9781940740065

by Paul B. Kohler

  After several hours had gone by on the fourth day, Peter thought Julie had fallen asleep. He felt so woozy from hunger and dehydration that he was ready to drop off himself. He whispered the words to Julie: “Good night.”

  But instead, Julie spoke back. “Peter. I have to tell you something.”

  “Sure, Jules. Anything.” Peter stared at the far wall, at the five stripes that went down the wall—the only remnant of the previous captive who had lived in the cell. He imagined the man scraping his fingers down the wall, screaming at the Nazis for a freedom he would never receive. Peter shivered.

  “Um. I think my arm might be broken.”

  Peter sat up on his bed, his ears ringing. “What? They broke your arm?”

  “I think it was an accident. They um. They pushed me up against the wall during the—the torture. It’s really not a big deal. Maybe it’s dislocated? I might have just landed on it wrong.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Peter demanded.

  “I thought I could hold out. Or that we would die or something before … But here we are on the fourth day. I don’t think I can take the pain anymore.” Julie’s voice broke as she spoke.

  Peter’s world began to crumble. His head spun from the lack of food, of nourishment. He brought his dirt-caked hands to his face and felt his tears falling fast. “I’m going to tell them everything,” he said. “I’m going to tell them everything about us, about you and me. About 2013.”

  “No!” Julie snapped. Her voice was again thick with pain. ”No, Peter. You can’t. We can’t give up on the mission yet. Not yet. We can escape! I know we can.”

  “It’s no good, Julie. Can’t you understand—”

  “No. I can’t. I just think that you’re about to lose your mind. You’re hungry. Exhausted, yes. But you can’t give us away. Not yet.”

  Peter allowed his chin to graze his chest. He felt himself grow dizzy. He was going to fall asleep, and he wasn’t sure he was ever going to wake up. He longed to tell Julie he loved her, but he couldn’t find the strength.

  Peter woke up when his cell door burst open. On the other side of the door, he saw a great, hazy shadow. The man stepped into the subtle light of his cell. Peter pulled himself up abruptly, shocked by the man standing before him. Manstein. Peter had almost thought that the Nazi had been a part of his dream—just another in a long stream of scary Germans, lingering somewhere in his subconscious.

  Manstein stomped into his room, his large boots making great indents in the dirt floor. “Vell, vell, vell. I see you are awake,” he said.

  Peter stood before him, next to the sad cot in the corner. He tried to look tall, to look proud. He thought of Julie in the next room, and he wanted to be a pillar for her, someone for her to hold on to. “What do you want?” he asked Manstein.

  “I wouldn’t use that tone with me, sir,” Manstein said. “You are ultimately at the mercy of the Nazi regime, and you know that.”

  Manstein paused once more, considering. He grinned down at Peter, the smaller of the two: never a war hero, even during his days in the army. Peter felt like an ant, just as he had when he was in the ranks, ever at the mercy of the higher-ups. His face burned.

  “I’m not a spy,” Peter spouted. “Sir.”

  Manstein started laughing then. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sky, holding his stomach. Peter could see a large, thin baton strapped to his leg. He tried not to imagine what it would feel like to have that stick smacked against his face. Would the rest of his timeline be filled with darkness? It was no use thinking otherwise.

  “No, no,” Manstein finally said. “I know you’re not a spy. I know you’re both not spies. I know you’re absolutely not married, that’s for sure. That beauty, with you?”

  Peter maneuvered his weight from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. What was Manstein getting at?

  “Anyway. I know that you’re not a spy. I know precisely why you’re here in France, in fact.”

  Peter’s mind rushed. How could Manstein know why he was there? He couldn’t possibly know. Surely this cookie-cutter Nazi general couldn’t comprehend time travel.

  Manstein took a step forward and leaned down, nearly touching his nose to Peter’s. “I even know Dr. Epson personally.”

  Peter leaned back and spit on the ground at Manstein’s feet. “I don’t know what you’re accusing me of. But it’s completely false. I’ve never heard of a Dr. Epson.”

