Allina eased against the rigid back of her kitchen work chair and jabbed her fingers into the knot of muscle at the base of her neck. A mountain of vegetables loomed in front of her, one, unfortunately, that appeared to be growing. She’d been working for an hour, but there were still as many unpeeled potatoes as peeled ones.
Her shoulders hunched when Emil, Hochland Home’s sous-chef, lumbered over, his wiry gray brows bunched together. “Keep working, girl. Those should be done by now,” he said, jabbing a stubby finger at the pile.
There was no pleasing the man. When she’d asked to volunteer her free time in the kitchen today, the head nurse had shaken her head in mute disbelief. Now Allina knew why: Emil was a terror. Our dainty Schwestern are as useful in the kitchen as a three-legged table, he’d taunted earlier, although he’d relented enough to supply her with an ancient, hard-backed chair.
Allina bent her head to the task, peeling faster amid the clang of pots and the hiss of onions sizzling in oil. The kitchen’s sweet aroma was heaven, but there was little time to appreciate it. Tomorrow, Hochland Home would host a dinner for more than a dozen SS officers to celebrate the sixth anniversary of Adolf Hitler’s appointment as chancellor. Today, the kitchen operated at full throttle. A half dozen staff dressed in stiff, white uniforms stood at the prep counters chopping herbs and vegetables and preparing sauces, with an equal number of helpers ghosting their movements, wiping up the countertop messes left behind, sweeping floors, and scouring pots and pans almost as soon as they were used.
Emil flung open the kitchen’s back door and planted hands on his rotund hips. “Damn it, where are my hens?” After a tense five seconds, he slammed the door shut and returned to her table, eyeing the potatoes again. “Merde. I can’t wait all day for you.” He tugged at his bushy gray mustache and turned to the back prep counter. “Tilda! Bruna!” he barked.
Two pale, anxious faces bobbed up from their work. “Yes, Emil,” they called out in unison. Bruna and Tilda were sisters with wiry frames, dull brown hair, and broad, rough hands reddened by years of kitchen work. Their brown eyes wore the same wide-eyed expressions.
“Come,” Emil ordered, jerking his head toward Allina. “Schwester Allina needs help.” Tilda and Bruna scurried over, dragging stools that produced duplicate, high-pitched squeals against the ceramic floor tiles.
“Oh, it’s such luxury to sit for a minute,” Tilda whispered. Plopping down onto the stool, she arched her back.
Bruna’s lips pursed as she took her seat and pulled a knife from her apron. “Emil and Chef are in evil moods today.”
“Rumor has it Reichsführer Himmler himself will attend the dinner tomorrow with his wife,” Tilda said.
“That’s enough to make Chef pee his pants,” Bruna whispered. “The Reichsführer is a gentleman, but his wife’s a terror.”
“Tilda! Bruna! Allina!” Emil slammed his hand on the countertop. “Potatoes!”
Allina bobbed her head and redoubled her efforts. Unfortunately, the quicker she worked, the more slippery her fingers became. She lost her grip at one point, and a potato shot out of her hand, bounced off Bruna’s arm, and skidded toward the edge of the tabletop. Tilda snatched it up with a deft movement and plopped it back into Allina’s palm without a word, though her shoulders were shaking. Soon, all three women were biting their lips to hold back laughter. Knives flashed, sending bits of peel flying across the table.
Emil treated Allina to a furious, black-eyed scowl. “Sometimes an extra hand is more trouble than it’s worth,” he muttered, pulling the towel from his waistband to mop his red cheeks. He turned up the radio, and the lively strains of Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier soared through the air. After another long minute of hawk-eyed observation, Emil moved away to torture the rest of his staff.
“What possessed you to volunteer in the kitchen?” Tilda whispered.
“I wanted to be useful,” Allina lied. “Everyone’s working extra, even the mothers in residence. They’re helping clean the parlors this afternoon.” The truth was, she needed to hear the Führer address the Reichtstag. Von Strassberg had reminded her about it again before he left for Berlin, and the radio was perpetually on in the kitchen. Kitchen duty and work to mask her thoughts were an exceptional cover.
Chef mopped his face and checked the clock. “Switch the channel. It’s time,” he ordered.
Emil turned the dial and the radio squawked, cutting off the opera’s beautiful melody. Once the crackling faded, an announcer declared that the Führer would now address the national congress on this, the sixth anniversary of his appointment as Germany’s chancellor.
