Forcing her legs into a run, she gathered every speck of courage and ducked behind a row of hedges across from the courthouse. Her gaze flew upward, toward the security camera pointed at the entrance. She had spotted the camera yesterday when she was scouting the premises for her mission tonight. Maybe her uncle’s caution had rubbed off on her after all.
Zara glanced over both shoulders before she conjured a tornado in her right palm, as tall as a pitcher of milk.
Destroy, she commanded. The tornado tore into the device, ripping off its lens and exposing its wires. Barely ten seconds had passed before the camera shattered into a clump of metal and glass. Satisfied, Zara repeated this process five more times, aiming for the courthouse front lights, until the entrance was plunged into darkness.
It was now or never. Holding her breath, Zara ran up the building’s steps, her veins spiked with adrenaline. She called up the wind and commanded it to lift her. Her feet left the ground, raising her higher and higher until she was floating face-to-face with the Führer’s portrait. At the sight of him, anger pumped through Zara, hot like a skillet, and she reached for the knife in her pocket. The Führer’s oily eyes, as big as her fists, seemed to follow her as she made the first cut.
A couple of slits through those eyes. A slice through the chin. Zara’s hand slashed faster, moving with a fury that matched the turmoil boiling through her.
For Mrs. Talley. Zara slit the Führer’s nose.
For Molly. She cut through his ear.
And for my mom. The blade severed the mouth in half.
A scream built in Zara’s throat for everyone she had lost — for all that the Führer’s regime had taken away from her — but she channeled the scream into her knife, hacking at the portrait until it hung in limp ribbons. But even then, she wasn’t finished. Twisting off the paint cap, she sprayed its contents over the shredded canvas, blasting Dieter’s nose and the glittering medals that adorned his suit. She didn’t stop until the portrait had turned into a shredded black mess.
With her breaths growing labored, Zara stared at her handiwork. The Colonel would be livid, no doubt about it. No one had vandalized the Führer’s portrait in over a decade. And yet, only a hollow victory rang in her ears.
This wouldn’t bring Mrs. Talley back. She would never see her friend again, no matter how many portraits she destroyed.
Zara felt defeated all over again. Landing on the steps, she sprinted down the street, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep until her heart stopped hurting. She reached for the mask, ready to tear off the scratchy thing, but then she rounded the corner and knocked into a woman in a wheelchair. The woman cried out. Zara tried to whirl away, but her foot caught on one of the wheels and she ended up sprawled on the sidewalk instead.
The woman cried louder, and the man escorting her — a young man with a headful of loose curls — tried to soothe her. He held a small telescope underneath his arm, which they must have been using to stargaze on this moonless night. That would explain why the two of them were out so late.
“It’s all right, Mother. We’re nearly home,” he said in German. He turned to Zara. “Can I help you, sir?”
Zara looked up. Oh no.
Bastian’s body went rigid when he saw her mask. His arms spread out to shield his mother. “We don’t have money with us,” he said.
Zara ignored the tweak in her ankle and took off running, her legs pumping beneath her like two machines. She waited for Bastian to shout at her, to throw threats about telling his father, but she heard nothing as she dashed through the street. She didn’t stop until she left the Greenfield town limits, and when she mustered the courage to look back she only saw an empty road behind her.
She was safe.
At least, for now.
Zara hardly slept that night. Once she had snuck back into the house, she waited by her window for hours, jumping at any sound: a creaking floorboard, a dripping sink. Every hair on her neck stood at attention as she stared out the window, peering for a Nazi truck to come and arrest her.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself. She had tried to be so careful, but then she had to plow into Bastian and his mother on their nightly stargazing tour.
A bead of sweat rolled down Zara’s forehead. What had she been thinking? She had used her power in the square and ruined the Führer’s portrait. If she had gotten caught, she would have been thrown into prison and left there to wither. Or shot on the spot. Even worse, she would’ve broken her uncle’s heart.
