The following morning, Peter and I finally got our chance to break into Mr. Wolfe’s suite. Mama was preoccupied and didn’t object when we said we were going to play billiards. I made sure I had my camera with me, loaded with a brand-new roll of film. To be safe, I had another roll in my pocket.
When we got to Mr. Wolfe’s door, I knocked softly, just as Holly had, and raised the pitch of my voice to sound as much like her as I could.
“Mr. Wolfe? Housekeeping.”
No response. I knocked once again to be sure he wasn’t there. Silence.
I shivered with excitement as I slipped the pass key into the lock and opened the door. Once inside, Peter and I went straight to the dressing room. The puzzle box was right where we’d left it, and in less than a minute, Peter had the key in his hand. Would the list still be there? And the jewels?
I watched, my heart thumping, as he opened the safe.
The velvet jewellery bags sat on top of the manila folder. Peter reached to take them out, but I stopped him.
“Let me photograph them in the safe first.” I took out my camera and focussed. Click.
I opened the bags and spread the jewels out on top of the chest of drawers. There was the sapphire-and-diamond dinner ring. There were also matching earrings and a sapphire-and-diamond necklace with a giant sapphire pendant. A heart-shaped ruby-and-diamond brooch. An emerald-and-diamond bracelet. A pearl tiara. No wonder Lady Eaton was distraught! Her jewels had to be irreplaceable. They were also recognizable, so how was Mr. Wolfe going to sell them—and who would buy them?
“Hurry up, Käfer,” Peter whispered, interrupting my train of thought. “We don’t have all day.”
“All right. All right. Turn on the light. They’ll show up better.” Click. Click. Click. “Put them back while I start photographing the list.”
I grabbed the manila folder and took out a stack of papers. The first page was blank except for the word Geheim! (Secret!). The next page said: Sonderfahndungsliste GB (Special Wanted List Great Britain). Papa had been right. There really was a list. And from the thickness of the bundle, there were a lot of names on it.
Click.
The roll of names began on the third page. They were alphabetical and sometimes included notes on where a person lived in England, what position or trade they were in, and which German department would investigate them once they were arrested.
I ran my finger down the page. Aalten, J. … Abbassi, Mohamed Oma … Abbott, Maude … Abercrombie, Lascelles…
I didn’t recognize any of them, but I took a photograph anyway. Click. I flipped through the pages, looking for one name. Near the bottom of the eighth page I found it.
Avigdor, Rifat
Born: 09/August/1895; Constantinople
Occupation: Jew/Construction Manager
Location: Claridge’s Hotel
There was a loud roaring in my ears. Even though Papa had told us he was on the Gestapo’s wanted list, seeing his name in black and white—and Jew beside it—shook me. Papa was Jewish. It had to be true. He had told us the Nazis kept meticulous records on everyone.
Peter looked over my shoulder and gasped. “We are Jewish, Käfer. You were right all along. But why would Mama and Papa not tell us something that important?”
“I don’t know.” I rocked back and forth, trying to take it in. We’re Jewish. I took a photograph—Click—and forced myself to turn the page.
Braun, Hugo
Born: 12/February/1901
Occupation: Jew/Professor of Microbiology/Immunology
Location: Unknown
Churchill, Winston
Born: 30/November/1874
Occupation: Prime Minister
Location: 10 Downing Street
Click.
“Quick. If Mr. Wolfe finds us in here—” Peter’s voice sounded far away.
I turned the page and took another photograph. Click. Another page. Click. Yet another. Click. I felt strange. As if someone else was operating the camera. All I could think about was Papa’s name followed by the word Jew.
“Käfer.” Peter shook me. “We’ve got to go. You don’t have to photograph the whole thing.”
His words pierced my haze. I put the papers back in the folder. I was about to place it in the safe, when I noticed an envelope. Mindlessly, I picked it up. Inside were two passports—a blue-and-gold one from the United States of America, and the other was grey and blue, a Reisepass from the Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Germany. They were made out in different names. George Wolfe, American businessman, born in New York City. Georg Wolff, jeweller, born in Berlin. Aside from the haircut and spectacles, the passport photographs were identical.
“You were right about Mr. Wolfe as well,” said Peter over my shoulder.
“I’ll just take photographs of them,” I said. Cli—
I’d used up all the film! My hands slick with perspiration, I removed the roll and put it in my pocket, Peter breathing down my neck.
“Hurry,” he hissed.
“I’m trying to!” But the new film slipped out of my fingers and fell on the floor with a bang that echoed in the small room. The film rolled away. I wanted to scream with frustration as I watched it disappear under the bureau. From the hallway, we heard a burst of laughter followed by running feet. For a moment, neither of us moved.
