by Kate Quinn
May 1946
Boston
You deserve a grander honeymoon,” Dan McBride objected.
“A weekend in Concord is all we need,” Anneliese insisted. “It wouldn’t be fair to leave the girls alone too long.”
Jordan and Ruth were swiftly becoming the girls—Jordan could see her father’s smile deepen every time he heard it. Anything was worth seeing him this happy. In truth, Jordan was happy too. She’d thrown herself into wedding preparations: clearing space in her dad’s closet for Anneliese’s things, pressing his wedding suit. Anneliese would stay the night before the wedding, sharing the guest room with Ruth, and then two different cabs would take them to the church the following morning. “You can’t see your bride dressed for the wedding, Dad. You take the first cab, and Anneliese and Ruth and I will follow.”
“Whatever you say, missy.” He squeezed her cheek. “I’m proud of the way you handle things. There aren’t many seventeen-year-old girls I’d trust with their new sister for a weekend alone.” He twisted his old wedding ring, moved to his other hand. “I used to worry I hadn’t done right by you, after your mother died. I didn’t handle it as I should have.”
“Dad—”
“I didn’t. Little girl with a wild imagination, taking her mother’s death hard—I worried I wasn’t enough to raise you right.” He took her in now, approvingly. “I don’t know if I did anything right or if it was all you, but look at you now. All grown up with a good head on your shoulders.”
I don’t feel it, Jordan thought. Every time she met Anneliese’s opaque blue eyes over the dinner table, speculation began raging inside, even as she chided herself. This is ridiculous, J. Bryde. You like Anneliese. (She did.) She’s lovely. (She was.) She didn’t even tell Dad on you when you were rude enough to go prying about her past. (She had not.) So why are you still . . . ?
Because you’re still jealous, and still trying to find fault, Jordan told herself with a mental kick, and kept doing her level best to squash the feeling out of existence.
“You’re so distracted,” Garrett said a few days before the wedding, when Jordan’s dad had all but ordered her to stop cleaning and go out for a date. “Do you even want to make out?”
“Not really,” Jordan confessed, and Garrett sat up as Jordan finger-combed her hair back into place. Ten minutes of kissing in the backseat of his Chevrolet had pulled it out of its blue band. “Sorry.”
“You’re killing me,” he said with big soulful eyes, but he hopped out of the backseat fishing for his keys. He wasn’t one of those boys to keep pushing if a girl said no; he groaned, but he backed off. Maybe this year we . . . Jordan thought, trailing off.
“What’s on your mind?” Garrett asked as they rearranged themselves in the front seat and he turned the car for home. “Wedding stuff?”
“It’ll be easier when it’s done,” Jordan admitted. Surely it would. Anneliese Weber would be Anneliese McBride, her stepmother. They’d be a family. That would be that.
THE WEDDING MORNING dawned bright and beautiful. Jordan was up first, pressing her dad to swallow some toast. He looked so sweetly nervous as she slipped a white rosebud into his buttonhole, smiling from under those straight dark-blond brows just like her own. “I thought I’d be the one walking you down the aisle.”
“Not for a while yet, Dad.” She stood back. “There.”
“You’ve been a brick, welcoming Anneliese like this. It means a lot.”
“Better catch your cab,” Jordan managed to say despite her choked-up throat. “If Father Harris shows up tipsy, pour some coffee into him. No postponing this wedding; I’m not stuffing you into this suit twice!”
She snapped a few shots off, then saw her father into his cab before dashing up to the guest room.
Ruth answered her knock, putting a smile on Jordan’s face. “Ruthie, you look like a princess! Twirl for me?” Ruth twirled solemnly, blond hair brushed out over the lace collar of her new blue velvet dress. I’m going to get a laugh out of you this weekend if it’s the last thing I do, Jordan vowed.
“There you are.” Anneliese stood before the mirror patting her face and neck with a powder puff, perfectly composed in her pink suit and broad-brimmed cream hat, not a bridal nerve in sight. “We’re almost ready.”
“You’re a vision,” Jordan said. “Dad will be speechless.”