Thunderous applause sounded for a full five minutes before the Führer began.
On January 30, 1933, I was filled with the deepest anxiety for the future of my people. Today, six years later, I am able to speak before the Reichstag of Great Germany.
The history of the last thirty years has taught us all one lesson, namely, that the importance of nations in the world is proportionate to their strength at home.
Before the war, Germany was a flourishing economic power. For fifteen years, we were prey to the rest of the world, burdened with tremendous debts. But the German people are nevertheless fed and clothed, and, moreover, there are no unemployed among them.
What is the root cause of all our economic difficulties? Overpopulation …
“The Führer speaks with such passion.” Tilda placed her hand over her heart before picking up another potato.
“And brilliance,” Bruna added with zeal, peeling away.
Emil set a mammoth stockpot under the kitchen faucet and turned on the tap. “Is that all you girls have to say?” he asked with a scowl. He added a cup of salt to the pot as it filled.
“They’re too young, Emil.” Chef dunked his hand in the water, swirling the salt before he tossed a half dozen hens into the brine. “They don’t remember what it was like after the Great War, with everyone grieving and starving in the streets.”
Emil grunted his assent and reached for another stockpot as the Führer’s guttural, impassioned voice filled the kitchen. Allina forced herself to nod along with the others as he cited a long list of transgressions against Germany—crushing debt, occupation, and the seizure of land and arms.
Another round of frenzied applause sounded just as the head nurse burst into the kitchen. She hurried over to Allina’s table, but took a tentative step backward when Emil approached.
“What do you want?” Emil shouted.
Schwester Ziegler’s eyes narrowed. “I need Allina’s help.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Emil said, folding his arms over his prodigious belly.
“We’ve got a problem in the nursery.” She planted hands on hips and stared him down. “I’d hate to see anything interfere with the perfection of our celebration tomorrow.”
Emil let out a nasal harrumph, but he waved gallantly at the kitchen door.
Damn it. She had no choice. Allina gritted her teeth and followed Ziegler out of the kitchen.
An hour later, Allina hurried back, hoping to catch the remainder of the Führer’s address. Emil grunted when she appeared and pointed to the table, now covered with carrots, celery, and onions to be chopped.
“What happened?” Bruna whispered as Allina took her seat.
Allina grabbed an onion and sliced it in half. “Three of the older children got into a fight and bumped their heads,” she whispered, attempting to chop, explain, and listen to the radio at the same time. “Poor Wendeline was overcome by all the blood.” The onions made her eyes water, and she stopped to wipe them with a corner of her apron.
“It’s good Wendeline doesn’t work in the kitchen,” Tilda joked.
“No talking!” Chef smacked his knife on the counter. “Our Führer is speaking.”
… the assertion that Germany is planning an attack on America is laughable. Germany has no feeling of hatred toward England, America, or France. All it wants is peace and quiet. But Jewish agitators are continually stirring up hatred for the German people. We must know who these Jews are—these men who want to bring about a war by hook or by crook …
The knife fell from Allina’s hand and skittered on the wood tabletop.
We cannot allow other countries to tell Germany how to settle our Jewish problem. It’s shameful to see how the entire democratic world is oozing sympathy for the poor tormented Jewish people, but remains hard-hearted when it comes to helping them.
These countries say they are in no position to take in the Jews. Yet in these empires there are not even ten people to the square kilometer. While Germany with her one hundred forty inhabitants to the square kilometer is supposed to have room for them …
“We should ship the cockroaches off to England,” Bruna said, snickering as she pulled apart a head of celery.
The back of Allina’s neck grew hot. Did Bruna understand what the Führer was proposing?
Jewry must adapt itself to respectable constructive work, or it will sooner or later succumb to a crisis of unimaginable proportions.
If the international finance-Jewry in Europe and abroad should succeed in plunging the nations into a world war yet again, then the outcome will not be the victory of Jewry, but rather the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.
The Reichstag went wild, and a rush of applause and loud whoops and cheering filled the kitchen. Allina kept her eyes on her work.
When she risked a glance up, Tilda had stopped chopping. Her eyes were uncertain. “What do you think he means?” she whispered.
Allina gaped at her. Chancellor Hitler couldn’t have made himself any clearer.
“The Führer will do what he must.” Bruna had also paled, but her voice remained crisp. “He won’t fail us.”
