Julian didn’t see Dorothea that night. Franz said his mother felt ill and had gone to bed early. It was unlike her to retire without seeing Franz safely to bed, especially with her father in Berlin. Was she really unwell? Or did she suspect Julian? But if she suspected Julian, would she let him near her son?
The next day when he returned from the factory, it was almost an exact repeat of the night before. Dorothea was in her room, and Franz waited in the kitchen. Apprehension had whittled Julian’s appetite down to almost nothing, so he gave most of his food to the boy.
After Franz went to bed, Julian took the report from under his mattress and walked farther into Essen. He loitered in the streets, watching for anyone who was doing the same. When he was confident no one was tracking him, he made a few turns, doubled back, and crept into an apartment building. The third door from the entrance was unlocked, and inside, the Dutchman waited. The two nodded to each other, and Julian strode into the back room, where McDougall sat.
Julian handed over his last report. To his dismay, his hands shook.
“Is everything all right?” McDougall asked.
“I think I’ve blown my cover. Frau Kallweit interrupted me while I was writing this. She saw the ink and saw that I was writing on a page already full of words.”
McDougall’s mouth turned down in alarm. “Has she said anything?”
“Not to me, but she’s suspicious. Herr Sauer went to Berlin for a few days. He’ll be back soon, and the two of them will figure it out.”
“I was under the impression you were the one doing things like ironing and heating up ovens, so she can’t use heat to reveal what you’ve written. Besides, I have your report now. It’s completely safe.”
“She’s done more housework since I started at the factory.” He imagined it had been a big adjustment for someone who had grown up with a maid and a cook. “They don’t have to actually see the report to know what’s going on.” A mere suspicion would be sufficient for them to make inquiries into Alsace, where he claimed to have been born. Or they might lock him up without an investigation. War made people desperate, and Germany was in a life-or-death struggle.
McDougall pulled a small tube from his pocket. “New type of ink. Give me your handkerchief.” Julian complied, and McDougall spread the paste on the white cloth. “Next time you need ink, dip your handkerchief in water, and you’ll have an acceptable solution. This one has to have the proper reagent, not just heat, or it stays invisible. Neither Frau Kallweit nor Herr Sauer will have the correct chemicals.”
“They have friends who might. What reagent does it use?”
McDougall was silent.
“Well?”
“I have been asked not to disclose that information.”
Julian swallowed back a mouthful of worry. “Right. In case I’m captured. Because everyone knows my luck is running out.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, common sense. I can’t last much longer, not with my cover hanging by a thread. And there’s more. Lohr has a source in Paris, someone working with British Intelligence. They know there’s a mole in Essen. They don’t have all the information they need yet, but next time Lohr goes to France, he’ll have plenty of bribery money. Even if he doesn’t learn my alias, he’ll learn what information I’ve passed on. It won’t take them long to figure out I’m the man they want.”
McDougall’s lips hardened. “A source in British Intelligence? Impossible.”
“I heard it from Lohr. There’s no reason for him to lie about something like that.”
“He could lie to get more money for himself. I will look into it, but don’t assume Lohr isn’t playing Sauer the same way he’s playing his contacts in Paris.”
“I want to leave, Lieutenant. You can get me out before Lohr pieces everything together. If we wait until your next visit, it will be too late.”
McDougall’s eyes narrowed. “You want to leave? Because one middle-aged woman saw you writing a letter and one man who lies for a living claims to have a source in British Intelligence? We need you here gathering information about that Paris Gun and collecting all your bits of information from those factory workers. You can’t quit now.” He rapped his fingers along the table and examined Julian the way a poilu looked at a louse before plucking it from his uniform. “Frankly I am shocked that you would ask to abandon your assignment when no one has yet confronted you.”
“Once they confront me, it will be too late. Do you expect me to stick around until they arrest me?”
“I expect you to keep to your post until the war ends, or, yes, until you are arrested and executed. What I don’t expect is for you to turn into a coward.”
“A coward?” Julian had thought McDougall was different from the officers in the field, the ones who drove their men past the breaking point. He’d been wrong. “You try living a lie for two years and see how you manage!”
McDougall huffed. “So that’s the problem? You’re tired?”
“Yes, I’m tired of deception. You don’t understand how difficult it is. The Kallweits are good people, and I’m lying to them. Every day I’m lying to them! And sending you information that’s likely to get their sons killed. They’ve been kind to me, and I’m stabbing them in the back.”
