What made the room extraordinary to Emma was the contrast between its rugged walls and ceiling and its fine furnishings and fixtures. Looking behind her, she saw that the panel she’d opened was a beautiful deep red—cherrywood. This same wood had been used to construct almost everything that wasn’t concrete—the room’s many doors, the trim, the baseboards, the tables and most of the chairs. The floor seemed to be cork, keeping her feet warm compared with how the concrete below it would feel.
Gottfried made his way over to her, his stubbled blond head half a foot from the low ceiling. “No outsider is allowed to know where our base is—but I am sorry about having to shoot you when you were so vulnerable,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Well, I should hope you’re sorry,” Emma said lightly, managing another smile. She knew that, from what she’d overheard, she needed to firm up her allies in the group—and quickly.
“If I’d given you the slightest warning,” he said, “I knew I’d be in trouble. Maria told me how well you can defend yourself.” He cleared his throat. “Now that you are in our headquarters, the group’s members must decide whether you can stay. The Nazis are constantly using moles to infiltrate and exterminate resistance groups.”
Emma took a sharp breath. “I understand.”
“It’s important that all of us be part of this decision,” Gottfried continued. “If a majority decides that you have to go, shelter will be found for you elsewhere.” He winked at her. “I’ve seen what you can do. You’ll be getting my vote.”
“Thank you, Gottfried,” she said, trying to stay upbeat. She wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders, glancing over at Maria, who was talking in a hushed tone to a tall balding gentleman, well dressed, with a graying beard.
“That’s Gunter, the owner of Perfekt and the man who brought us together,” Gottfried said with affection. “He’s also the architect who designed all this.” He swept his arm toward the room.
Maria left Gunter and walked to Emma’s side, kissing her cousin on both cheeks before leading her toward the washroom. They moved into an adjoining room and then a hallway—more concrete, cherrywood, and such adornments as silk rugs, paintings, and duvet-covered beds were scattered throughout the cold, interconnecting stone maze of rooms.
A rat scurried out of the bathroom as Emma entered, disappearing into a small hole gnawed through the wood baseboard.
After Emma splashed her face with water, rinsed her rancid-tasting mouth, groomed her tousled hair with her fingers, and relieved herself, she stared into the mirror.
I need these people—more than they need me. Without them, I probably won’t find Red Hat or Axel. Be likable under pressure. Focus on their interests before mine. Ask, learn, then speak. Re-anchor their perceptions. And wake up, for Christ’s sake. She splashed more cold water on her face.
She walked out and returned to the main room, where she was offered a seat at the table, along with a fresh bun and a steaming bowl of lumpy soup. She began scooping the hot concoction into her mouth, keeping to herself and listening to snippets of multiple conversations, none of which made any sense to her.
—
Maria asked for everyone’s attention. The noisy room fell silent.
“We’re all here except for Kurt. He’s been out doing surveillance for us, though I’d hoped he’d be back by now,” Maria said, a stitch of concern etched in her forehead. She started in, nonetheless, talking about Emma’s background, and their shared skills in nursing, electrical devices, and combat. Maria then introduced each member by their first name, notably withholding last names and personal information.
Gunter seemed indifferent to her presence, not even looking up when introduced.
Next was Peter, in his early thirties, dark complexion, wearing a black eye patch, the same color as his long hair. He pulled something from his pocket. “I have your new identity card, which will allow you to travel freely,” he told her. “I’ll take your photograph this evening to complete it—whether you stay or not.”
When Maria arrived at Manfred, a striking, well-built man whom Emma estimated to be forty, she recognized his voice as one of the two she’d heard opposing her. Beside him sat an attractive young brunette named Ursula, Emma’s other detractor.
“Emma,” Maria said, “I’ve already shared your reasons for coming to Berlin with the group. But I want everyone to hear the details directly from you.”
With that, sitting at one corner of the cherrywood table, Emma launched into her story, answering a number of questions toward the end. One came from Peter, who wondered if she really thought she’d learned enough from Nash to deal with monsters.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Well, I have two final concerns,” Ursula said, pushing her chestnut hair behind her ears. Emma noticed a light scar running down the entire right side of Ursula’s angular face. “And, frankly, I’m not sure you can convince me on either front.”
Emma looked around the circle, her eyes coming to rest again on Ursula, who appeared to be about the same age as her. “Ursula,” Emma said evenly, “I do understand that all of you would be taking a risk by accepting me into your group and helping me execute this mission. So, please, I’d like to hear your concerns.”
“First off,” Ursula began, “you’ve been in Berlin less than a day and you’ve already made mistakes that could have killed Maria and Gottfried. I’d call that reckless. Your next mistake could lead to all of us being executed.”
“You’re right,” Emma answered, choosing not to defend this point. “I have a lot more to learn. I’m a quick learner, but it will be up to you to decide whether the risks of keeping me and teaching me outweigh the risks of not working with me,” she said, surveying the table. Ursula, Manfred, and Gunter appeared unconvinced, their faces flat.
“And what’s your second concern?” Emma asked.
“It’s my main concern, actually.” Emma felt her legs shaking—so much was riding on this conversation. She kept her face calm. “And I’m surprised no one has brought it up yet. The fact is that you’re heavily conflicted,” Ursula said bluntly.