“Where will they go?” Tilda asked, putting down her knife. “All those Jews?”
“Does it matter?” Bruna asked.
“Yes, Tilda,” Allina whispered, “do you think it matters?”
“The Jews are a most unfortunate race,” Bruna answered for her sister. “I’ve nothing against them myself, mind you. Tilda and I had a Jewish friend at school.”
Dropping her hands into her lap, Allina kept her voice devoid of emotion. “What happened to your friend?”
“Odette disappeared,” Tilda said in a soft voice. She reached for another piece of celery. “I don’t know what happened to her.”
Bruna shrugged. “We live in unfortunate times.” Grabbing a carrot, she lopped off its leaves with an efficient flick of her knife. “Besides, what does it matter if there are a few less Jews in the world?”
Heinrich Himmler’s eyes were a piercing cornflower blue behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “It’s a pleasure to meet a lovely young woman,” he said, bending over Allina’s hand to brush warm, dry lips across her knuckles, “and especially on such an auspicious evening.” Pulling back, he tweaked his bow tie and grinned.
Shocked mute, Allina managed to extract her hand from his limp grip. Taking a step back, she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of her navy dress.
Ziegler caught the misstep and swooped in. “We’re honored to host you and your lovely wife tonight, Reichsführer Himmler. My staff has organized a wonderful celebration in honor of the Führer’s speech, and your attendance.” The head nurse gave the Himmlers a wide smile as they entered, bowing low and beckoning to them with a grand sweep of her arm.
“Our pleasure, Schwester Ziegler.” Himmler chuckled. He slipped off his black leather gloves and pocketed them before taking his wife’s arm.
The Reichsführer’s wife scanned the foyer with squinty blue eyes that eventually settled on Allina. She gave a haughty sniff, shrugged off her coat, and handed it over with an imperious flourish. “You embarrass yourself, Heinrich,” Frau Himmler said in a biting voice. The woman looked a good ten years older than her husband. Her red velvet gown was fashionable but too tight, and the lines around her mouth suggested her frown might be a permanent accessory.
“Is that right, Marga?” the Reichsführer asked, though he shot Allina a wink when he handed off his coat. Allina forced a wobbly smile, one neither he nor his wife noticed. Frau Himmler was too busy hurrying her husband away.
“You’re overwhelmed,” the head nurse said, laying a bracing hand on her shoulder. “I don’t blame you. The Reichsführer isn’t what you expected?”
Allina shook her head. No, she hadn’t anticipated this soft-looking man with kind eyes who conveyed himself with unassuming charm.
“He was impressed with you.” Ziegler’s fingers lingered over the plush mink as she hung it on the coatrack. “I’m sure von Strassberg wouldn’t object to a bit of casual flirting this evening. Though I’d like to make a suggestion for the future.” She flicked her gaze down Allina’s body.
Flirt. With Heinrich Himmler. Allina took a deep breath. “Of course,” she said, hanging the Reichsführer’s coat next to his wife’s.
“Your dress,” Ziegler said, “is barely serviceable for an elegant event.” She plucked the edge of the wool dress’s small, puffed sleeve. “This poor thing must be at least three years old. Remember, you’re under von Strassberg’s protection now.”
“I’m sorry, Schwester. I don’t understand.” Her wardrobe might be unfortunately plain, but the Gruppenführer had no say in what she wore.
The older woman’s eyes went heavenward. “Your wardrobe, dear. It needs”—she waved her fingers in the air—“spiffing up. And he’s a generous sort, if that gold locket is any indication.”
Allina’s hand flew to the locket as hot pinpricks stung her cheeks. “I see.”
What a fine mess this night was turning into.
“You needn’t be embarrassed,” Ziegler said slyly. “Men often need a tiny push in the right direction. Mention the state of your wardrobe in passing.” Her strong fingers clamped down on Allina’s arm. “Von Strassberg couldn’t take his eyes off you when he arrived. Trust me, the man will do what it takes to keep you happy.”
As if they weren’t already buried up to their eyebrows in intrigue.
“Is there anything else, Schwester?”
The head nurse rolled her eyes. “Oh, never mind. I’m sure he’ll notice how underdressed you are at dinner.” She touched the black collar of her emerald velvet dress. Pulled in at the waist, it swirled softly around the woman’s legs and did a neat job of flattering her fuller figure. “Now that the Himmlers have arrived, you’re relieved of your greeting duties. Why don’t you check on Chef’s progress for me? Tell him we’ll be ready to dine in ten minutes.”