  Manstein held his stomach and chuckled once more. “Yeah. Yeah, you have.” He walked toward the wall and placed his fingers on the fingernail lines that swept from the ceiling to the floor. “You know what happened to this guy? This prisoner who was living in this beautiful place before you?”

  “Couldn’t guess,” Peter murmured. His voice was laced with sarcasm.

  “No. I suppose you wouldn’t be able to imagine. But I can still hear the screams in my head at night.” Manstein pointed to his forehead, showing his teeth. “We’ve lost a lot of good men in here. And for what reason? Because of their pride, of course. They were too good, thinking their secrets meant more than their life. But it wasn’t true.” Manstein grinned at Peter. “Ah, well. Really, we can get everything we need out of your little lady friend next door. Isn’t she beautiful, that girl?”

  Peter’s head jolted to the right, and suddenly, he heard Julie scream. He grabbed his face and dug his fingernails into his cheeks, nearly falling to the ground as the screams continued. They were so much more intense than they’d been the last time.

  “What are you doing to her?” he bellowed.

  “Just say the word, and the torture will cease,” Manstein said. His eyes looked expectant; they were glowing. His lips arced into a wolf-like smile.

  Peter knelt once more, leaning his body into the wall. He felt her wails—so full of anger, of sickness—ripple through the wall. He felt like he was spinning, like he couldn’t escape. This was it; this was his only reality. “Stop!” he finally cried. “Stop! I’ll tell you anything you want to hear.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, then. You want this to stop?” Manstein asked.

  Peter nodded his head vehemently. He made eye contact with the man in front of him, allowing tears to cascade down his face. “Yes!”

  “Then tell me about the time machine,” Manstein whispered.

  Peter could hardly hear him over the bloodcurdling screams coming from the other cell. “What?”

  “The time machine,” Manstein repeated.

  Peter swallowed slowly, trying to gain the energy to answer him. “After. After you stop the torture.”

  Manstein nodded, raising his eyebrow high into the air. For a moment, Peter thought he’d done well. He turned back toward the door, walking slowly even as the screams continued like a great train, streaming toward them. He called down the hall, toward the other cell. “Mit der folter!” Manstein shouted in German.

  Silence fell over the room. Peter’s ears felt like they were bleeding. He brought himself up to his full height once more and took his hands away from his cheeks, blinking slowly at the man in front of him. His heart ached. He needed to go get Julie; he needed to hold her. To console her. Was her arm okay? Was she going to survive?

  “Now. That’s much better, isn’t it?” Manstein asked him. He strutted toward Peter, looking at him expectantly. He acted like he had all the time in the world, like a war wasn’t raging across the beautiful countryside. Like the entire continent wasn’t in upheaval. He leaned toward Peter, whispering once more. “Zee time machine.”

  Peter brought his head back and gazed into this evil man’s eyes. In the back of his mind, he wondered what Applegate’s historical documents said about this Manstein fellow. Would he be a part of the Nuremberg trials? Would he pay for what he was putting innocent people through?

  “A time machine?”

  Manstein waited. “Ja.”

  Peter shrugged. ”C’est un idée trés stupide,” he murmured with what he hoped was a blasée attitude. “It’s
a stupid idea.” He looked at Manstein like he was the height of stupidity, like the mere idea of a time machine was crazy talk. He tried to emanate Tori—the way she would look at him when he tried to get information from her. Where were you all afternoon? Where did you put your tennis shoes? Such sass back to him. It always made him feel so small.

  It appeared to work, at least for a moment. Manstein reared back, giving a strained smile. “Ah-ha. A stupid idea, is it? I have to say, your French accent is trés terrible. Vous etes un americain stupid. C’est normal, non?”

  Peter leaned his head to the left. “All right. All right. You can call me stupid. But I’ve personally never heard a more idiotic idea in my life. Not in America, France, or Germany. A time machine? Ha. Much more likely that I’m a goddamned spy and that beautiful woman in there loves me. And those things aren’t even likely, mind you.”

  “Okay. Okay. Well. How likely is this?” The German took the small baton from its thigh strap. He placed it against Peter’s face and tapped it evenly, softly, against Peter’s cheekbone.

