by Andy Marino
He knew that Mutti and Papa only listened to the radio in hopes of hearing the breaking news that Hitler had been killed. It could happen anytime—tomorrow, next week, next month.
“Who’s we?” Kat said. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tapping out a beat on the pile of theater programs. Dust swirled up from the pages.
“He means a code name for our mission,” Gerta said. “He loves code names.”
“Not for the mission,” Max said, “for our group. If they’re the Midnight Hunters, then we should be something better.”
“Maybe we should actually do something before we give ourselves a name,” Kat said. They had not been back outside since the night they encountered the Hitler Youth. Papa seemed to accept that they were simply getting some air, and Max and Gerta didn’t want to push their luck by sneaking out again too soon.
Max felt bad about keeping this new secret from Mutti and Papa—especially after Papa had been so honest with them about Stauffenberg’s plan—but in the end, he thought it was best not to worry them.
“How about the Thorns?” Max said. “Because we’re going to be a thorn in the side of the Hitler Youth.”
Gerta glanced at the faded rosebushes on the peeling wallpaper in Max’s room. “Very creative.”
“It’s too bad Valkyrie is taken,” Kat said. “That’s a good name.”
“Maybe a different winged creature,” Gerta suggested.
“The Dragons!” Max said.
“Better,” Kat said.
“But not quite right,” Gerta said. “It’s missing something.”
“The Red Dragons,” Max suggested.
Gerta made a face. “Why red?”
“I don’t know,” Max said. “Blood? Fire?”
Kat groaned in frustration. “So far we’ve thrown one pebble. That hardly sounds like the activities of red dragons.”
“You’re right,” Max said. “Maybe after we do something, the name will just fall into place.”
Kat’s tapping ceased. “Tonight?” she said eagerly.
“Tonight,” Gerta agreed.
“I was thinking,” Kat said, “we should follow the Midnight Hunters. Find out if they have a headquarters, or at least some kind of meeting place.”
“The Young Valkyries,” Max said.
“Max,” Gerta said.
“Stop,” Kat said.
The group with no name made three more nighttime forays into the streets of Prenzlauer Berg before they saw the Midnight Hunters again.
It was the first week of July. In France, the battle for the city of Caen raged. In Berlin, the air was thick with the promise of a midsummer storm. Max, Gerta, and Kat were hiding beneath one of the oak trees at the edge of the community garden.
Max’s stomach rumbled. The communist underground’s delivery had been particularly scanty this week, and supper for the past two nights had consisted of thin, watery broth that tasted like spoiled fish and bread so crumbly they might as well have eaten the dust from the cellar steps.
He missed the days when Mutti could go out into the backyard and pick some carrots and tomatoes from the villa’s kitchen garden.
“This is pointless,” Gerta said. “They’re not coming.”
“It feels like we dreamed them up,” Max said. He plucked a long blade of grass and wondered what it would taste like. How bad could it be? Certainly not worse than ersatz bread.
“Don’t get discouraged,” Kat said. “Boys like that love to march around. We’ll see them again eventually.”
Max nibbled on the blade of grass. It tasted like dirt with a slightly bitter tang. He decided he could easily eat grass if he had no other choice.
Gerta nudged him. “What are you doing?”
“Tasting a piece of grass.”
“Okay. I think it’s officially time for us to go.”
“Shhh!” Kat said. “Listen.”
Max’s heart quickened: There it was! The one-two, one-two of jackboots on cobblestones. They flattened themselves out beneath the tree, just as the torchlight began to flicker down the damp sheen of the pavement. A moment later, the patrol marched into view. There was Heinrich in the lead, carrying the biggest, brightest torch. This time, the two heavyset boys that had flanked him like bodyguards were half dragging, half carrying a boy with a black hood pulled down over his head. His hands were bound with rope.
In front of the oak trees, Heinrich held up a hand to call for a halt. If Max were to stand up and start walking, he could reach the Hitler Youth leader in less than ten paces.
Heinrich turned to address his patrol.