“Right away, Schwester.”
Schwester Ziegler grabbed her wrist before she could go. “I expect you to enjoy yourself tonight,” she said. “You and von Strassberg make quite the attractive pair. Relax, please. There’s much to celebrate.”
Lord, she needed to get out of here. Allina escaped to the kitchen, where Chef’s staff was putting the finishing touches on tonight’s dinner. On the surface, everything seemed to be in perfect order. The hens were crispy-brown, fragrant with rosemary, and lined up like soldiers on silver trays above the chafing dishes that kept them warm; dollops of rich country butter laced the vegetables and potatoes in a half dozen serving dishes; and a long line of wine bottles had already been decanted on the counter.
Still, there was a frantic hum in the kitchen, and as Allina peeked around the corner, several loud, nasal French curses flew like arrows through the air. When Chef Greiser saw her, the man’s long, elegant fingers went to his throat.
“What is it?” he called out. He was sweating profusely, and the front of his normally pristine white coat was smeared with an alarming mix of grease, brown gravy, and what appeared to be blood.
“Schwester Ziegler would like to know if dinner is ready.”
“We’ll serve in five.” Although Greiser’s voice boomed with confidence, his eyes were stark. “Has the Reichsführer arrived?”
“Yes, with his wife.”
“Emil,” he called out, “pull out the dinner rolls!” He hurried off without another word.
Sighing, she made her way to the dining hall. Thanks to Ziegler’s exceptional taste, the staff had outdone themselves in preparation. Every candle was lit, and the long mahogany table they’d installed was set in a perfect blend of opulence and military precision—from the white silk tablecloth and the magnificent candelabras, to the crystal and silver and the deep red roses in the floral centerpieces. The head nurse had selected two recent acquisitions to set the tone: delicate, gilt-edged Arzberg china and vintage Bleikristall goblets that shot prisms of light onto the cloth.
She walked to the French doors and cracked them open to peek into the great room. Festivities were well underway. The officers’ wives were clustered at one side of the room and separate from their husbands as they chattered with cocktail glasses in hand. Frau Himmler was seated, holding court over the other wives who stood around her in a circle with brittle smiles and tinkling laughter.
The officers—many of whom approached middle age, as their silhouettes proved, even in well-cut evening clothes—stood on the other side of the room, and they appeared to be having much more fun. Hochland Home’s most beautiful women were here tonight, and the fresh, unlined faces lit with feline appreciation as they flirted, vying for alliances with potential benefactors.
Berta was in full, seductive form in a blue silk dress that flowed gracefully over her ripe figure. Soft pin curls made her hair glow in the candlelight as she leaned against the Reichsführer to refill his glass with champagne. A dozen bottles were already empty. Many more would be opened, and late into the night.
The celebration would, no doubt, be executed flawlessly.
Von Strassberg’s eyes lit up when he saw her, and he stood and raised his champagne glass, drawing everyone’s attention. “There you are,” he called out with an eager smile, teeth very white against his evening jacket. He walked over with a swift military gait that made the cut of the tuxedo even more striking. His shoulders seemed enormous.
“I wondered what was keeping you,” the head nurse said, cocking an eyebrow. “Is dinner ready?”
Allina straightened her spine and forced herself into the room on precarious legs. “Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Schwester.” Her gaze locked with von Strassberg’s, and the sympathy and humor there anchored her. She was floundering, but it helped that he knew it.
“You’re radiant.” He slipped a glass of champagne into her hand and set his palm on the center of her back. “Drink up,” he whispered into her ear, his breath warm against her cheek. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Ziegler threw open the French doors. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s go through.”
In the few minutes it took to settle into her seat, Allina understood exactly how the evening would proceed. The married officers were in high, boisterous moods and preening from the attention. Each was flanked by women, with a wife to the right and a potential mistress to the left, although no one tonight would dare comment on the absurd seating arrangements. No, every last one of the ridiculous geese armed themselves with false smiles and inane gossip.
The only thing that made it bearable was the Gruppenführer, who managed to convey his thoughts about the ridiculous chatter with subtle quirks of his lips. He also seemed attuned to her near-desperate urge to flee. Von Strassberg kept her clammy hand pinned to her thigh beneath his much warmer one. He squeezed her fingers any time she leaned a fraction forward.
