Otto chuckled, too low for anyone other than Peter to hear.
Peter did his best to calm himself, but his heart thundered. Once again, the truth of who he was had nearly gotten him killed.
He was German.
He was a prisoner of war.
But Peter Becker was also an American.
Like millions of other young American men thirsting for adventure, Thomas Becker, Peter’s father, had enlisted in the United States Army and gone to Europe to fight against the kaiser. He’d trudged through the rain and muck, had listened to thunderous volleys from cannons as large as a streetcar, and had seen far more men die than he would have ever thought possible. But unlike most, when the war finally ended in November 1918, Thomas had chosen to stay behind. Over a century earlier, his kin had left the Rhine River valley for America; now Thomas was making the journey in reverse.
A bricklayer by trade, Thomas had brought with him only the battered trunk he’d hauled from Pennsylvania and the smattering of German he remembered his grandmother teaching him as a boy. He’d settled in a village just to the north of Munich, rented an apartment from a kindly cobbler and soon found employment. In the months that followed, life was hard but rewarding. Thomas had trouble imagining he could be any happier.
Until the day he met Mareike Herrmann.
She was the daughter of the town’s baker and the most beautiful woman Thomas had ever laid eyes on. As the weeks and months passed, he found more and more reasons to stop by the shop besides the freshly baked loaves of bread and sweet rolls. Mareike was patient with him; she waited as he tried to express himself in his halting German, laughed loudly at his most ridiculous mistakes, but she also became his teacher, helping his grasp of her language to grow. By the following spring, they were married.
A year later, Peter was born.
Thomas doted on his son, happy for the life the family lived in Bavaria, but he also wanted the boy to know where his father had come from. To that end, he taught Peter about baseball; that he should root for the Philadelphia Athletics and hate the New York Yankees, and also how to position his fingers on the ball’s seams to make it curve. He told him stories about growing up on a dairy farm, taught him songs that would have made Mareike angry if she knew the true meaning behind the words, and encouraged him to read every book he managed to find about America.
And so, Peter grew up speaking both German and English.
But all was not perfect. Times in Germany were hard. The reparations that had been imposed on the defeated nation by the victors caused inflation so great that people paid for their food with wheelbarrows full of money. When the global depression hit, times got even harder. To make matters worse, Bavaria was a hotbed of nationalism, with racist groups using violence to express their mounting anger. Nearby Munich was the birthplace of Hitler’s National Socialist, or Nazi party. Thomas hated what these groups stood for, but he knew enough to keep it to himself; some who dared speak out found their store windows smashed, their businesses burned, and in some cases, paid with their lives.
They talked about leaving, about going to America, but before they could do little more than dream, Thomas had fallen ill. No matter what they did, no matter what doctor they saw, nothing made him better. Peter’s father grew thinner, weaker by the day, until one autumn morning he was gone. Only twelve, Peter had taken up his father’s mantle and done his best to provide for his heartbroken mother. More years passed. Hitler became chancellor. Then came the war. Then the Army. And the next thing he knew…
Peter jolted awake as a deep rumble of thunder shook the train car. Outside, the weather had soured. Gone was the clear blue sky of the afternoon; in its place was an ominous darkness. A light rain fell, drumming across the roof and splattering the window, the water running in horizontal streaks because of the movement of the train. As Peter watched, a fork of lightning snaked from the heavens and crisscrossed the sky, brilliantly bright; a second later it was gone, everything plunged back into darkness, and then the thunder rumbled once again. Soon, the storm would come in earnest.
Peter sighed; the last dregs of his dream lingered. He’d been back in the forest just after his unit’s capture. An American officer had walked up and offered a cigarette, all smiles, as if they were old friends. But when Peter had given his thanks in English, unaccented English, the smile had disappeared and he’d once again been the enemy…
Looking around the dark train car, Peter saw that most of his fellow prisoners were sleeping, even as the raging storm continued to grow; even the guard at the front of the train looked as if he was about to nod off. But then, just as Peter was about to try to get a bit more sleep of his own, someone spoke.
“He thinks you’re dangerous.”
As startled as Peter had been by the thunder, it was worse when he understood that it was Otto speaking to him. The man had been so quiet, so still, that Peter hadn’t noticed he was awake when he’d first glanced out the window. Looking over at him in the gloom, he saw Otto nod toward the American soldier, his face twisted in a sneer.
“When you speak their language,” the brutish man continued, “it unnerves them. It makes them afraid.”
“I was only trying to calm him down.”
Otto laughed; the sound made Peter think of the ogre who lived under the bridge in the fairy tales his father used to read to him. “And yet you ended up with the gun pointed at you, no different than me.”
“He could have shot you,” Peter insisted. “Shot us both.”
“Not that one,” Otto disagreed, again nodding at the drowsy soldier. “One look at him tells me he’s never fired that gun, not for real, not to kill. If I’d kept shouting, you would have seen piss running down his leg.”
Outside, another flash of lightning forked out of the night, punctuated by a booming rumble; it was so deep that Peter could feel it in his bones.