“We have taken a sacred oath to defend the Fatherland,” he announced, his voice echoing down the silent street. Prenzlauer Berg was a district where everybody minded their own business, and Max knew that even if some of the locals disapproved of the Hitler Youth marching around and making noise in the middle of the night, they would never confront the boys. The Hitler Youth was an extension of the Nazi Party in every way.
“Just because we’re not off fighting the Tommies in the west or the Russian dogs in the east,” Heinrich continued, “doesn’t mean that we’re not surrounded by enemies at all times.” He took a moment to survey his boys. “Berlin is a festering wound. The capital of the Reich is infected! Just last week, the Gestapo rooted a hundred filthy Jews out of the Weissensee Cemetery.” He paused. “Hiding in a cemetery! Would any of you boys skulk in the shadows of the graves of your ancestors to save your own skins?”
“No, sir!” came the reply.
“They were eating rats. The same rats that nibbled on the flesh of the dead.” He shook his head in disgust. “That is the mind-set of the Jew. He does not care how much disease and misery he spreads as long as his kind survives. But do not be fooled! For every Jew that cowers in our attics and our cemeteries and our tunnels, there is another Jew—or communist, or intellectual, or”—Heinrich made it seem like he could barely choke out the word—“homosexual”—the boys snickered—“that is working against us! Putting all his cunning and all his wickedness toward tearing down everything our Führer has built! Making bombs. Poisoning food. Shooting Party members in the streets. I ask you: Can we afford to relax our vigilance?”
“No, sir!” The cry came in unison.
Heinrich stalked over to the boy in the hood. The captive must have sensed the heat of the torch flame, because he started whimpering.
“If one of us is weak, we are all weak. Can we afford to be weak?” he screamed at the hooded boy.
“No, sir!”
Heinrich lifted his torch and gestured toward the darkness of the garden. Max’s body was a coiled spring. He tried to make himself completely flat.
“Now show him what strength is. Make him understand.”
The two heavyset boys dragged the hooded boy through the oak trees at the edge of the park. Max fought the urge to close his eyes, as if that would make it all go away. The rest of the Midnight Hunters trooped behind the captive, chattering excitedly as they moved through the darkness no more than five paces from where Max, Kat, and Gerta hid. Heinrich and his torch brought up the rear. The light faded as they made their way into the center of the garden, where anemic tomato plants dangled from posts like dead men on barbed wire.
Carefully, Max, Gerta, and Kat turned around, keeping themselves as low to the ground as they could. They had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. Heinrich jammed his torch down into the soil.
“Hold him steady!” he commanded. The hooded boy was suspended with his arms across the bigger boys’ shoulders. His toes barely touched the ground.
Heinrich took a step toward the captive and in one fluid motion buried his fist in the boy’s stomach. Max heard the breath whoosh from the boy’s mouth. His body tried to scrunch into itself, but the bigger boys held him fast. All he could do was bring his knees up weakly as he gasped for air.
“We have to do something,” Kat whispered.
“There’s too many of them,” Gerta said. “
Be still.”
Max thought of Papa’s knife. If he had the weapon with him now, that might give them a fighting chance. The element of surprise was on their side—maybe the sight of a dark figure rushing from the trees, torchlight glinting off his blade, would send the Midnight Hunters scattering into the night.
He dismissed that notion as quickly as it came. He had never held a knife for a purpose other than buttering bread or cutting a piece of schnitzel. And Papa’s knife was far bigger than the dull silverware in the kitchen—it was practically a sword! He would probably just hurt himself. Besides, there were still too many Midnight Hunters for one boy with a blade to take on.
Still, the thought was lodged in his mind and would not let go. Papa has a knife.
“Put down the rock, Kat,” Gerta hissed.
Max braced himself. If Kat launched a rock into the boys’ midst, they would have to take off running and hope they could slip into the darkness of Prenzlauer Berg before the Midnight Hunters made it out of the garden.
“We’ll get them,” Gerta insisted, “just not like this.”
“Who’s next?” Heinrich called out.