She did her best to nod at the right times as the conversations floated around them.
… Berta, your hair looks lovely tonight, just like Lilian Harvey’s. Don’t tell me you did it yourself? My, what a clever girl you are …
… Have you seen Willy Fritsch in By a Silken Thread yet? No? Oh you must, darling, it’s the movie of the year …
… Richard has promised us a jaunt to Paris later this spring. We’ve scheduled a trip to Schiaparelli’s showroom. Have you been? No? Oh my dear, you really must go. You won’t find more exquisite clothing in the world …
“I prefer German designers, myself.” Marga Himmler’s voice cut like a knife on glass, and the room fell silent while she took another long sip of wine. “I’m sure our head nurse agrees. She seems to share my sensibilities. You’ve refreshed the dining room since I was here last. Is that an original Liss?” she asked, lifting her glass to the oil landscape on the wall.
“You’ve a canny eye, Frau Himmler.” The head nurse’s smile was too tight to be sincere, and she squared her shoulders as if preparing for a blow. “Thanks to the generosity of those under your husband’s command, we’ve refurnished nearly every room at Hochland Home.”
Six servers hired especially for today’s celebration entered carrying silver tureens, and the nutty fragrance of Emil’s soupe à l’oignon floated around their heads. The head nurse lifted her finger, and the servers halted their approach. Dipping their heads, they stepped back and waited against the wall.
“These place settings are stunning,” Marga Himmler said, running a scarlet fingernail over the gold trim of her plate. “Do you know where they’re from?”
“A recent boon,” Ziegler said, “from Munich, according to Gruppenführer Gud.”
Allina froze. Gud wasn’t here tonight, and thank God for that small mercy. Just the mention of his name made her want to bolt. Von Strassberg squeezed her hand again. His pulse was racing.
A hush settled over the table. Frau Himmler picked up a fork and examined it closely, twisting it in the candlelight. “Since they’re all used goods, I’m sure you’ve had your staff wash them thoroughly.” Her lips curled back in a sneer.
The Reichsführer grabbed his wife’s wrist and pressed her hand against the tablecloth. “Let’s enjoy this wonderful meal, my dear, and choose more elevated topics,” he said in a voice that didn’t allow for disagreement. A low chorus of shocked murmurs rippled around the table. Frau Himmler sniffed and snatched her hand away.
Allina was on her feet before she knew it, and the scraping of her chair drowned out the murmurs.
“Going so soon, Allina? Whatever for?” Berta asked, sending a deadly glare behind batting lashes.
“The children,” she stuttered, taking a step back as two dozen wide-eyed faces looked up at her in unison. “They need tending.”
“Sit down, Allina. The children are fine.” There were spots of color high on the head nurse’s cheeks, and her bared teeth didn’t resemble a smile in the least.
“Wait a moment,” von Strassberg murmured, “and I’ll escort you.”
“N-no, please don’t interrupt your dinner.” Pushing back from the table, Allina fled down a long hallway to one of the parlors, one residents used when they wanted to meet suitors in private. It was empty, of course. Tonight’s negotiations would occur in the open. She switched off the light before collapsing onto a silk wingback chair, wanting to be alone, in silence and relative peace.
Allina didn’t worry about the head nurse’s displeasure or the inevitable lecture she’d receive for her abrupt departure. She couldn’t bear another minute of the cloying, desperate women at Hochland Home, or these men who’d cheered their Führer yesterday during his speech to the Reichstag, or their wives, parading themselves in velvet and jewels and insincere smiles, all eating off china stolen from families their husbands had destroyed.
They all heralded the annihilation of the Jewish people. Her mother’s people.
And what about the Gruppenführer—had he cheered yesterday with the rest of them? Allina had lain awake for hours last night while her limbs twitched beneath the suffocating quilt, torturing herself over that question. Von Strassberg had shown her sympathy and patience in countless ways. The man had feelings for her, she was sure of it, but his tender regard might change if he knew the truth about her mother. And while he’d sworn to protect her, he had no idea how precarious her situation was—or how much danger they’d both face if others discovered her secret.
The romantic strains of Strauss’s “The Blue Danube” filtered into the parlor. Music meant the meal was over. The evening’s dancing had begun.
When the Gruppenführer slipped into the room, she realized she’d been waiting for him.