  “I’d say pretty likely,” Peter said. He felt rash; he didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t let this man know anything about the time machine. It was his only route back home. And home, right now, was the only thing on his mind.

  Manstein reared his hand back and smacked the baton against Peter’s upper arm. Peter fell back onto the cot, nearly toppling it to the ground. He could hear Julie on the other side of the wall, then. Sobbing. “Hit me again, asshole,” Peter said. His rage was hot in his neck, his face. He felt sixteen, ready to take on the world. “Hit me, motherfucker!”

  Manstein reared back once more and struck him on the back, on the side. Peter’s screams dissolved into laughter, even as Manstein reared back over and over.

  Manstein paused. “You won’t tell me? Then what use are you?” He grinned at Peter, and pulled out a pistol from its holster at his waist. He placed the barrel of the pistol directly on Peter’s temple.

  Peter could feel the cold, round barrel just to the left of his eyebrow. He smiled up at the man, breathing loudly through his nose. He felt a complete lack of passion about what would likely happen in the next few moments. “Do it, Manstein,” he whispered. “Do it. Je vous défie.”

  “You dare me, you do?” Manstein said. He cocked the pistol. His hand was steady; he’d clearly done this many times before.

  Peter swallowed heavily, preparing himself for oblivion. He started a countdown. Eight. Seven. Six. Don’t think about your children. Five. Four. Don’t think about Minnie. Three. Two.

  And then, all of a sudden, a loud explosion erupted outside. The barrel of the gun lifted from Peter’s skull, and he placed his hand over the spot it had touched, rubbing at it. Manstein’s eyes had grown wide. Alarms began to blare from all over the compound, and Peter heard soldiers running through the hallways, many of them speaking in loud, panicked German.

  The soldier who’d been beating Julie burst into the room and saluted Manstein. “Sir.”

  “Vhat’s going on?” Manstein asked.

  The man spoke in rushed German. “Es geschah.”

  Manstein turned toward Peter and raised his eyebrow, bringing his pistol back to its holster. He bolted out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  Peter fell back on the cot, his heart racing. His mind began to shut down as he understood, beyond anything else, that he had almost died, just then. He placed his hand on his stomach, appreciating each breath.

  From the other side of the wall, he heard silence, even as the rest of the compound seemed in a state of panic. He placed his hand on the stone that still separated him and Julie. Everything else seemed to fall away. “Julie?” he murmured. He longed to hear her voice. “Julie? Are you all right?”

  The other room seemed immense, empty. Peter heard screams and crashes from outside, and he curled closer to the wall, preparing to die in the fire that was surely going to consume the compound.

  “Julie?” he called again.

  “I’m here,” she murmured. He could hardly hear it. “I’m all right.”

  Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Me neither. They hurt me, Peter.”

  “I know. He almost shot me.”

  “I know. I was preparing for us both to die.”

  “Me too,” Peter said.

  Outside, another explosion rolled through the ground. Peter felt the building shake much more this time. The bombs were getting closer.

  “I’m sorry this happened.”

  “He says he knows Dr. Epson?” Peter whispered.

  “He’s lying, Peter. Everyone’s lying. You know we can’t trust anyone.”

  “But then, how could he know about time travel?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Another bomb went off. Peter whispered to her in a voice he was certain she couldn’t hear, couldn’t comprehend. “I want to hold you, Julie.”

  She met that with silence.

  CHAPTER 10

  Suddenly, the door burst open. Peter brought his head up from the wall, blinking wearily at the brightness and the smoke that crept into his cell.

  The man who stepped into the room looked strangely familiar. Peter scrubbed at his eyes with his hands, trying to rise to his feet.

  “Peter? Peter? What’s going on?” Julie called from the next room. But he didn’t know yet. He peered into the smoke.

  Emmett, the man from the train ride across the country, stepped forward. Peter was shocked to see him. He brought his hands up into fists, certain he’d found the enemy—the man who’d ruined them, who’d given them up. “Get the hell away from me!” he barked.