“You look lovely too.” Anneliese turned, looking Jordan over in her blue dress, and for once she seemed to speak impulsively. “I look forward to making you things, Jordan. I make all our day clothes, Ruth’s and mine—I could run up a summer dress for you if you liked. Something not fussy, you aren’t a fussy girl. Three-quarter length, nothing floral printed . . .” Anneliese stopped herself with a laugh, looking suddenly rueful. “Du meine Güte, I swore I wouldn’t start offering to dress you, like you were a child! It’s the opposite, you see—it would be a pleasure to make a dress for someone who isn’t a child and wanting everything ruffled.”
Jordan felt herself startled into genuine laughter. “It sounds like we’d better set up the sunroom for you as a sewing room, then. But first”—she reached into her blue clutch for something she’d meant to offer days ago but hadn’t quite been able to manage—“I thought you might like to wear this today.” She held out the gold bracelet her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday.
“I would be honored,” Anneliese said quietly.
The last knot in Jordan’s stomach melted away. “Now you have something borrowed—”
“Something old—” Anneliese patted the string of gray pearls around her neck.
“Something new—” Jordan fastened the bracelet around her soon-to-be stepmother’s wrist. “Your pink suit—”
“And something blue,” Anneliese finished, lifting her bouquet of creamy roses with stems wrapped in pale blue satin ribbon.
Jordan smiled. “The cab’s waiting.”
Anneliese straightened her hat and glided downstairs. She glided into the chapel with the same silent grace, and Jordan saw tears in her father’s eyes. This makes it all worth it, she thought. Father Harris’s voice rolled across the chapel, and it was done.
THERE WAS CAKE and champagne in the vestry afterward, corks popping as friends crowded around. Soon the newlyweds would take a cab to South Station and be off to their honeymoon; Jordan had already prepared little bags of rice to throw. Anneliese chatted with some neighbors, and Jordan’s father swung Ruth up to his shoulder. “You want to hold your mama’s bouquet?”
“Don’t, she’ll drop it,” Anneliese began.
“She’ll be careful, won’t you, little missy?” He plucked Anneliese’s bouquet from her hands and settled it into Ruth’s. Jordan got an adorable snap of Ruth in his arms, burying her face in roses, looking cautiously thrilled with her new life.
More glasses being drained, more laughter. Jordan’s father set Ruth down, hearing himself called over by a colleague. Ruth looked around, chewing her lip, and Jordan captured her hand. “What do you need, Ruthie? Oh—” As Ruth made a certain clamped-knees gesture. “Let me take you to the powder room.” Ruth protested as Jordan took the bridal bouquet from her hands. “Mama said don’t let go of it—”
“You can hardly take it into the toilet!” Ruth disappeared into the stall, and Jordan laid the roses down before the powder room mirror, snapping a close-up of the flowers. The pale blue satin ribbon was coming undone around the bouquet; Jordan started to rewrap it, but there was a hard little lump in among the stems. Some wedding charm for good luck? Jordan fished down into the roses and drew out the wedged object. The little piece of metal lay in her hand, glittering in the soft powder room light, and Jordan stood as if turned to ice.
A war medal. Not an American medal, but Jordan still recognized it. All through the war, Hollywood actors wore them if they were cast as the Nazi villain. An Iron Cross, black swastika gleaming.
She dropped it as though it were red hot. It lay among the bridal roses and loops of pale blue ribbon like a drop of poison. Some
thing old, something new, Jordan thought, waves of bewildered horror crawling down her spine, something Nazi, something blue.
The toilet flushed; Ruth would be coming out. Anneliese could walk in at any moment. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Jordan raised the Leica. Click—the swastika lurking among the wedding flowers. What kind of woman walked down the aisle carrying a swastika? Why would she risk that? Swiftly, Jordan bundled the roses back together, burying the Iron Cross exactly where it had been before, then she rewrapped the ribbon. Her hands trembled.
Ruth came out, trotting to the sink to wash her hands. Who is your mother? Jordan thought, staring at the little girl. She put the roses back in Ruth’s hands, looked at herself in the mirror, and saw the spots of color flushing in her cheeks. Smile, she told herself, smile—and went back outside.