“Conflicted?”
“Look around you,” Ursula said, her brown eyes narrowed. “No one else cares about living like you do. We’ve all lost family and friends to this war, to the camps or to fighting Hitler and his men. None of us would hesitate to die for our cause and for one another. We’re no longer vulnerable to life. That’s why we’re all survivors, why we consistently make the right decisions—and why we’re all here as one.”
“I’m sorry for your losses. I’ve had my own,” Emma acknowledged. “But I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t,” Ursula said. “Let me be clear. You’re conflicted because you have a son. My guess is that you’d do anything to see him again. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s called being a mother. But in this situation it will cloud your judgment and lead to poor choices, not from your perspective but from ours.”
“Exactly my concern,” Gunter said, joining in professorially as he leaned back in his chair, its legs creaking. He slowly lit his pipe, pausing as he inhaled then exhaled, the smoke snaking through the damp air and into Emma’s lungs. “As far as I can tell, you have two distinct missions in Berlin and a tight timeline for both, which can’t help but compromise the only mission the rest of us truly care about. What happens when we need you and you’re off somewhere trying to find your son?”
Emma coughed into her hand, hesitating before answering. She needed to get this right. “Now I understand. You’re right—my son is my priority.”
Ursula and Gunter nodded knowingly at each other.
Emma kept talking. “We all know that if Hitler gets this bomb it will lead to the end of everything we care about and my son would be better off dead, anyway. So I’d ask you to consider this,” she said, eyeing each of them in turn. “Maybe my desire to get
Axel back and create a safer world for him isn’t a conflict but, instead, will help all of us get what we want.”
For a moment, Emma thought she’d convinced them. Everyone indicated that they’d heard enough. Maria called for a vote, telling Emma that a simple majority would rule.
“Raise your hand if you agree that we should support Emma—on both her quests.”
Half a minute passed. Finally, Maria extended her hand into the air.
Why did she wait so long? Emma wondered.
Gottfried’s big hand rose, followed by Peter’s. Another thirty seconds went by. None of the others offered their support.
“We have a tie,” Maria declared.
“That’s a first,” Ursula said, frowning. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for Kurt, then.”
“You won’t have to wait,” said a voice from the shadows by one of the doorways.
“Kurt! How long have you been here?” demanded Ursula. Emma’s mouth opened as she watched the person who held the decisive vote on her future come toward them. He had strawberry-blond hair, big freckles, a wide grin, and crooked teeth, and stood no more than five feet. Emma guessed that Kurt was around thirteen years old.
“I’ve been here long enough to know how I’m voting,” the boy answered. He spoke with the confidence and poise of someone well educated and at least twice his age.
“So how are you voting?” Maria asked.
“I’m supporting what matters to Ursula,” Kurt said, looking at Ursula.
“Thank you, Kurt,” Ursula said, turning toward the others. “That’s four to three against her staying.”
“No, you’ve misunderstood,” Kurt said. “I’m voting for what matters to you and to everyone here. What matters, as we’ve agreed, is weakening Hitler or killing him, and doing everything to keep these bloody Nazis from winning. Isn’t that why we all risked our lives in July, trying to help Gunter’s friend Stauffenberg kill Hitler?” The boy, standing with his legs apart, now pointed his finger. “The way I see it, Emma and her mission landed in our laps as a gift, but some of you are letting your own personal views get in the way. Ursula . . .” he said softly.
“Yes,” Ursula said, staring back at him.
“You lost your disabled son to a Nazi death camp and that’s awful, but don’t assume that Emma will sacrifice everything, including us, to save her own son, which you never had a chance to do. As for you two, Gunter and Manfred, I don’t know why you voted no, but we need all the trusted help we can get. She clearly knows things we don’t. Like Emma’s son, I’ve got too long to live to let Hitler dictate the game. I vote for Emma to join us—and one day you’ll all be glad for it.”
Emma breathed again. Kurt shook her hand formally and moved to sit beside Ursula, whose eyes had gone glassy. He put his arm around her shoulders.
Maria called for a second vote. This time all seven members stood and raised their hands, one after another. This was their tradition. Regardless of the initial vote, a final decision was always unanimous, signaling complete and vital unity. Gunter, Manfred, Peter, Ursula, Kurt, Gottfried, then Maria, in turn embraced Emma.
As they spoke to her, Emma smiled, thrilled but torn up inside. She knew that she would have said anything to garner their support if it raised her odds of seeing Axel again. In truth, Ursula had been right about both Emma’s being conflicted and the possibility of more mistakes, Emma’s own worst fear. She knew that if she botched things again, just as she’d failed to protect her son, people would die. Among the first to suffer would be those she’d just persuaded to work with her.
The celebration took place over a cup of real tea, the best Emma had tasted in years, and, apparently, a gift from a Nazi general who frequented the Perfekt Gallery.
Over the following several hours, there were strong disagreements among the group’s members as they discussed everything from Europe’s best football players and its worst guns to how Hitler might use his disintegration bomb. People shouted at one another and then laughed together, strangely unconcerned, Emma thought, about the possibility of being overheard if they were indeed in the heart of Berlin.
