Could he make himself close the rift for good? Daniel had asked him to. Daniel had seen what the shadow world was doing to him. Liam raked his hands down the sides of his face. If he closed the rift now, then it would all have been for nothing. He’d be an empty shell, the hollow, precocious boy who’d pushed too hard and come up short, when all he wanted was to drink up the shadows until there was nothing of himself left—
No. The shadow was never going to grant him everything he needed. He blinked back tears. But the shadow could help him save Daniel still—take down the Nazis at Wewelsburg. If it didn’t destroy him first.
A loud banging tore him from his thoughts. Someone was pounding on the door.
Liam was crumpled in the corner of the kitchen. Not exactly hidden from sight. He should stand up, find a hiding place. But his body didn’t seem too interested in following through. It was futile—it would take so much effort; it would cost him so much more than he had to give right now, with his heart wrenched open and the shadows just out of his reach, a danger in themselves. The bloody paper wadded in his fist was taunting him as fiercely as the darkness had. Another thing he couldn’t change.
“Werner? Are you here?” a voice called in German.
Liam said nothing. Did nothing. He’d been scooped out.
The polished boots stopped in front of him.
“You are not Werner.” The man reached down and forced Liam’s chin up. “So why did you have his car?”
The soldier’s compatriots flooded through the chalet, circling him. It would be so easy to touch the shadow and shred these men. But Liam was drained now; he reached out for the frequency but everything unraveled at his touch. Even if he could access it, Pitr was waiting, just waiting, to snare him again. Liam did nothing as the soldiers bound his hands and steered him toward the waiting truck.
“Let me guess,” Liam muttered as they shoved him onto the low bench. “You’re taking me to Wewelsburg Castle.”
The soldiers surrounded him on the bench as the truck lurched to life. “Oh, no. We have other plans for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PHILLIP
The more Ilse, Mitzi, and Jürgen talked, the less comfortable Phillip felt.
They’d believed themselves fairly inured to the Third Reich’s upheaval until Himmler chose their beloved castle for his Camelot. We thought surely this fad of ignorance would pass, they explained as they trudged through the woods. After all, this isn’t Germany, not really. Real Germans would never behave so cruelly.
Ilse had secured a position in the castle’s secretary pool, which gave her access to all kinds of information, and Jürgen worked in the garage, driving shipments to nearby towns. “Some days I like to fantasize about dropping the shipments off at the wrong location. Sowing a bit of chaos, you know?” He smirked as he explained it. “Let the Wehrmacht bastards go hungry for a few days.”
“Then why haven’t you?” Simone asked.
Jürgen frowned at her. “Well, it’s too dangerous right now. They’d know exactly who’d done it.”
“We’re waiting for the right chance,” Ilse said. “As soon as we can figure out a safe way to go about it, then we’ll really make them pay.”
Safety. As if there was a safe way to resist. If things were “safe,” there was no need to fight back.
“What have you actually done that’s useful, then?” Simone asked.
Phillip and Rebeka exchanged a look. They clearly both had more experience biting their tongues. Though at that realization, Phillip wondered, maybe for the first time, if it had ever done him any good. Certainly not with Mr. Connolly. He wondered what Darius would say if he were here instead.
“I keep records of unusual shipment requests. For instance, they recently brought in archival material from Siegen,” Jürgen said. “And shortly afterward, the administrative building there burned down. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”
“Terribly,” Rebeka muttered. Her terse expression hadn’t budged, and Phillip couldn’t blame her.
“It will be . . . difficult . . .” Mitzi studied them from the corner of her eye. “To hide you three. We’ll do our best, though. I think you’ll find Wewelsburg is a relatively safe haven in the shadow of the beast.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Simone said.
Ilse scowled. “We’re not monsters. Just because a few hateful fools seized power against our wishes—”
“Have you had any other refugees come through?” Rebeka interrupted. “Two boys around our age, maybe?”
The Germans looked at one another, then shook their heads. “Should we have?” Jürgen asked.
