neck and sliding beneath her coat collar, so cold that she couldn’t stop shivering.
She turned onto the small, crescent-shaped street called Altheimer Eck. The road was empty, and the air carried only the hiss of snow hitting the ground and the rustle of a few swastika pennants hanging from windows.
She made for number 19, where the Munich Post kept their offices. She was halfway up the front steps when something hit her shoulder, smarting like a bee’s sting. Surprised, she looked up to see tiny, dark objects raining down on her. They landed on the stairs with metallic clicks. For an instant, she thought they werecoins, until she picked one up. It was the letter A . Someone was throwing trays of type into the street.
Her head snapped up. In one of the windows above, a man’s face peered through the glass, grinning down at her. He wore the khaki cap of the SA.
She was too late.
Behind the grinning face, she caught the whirl of movement—the flailing arms of men fighting—and through the open window, she heard the crash of chairs or tables hitting the office floor. Someone was laughing.
More letters fell, striking her cheeks and shoulders. Dazed, she turned and stumbled down the steps. Behind her, wood smashed into stone. She spun around. Broken chairs littered the front steps. As she watched, another sailed out the window, landing at her feet and splitting apart. She jumped back, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream.
Was Daniel trapped up there? Had he stopped by the office to ask his former colleagues for help? Or perhaps he had been sleeping there, desperate for a place to stay where the landlord wouldn’t ask him to register with the papers he no longer had?
She stared at the windows. If Daniel was in there, she wished she could see him, so at least she could estimate how badly hurt he was. But all she glimpsed were brown-clad shoulders, jerking as though struggling with someone.
Panic sealed off her throat. Suddenly she could feel her brother’s fist plowing into her stomach, so hard she couldn’t breathe; could feel her knees smacking into the floorboards as Reinhard flung her down. Her vision faded to black. She thought she could smell the faint tinge of his cologne, and she let out a strangled whimper.
Stop , she ordered herself, sucking in air until her eyesight widened from a pinprick to a circle. She couldn’t let herself relive her brother’s beating every time she saw people fighting. Daniel deserved the best from her, and that’s what she would give him.
She had her revolver in the suitcase, but she couldn’t use it—the SA would have sent a group to arrest the reporters, so there would be too many to shoot; she couldn’t incapacitate them all and help the reporters get away. If she went inside the office to look for Daniel, her false papers might not withstand scrutiny a second time.
The clattering of shoes on cobblestones interrupted her thoughts. Two men were walking toward her, talking in low voices. They looked at her with open curiosity, and she realized how strange she must appear—frozen on the pavement, surrounded by broken chairs and typesetter’s letters. She had to start moving before more people entered the street or the SA and their captives left the building. As long as she gave no one a reason to look at her twice, she was safe, and as long as she was safe, she could look for Daniel.
Her legs felt wooden as she walked back in the direction from which she had come, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one followed. She had failed. Now there was no way she could talk to Daniel’s old colleagues. And who knew what awaited those men once they were hauled to the city jail? For so many years, she’d seen Hitler throw aside issues of the Munich Post and drop his head into his hands, moaning that the reporters’ smear campaigns would ruin him. Even from his new home in Berlin, he wouldn’t forget them. He would enjoy taking his revenge.
The streets filled again
She turned onto the small, crescent-shaped street called Altheimer Eck. The road was empty, and the air carried only the hiss of snow hitting the ground and the rustle of a few swastika pennants hanging from windows.
She made for number 19, where the Munich Post kept their offices. She was halfway up the front steps when something hit her shoulder, smarting like a bee’s sting. Surprised, she looked up to see tiny, dark objects raining down on her. They landed on the stairs with metallic clicks. For an instant, she thought they werecoins, until she picked one up. It was the letter A . Someone was throwing trays of type into the street.
Her head snapped up. In one of the windows above, a man’s face peered through the glass, grinning down at her. He wore the khaki cap of the SA.
She was too late.
Behind the grinning face, she caught the whirl of movement—the flailing arms of men fighting—and through the open window, she heard the crash of chairs or tables hitting the office floor. Someone was laughing.
More letters fell, striking her cheeks and shoulders. Dazed, she turned and stumbled down the steps. Behind her, wood smashed into stone. She spun around. Broken chairs littered the front steps. As she watched, another sailed out the window, landing at her feet and splitting apart. She jumped back, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream.
Was Daniel trapped up there? Had he stopped by the office to ask his former colleagues for help? Or perhaps he had been sleeping there, desperate for a place to stay where the landlord wouldn’t ask him to register with the papers he no longer had?
She stared at the windows. If Daniel was in there, she wished she could see him, so at least she could estimate how badly hurt he was. But all she glimpsed were brown-clad shoulders, jerking as though struggling with someone.
Panic sealed off her throat. Suddenly she could feel her brother’s fist plowing into her stomach, so hard she couldn’t breathe; could feel her knees smacking into the floorboards as Reinhard flung her down. Her vision faded to black. She thought she could smell the faint tinge of his cologne, and she let out a strangled whimper.
Stop , she ordered herself, sucking in air until her eyesight widened from a pinprick to a circle. She couldn’t let herself relive her brother’s beating every time she saw people fighting. Daniel deserved the best from her, and that’s what she would give him.
She had her revolver in the suitcase, but she couldn’t use it—the SA would have sent a group to arrest the reporters, so there would be too many to shoot; she couldn’t incapacitate them all and help the reporters get away. If she went inside the office to look for Daniel, her false papers might not withstand scrutiny a second time.
The clattering of shoes on cobblestones interrupted her thoughts. Two men were walking toward her, talking in low voices. They looked at her with open curiosity, and she realized how strange she must appear—frozen on the pavement, surrounded by broken chairs and typesetter’s letters. She had to start moving before more people entered the street or the SA and their captives left the building. As long as she gave no one a reason to look at her twice, she was safe, and as long as she was safe, she could look for Daniel.
Her legs felt wooden as she walked back in the direction from which she had come, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one followed. She had failed. Now there was no way she could talk to Daniel’s old colleagues. And who knew what awaited those men once they were hauled to the city jail? For so many years, she’d seen Hitler throw aside issues of the Munich Post and drop his head into his hands, moaning that the reporters’ smear campaigns would ruin him. Even from his new home in Berlin, he wouldn’t forget them. He would enjoy taking his revenge.
The streets filled again
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