At one point, Peter pulled Emma aside, taking her to a room that looked like an art studio to capture her face on film. Two hours later, he handed her a new national identity card, the last name on it matching Maria’s own fictitious maiden name.
After he’d given her the card and walked away, Emma looked down at it.
“Nice to meet you, Emma Zell,” she said to herself.
—
After midnight, the two cousins moved into Emma’s room, which Emma could now see with the bedside light turned on.
A bed, piled with blankets, sat in the corner, a small side table to its left. The stone chamber’s only other adornments were an Impressionistic painting in the style of the French masters and a golden silk rug lying on the cork floor. Nothing else.
“Many of these small luxuries are thanks to our high-ranking Nazi friends, whether they offered them up or not,” Maria said. She watched Emma analyze the painting. “And don’t assume this Monet is a fake,” Maria said, smiling. Emma laughed.
They sat and talked on the bed, under which Emma’s rucksack had been placed. Emma changed out of her dress and into a thin flannel nightgown. She told her cousin that she wanted to know more about the boy who’d decided her fate.
“He’s fifteen,” Maria said, leaning against the wall, “but looks younger, which makes him even more effective as a spy. Three years ago, he woke up to the sound of soldiers entering his family’s home. He lowered himself into the cellar through a secret hatch he’d constructed under his bed, listening as his sisters and his parents pleaded just above him. He heard them being shot, one by one.”
“My God,” Emma said.
“Kurt told me that he never cried,” Maria said. “After the Nazis left, he fled, vowing revenge. Gunter would be his means. The two first met through Kurt’s parents. After their murder, Gunter offered Kurt a job as a courier for the gallery. Once he’d proven himself, he joined our group. He now moves around Berlin observing everything for us, while going largely unnoticed, slipping through doors, pocketing helpful items, reporting back, and helping us plan.”
He’d arrived late at the vote that evening, Maria explained, because he’d volunteered to lead the charge in finding Red Hat, but he’d needed to do some research first. He’d since confirmed with Maria that he had a simple plan to raise their odds of finding Emma’s contact—a plan they would all learn about over breakfast the following morning.
“Well, I’m glad someone has a plan to make up for my idiocy.”
“If it’s at all possible to find your Red Hat, we will,” Maria assured her. “Kurt is brilliant. Everyone in our group is remarkable in one way or another—we have to be to survive when most other resistance groups have been executed.”
Emma slipped into bed. “Maria, I have to admit that I was surprised to see how comfortable your group was tonight with heated discussions. No one seemed remotely angry with me after the vote. Even Ursula said that she was looking forward to having another woman on the team.”
Maria nodded. “Why should anyone be angry? Every day our lives depend on our group’s ability to make good decisions. We all know the best decisions require everyone to be heard, with different perspectives weighed,” she said, tucking Emma under her woolen covers. “So it’s not about whether we have disagreements; it’s about how we have them. We don’t attack people—we focus on what they’re saying. And that makes all the difference.”
Maria said good night and turned out the lamp. She opened the door to leave.
“Maria?”
“Yes, Emma.”
“So much has happened tonight. I keep forgetting to ask you something.”
“Now, there’s the Emma I remember from childhood sleepovers,” Maria said, smiling. “Just as we were abou
t to nod off, you always had one more thing to chat about. Go ahead, then. What’s your question?”
“Where the hell am I?”
Chapter 24
Saturday, September 30, 1944
10:15 a.m.—The Tiergarten, Berlin, Germany
It felt as if the Nazi gods were mocking her.
She’d come from so far away to be here, yet she didn’t know exactly where she was supposed to be.
Emma kept hearing the words “no Red Hat.” The updates came from a radio tucked away in the rucksack on her back; two thin wires ran into and through her jacket, one to a headset sewn inside her wool cap, the other to a hidden transmitter taped high on her chest, underneath her jacket. An antenna protruded from her bag in the form of a Nazi flag.
The equipment delivering updates to her from across the Tiergarten had been stolen by Kurt, with each team member weaving the gear into their disguises in different ways. These daytime disguises were necessary for them no matter what, but on this crisp autumn morning in particular, Berlin’s largest park was crawling with soldiers touting machine guns, clearly on the lookout for something or someone. Her, perhaps? Had Criminal Director Berg gone back on their deal and decided to arrest her for getting his young assistant killed?
Be vigilant, not paranoid, or you’ll overreact and make mistakes, Nash had told her. With her hair tucked under her cap, and her bulky clothing, she knew that it would be harder for Berg himself to recognize her.
She stopped cycling, planting both feet on the ground and checking her watch: 10:20. They’d had two false alarms already where she’d raced toward a statue and been called off. The concern now: Red Hat might reasonably be expected to wait thirty minutes and then leave by 10:30. After all, Nash had missed his last appointment in late August.
Emma’s brain was starting to turn on her, angry at the confusion over Nash’s instructions, but she did her best to stay calm, going over the details in her mind. Was it a red hat? Yes. Was he supposed to be feeding pigeons? Yes. Was it the right garden? Yes. The right date and time? Yes.
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