In Cologne, they transferred to another train. Just over an hour later, it pulled into the glass atrium of Frankfurt Central Station. Ahmed turned to Max.
“You have been to Frankfurt?”
Max shook his head. “Never. You?”
“In August, on special train for refugees,” Ahmed said. “The people are kind. When we come off train, they clap hands like we are heroes. They have balloons. They give us bags of food.”
“It’s weird how Germans used to be the bad guys,” Max said. “And now they’re the good ones.”
Ahmed shrugged. “Maybe they learn.”
There was no reception of welcoming locals, no snacks or balloons, but the moment he stepped off the train, Max decided that Frankfurt station offered something even better. The station was enormous. With more than a hundred tracks and five departure halls, it was easy enough to disappear into the shifting midday mass of travelers, beggars and railroad employees. Although a few police officers stood around with assault rifles, everyone seemed less tense than in Brussels. There were no soldiers or random ID checks or dogs.
But they still had to buy tickets for the next leg, to Vienna. The ticket seller, a young guy with a hipster beard, gave them a curious look.
“American?” he asked in English.
“Yeah,” Max said.
The ticket seller smiled as if this confirmed some suspicion. Max pictured a police bulletin in front of him—“Wanted: American boy, traveling with Syrian suspect—” He sucked in a breath. But before he could decide whether to grab Ahmed’s hand and run for it, the man pushed two tickets across the counter to Max.
“I was in New York last year.”
“Cool,” Max managed to choke out as he snatched up the tickets.
“Have a good trip.”
“You too,” Max said.
Ahmed grinned as they walked away. “He doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Shut up. That felt like a close one.”
“For Clark Kent. Not Nabil Fawzi.”
Max rammed his shoulder. Ahmed rammed him back. Then they bought fries and Cokes at a McDonald’s. There was nothing suspicious about hanging out there—the place was packed with kids. At 1:45, they boarded the train to Vienna. Max read for a while, then fell asleep.
He woke up queasy from the greasy fries and a nightmare he couldn’t quite remember. It was twilight outside, fields and homes shape-shifting into silhouette, and as his eyes adjusted to the overhead lights, he had no idea where he was. Then he remembered his dream and twisted around to check for Ahmed. He was still sitting beside him, The Calculus Affair propped in his lap. He stared at Max with concern.
“You okay?”
“I dreamed they took you away.”
Max didn’t say who “they” were, and Ahmed didn’t ask.
“I am here,” he said.
Max took a deep breath and propped himself up. “Where are we?”
“Austria. Soon to Vienna.”
Max rubbed his eyes. “I slept a long time. What have you been doing?”
“Read, think.”
“About your dad?”
Ahmed nodded.
“You’ll see him soon.”
Ahmed’s dark eyes crinkled. He looked even happier than he had the morning Max had walked him into school.
“Also, I wonder something. When Fontaine comes, how you know to run over roofs? You have this plan?”
Max smiled. “No. Not me.”
Ahmed’s brow wrinkled. “Who then?”
“Monsieur Jonnart.”
“Jonnart, like our street?”
Max realized that he’d never told Ahmed about Albert Jonnart. The story had seemed too depressing, especially when he’d thought that the Nazis caught Ralph. But now he wanted Ahmed to know how history had saved them.
“The street was named for him after the war,” Max explained. “In 1942, he—”
As he launched into the story, the world outside vanished into the soft, spring night. It was almost as if they were being transported back in time, as if three-quarters of a century was no more than the blink of an eye.