“My only regret is that the Amerikaner didn’t come closer,” Otto continued, jangling the steel that bound his hands. “A few more steps and I would have wrapped these around his neck and choked him to death.”
Heavy raindrops began to pelt the train car, striking the roof so hard and fast that it sounded like gunfire. Strong winds suddenly rose up, swaying the branches of the trees, rocking them back and forth.
“That soldier’s no different than either of us,” Peter argued, sickened by the other man’s bloodlust. “He’s doing what he’s been charged to do, no more, no less. Besides, the war’s over for us. There’s no more reason to fight.”
“To hell with that!” Otto growled angrily. “I will not surrender! Just because those bastards managed to capture us doesn’t mean that we are powerless to hurt them! Hitler demands that we fight until our last breath!”
Anger filled Peter’s thoughts. Hearing someone praise Hitler, the same maniac who had led a whole nation toward a ruinous defeat, whose army had conscripted Peter into a war in which he’d wanted no part, was more than he could bear. He hated the Nazis, as his father and mother had, but it hadn’t been enough to keep his own fate from intertwining with theirs. But he was done doing Hitler’s bidding. At that moment, he didn’t care how dangerous Otto Speer was; shackled, he’d have no choice but to sit there and listen as Peter told him exactly what he thought of his beloved Führer.
But he never got the chance.
Before Peter could say a word, he was suddenly, unexpectedly thrown forward into the back of the seat in front of him. The shrill, piercing sound of the train’s brakes filled the stormy night. The American soldier, jolted awake by the sudden change, leaped to his feet, his rifle clutched against his chest, his eyes wide with both surprise and fear.
“What in the hell is going—?!” was all he managed to shout.
The crunching sound of metal being twisted, the explosion of glass as it shattered, and the gasps and screams of men preceded Peter’s being tossed up and out of his seat by only a second. He was lifted as effortlessly as a child’s toy, thrown toward the roof, stopping short onl
y because the metal of his handcuffs bit hard into the flesh of his wrists. Up became down, left turned into right; in the darkness of night, nothing made any sense. Peter saw the American soldier, unrestrained as he was, hurled upward, and then he was gone, swallowed by the chaos and the inky blackness. Peter’s stomach roiled as uncomfortably as it had on the voyage across the Atlantic. When the train came crashing back to the ground, landing with a deafening thud on the left side of the car, the opposite from where Peter sat, it felt as if the world was exploding. Pieces of glass flew in every direction. Peter’s head smashed into something hard, possibly the seat across the aisle, and the darkness grew deeper until everything was black.
What brought Peter back to consciousness was an insistent tugging at his hand. He blinked a couple of times, his head muddled; it felt as if he was swimming up out of deep water. Struggling to make sense of where he was and what had happened, he slowly opened his eyes. Until another fork of lightning flashed, everything was hidden in the darkness, but when the sky lit up, he saw the destruction that had been wrought. Shards of glass were littered around his feet, the wooden seats were snapped like kindling, and sharp jags of metal poked everywhere. Peter could smell the acrid odor of smoke. From all around him came the moans and cries of the wounded; when the lightning flashed again, he saw another German soldier staring at him, dead, his eyes never to see again.
“Get up!” a voice hissed. “Goddamn it, get up!”
This time, the pulling on Peter’s still-manacled hand was so strong that it nearly yanked him all the way to his feet. He stumbled forward, his legs weak as he tried to steady himself in the debris of the crash. Strangely, he felt water stinging his face; looking up, Peter was amazed to find that a hole had been ripped out of the train car, allowing the rain to fall inside.
“Come on!”
Another tug and Peter was face-to-face with Otto. In the light of the storm, Peter saw that his fellow prisoner had suffered a cut across his forehead; blood trickled down one side of his face. Unlike Peter, who’d had one hand broken free of the handcuffs, both of Otto’s were still restrained. The chain that linked the two of them together had come loose from the bolt on the floor.
“What…what happened…?” Peter asked.
“We hit something,” Otto answered. “It could’ve been another train or maybe a tree fell across the tracks. Either way, this is our chance.”
“Our chance to what?”
“Escape, you fool!”
Still addled from the crash, Peter nodded. Around him, the smell of smoke grew steadily stronger; looking toward what he thought was the rear of the train car, he saw hungry flames flickering to life.
“The…the others are hurt…” he said.
The other man’s answer was to again pull at the chain. As they picked their way toward another hole that had been torn in the car, broken and bloodied men moaned in the darkness. Someone must have grabbed Otto, pleading for help; he spat a curse and kicked himself free. Moments later, they were outside, the fury of the storm pounding down on them.
The train had come off the tracks and slid down an embankment. From farther up the line toward the engine, Peter heard the shouts of men and saw flashlight beams cutting through the darkness of the still-raging storm. Frozen in place, he could only watch them come closer.
“Move!” Otto barked, giving another pull on the chain that bound them together and heading for the tree line.
Rain fell into Peter’s eyes, momentarily blinding him as they crashed through the underbrush, nettles tugging at his clothes and skin.
“They’ll come after us,” he argued.
“Don’t worry about them,” Otto answered, moving forward.