“You’re in no mood to dance,” he murmured, his face still cast in shadows.
“I see no reason for it.” She gestured toward the door. “The celebration is a travesty.”
Holding out his hand, he moved into the light, illuminating the clean, hard line of his jaw and white bow tie. “Beauty should never be wasted.”
She shook her head. His smile was a grim acknowledgment of her pain, but she refused to return it.
“Dance in anger then, or in defiance,” he coaxed, holding out his hand again. “Come. Dance with me.”
His calmness was a magnet, impossible to resist. She went to him, faltering at the awareness that sparked when he pressed his broad, warm palm to hers. “It’s all right,” he murmured, drawing her into his arms with care. When she refused to meet his gaze, he nudged her a fraction closer, perhaps to allow her the privacy of her thoughts, but the warmth of his tall, lean body didn’t silence her questions. She couldn’t stand the sense of limbo anymore, of knowing but not knowing, and of all the unspoken words between them. By the end of the waltz, she was crying softly, shuddering in his gentle grip. He continued to hold her after the music stopped, hand clasped around hers and comforting fingers pressed to the center of her back.
She glanced up. His eyes were warm with concern, and his thumbs were whisper soft as they wiped her tears. The heat from his body and the scent of him, cool and clean, made her stomach tighten. As Allina swayed closer, he dipped his head until their lips were just centimeters apart.
Panicking, she shook her head, backed away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “You can’t bring yourself to trust me. I don’t blame you for that.” He slanted her a shrewd look. “We can’t move forward without trust, can we?”
Von Strassberg locked the door, then moved the radio closer to it and switched it on. As the triumphant strains of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” filled the parlor, he walked to the far side of the room and arranged two chairs so they were a half meter apart and facing each other. With a flick of tailcoat, he settled into one, crossing his long legs before fixing his dark blue eyes on her once again.
“You have questions for me. I’m at your disposal,” he said, inclining his head as he gestured to the other chair. “You may begin your interrogation.”
Allina took her seat, unsure how to begin. He was offering exactly what she’d hoped for. Now her courage was failing.
“Please.” He tilted his head toward the radio, still blasting away. “The Wagner will do its job nicely for a bit.”
She wet her lips and began with the question that had stolen her sleep last night. “Did you cheer the Führer yesterday, at the Reichstag?”
He swallowed, hard. “Of course I cheered,” he said. “Do you think I had a choice?”
“But do you agree with him?” she asked. “Do you agree with what he said about the Jews and … and what must be done?”
He nailed her with his dark blue eyes. “No. No, I do not.”
The need to share the whole truth had her shaking, so much that she couldn’t trust her voice to ask another question. As the silence spun out between them she was unable to break away from the intensity of his gaze.
“Why would you ask me this?” he finally whispered. “Of all the questions you could ask, why would that be the first?”
Allina paused, gathering courage. She had to tell him.
“You know my aunt and uncle raised me after my parents died.”
He nodded.
“But I didn’t tell you about my parents. My birth mother, my real mother, was Jewish.”
His lips parted in shock. He didn’t respond to Allina’s admission but continued gazing at her in that strange way of his, searching inside her. Seeing her. With compassion, and understanding, and an emotion she couldn’t quite identify.
She blinked back tears. “I’m Mischling. All my papers are forgeries. My position here was built on a lie.”
“Does Gud know?” he asked.
She shook her head.
For a moment it seemed like he was observing her from a long distance. Karl opened his mouth again, then closed it, as though searching for words. “I’m so glad you told me,” he said finally. “And I promise to keep your secret safe. I hope you know you can trust me to honor that promise.”
“I do.” But his promise didn’t reduce the horror of the other questions she needed answered. “I must know more about the Führer’s plans. If you’ll tell me.”
It was a pitifully vague request, but von Strassberg must have gotten her meaning, because he paused and looked away before giving a careful reply. “You heard the Führer’s speech. He wants every Jew out of the country.”
“He used the word ‘annihilation,’” she insisted.
“Yes,” he whispered. He leaned in to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, but it was the grief in his eyes that stilled her.
Panic rose in her chest, a frozen, silent scream. “How can this be happening?” she asked, ignoring Karl when he shook his head and opened his mouth to speak. “The world won’t allow—”
“No,” he interrupted, cupping her cheek. “Listen to me.”
