swivel chair like some caricature of a tycoon gone mad. He would puff a cigar and scold Nat for reckless research. Then he would hand over a folder of forged documents, his version of setting the record straight, and the thugs would unlock the cuffs and send Nat on his way, chastened but intact.
But no. The hood stayed on. His assailants gripped him tightly as they climbed from the car.
“Bring him here,” the voice commanded. “This is where we get rid of him.”
Not at all what he wanted to hear. Yet, for all his dread and panic and thundering pulse, part of him wasn’t a bit surprised. Hadn’t he predicted as much for years, in class after class, albeit with a glibness totally inappropriate to the current moment? And as the men yanked him forward, Nat’s own words returned to him like a prophetic taunt:
“History plays for keeps, and so do I.”
TWENTY-ONE
Berlin-February 18, 1943
The shrill cry of a police whistle pursued them down Uhlandstrasse. Thank God for the blackout, or they would have been easy prey as they ran down the sidewalk.
“There’s a U-Bahn station coming up,” Kurt hissed in the dark Liesl and Hannelore were barely keeping pace. They rounded the corner and half stumbled down the steps of the station as the whistle sounded again.
“Hurry!” Liesl shouted.
Hannelore, predictably, had fallen farther behind, but when they reached the platform Kurt saw that luck was with them. A train lay waiting, rumbling like an animal ready to pounce. They clambered aboard just as a harsh voice shouted from the stairway.
“Halt! Polizei!”
Luckily, the subway driver either didn’t hear or was more worried about his timetable, because the doors jolted shut and the train lurched forward. With a rising moan it was soon hurtling into the tunnel. Kurt saw a fleeting image of a huffing policeman arriving on the platform with two black-clad Gestapo officers in his wake. Then, darkness, and the empty clatter of the tracks. He exhaled loudly and sagged forward in his seat. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the slatted wooden floor. His body stank, but so did everyone else’s these days. Between the ban on weekday bathing and the shortage of decent soap, every railcar smelled like a sweatshop.
Kurt looked across the aisle. Hannelore had of course taken the seat next to Liesl. Lately, Kurt and Hannelore seemed to be competing every day for Liesl’s time and attention. But at the moment he was angrier at Hannelore’s slowness.
The occasion for their close call was the fourth meeting of the Berlin White Rose. It was supposed to have been the first meeting to produce tangible results. Kurt had finally been able to steal a boxful of paper from his father’s offices. Eight full reams-four thousand sheets in all. Given the regime’s mania over seditious literature, a cache like that was as valuable as diamonds.
White Rose pamphlets out of Munich had been spreading across the country in recent weeks, and the local Gestapo was in a frenzy to keep the material out of Berlin. Anti-Nazi graffiti that appeared by night was gone by morning. Their group had decided that only an explosion of locally produced pamphlets could overcome such diligence.
Helmut Hartert had drafted their first message and was standing by with his printing press. The fourth meeting had been called to vote on the final wording. Then Kurt was supposed to hand over the paper so that the printing could begin.
He had lugged his precious cargo up five flights of stairs to the site-an empty loft above an exclusive dress shop. Christoph Klemm had chosen the place after a week of scouting. The shop, owned by his uncle, had been shuttered by the Propaganda Ministry after Goebbels deemed luxury items an affront to the long-suffering troops.
It was a relief to get rid of the paper, especially after the risks Kurt had taken to acquire it-swiping his father’s keys from a pants pocket long enough to make a wax impression, getting a set of copies made by a shady old Bolshevik in a Kreuzberg tenement, dodging the night watchman and his snarling dog, lugging the damn box through the dark along the rat-infested wharves of the Hohenzollern Canal, and, finally, hauling the dangerous cargo to the meeting aboard the S-Bahn.
But now it had come to nothing. The meeting had been under way for only half an hour when the excitable Dieter, posted as a rooftop lookout, cried out from above:
“Polizei! Five of them, and they’re coming up!”
Fortunately, Christoph had devised elaborate contingency plans for just such an emergency, although the box of precious paper had to be abandoned. They climbed to the roof to make a breathtaking crossing of the back alley to a neighboring building, on a span of stout but wobbly beams. To Kurt, the blackness below seemed bottomless, especially with the cold wind rushing up his trouser legs. He was surprised no one fell.
Christoph then pulled in the planks behind them while everyone clambered down the stairs of the rear building. This allowed them to emerge into the streets one block over from where the cops were still trudging upstairs and shouting orders.
They scattered in twos and threes, but even then the police had nearly caught his threesome. Thank goodness Kurt had removed everything from the box of paper that might have identified its source. With his sister’s wedding still on hold, his father was already nervous enough about official scrutiny without being linked to this.
Kurt looked across the subway car to offer Liesl a smile, but she didn’t notice. She seemed badly shaken. Her eyes were huge, as if the night’s drama had come as a complete shock. He fought back a surge of anger. “What did you expect?” he wanted to shout. “This is not a game. This is exactly what we bargained for!”
Just as quickly the thought disappeared, and he wanted to hold and protect her. But he couldn’t, of course, with Hannelore in the way. Liesl leaned across the aisle to speak. Hannelore and he bent forward to listen. Their three heads nearly touched.
“What do you think happened tonight?” Liesl whispered. “Were we betrayed?”
“No one in our group has the guts to betray us,” Hannelore said scornfully.
No one but her, she meant. She had often criticized their timid progress.
“Dieter said something to me just before the meeting, about one of the neighbors acting suspicious,” Liesl said. “He said someone from next door was prowling around outside. Maybe they heard us and thought we were thieves, looting the dress shop.”
“Dieter,” Kurt said with disdain. “He should have told everyone.”
Hannelore nodded. Dieter was one of the few subjects they agreed on.
They broke their huddle and sat up again, beginning to relax. That was when Kurt noticed a propaganda poster just above Hannelore’s seat. It featured the ubiquitous duo of loose-lipped troublemakers, Frau Knoterich and Herr Bramsig. The Frau’s uncanny resemblance to Hannelore, along with his giddiness over their narrow escape, provoked a sudden burst of nervous laughter.
“How can you possibly find this funny?” Hannelore whispered. “We barely made it.”
The heads of a few passengers turned their way.
“Sorry. It’s just that-” No, he’d better not.
“Well?” A challenging tone, as irritating as ever, so he took the plunge.
“It’s the poster above your head. I couldn’t help but note the resemblance.”
Hannelore turned to look. Unfortunately, so did Liesl. As if that weren’t bad enough, a foul-smelling old man seated near Kurt began laughing in a succession of wheezes.
“You’re right!” the fellow exclaimed. “She is Frau Knoterich. It’s her doppelganger!”
Liesl must have also been giddy, because to Kurt’s amazement she, too, laughed.
Hannelore was outraged, but the reddening of her cheeks only sharpened the resemblance, which sent the old man into a fresh gale of laughter. As the subway pulled into the next stop she stood angrily and flung open the doors.
“You two,” she said loudly, “can just ride home with all the Nazis!”