A lanky boy with a gaunt, small-featured face stood before the captive. With a quick stutter-step approach, he delivered another blow to the boy’s stomach. The boy squirmed and gasped for air.
“What’s that?” Heinrich said, cupping a hand around his ear and leaning close to the struggling boy. “I can’t hear you.”
One of the heavyset boys cleared his throat.
“What is it?” Heinrich said.
“He’s soiled himself, sir.”
Heinrich glanced down at the captive’s legs. His face was pinched, his mouth a thin line.
“Let him go,” he said.
The heavyset boy frowned. “Sir?”
“Drop him,” Heinrich said.
The boys stepped aside and the captive crumpled to the ground, curling up into a ball.
“Hopeless,” Heinrich said, leaning down to address the boy, who was still wearing the black hood. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find Gypsy blood in your veins.”
Heinrich delivered a vicious kick to the boy’s midsection, then turned and led his squad from the garden without another word.
Max tensed as the Hitler Youth once again passed close to his hiding spot. The boys were subdued. A few looked back over their shoulders into the darkness of the garden.
One boy spoke up. “Are we just leaving him there, sir?”
“Let him find his own way home,” Heinrich said, leading the procession down the street.
When they were out of sight, Max, Gerta, and Kat stood up. Gerta clicked on a small electric torch and swept the beam across the tomato plants.
The boy looked like a pile of rags in the dirt. They hurried over to him. Max wrinkled his nose at the sharp smell of urine. He reached down and pulled off the boy’s hood.
The boy yelped in fright and tried to cover his face with his hands.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Kat said.
Slowly, he lowered his hands. The torchlight paused on his face.
It was Gerhard, the Hitler Youth boy whom Kat had pelted with a rock!
You!” Kat hissed.
The lenses in Gerhard’s spectacles were webbed with tiny cracks. He squinted into the light.
“Who—who are you?” he sputtered.
“None of your business,” Gerta said.
“Come on,” Kat said, “let’s get out of here.”
“Wait,” Max said. Maybe they didn’t have to risk following the Midnight Hunters to their headquarters after all. “Why did they do this to you?” he asked, trying to sound as friendly and harmless as possible.
Gerhard sat up and started to cough. Gerta kept the light trained on his face so he couldn’t see them clearly in the glare.
“We’re supposed to be able to fight,” he said. He slipped a finger under a cracked lens and rubbed his eye. “I’m not good at stuff like that.”
“It’s okay,” Max said.
“The Midnight Hunters are only supposed to be the toughest boys.”
Kat scoffed. “Why’d they let you in then?”
“Heinrich’s dad and my dad are old friends. They’re both Obersturmführers in the SS. I think his dad made him invite me.” Gerhard’s lip trembled. “I didn’t want to do it in the first place. I hate it.” He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his dirty brown uniform. “We just march around, and sometimes the SS tells us where people are hiding, and we … we …” Gerhard’s body began to heave as he sobbed.
“Listen,” Max said. He put a hand on Gerhard’s shoulder. “We’re not like Heinrich. We’re not going to hurt you.” He glanced at Kat and Gerta and shrugged. “We’re your friends.”
They waited for Gerhard to pull himself together. After a while, he stopped crying, and something besides misery flashed across his face. Suspicion? Max wondered.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“The Red Dragons,” Kat said. Max looked at her in astonishment. Now it was Kat’s turn to shrug.
Gerhard looked puzzled. “Red Dragons?”
“Listen,” Max said, “is there a place the Midnight Hunters meet up? Like a clubhouse or something?”
Gerhard sniffled and nodded. “The hunting lodge.”
Max frowned. He flashed to the packet of maps the Becker Circle had pored over in Frau Becker’s sumptuous sitting room. Wolf’s Lair, Eagle’s Nest, Führerbunker. “Is the hunting lodge out in the woods somewhere?” he prodded Gerhard. “Outside of the city?”
Gerhard shook his head. “The ‘hunting lodge’ is what Heinrich calls it. It’s really just a building on Stargarder Strasse, near the Gethsemane Church.”