“So you want to leave and betray all the French soldiers who depend on your information instead?”
“None of them would see it as betrayal.”
McDougall crossed his arms and slumped back in his chair. “No, the average poilu probably wouldn’t. The French Army is practically in a state of mutiny.”
“What?”
McDougall glanced over at him. “Same as you. They’ve had enough of war. Seen too many people die, too many men wasted in fruitless charges across no-man’s land. They called General Petain in, and he quelled the problem, but it was dicey for a while. One wrong word and the Germans could have waltzed through the French lines.”
“But they didn’t find out?”
“A little sparrow helped me track a spy who was carrying the information to Lohr, who would have carried it to the Germans. Bit of a close call, it was.”
Julian sat in the chair next to McDougall. “A sparrow?”
“Code name for another agent. One who hasn’t given up on her duty.”
“Her?”
“Aye. A lass helped prevent a disaster of enormous proportions by keeping the wrong information out of German hands. And I still need you here because if that factory down the road comes up with something that can break through our lines, we need as much warning as we can get, and you are in a position to give us that information long before it trickles down to a captured German prisoner.”
Julian was quiet.
McDougall picked up the letter, skimming through the cover script. “I see this one is addressed to a friend’s widow. Stay at your post, and keep a few more women from becoming war widows. Or turn coward, forget your duty, and let the Germans win the war. Your choice, Julian. Your choice.”
* * *
Julian stayed. He returned to Herr Sauer’s home and continued his work, knowing it might soon lead to his arrest.
Dorothea’s health recovered, but Julian saw little of her. She spent most of her time in the library tutoring Franz or outside strolling around the garden.
When Sauer returned, Julian was the first to greet him. “Welcome home, Herr Sauer.” Julian took the man’s coat. “I hope you had a good journey.”
“Politically it was a nightmare. But the shopping was worthwhile.” Sauer held up a potato sack and dropped it into Julian’s outstretched arms.
Julian assumed Lohr hadn’t managed a trip to France and back during the week Sauer had been gone, so Sauer was unlikely to suspect his employee for the time being. Julian hung Sauer’s coat in the closet, then opened the sack. It contained a smaller pouch of sugar, several loaves of bread, and sausages. He smiled as he remembered Maximo and some of his other comrades calling the Germans stupid sausage eaters. Then his smile grew sad as he thought of little Gerta and what this nourishment might have meant for her last winter. It didn’t matter that their countries were at war. The little waif still held a few pieces of his heart.
He took the food to the kitchen, debating whether he ought to cook a feast or ration the food to make it last longer.
Franz came bounding into the kitchen as Julian filled a kettle with water. “Grandpapa said he brought food.”
Julian handed a loaf of rye bread to the boy, whose eyes widened as he saw it wasn’t the normal war bread. When Julian was Franz’s age, he would have ripped off a chunk and eaten it immediately, but Franz placed it on a cutting board, caressing it with care.
“May I cut a small piece now?”
Julian nodded his permission. “How are your mother’s lessons?”
“They would be going better if Mama did not insist on having me memorize passages of Goethe.”
“Goethe is perhaps a bit rough for an eleven-year-old. We need to find you some good adventure stories.”
“Like what?”
Just like that, another hole in Julian’s cover story appeared. Though his mother’s first language was German, the only book she had in that language was the Bible. Borrowing books from his neighbors had turned up only French titles. Julian had no idea which authors were popular for young boys in Germany. “My mother wasn’t as intent on encouraging me to read as your mother is,” Julian lied. “So I didn’t read as much as I should have when younger, but I hope you’ll do better than I did. Perhaps your grandpapa can recommend something interesting. Or your brothers. Do Kurt and Willi have anything worthwhile on the bookshelves in their rooms?”
“They wouldn’t let me borrow their books.”
“You’re older now, much more careful than you were when you were nine. Write to them and ask.” Julian almost suggested other questions Franz should include to his brothers, thinking to learn information from them, but his cover was so fragile that he doubted either brother would have a chance to receive Franz’s message, let alone return it, before Julian was executed. In that instant, Julian decided supper would be a celebration. It might be his last time dining with the Kallweit family, and he wanted Franz to have a good memory of it.