Rebeka bit her lip. “No. It’s nothing.”
The Germans muttered amongst themselves, in the sly way of teenagers talking about someone they dislike. Given his rudimentary language training and how quickly they were speaking, Phillip couldn’t catch their words, but there was definitely something disconcerting in their tone. He darted his hand out to squeeze Rebeka’s, fleetingly, and she let out a weary breath.
They reached the last hill, and the town of Wewelsburg spread open before them like the pages of a fairy tale. White stone buildings and slate streets, picturesque cottages and a babbling brook, and guarding it all, the elegant but imposing spires of Wewelsburg Castle. A shiver ran through Phillip at the sight of it. If Rebeka was right, the SS could be gathering inside right now to summon all kinds of dark and deadly monsters to unleash. But in the champagne wash of late-afternoon sun, it couldn’t have looked more innocent.
They neared the quaint stone bridge that led into the walled town, but as soon as they started across the path, a strange and schmaltzy melody drifted out of the gates.
Die Fahne hoch, die Reihen fest geschlossen . . .
“Who’s singing?” Phillip asked, dread like a cobweb brushing the back of his neck.
Their hosts stopped just short of the bridge. Ilse glanced at Jürgen, who jerked his head to one side. “We’re going to take the tunnels,” Jürgen announced.
“What’s going on?” Phillip asked again, an edge now in his tone. The dread was sharper now—nails digging in.
Ilse fluttered her eyelashes as she made her way down the escarpment to the creek below the bridge, then led them toward a pair of ancient stone tunnels set into the town’s bedrock. “Just some idiots having drunken fun. It’s better to ignore them.”
“Stormtroopers,” Rebeka muttered. “Brownshirts. They like to patrol the streets, keep ‘order’ for the Reich.”
Phillip stopped in his tracks. “I thought you said your village was safe?”
Ilse twisted back to face him. “There are plenty of reasonable people in our village. But there are also many bored and restless soldiers stationed in the castle, ja? So when they find a bit of fun to have, it’s best to let them have it and stay out of their way.”
“Great strategy. Ignore them, and they’ll go away,” Phillip said. “Seems to be working wonderfully so far.”
Ilse stopped again, bristling. “You want me to go fight every single Nazi I see? I can help you more like this.”
Further behind him, Phillip heard Simone checking the chamber on her rifle. Phillip clenched his jaw as he followed along. At least he was here—he and Rebeka and Simone could defend themselves. Maybe they couldn’t fight every single Nazi, no, but they didn’t have to turn and run from them, either.
He locked eyes with Simone, and she gave him a silent nod.
They reached the runoff tunnels, and Mitzi climbed in first, shrouded suddenly in total darkness. Ilse and Jürgen followed. Phillip helped Rebeka up, then Simone took up the rear, casting glances behind her all the while.
“So what exactly are these stormtroopers?” Phillip asked. “What do they want?”
“They used to round up any Jews or ‘Jew-lovers’ they could find, and parade them down the street for humiliation,�
�� Rebeka explained as they slowly crawled down the tunnels. “Make them wear humiliating signs. Or worse—much worse.”
“Sounds like back home,” Phillip said under his breath. When Rebeka stared at him quizzically, he shook his head. “All it takes is a few crocodile tears from a white lady for the Klan to attack our neighborhoods. Sometimes not even that.”
“Is that not illegal in America?”
“Are you kidding? Half the time, it’s the sheriff or the mayor under those hoods.”
He shook off the tension that had settled onto his shoulders just thinking about it. Of everything he’d had to fear this past week, the unnerving sensation of white eyes watching his every move hadn’t been among them. Back home, they waited, breaths held, for him to slip up while carrying out the simplest tasks of buying a cup of coffee or getting a drink of water from the correct fountain. Now he strung up illegal radio transmissions and shot demons, and no one was around to judge.
Maybe he should walk around with the solemn intent to kill every fascist he encountered more often.
“You said the stormtroopers used to do this,” Simone said.