Zara’s eyes fixed on the photograph on her nightstand, scanning Uncle Red’s proud face and Mrs. Talley’s smiling one. Her heart felt split in two. Maybe it had been a reckless thing to do, defacing the Führer’s portrait. Maybe it had been rash. Dangerous.
But didn’t Mrs. Talley deserve some sort of retribution?
Zara clutched the photo against her chest. She couldn’t regret what she had done tonight. No, she’d had enough of her uncle’s caution and his endless waiting. The Nazis had taken far too much from her — and she wouldn’t let them take anything else.
Hours later, Zara jolted awake to her alarm and realized she must have drifted asleep. Hurrying to the window, she stared at the road, but she didn’t see any trucks or police vehicles. Her breaths eased a little. There was no way Bastian could have recognized her last night. She had worn her mask and her grandpa’s big coat. Besides, Bastian had been too preoccupied with his mother.
As Zara gathered her work uniform, she realized she had never seen Frau Eckhart up close before. When Bastian’s mother first arrived in Greenfield years ago, she had busied herself as the new colonel’s wife. She had organized stargazing nights for the town’s German children and led the Nazi Women’s Charity League; but now Frau Eckhart rarely ventured out into public aside from the occasional league function, not since the riding accident that had shattered her backbone and her mind six years ago.
It surprised Zara how much Bastian took after his mother, with that same pale hair and the same slim nose. Except Frau Eckhart resembled a faded version of her son: leeched white tresses, bony jawline, and a pretty face marred by circles under her eyes. Perhaps it was a good thing that Bastian was an only child. Frau Eckhart may not have been “blessed with children,” as the Nazis called it, but another pregnancy might have done her in.
With her nerves somewhat settled, Zara chewed on a chunk of bread for breakfast and slipped out the door while her uncle was showering. She jogged toward the school, not wanting a demerit for tardiness, but her feet slowed once she neared the courthouse. Gathered out front, a small group of people stood on the front steps of the building, murmuring to one another and shaking their heads.
The portrait, Zara thought and automatically drew a few yards closer. Her neck craned to get a better view.
The painting was gone.
Zara blinked at the stretch of bright red bricks where the portrait had hung just the night before. The Nazis must have removed it early this morning. The crowd kept whispering. A few of them pointed at the roof, and one of the women gasped.
Zara, of course, looked up. She squinted at the lip of the rooftop — and the air promptly fled from her lungs. There, on the roof, the Nazis had propped up a metal cage, the size of a coffin. And inside of it there was a skeleton of blackened bones, held up by a pair of butcher’s meat hooks.
Mrs. Talley.
Zara went light-headed, and she had to blink the dizziness away before she lost her balance. The Nazis had never done anything like this before. It was too cruel. Too wrong.
Slowly, Zara’s gaze found its way back to the roof, and the cage entered her sight once more. She flinched and shut her eyes, but the image had been imprinted in her memory. She staggered down the sidewalk, knowing she had to keep moving or she’d collapse.
Tears huddled in her eyes as she arrived at the academy and found her way to the utility room. She sank onto the floor with her head between her knees, taking deep breaths to calm herself.
The other four cleaning girls edged toward the door as if Zara were a wounded animal. Only Kristy stepped forward.
“Shift starts in five minutes,” she said coolly.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Zara lashed out. She sprang to her feet, wanting Kristy to lash back at her, to call her that word. She was itching for a fight.
Kristy rolled her eyes and resumed tying her smock. “Go home if you’re going to be sick. No one’s going to clean up after you.”
“I didn’t ask you to!” said Zara, but Kristy was out the door already, the rest of the girls following her.
Zara sank back against the cold metal lockers. It was bad enough that she had to watch Mrs. Talley die. Now the Nazis had strung her up like a horrifying scarecrow. She knew the Colonel was sending a message to whoever had defiled the Führer’s portrait. You want to play games with us? he seemed to be saying. We shall play your little game.