“Just guests,” Peter said before diving down to retrieve the film. He handed it to me, but I struggled to thread it into the spool, so he took over and loaded it into the camera. Click. Click. I took pictures of both covers and inside pages and then put them back in the envelope and laid it on the bottom of the safe, hoping I placed it exactly as Mr. Wolfe had. I felt sure it was the kind of thing he would notice. Then I put the folder on top and, finally, the jewellery bags.
I took a deep breath—my hands were shaking—and closed the safe door, locking it. I handed the key to Peter, who quickly secreted it in the puzzle box before placing the box squarely on the bureau.
Wordlessly, we left the dressing room and crossed the sitting room to the door. I was just about to turn the knob when I heard people talking in the corridor. They were coming closer. I froze. We hadn’t locked the door when we’d come in! If it was Mr. Wolfe returning to his suite, he would know something was wrong as soon as he turned the key. Could I risk putting the lock on?
I held my breath. Whoever they were, they were right outside the door. I put my hand on the lock … but then their voices began to fade, until the only sound I heard was the pounding of my heart.
I opened the door slowly and peeked out. The corridor was empty. Quickly, we locked the door and walked down the hall. When we turned the corner, we ran right into Harry.
“Are you all right?” he asked with a quizzical look.
“Of course,” said Peter with some spirit.
“What have you been up to?”
“The usual,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant, though my heart was still pounding.
Harry laughed and winked at me. “When will you ever learn? There aren’t any spies—or jewel thieves—at Claridge’s.”
***
The one place we were sure not to be interrupted was the roof, so that’s where Peter and I headed. It was another hot day—London was having a heat wave—but we found a shady spot and there was a bit of a breeze.
It did nothing to cool Peter’s temper. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell us,” he said bitterly. “When we left Berlin, Papa said it was because he had a better job in the Netherlands, though I often wondered why we had to leave at night. And when we escaped on the fishing boat to England, it was because Hitler didn’t treat people properly. He never mentioned anything about being Jewish.”
“Jews are the people Hitler treats the worst,” I couldn’t resist pointing out.
Peter glared at me.
“I know, I know,” I said. “When I asked him if we were Jewish—”
“You asked him? When?”
“Just before we boarded the Somerville—”
“What did he say?”
I thought back to that moment on the dock at Liverpool when I said goodbye to Papa. In some ways, it felt like a lifetime ago, but it had only been a few months. “He said we were going to be Canadian and that was all that mattered.”
“Well, it’s not.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. All of our lives, we’ve been living a lie. I’m so angry. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know how I feel exactly.” I had a sudden picture of Mama and the flicker of fear in her eyes when I asked her if we had to leave Berlin because we were Jewish. “They must have been really frightened that if we were caught by the Nazis we’d confess we were Jewish,” I said slowly. “Remember when Herr Lange took us over the border hidden under the hay? If I’d known I was Jewish then—”
“What would you have done different?”
“Probably stayed hidden and those Nazi soldiers might have taken Papa away.”
Peter was silent. I stared at him. His face was red, his pimples pronounced. I could practically see the cogs turning in his brain.
“It’s not as if we were religious,” I argued, intent on defending Mama and Papa, although I, too, questioned why they hadn’t told us something that important about ourselves. “We never went to synagogue or school on Saturday or observed Shabbat.”
Peter gave me an inquiring look. “Friday night dinner,” I explained. “Toby told me it was what his family did.”
“It’s still a lie,” he insisted, but he didn’t sound quite as angry, and I sensed his mood shift slightly.
Suddenly, I wanted us to agree.
“There are good lies and bad lies,” I pressed. “Mama and Papa were doing what they thought was best for us. Remember how the Jewish children at school were treated?” I recalled one particularly nasty incident with Peter’s friend, Eli Nussbaum. A few of the other students took his glasses and made him jump for them while they tormented him, poking him and calling him Judenschwein. Mama had been furious. At the time, I thought it was just because they were bullying him and not because he was Jewish. Now I wasn’t so sure. “Probably Mama and Papa wanted to spare us that.”
“It still wasn’t right,” he insisted.
“Well, I’m glad they did.” And as I said it, I knew I was.
Silence. Finally, Peter spoke. “Do you think Aunt Charlotte was sent to a concentration camp because she was Jewish?”
“I don’t know. Papa said it was because she was spying for the British, but if Mama is Jewish, then Aunt Charlotte is too.”
“Maybe Mama isn’t Jewish.”
Again, I travelled back to that moment in Berlin. I shook my head. “She is. I’m sure of it.”
Peter sighed. “What do we do now?”
“Get the film developed. Fast. And take the photographs to the police.”
“Do you really think they’ll listen to us?”
“We have to make them, Peter. Papa’s life depends on it.”