Rebeka laughed bitterly. “No need to now that they’re making every city judenrein. I suppose the brownshirts will have to find new targets to torment soon once all the Jews are gone.”
Ahead of them, Ilse started humming the same melody, until Mitzi shushed her. “What? It’s catchy.”
Finally they reached their destination. A rattle of heavy keys, a latch, and they entered a dank basement, wet and slimy like the tunnels.
“Here we are. Our little cellar social club.” Ilse smiled wryly as she waved them inside. “It isn’t much, but it’s safe and it’s ours.”
“Technically it’s my father’s,” Jürgen said with an air of disdain, “but he’s been sent elsewhere for the war, so I’m in charge.”
Phillip flinched as he realized which side of the war.
“This is . . . a beer hall?” Simone asked.
The cellar before them was a low-ceilinged tavern, complete with wooden benches and booths, electric wrought-iron chandeliers, and a wall of beer taps. Half-moon windows ringed the tops of the low walls, presumably offering a view onto the streets of the town, though they’d been covered with newspaper.
“It’s the private party space. The beer hall is upstairs.” Mitzi sauntered over to the wall of taps. “We only let people we like down here.”
Phillip didn’t miss the warning in her tone, in her sharp look. But he’d about had enough of tying himself in knots to fit in someone else’s box. He met her gaze, calm and quiet, and she finally looked away.
“We meet here once a week to discuss our efforts for the Resistance,” Ilse explained as Mitzi started filling steins of ale. “Though unfortunately there isn’t much we’ve been able to do yet, since we cannot transmit safely.”
“We’ve been listening, though,” Mitzi said. “I monitor the radio waves from the keg room. That’s how we found out you were coming.”
“So what exactly have you accomplished for the Resistance?” Simone asked.
The pause grew thick enough to stuff a parka in winter as Ilse’s mouth flapped open, closed. “Well, nothing, yet,” she finally said. “But we’ve been gathering intelligence—like the Magpie’s requests. I record the minutes of my commanding officers’ meetings, their research projects.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Simone asked.
Ilse narrowed her eyes at her. “When it’s safe for us to make contact with someone, we will.”
“Oh, I see. You’re waiting until you have nothing left to lose—”
Ilse sputtered. “That isn’t—”
“Surely our intelligence can help.” Mitzi shrugged her shoulders. “The soldiers like me well enough. They tell me things sometimes. They all want to sound more important than they really are when they’re trying to get me into bed.” She looked at her nails. “And our other friends, they all work in the castle, too. We hear things.”
“We’re doing what we can, don’t you see? We hate the Third Reich—we know this isn’t Germany, not really,” Ilse insisted. “We’ll do whatever it takes to get our country back.”
“But this is Germany,” Rebeka said. “Germans did this. Germans continue to do this.”
Mitzi sighed. “Well, not all of us. This whole business with sending the Jews and Communists to camps and so on, that isn’t right.”
“But those are German laws. Germans agreed to do those things,” Rebeka pressed.
“Well, I’m not doing it, and I think it’s gauche, and I’m not even a Jew.” Ilse folded her arms. “So there you have it.”
“One of my best friends in grade school was a Jew,” Jürgen piped up. “He was always so kind and honest and eager to talk to everyone. Not at all like . . . well, you know, like they say. Isolated. He didn’t speak Hebrew. Hell, he probably spoke better German than me.”
Mitzi brought a tray of ale toward them and gestured toward the booths in the alcoves. “Sit, sit, this is too dire a topic to discuss sober.”
“So your friend didn’t deserve this treatment . . . but the ‘standoffish’ ones do? The ones whose German isn’t perfect?” Rebeka asked. Phillip gently guided her into the booth, but her limbs were like steel, bending under considerable strain as she sat.
“That isn’t what he meant,” said Ilse. “Only that, you know, stereotypes aren’t . . . Well, you get my point.”
“Clear as mud.” Phillip scooped up one of the steins.