  But Emmett turned around, toward the hallway. He seemed rushed, worried. “Listen. We have to hurry. You want to get out of here alive, don’t you?”

  Peter began to lower his arms.

  “Come on. The Nazis and the Vichy are confused. They think the Nazis are attacking, and there’s mass confusion outside. The Nazis are angry because they think their own are attacking. Listen. We have to move. This is our only goddamned chance.”

  Peter thought for a moment, his mind rushing. He took a couple of fast steps forward, watching as the smoke continued to course into the room. Outside the room, he saw Nazis grabbing their guns, holding their uniform caps. They were shrieking in German, “Nicht schieben!” Don’t shoot!

  Peter lurched around, feeling the adrenaline pulsing in his blood, and burst toward Julie’s room, finding it unlocked as well. As he opened the door, it creaked, and she cringed at the sound as she scrambled to her feet. He gasped at the state she was in. She looked so thin, so haggard. She looked like she’d aged ten years since he’d last seen her three days ago.

  “What are you looking at?” she muttered. “You don’t look so hot yourself. And what the hell is he doing here?” She gestured toward Emmett. The smoke had started to make her cough.

  “Honestly, Julie, I have no idea. But we need to go. We need to move, now. This is our only chance.” Peter offered her his hand, and she brought her good hand forward. He watched as she pressed her other arm to her chest, swaddled in a small bit of her torn clothes.

  He grabbed her fingers, and they found themselves running through the confusion. As they rushed out of the compound, they passed many Germans who were running back in. Several of the Germans had lost an arm, and they were screaming, their eyes wide. Peter saw a Nazi without an ear trying to talk to someone over a walkie-talkie; his jolting German couldn’t be heard in the chaos.

  Emmett gestured to them as they waded through the soldiers. He ducked inside one of the German Jeeps and pushed a dead man from the back seat, allowing the two weak Americans to hobble into the back. Julie collapsed into Peter’s arms as Emmett turned the key in the ignition, then sent the Jeep jolting forward. Peter peered around, watching as the great compound erupted into flames. He thought about the wire mattress, about the way the electricity had shot through the wires and int
o his spine. He shivered, holding Julie’s head close to his chest. He kissed the back of her head.

  “What happened in there?” Emmett called back to them. His voice was raspy, harsh.

  “How the hell did you know we were here?” Peter called back. They hadn’t seen the man since the train in New York—since before so much of this had happened. That had been before Peter knew he was going to die; before he’d miraculously come back from the dead in a different time.

  Emmett didn’t answer. He maneuvered the bulky Jeep around another Nazi vehicle that lay on its side; a German soldier was hiding in the front seat, peering out at them with fearful, little-boy eyes.

  “War really tears the world apart, doesn’t it?” Emmett said, shaking his head. He coughed for a moment. “Tell me. How did the two of you wind up there?”

  Peter understood, then, that Emmett wasn’t yet willing to deliver any information about how he’d found them. He had to understand as much about their situation as possible. “Two Americans in New York. They gave us the slip. I can only imagine that they were on to us somehow.” He wiped his sweating upper lip with his free hand, watching as Julie’s lids began to close over her hazel eyes.

  “That’s impossible,” Emmett replied. As he spoke, Peter could hear another explosion in the distance. “I took care of them—the people you stole the identities from, back in New York.”

  “What do you mean, you took care of them?” Peter asked. He felt dizzy, like he was living in another reality.

  “I eliminated them.”

  Peter and Julie made eye contact. She looked so frightened. Peter wrapped his arm around her. They understood, in that moment, that Emmett was not to be trusted. They brought their eyes forward, nearly in unison, and eyed the road before them as Emmett charged ahead, away from the erupting blasts. Peter rolled his arm over Julie’s back, trying to reassure her, to let her know everything was going to be all right.

  “What’s your plan?” Peter finally said to Emmett. He didn’t want to be in the dark any more. He’d been a prisoner, completely resigned to certain death. But now, in the sunshine, away from the fire, the crippled Nazis—the screams—he could focus once more.