The bell rang to start the school day, and Zara somehow managed to work straight through lunch, until she overheard a table of cadets talking about the caged skeleton in the square. After she rinsed off every pot and dirty plate, she had a twenty-minute break for her own lunch, but instead of nibbling on some leftovers she fled for the woods beyond the academy’s perimeter. She wove through the trees until she heard nothing but the puff of her breath and the breeze whispering through the soft spring leaves. Only then did Zara stop beneath a fat oak tree and brace her hands against its cracked bark. A sharp anger twisted inside her chest, stabbing its harsh blade against her heart.
Around Zara, the wind swelled. It swirled by her shoes, kicking up moss and dead leaves. Her power may have been weakened after the blow to her head, but now it was bursting inside her, begging to be unleashed.
So Zara released it. Overhead, the branches swayed and the leaves shivered, clinging to their stems against the human-made storm. She stretched out her arm, stick straight.
Spin, she demanded.
A funnel spun into existence, only four inches high.
Spin.
The funnel doubled its height. Then it grew six inches more.
Higher!
A twig snapped behind Zara. The little tornado spun away into nothing. Whipping around, Zara saw someone walking thirty yards behind her. Her anger wilted, replaced by panic.
Bastian.
She thrust her hands behind her. Had he seen the tornado? No, he was much too far away for that, but Zara’s panic failed to ebb. Maybe he had recognized her last night at the courthouse — but he wouldn’t have any proof of it, would he? It would be his word against hers. Zara nibbled her lip. Yet his word would carry much more clout than hers.
“Hello, Fräulein,” Bastian said, his hands buried in his pockets. He crossed the distance between them. “I was getting a drink of water when I saw you leave. Are you all right?”
She eyed him. “I’m fine, Herr Eckhart. I was getting some fresh air, but I was about to head back to work.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “There is something I must discuss with you.”
“About the housekeeping job?” Her throat tightened as she thought about bumping into him and his mother last night. Please let it be about the job.
“No.” He drew in a deep breath. “We don’t need a new housekeeper. I fibbed about that because I didn’t know how else to speak to you privately.” The words fell out of his mouth, tripping over one another.
“Speak to me about what?” she said slowly.
“I’ve heard that your grandfather had ties to the Alliance,” he forced out. “I was wondering if maybe your uncle was involved with them, too.”
Zara’s stomach dropped against her feet. She had lost Mrs. Talley, and now her uncle’s life might be in danger. She had to handle this conversation very carefully, even though she wanted to flee home this instant. “My uncle is loyal to the Führer. I promise you that,” she said, struggling to contain the trembling in her voice.
“You misunderstand. If it is true about your uncle’s involvement —”
“Heil Hitler!” Zara’s heart pedaled faster. If Bastian had any proof about her uncle’s ties to the Alliance, then she didn’t want to think about what would happen next. An arrest. A beating. Another execution. She told herself to breathe; she couldn’t let him get any more suspicious of her or her family.
“I don’t wish to get you or your uncle into trouble.” Bastian’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I want to join you.”
Zara could only blink at him. She must have heard him wrong.
“I want to join the Alliance. In fact, I must join the Alliance.”
Finally, Zara realized what he had been up to these last few days — the housekeeping job, calling her Fräulein instead of “girl.” He was baiting her for a confession. Colonel Eckhart must have put him up to this, hoping Bastian’s handsome face would loosen her lips about Uncle Red. But there was no way she would fall for their little scheme.
“My apologies, but my uncle is an upstanding citizen. We can’t help you.” Zara willed her voice to be steady. “We’ve always met our quota. We don’t want any trouble.”
“Please. I know how this must look, especially with my father being who he is, but I have to contact the Alliance. I’ve trained as a medic, both at the academy and with my grandfather. I could be an asset to them.” He rattled off his reasoning like he had rehearsed it for hours.
Zara had heard enough. “I have to get back to my shift. Excuse me.” She only made it a few steps before Bastian caught up to her.
