“You’re American?” he asked.
“I am. How can you tell?”
“I know many Americans. You have come to my country in droves, it appears, after the war.” The man wolfed down two crackers and continued speaking. A small dab of pâté bobbed at the corner of his mouth. He then opened a bottle of wine and procured two glasses. He filled them both and offered one across to Aubrey. She took it gratefully.
“You’re spoiling me, sir.”
“My name is Frederick. Frederick Oppenheim,” the man said, and with that name came a snort of derision from the other man, who ruffled his papers again. Frederick looked at the man and then at Aubrey and winked.
“Where did you learn English so well, Frederick?”
“In school, all German children are taught many languages. English is the most popular and probably the most useful for the years to come.”
“Why is that?”
“All part of the master plan, our dear leader’s plans for world conquest.” He tilted his head forward and winked again. Despite his attempts at whispering, the man across from him heard what was said and lowered his paper shield.
“You should learn to watch your mouth, young man.”
“We’re still in France: ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.’”
“Yes, you idiot, but if you haven’t noticed, we’re travelling eastward.” The newspaper went back up.
More pâté was offered, and this time Aubrey nodded at the dab on his mouth.
“My apologies,” he said, hastily applying his handkerchief to it. “I haven’t dined with a lady in a while.”
“Why were you in France?”
“I was attempting at getting a permit to travel to England. I have relatives there.”
“Oh, I see. No luck?”
“The permit has been filed. It will take them several weeks to reject it,” Frederick said, and laughed. “Such is life. I’m just glad I’ll be around to see our dear leader’s great plans for the Fatherland come true.” His voice rose as he said it, and he turned to the man with the papers. There was just a snort and more ruffling.
Despite Frederick’s optimism, the man with the newspapers was telling the truth. They were headed east, to the German border at Alsace. Even Aubrey, an outsider, felt uncomfortable about the young man’s politicized comments.
It was dawn when the train stopped on the French side of the border. A French administrative official boarded, accompanied by two unshaven soldiers with rifles over their shoulders. They went from car to car, compartment to compartment. They weren’t checking anything, not even tickets. It was unclear what they were looking for.
The door to their compartment slid open and the official stepped in; the two soldiers stood behind him in the doorway. Frederick had stowed what was left of his meal, and the half-empty wine bottle was tucked back into his jacket. He sat upright and forward on his seat and looked right at the French official with proud but pleading eyes. The official gave him the once-over, barely looked at Aubrey, and ignored the fellow with the newspapers. Seemingly satisfied, he turned and marched away down the corridor. One of the soldiers caught Aubrey’s eye and grinned, but there was a call for him to come and he scooted away, leaving the compartment door open.
After another ten-minute wait at the station, Aubrey finally saw the official and the two soldiers escorting someone off the train.
“What is happening there, Frederick?”
“An escaped convict? Maybe he was escaping from a trip to Devil’s Island.”
“The island off South America? I read about that. Does Germany have overseas prisons?”
“No, we’ve created several homegrown nightmares within our own borders. Maybe one day our dear leader will export this invention.”
“Let’s hope not.” Aubrey knew she shouldn’t respond to these provocative statements, but somehow, she couldn’t help it.
The train started up again and moved deeper into the Vosges Mountains just as dawn was breaking. Aubrey stared out the window and spontaneously, automatically, began plotting a course through the peaks—what altitude she would fly, how long it would take her. She wanted to keep her skills sharp.
Then they were on the other side and the Tricolour was replaced by flapping swastikas by the dozen. At least twenty of them for every French flag she’d seen. There was no denying it: she had crossed into the Reich.
“Ahh, home,” Frederick said. The news junkie chuckled, then tucked the paper away and produced his passport. Aubrey and Frederick did likewise, and with a start Aubrey saw that her generous young German friend had additional papers to carry. She saw the corner of a yellow six-pointed star at the top of one of them, tucked in his passport. She saw that the man next to her had noticed it too.
The train stopped and there were shouts outside, and then they heard the clomp of boots—heavy ones, that could only be military issue—come down the middle of the carriage. The banging open of compartment doors grew louder. Moments later, the door on their compartment was flung open. An official in a black uniform with a swastika armband stepped inside. Behind her she saw German soldiers: fresh faced, clean shaven and utterly terrifying. They had rifles too, but they were carried upright over their shoulders, whereas the French soldiers had carried theirs sloppily. The rifle straps were polished and pulled tight. The man with the armband seemed to gleam, too; everything that was black and leather shone like glass.
He did not yell, as Aubrey had half-expected, but rather asked for papers in a calm voice, a sinister smile at his mouth. Aubrey held hers up and he took it first.
“Ahh, American,” he said in English
