“Are you sure your landlady’s asleep?” Lisa asked.

I looked at my watch. “At this hour she’s tucked away in bed.”

“What I have to tell you can never be repeated.” Her voice hummed low under the radiator’s noise. “Hans, Sophie, and Alex have taken a stand against the Reich.”

My heart beat faster at her words.

Lisa’s arms trembled as she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

“This is a very dangerous business, but something has to be done,” she continued. “Everyone in the White Rose was chosen for their intelligence, their convictions, and their politics, including me.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around her as the words spilled from her mouth and tears, close to falling, glistened in her eyes.

“What have you done?” I asked, shaking, as if the coldness of the room had entered my bones. “Are you in danger?”

“Let me finish.” She straightened her back against the headboard and looked at me. “Hans and Alex wrote four leaflets against the Reich that were mailed in June and July before you went to the Front. Some were distributed at the university. The words are treasonous—questioning the will of the German people to stand up against a corrupt government, a dictatorship of evil; calling National Socialism a ‘cancerous ulcer’; pointing out that since Poland fell, three hundred thousand Jews have been murdered …”

My breath caught and my stomach twisted from my memory of seeing Sina and her children slaughtered by the SS. On top of my agony came the sudden realization that others knew about the heinous crimes being committed. Others know! I felt as if chains had dropped from my body.

“Stop, please stop.” Shame flooded me because I had been unable to tell anyone my terrible secret. Lisa put a finger to my lips as I struggled to keep from collapsing, humiliation washing over me, my hands shaking from knowing that I now could take a stand as well—but only if I placed my life and my parents’ lives at risk in order to fight the evil that had overtaken our homeland. But what could I do?

Leaning forward, Lisa clasped my hands in hers. “They want you.” Her words sounded like a sacrament, a holy whisper. “Hans and Alex have been watching you since you traveled to the Front. They want you to join the group.”

“Me?”

“You’ll help me mail and deliver leaflets. We can write them ourselves with their approval. Alex and Hans wrote the first four and they’ll soon be working on a fifth. In the meantime, they want the movement to expand its targets. The Reich already believes the White Rose is a national organization. The Gestapo is running scared. We are making a difference.” She paused. “Our mailing locations will be Vienna and Nuremberg.”

I held my arms close to my body to quell the violent shivering that threatened to consume me. “Sophie talked to two women about Stuttgart and Hamburg. Was that about the leaflets?”

Lisa rose from the bed, retrieved my coat, and wrapped it around me. “Yes. I know this is a shock, but think about what I’ve said. We are the first, and, remember, something has to be done.”

I breathed deeply and leaned back in the chair. After a few minutes of reflection, I told Lisa what I had seen at the Front—revealing for the first time what I witnessed—stopping several times to wipe away tears, drained from the emotions coursing through me.

Lisa lay sprawled under her coat as I ended my story. We stared at each other for a long time, both of us knowing that what I had told her could get us killed.

“I have to get home or my parents will send for the police,” Lisa finally said. “We don’t want that.” She got off the bed, put on her coat, and walked behind my chair. She leaned over and embraced me in a powerful hug.

I was worried that she might be harassed by the authorities as she walked home. “It’s after eleven. Stay here—it’s late.” I extricated myself from her arms and got up from the chair.

“No, I’ll be fine. I know the less-traveled streets by heart. Class tomorrow.”

I hugged her once more as she headed toward the door.

“One last thing,” she said, clutching the knob. “Don’t say a word of this to anyone, most of all Garrick. He’s being watched as well, but so far he’s not won over the group. He says all the right things, but Hans wants to find out more about him.”

“Of course,” I replied, knowing that Lisa held no fondness for Garrick from the beginning.

Lisa opened the door and dissolved into the wreath of shadows hanging upon the street. Soon she had disappeared in the night.