Peter kept thinking about the soldier in their car, the one who had pointed his rifle at him; he wondered what had happened to him.
“The Americans won’t quit looking for us until we’re caught.”
Otto stopped, thunder rumbling all around them, and pulled Peter close. “They aren’t even going to know we’re gone,” he growled. “If that fire spreads, it will be days before they know if anyone is missing, if ever. By the time they understand, we’ll be a hundred kilometers away.”
With that, Otto started to run again, pulling his fellow prisoner behind him.
Peter had no choice but to follow.
Chapter Four
BILLY TATE ASKED ME to marry him…”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Olivia wished she could take them back. But it was too late for that. Now, no matter how hard she tried, Olivia couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Elizabeth Marsten sat expectantly in her favorite chair in the sitting room, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth, the knitting she’d been working on frozen in her hand, a stitch waiting to be finished. The seconds crawled slowly past. The only sound was the rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock against the wall; its pendulum moved much slower than the fevered beating of Olivia’s heart. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Olivia felt as if the words she’d spoken still hung in the air between them.
Ever since she’d left her father, Olivia had been dreading this moment. The thought of telling her mother that she had agreed to become Billy’s wife terrified her. The whole way home had been agonizing; with every step, she thought of ways to avoid going through with it, had even considered pretending nothing had happened, but she knew that would only be postponing the inevitable. In the end, unlike with her father, she’d blurted it out.
Elizabeth stiffened in her seat, her long, dark hair pulled up tight, her hazel eyes narrowing as she stared at her daughter; there wasn’t much of a resemblance between them other than the shape of their noses and the way they both chewed on their lips when they were deep in thought. Her mother was a proper woman, always trying to make a good impression; even now, at home without any visitors, her blouse’s collar was buttoned all the way to the top. Elizabeth was trying to keep a straight face, but Olivia could see her emotions just below the surface.
“And what was your answer?” her mother asked.
Olivia swallowed slowly, her mouth dry. “I…I said ‘yes’…”
Elizabeth smiled as brightly as the noontime sun as tears of joy filled her eyes. She shot out of her chair, dropped her knitting on the floor, grabbed her daughter, and pulled her close. For an awkward moment, Olivia stood frozen in her mother’s embrace before slowly raising her hands and halfheartedly returning the affection.
“Oh, sweetheart!” Elizabeth gushed. “I’m so happy for you!”
Olivia struggled to find a response; failing that, she remained silent.
“My daughter’s going to marry a banker!”
A spark of anger flared in Olivia’s chest. It didn’t really matter to her mother that Billy had always been her closest friend, that he was kind and courteous, the sort of man who went out of his way to help others. To Elizabeth, all that counted was that he came from an upstanding, successful family, that he made plenty of money, and that he was handsome enough that when he walked into Sunday church service, all of the young ladies’ heads turned to look at him, jealously wishing that they were by his side.
Love had nothing to do with it.
“William will make a wonderful husband, don’t you think?” Elizabeth asked; her mother had always refused to refer to Billy in any way other than with the formalized name he’d been born with; to do otherwise wasn’t proper.
Olivia nodded, which caused her mother to frown.
“I would think you should be much more excited than that,” she scolded. “What young woman wouldn’t be ecstatic to marry a man like William? Think of all the wonderful dinner parties you’ll get to host, the people you’ll meet, the luxurious clothes you’ll get to wear, and especially the home you’ll get to live in!” As she spoke, Elizabeth looked around them, her nose turned up a bit; Olivia suspected that she was comparing her current surroundings to those she imagined her daughter would soon be entering, and found her own lacking.
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“I am excited,” Olivia lied.
“Let me see the ring!”
Olivia held out her finger for her mother’s inspection. She saw Elizabeth’s obvious confusion at the plain gold band; from a man with Billy’s wealth, she expected something far gaudier. “It must be a family heirloom,” she muttered. “Probably belonged to a great-grandmother.”
Quickly, Olivia hid the ring from sight, self-conscious about it.
“When is the wedding going to be held?” her mother pressed. “It’s sure to be before William heads off for the service, won’t it?”
Olivia felt dizzy, as if the room was spinning around her. “We…we didn’t set a date…” she explained.
Her mother’s frown would have darkened the brightest of summer afternoons. “Why in Heaven’s name not?” Elizabeth demanded, her hands on her hips. “How am I supposed to plan if I don’t know when it will be? I have an engagement notice to write, family members to contact, menus to prepare, to say nothing about meeting with William’s father. There’s so much to do and little time to do it in.”
“I’ll talk to him about it…” Olivia managed, not for the first time wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
“See that you do,” her mother replied. “This has to be done right. Anything else would be a disappointment.”
If there was one thing Olivia had gotten used to over the years, it was Elizabeth being disappointed in her. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, it never seemed good enough for her mother. One winter morning when she’d been a little girl no more than seven, Olivia had lain on the floor beside the wood-burning stove, drawing her mother a picture of a much warmer day. She’d struggled to get the sun just right, had put in a couple of trees, and tried her best to make the house look just like theirs. Finally, beaming brightly with pride, Olivia had brought the drawing to Elizabeth.
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