“There you are!” Anneliese exclaimed, swiftly reclaiming her bouquet. “Ruth takes my flowers and just disappears. Mäuschen, I told you—”
Jordan gripped her father’s sleeve, drawing him aside. “Dad—”
“Cab’s here,” he said, reaching for Anneliese’s traveling case. “You have the telephone number of our hotel in Concord if there’s any trouble. Though I don’t see how much trouble my girls could get into in just two nights!”
I think we may be in a lot of trouble. “Dad,” Jordan said, gripping his sleeve harder.
The crowd was already carrying them outside. He pulled Jordan along. “What is it?”
Jordan’s tongue dried up. What on earth was she going to do, rip Anneliese’s bouquet to bits on the church steps? What would that prove?
Anneliese’s laughing voice exclaimed behind her: “Jordan, catch!”
Jordan turned at the top of the church steps, and the bridal bouquet came flying into her hands.
“For my maid of honor,” Anneliese twinkled as guests clapped. “The train, Dan, we’ll be late—” There was a whirl of luggage and flying skirts as he loaded the cab and Anneliese slid her pocketbook over her arm, and Jordan stood feeling frozen all over again. Because she could feel quite clearly that there was no hard little lump among the stems now. Anneliese must have slid the Iron Cross out before throwing the bouquet.
It must be something very precious, Jordan thought, if she’d risk carrying it today, and only take it out at the last minute.
Or it was never there at all, another thought whispered, and for one horrible moment Jordan thought she was going crazy. Jordan and her wild stories. She’d concocted the wildest theory imaginable out of thin air and jealousy, and this time her mind was furnishing evidence.
But the strap of the Leica reassured her. The Iron Cross had been there; she’d snapped a shot of it. She’d go down to the darkroom the minute she got home and look at the film. Already she was shivering, imagining the black arms of the swastika emerging skull-like through the developing fluid. Proof.
Of what? Jordan thought, staring at Anneliese as her father opened the cab door. By itself, it’s not proof of anything.
Except that this woman was hiding something.
Ruth opened her bag of rice, flinging grains everywhere. A final flurry of hugs, and Jordan’s father and his new wife slid into their taxi. Guests cheered as they rolled away, as confusion and horror swept over Jordan.
Dad, she thought, oh, Dad, what have you brought into our family?
Chapter 8
Ian
April 1950
Altaussee
Nina was not happy to be left behind in Vienna. “No. I go with you.”
“I have to sweet-talk a girl in Altaussee,” Tony said with his most persuasive smile. “How’s it going to look if I’ve got another girl with me already?”
Nina shrugged. She had been filled in on most aspects of the chase ahead and was clearly eager to begin. Ian put his oar in the water. “We need someone to look after the office.”
“You get to chase the huntress and I get to answer phone?” Nina said ominously. “Is horseshit.”
“Yes,” Ian stated. “But I am having a blunt conversation with you before I bring you along on the most important chase of my life, Nina, and since we don’t have time for that conversation right now, you’re staying in the bloody office.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. He stared back unblinking, impatience pulsing through him. The train left in an hour.
“Okay,” Nina finally said, still glowering. “I stay this time. Next time, you take me.”
“Try not to burn down the building while we’re gone.” Ian seized his battered fedora, ignoring Nina’s dirty look, and a moment later he and Tony were speeding down the Mariahilferstrasse in a cab. Vienna slid past outside, war raked but still lovely. A beautiful city, Ian thought, but not home. He hadn’t really had a home since Sebastian died. Home wasn’t merely an address.
“Well,” Tony said, speaking English so the driver wouldn’t understand. “Another day, another hunt.”
“This one is different,” Ian said, still thinking of his little brother. Scabby-kneed, earnest, eleven years younger—with such an age difference they shouldn’t have been close, yet they had been. Perhaps because their mother had died so soon after Seb was born, and the house had become such a mausoleum, their father interested in nothing but long lunches at the club and acting as if the Graham family still had money. “You’re the only thing good about coming home for hols,” the thirteen-year-old Seb had said frankly, back from school one summer. “You’re the only reason I bother coming home for hols,” Ian had replied, twenty-four himself, long moved out from under his father’s roof. “Let’s get out for some fishing before the old man starts going on about how I’d better not go to Spain and muck around with Reds and Dagos.”