Exhausted, I collapsed on my bed. I woke up at three in the morning, my lamp still aglow on my desk. I switched it off and crawled back under the blankets, hoping my dreams would be free of thoughts of imprisonment and execution, the horrors of war, or the budding admission in my mind that I was more than curious about Garrick Adler.

The following Saturday morning while washing up in my parents’ tiny bathroom, I heard my mother’s strangled scream. They had invited me over for breakfast, as they often did on weekends. As always, I was glad for a respite from my work at Frau Hofstetter’s and an invitation to enjoy my mother’s cooking.

My mother stood at the front window, her fingers clenched into fists at her side. I rushed to her, as did my father, and spotted a black sedan parked in front of their apartment. The car idled, white puffs of exhaust billowing from its pipes before evaporating into the December air.

My heart rocketed into my throat when three men, one an SS officer in his black leather trench coat, the other two in brown coats, alighted swiftly from the car and with an aura of Reich formality strode up the walk.

“Whatever happens, neither of you say a word,” my father cautioned, his face blanched with fear. “You know nothing.”

I looked at him in horror; something was dreadfully wrong. The downstairs door was often open and I listened, my heart thudding in my chest, for footsteps on the stairs.

All was silent before the muffled creak of their shoes sounded in the hall. Two violent knocks echoed in the apartment before my father, silencing us with a finger to his lips, answered.

The SS officer stood behind the two men in the brown coats. One of them cracked a thin smile and announced he was from the Gestapo. “Herr Petrovich?” he asked in a voice that hinted of disdain behind its pleasant veneer. My mother leaned against me and the tremble in her bones settled in mine. Still, she was remarkably composed, in control of her shaky emotions as we watched what was unfolding before our eyes; but we had to be, we had no choice.

My father nodded and asked what business they had.

“We would like you to come with us,” the man said and the other two slipped into the apartment, their eyes darting around the room as if my parents were suspected of the most terrible treason.

I started to speak, but my father’s intense glare warned me not to open my mouth. I complied, all the while struggling to silence my fear. My parents had never supported the Nazi Party, but had never disparaged it as far as I knew. I couldn’t imagine what the Gestapo was doing in their apartment—at first, I thought they might have come for me because of what I’d revealed to Lisa. I quickly dismissed that thought—Lisa would never have betrayed me.

The first man took my father by the arm and ushered him into the hall. The SS man and the other Gestapo agent headed for my father’s bookcase. With one swipe of his gloved hand, the black-clad thug overturned the case, sending the books crashing to the floor. Several volumes of my father’s illegal books tumbled from their hiding place along with the others.

The second Gestapo agent picked up two of the books, including the Aquinas my father was so fond of, and held them in his gloved hands. The brown leather surrounding his fingers glinted like polished amber in the bright morning light.

“Do you know anything about these books, Frau Petrovich?” the agent asked my mother. His thin mustache wriggled on his upper lip as he spoke.

My mother shook her head, but said nothing.

“I’d advise you to stay at home for the next several days,” the SS officer said. He turned on his heels along with the other agent. Clutching several books, they rushed away, leaving the door open as they hurried down the staircase.

My mother and I ran to the window. The agent who had grabbed my father shoved him into the backseat of the waiting sedan and climbed in beside him. The other agent and the SS officer tossed the books in the trunk and then took their seats as driver and lookout. The car’s motor revved and the vehicle accelerated down the street out of sight.

We were left staring out the window. Without a word, my mother went to the kitchen. She lifted the spatula to stir the eggs, but it dropped from her trembling fingers as she collapsed in front of the stove.

I held her in my arms and stroked her hair.

“Oh, my God, what will become of him,” she sobbed.

I tried to quiet her. As her weeping faded, the silence grew ominous—the street even devoid of traffic—as if the Gestapo and SS had chased all life away. My fear transformed into a white anger behind my eyes. I knew what I must do.

I vowed, as I cradled my mother, to resist Hitler, his Reich, and his henchmen.

I would join the White Rose.

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