“My Opa. I’m doing this for him.” His hand clenched around his dog tags.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather’s passing, but —”
“The Nazis killed him.” He bit his bottom lip to collect himself before he could speak again. “For committing treason.”
Treason? That made Zara pause. She looked up at Bastian as he towered over her with his six-foot height. He was breathing hard, his nostrils flared, and there was anguish in those amber eyes of his. Had his father fed him these lies and coached him for this moment? The Colonel was sorely mistaken to think that she would fall for this.
Bastian must have seen the doubt in her eyes. “Scheiße,” he swore in German. “This is coming out all wrong. You have to believe me. I’m not my father. I’m not a Nazi — and I never will be.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Zara knew she had to deny all knowledge of the Alliance until he gave up on her. “My uncle has never been involved with the resistance.”
“Give me a few minutes to explain.” He continued on before she could answer him. “Opa was a communist. He was involved with the underground party in Nazi-controlled Belgium for many years before he moved to the Territories to help with my mother. But a year ago, he and my father had a falling out over my mother’s care. Father cut short Opa’s travel visa and that forced my grandfather to return to Brussels. That’s when he — he joined the Widerstand.”
“The Widerstand?” Zara coughed out. The Widerstand was the Nazi-opposition group that sprang up during the war and had survived to this day. It now spanned across Europe, much like the Alliance, but on a greater scale. In the last year alone, its members had bombed three forts near Berlin and kidnapped five Nazi officers.
Zara wondered who had come up with this explanation. Communists and the Widerstand? Colonel Eckhart should have known that she would see straight through it. As much as she despised him, she had to admit that he wasn’t stupid. But if the Colonel wanted this plan to work — to lull Zara into trusting Bastian — then he would have concocted a better story.
Bastian kept talking. “I know this all sounds ridiculous. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if it hadn’t happened to my family.” His fingers raked through his curls. “But it did happen. My Opa was arrested during a raid and he was hanged for it.” His eyes clasped shut. “My … my father could’ve stopped it, but he didn’t.”
He was a very good actor, Zara would give him that. His voice had turned to poison w
hen he mentioned his father. If she were more naïve, she would have asked him what he meant by that, but she wasn’t a simple farm girl. Her uncle had taught her better.
“I have to go,” Zara said. She had stayed far too long already. The other cleaning girls could have reported her to the academy administration by now.
“Wait!” There was a pleading look on his face. He held up the dog tags for Zara to read. “Albert Dubois. That’s my Opa’s name. You can check for yourself on the school computers.”
“There’s no need.” She pulled away from him, but Bastian caught her elbow. Her breath hitched, startled that he had touched her.
“He was everything to me.” Bastian’s voice, usually so polite and clipped, took on a desperate edge. “He raised me. I owe this to him.”
Zara hesitated. She could have spoken the very same words; she felt the very same about Mrs. Talley, but she couldn’t trust Bastian, not after what his father had done to the ones she loved.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then she fled back to the academy.
* * *
Zara spent the rest of the workday dusting windowsills and scrubbing the gymnasium floors, but her thoughts never strayed far from Bastian. He hadn’t returned to school after their talk in the woods, but that hadn’t stopped him from occupying every corner of her mind. The story he had told her verged on the ridiculous. His grandfather, a communist? A rebel with the Widerstand? Surely Colonel Eckhart would have come up with something more plausible than that — so why hadn’t he? He must be planning something, unless Bastian was telling her the truth.
But that couldn’t be possible, either.
Zara knew she could never trust an Eckhart, but a small part of her, a tiny speck, wanted to sneak into the computer lab and look up Albert Dubois. Just to make sure. Yet she couldn’t waste another minute on Bastian. A boy like him — Aryan born and Nazi raised — had been spoon-fed German doctrine since birth. Bastian was simply a pawn on his father’s chessboard, and Zara needed to avoid him and his pretty face at all costs.
The Only Thing to Fear Page 8