“And it isn’t just about the Jews, either,” Ilse continued. “The Nazis are vile in other ways. Restricting what you can say, requiring patriotism . . . Maybe other, more backward countries are that way, but we’re a cosmopolitan people. We should be better than this.”
“Then why aren’t you?” Simone asked.
Ilse huffed at her. “What do you think it is we’re doing here? Why we’re helping you? Goodness. You’d think you might be a little more grateful. We’re on your side, you know. A thank-you might not be out of place—don’t you realize the considerable risk we’ve put ourselves in by bringing you here?”
Outside the papered-up windows, the brownshirts drew nearer, boisterously singing the “Horst Wessel Lied.” They must have been right next to the town square. Phillip and Simone exchanged an anxious look.
“I know what will help. Let me head to the kitchens! Jürgen, why don’t you put on some music?” Mitzi asked.
“Um—if it’s all the same—” Phillip started, but she’d already disappeared up the twisting staircase. A heavy door groaned open, letting in a burst of drinking music, then slammed shut. The door, apparently, was the only thing separating them from the drunken stormtroopers. Jürgen turned on the radio in the corner, and cranked it high to drown out the singing on the square and in the tavern above.
“So. What has it been like? Working with the Resistance?” Ilse leaned across the booth to stare at them wide-eyed.
“I’m not with the Resistance,” Rebeka said. “My brother and I barely escaped from getting sent to the Chełmno death camp.”
“Death camp?” Ilse echoed, then giggled. “Well, that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“No. They sent my family there to kill them.” Rebeka glared at her, her voice trembling. “I’ve seen it.”
“That seems like an exaggeration. I mean, we know they’re moving people into concentration camps, detaining them and such, which, don’t get me wrong, I happen to strongly disagree with, I think it’s horribly inhumane. But there’s simply no evidence that they’re killing them. I mean, it doesn’t even make sense. Don’t you think, Jürgen?”
“If I were a heartless Nazi bastard, I’d use them for labor,” Jürgen called from the radio set as he adjusted the dial.
“See?” Ilse said. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
Rebeka seethed while Phillip spoke.
“Where I’m from,” he said, “we fought a whole damn war about that, too.”
Ilse rolled her eyes. “Please. Everyone knows your civil war was about economics.”
Phillip glared at her. “Yeah. The economics of losing your free labor source because they’re human beings.”
Rebeka gripped the edge of the table, her fingernails splintering into the wood. “I’ve seen the camps. I’ve smelled the fire from the burning bodies. The other Germans were laughing about it, because they knew exactly what was going on.”
Ilse faltered at that, and paused for an overlong sip of her ale. “Well.” She set her drink down. “If true, that is a very serious accusation indeed.”
Phillip’s head was starting to throb. “She just told you it’s true.”
“Mein Gott! No need to be so angry!” Ilse flattened herself back against the bench. “I was only trying to be certain we got the facts right.”
“No, you were refusing to believe her. A survivor of your own goddamned Nazis and their goddamned German-as-hell laws.”
Ilse narrowed her eyes. “For the last time, I’m on your side, all right? But if I’m going to help, then we have to make sure we get everything correct. We can’t afford to exaggerate or act before the time is right—”
“I need some air.”
Rebeka shoved her way out of the booth. A syrupy Bavarian waltz was playing on the radio now, punctuating her steps with croony marching lyrics, Liebe and Lebensraum. Phillip and Simone exchanged a glance.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Simone said, her English especially clipped, “we’d like to get on with our business with the radio sets and be on our way.”
“Oh,” Ilse said, setting her drink down carefully. She licked those red lips of hers, bright as a fresh wound. “Well, I’m afraid it can’t be done just now.”
“You said the radio’s in the cask cellar,” Phillip said. “That it’s right over there.”
“Yes, that’s all true, but . . . We’ll have to wait for Jürgen’s dinner workers to leave first. They’re in and out of the cellar all the time, you see, and if any of them were to spot you, it could cause . . . problems.”
The Shadow War Page 27