Max had seen the church before—a stately redbrick structure with a tall pointy steeple and a statue of some saint or another out front, raising a hand in blessing. It was on the corner of a quiet tree-lined street of spacious row houses with balcony windows.
“What’s the building look like?” Gerta said.
Gerhard narrowed his eyes. Max didn’t like the crafty look that was beginning to replace the despair on his face. “Why do you want to know?” He tried to move his head to see past the torch beam’s glare. Gerta moved the light along with him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“We’re your friends,” Max said again.
“I don’t know you.” Gerhard tried to scramble to his feet. Kat grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back down.
“We’re your friends as long as you answer our questions,” she said, her voice low and mean.
Max shot her a look of annoyance. He thought he was on the right track with his gentle, coaxing approach. If they bullied Gerhard like Heinrich did, the boy was just going to shut down.
Besides, Gerhard might be a member of the Hitler Youth, but Max actually felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was a victim of the stronger, more aggressive boys’ whims.
Then he remembered how he’d tried to help Herr Siewert in the ruins of the shelter, and the Nazi blockwart had used his dying breath to wish Max and his family dead.
He reminded himself that the Hitler Youth were Nazis through and through. Gerhard’s father was a high-ranking SS man.
He let Kat keep her hand clamped down on Gerhard’s soft shoulder.
Gerhard swallowed. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “It’s a secret place. Midnight Hunters only.”
“Here’s the thing, Gerhard,” Max said. “We’re going to find out one way or another. You can save us a little time by helping us out right now.”
Gerhard opened his mouth. Then he thought the better of it. He rubbed a hand along his ribs and winced. “Heinrich will kill me,” he said.
Kat laughed coldly. “Do you know what the Red Dragons do, Gerhard?”
The boy shook his head miserably. Max raised an eyebrow at Kat—he was also curious about what, exactly, the Red Dragons did.
“We hunt the hunters,” Kat said.
“We can p
rotect you from Heinrich,” Gerta said.
At this, Gerhard laughed. “The three of you?” He closed his eyes. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” Hysteria turned his voice loud and ragged. “Heinrich will kill me. He’ll kill you, too. Then at least we’ll be done with all this, right?” He cackled. “The hunting lodge is at eleven Stargader Strasse, next to the bakery.”
Kat removed her hand from his shoulder. Gerhard pushed himself to his feet, breathing hard. For a moment, the torchlight slipped off his face, and Max was sure he got a good look at the “Red Dragons.”
Then he turned and trudged off into the darkness without another word.
Gerta trained the light on the dirt where he’d fallen. “What’s that?” she said. It looked like crumpled identification papers or ration cards.
Max picked up three small rectangles of stiff paper and smoothed them out in his hand. Gerta trained her light on the cards. Each one featured a portrait photograph of a man in military dress, with the swastika prominently displayed on his armband.
The first was a thickset man with a cleft chin perched on the turret of a Panzer tank. “Obergruppenführer Sepp Dietrich,” Max read in the photograph’s caption. He turned the card over. “From his roots as a humble, hard-working butcher, Dietrich distinguished himself on the front lines in the First World War. After the Armistice, he commanded the Führer’s personal SS bodyguard—”
Kat ripped the cards from Max’s hand. “Nazi war hero trading cards,” she said. “The Hitler Youth collect them.” She tore Obergruppenführer Sepp Dietrich into little bits and let the pieces flutter to the ground. Then she did the same to the others.
“Let’s go,” she said. “We’ve got to plan our visit to eleven Stargader Strasse.”
JULY 11, 1944
Claus von Stauffenberg’s staff car turned onto the lane that sliced through the dense forest surrounding the Berghof. In the driver’s seat, Lieutenant Werner von Haeften, Stauffenberg’s aide-de-camp, gripped the steering wheel with his shoulders hunched and his mouth set in a grim line. His lips were bloodless, his face as ashen as the slightly overcast sky that unfurled above the Bavarian wilderness.