Ian had headed to Barcelona not long after that, packing a notebook and a typewriter to cover Franco’s uprising, but even when he came back, sunburned and half a stone lighter, there had been time for his little brother. Teaching Seb to skip stones on a pond, Seb showing him bird calls. The two of them talking about the rumblings in Germany . . .
Sebastian dead in Poland, never to see the end of the war.
“This chase is different,” Ian said again, and his yearning to catch die Jägerin was a hunger so vast it could have swallowed the world.
Tony flipped through the file on their target as the cab rumbled along. “You’re lucky, you know.”
“Lucky?” Ian looked at him. “My brother would be about your age now if he’d lived, but he didn’t. I don’t have a brother, Tony. That Nazi bitch took him away.”
“You have a single person to blame. One.” Tony looked Ian in the eye, meeting the flare of anger he could probably see there. “Lots of us don’t have that.”
“Us?”
“My mother had family in Kraków, whole flotillas of Jewish cousins and aunts and uncles who didn’t emigrate when her parents did,” Tony said. “I’d never met them in my life, but I promised my mother I’d look them up if I was ever in Poland. When I was demobbed, I went looking . . .” He blew out a long breath. “Gone. All of them.”
Ian’s flash of anger faded. “I see.” He already knew Tony’s background, of course; his partner had flung that at him the day they started working together. I may be a born-and-raised Catholic boy from Queens, but my mother’s side is Polish Jew. Is that going to be a problem, Graham? “No,” Ian had replied, and that was that. He’d always wondered if Tony lost family in the horror of the camps, but he had never asked. You didn’t ask for information like that. You just listened, if someone decided to tell you. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“The maw took them—the machine. There’s no one person to find and accuse. All I can do is go after all of them, the thousands who staffed the machine, and there’s no such thing as catching all the bastards.” Tony smiled faintly. “But you, you’re lucky. You know exactly who killed your brother. One person. And we have a lead where she is.”
“You’re right,” Ian said. “That is lucky.”
They fell into silence until the cab
pulled up before the train station. A busy throng crowded the steps: Austrian businessmen in homburgs, mothers towing children in dirndls and lederhosen. And us, Ian thought, on the trail of a murderess. As much as he tried to avoid undue optimism, he was suddenly, absolutely certain. They were going to find her. Sebastian might be gone, but his story would be told within the passionless confines of a courtroom—his story, and the story of the children die Jägerin had murdered before she ever crossed Seb’s path.
The world will know your name, Ian told her, going with lighter feet toward the first bread crumb Fate had thrown his way. And that is a promise.
THEY WERE TO meet Helga Ziegler and her sister on the southern shore of Lake Altaussee at noon. “Play the quasi-police angle,” Tony said as they strolled the path, snow-capped mountains towering behind. “I’ve flirted with Helga and she likes me, but her sister might be more wary. It’ll come across better if they think we’re looking for witnesses to question, not war criminals to put in handcuffs. Austrians get so cagey if they think they’re suspected as former Nazis—”
“Which none of them ever were, of course,” Ian said dryly.
“If that’s their line, we take it without batting an eye.”
“I have done this before, you know.” Many times, in fact. “Usual roles, Tony. You be charming, I’ll be imposing.”
“Right.” Tony looked Ian over from the gray overcoat stirring at his knees to the wintry frown he always adopted for these moments. “You’re so obviously an upstanding Brit on the side of the righteous, no one would dream of asking to see your credentials.”
Ian slanted his hat at a more severe angle. “If they get the impression we’re allied with the police, I shan’t correct the notion.” They’d played that card before many times, given the legal no-man’s-land the center occupied: an independent service allied with no nations, given no government authority. Ian had connections inside police, law, and bureaucracy, but there was no legal way to force any witness to cooperate with the center’s questioning. And not being flush with cash, he thought with a wry smile, we can’t exactly offer enormous rewards to loosen tongues either.