“England, France, America,” Allina said, pulling away. “They’ll never permit it.” Surely, someone would intervene. She paced to the window, pressing her forehead to the cool glass to ease her frantic breathing. Von Strassberg joined her after a few moments, standing close enough that the heat of his body warmed her through their clothes. He didn’t speak. He seemed content to offer the calmness of his presence, as their breaths left foggy circles on the windowpane.
“You always insist on the truth,” von Strassberg finally murmured. “Can you bear to hear it tonight?”
Allina turned to face him.
“If you think the rest of the world cares about our Jews, you’re fooling yourself,” he said with a bitterness that made her stomach tumble. “They barely tolerate their own. The world looks away. No one wants war.” He blew out a tired breath. “They looked away when we took back Austria. And now, Chamberlain and Daladier capitulate, hoping the Führer will be content with the Sudetenland. He won’t be. His hunger for power, like his hatred of the Jews and the Soviets, is bottomless. But no one wants war,” he repeated, “and the Führer knows that. He’s counting on it. For now, the world is content to remain blind.”
Allina tried to rub the goose bumps from her arms. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his face. She’d never witnessed this defeated cynicism in him before.
Von Strassberg straightened his shoulders, plainly making the effort to take hold of himself, but when he spoke again it was with a clipped military precision that betrayed how much the words cost him. “We’ll see greater restrictions, more arrests and roundups. The camps, the ghettos aren’t the issue. We have the capacity. What we lack is structure, discipline. The Führer has dozens of scientists and engineers eager to do his bidding, but they bicker among themselves. Progress is slow,” he added, blowing out another gust of air. “Time is on our side. For now.”
Our side. Despite her horror, she managed to hold on to that one phrase, a single candle in a pitch-dark room. “What do you mean, our side?”
His eyes were dark with grief. “I mean I’ll work with like-minded individuals to save as many people as we can,” he said, “for as long as I can.”
There they were—the words she hadn’t allowed herself to consider. Allina gripped the window’s ledge to steady herself. “There are plans in place? Plans to help?”
“Organized plans, no, but, as you know, papers can be faked,” he said with a wry smile. “Safe transport out of the country can be arranged, given time and resources. There’s an effort now to transport Jewish children to England. I’ll have to turn my attention there soon.”
The enormity of his words had her light-headed. “How many others are there, like you, in the Schutzstaffel?” Allina walked back to her chair on shaky legs and sank into it.
“Only a handful,” he said with a bitter laugh, “and we’re a fractured bunch.” He raked his fingers through his pomaded hair until thick clumps of it stood on end. “A few disagree with the Führer’s politics, others his military strategy. We can’t agree on how to stop him.”
There was an edge to his voice and a tightening in the lines around his eyes that made her bold. “I don’t think he can be stopped while he lives.”
He blinked. “Probably not, no.”
A sharp clatter of heels—the lively sound of Hochland Home women in search of private parlors—sounded outside the door, followed by a shrill laugh that sounded too much like Berta’s. Karl’s eyes widened and he raised a finger to his lips. Allina remained frozen with her pulse pounding in her ears, until the footfalls receded.
“How do you bear it?” she whispered.
“I’m a military man, like my father and his father before him,” he answered. “It’s my duty to serve Germany and all its citizens, though my real work must happen in the shadows.”
His words were affirmation and a gorgeous relief—and also treason, plain and simple. “It’s a dangerous deception,” she whispered. “A treacherous risk.”
“You’re part of that deception now,” he said, “and you know more than you should, thanks to me.” Taking her hands in his again, he webbed their fingers together. “I need your help, every bit as much as your children do. We need each other.”
“I’ve given you more to worry about now, though, haven’t I?”
Von Strassberg’s smile was immediate, and it wiped the bitterness from his face. For a moment she glimpsed a bit of the little boy in her locket. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my partner in crime,” he said. “My brilliant recruit. And the most precious.”
In your heart you know he’s a good man. Good men do what they must. Allina closed her eyes as Uncle’s voice filled her mind, repeating words he’d said about the boy she’d loved.
There was only one question left unanswered. “What are your plans for me?” she asked, softly.
He smiled and squeezed her hands. “I’ll do everything within my power to protect you. I’ve become a master at keeping secrets.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I asked you once what you wanted from me. You never gave a full answer.”
He stared at her, looking into her in that strange way of his. A shiver ran through her, settling low in her belly.
“I think you know the answer to that. The choice is yours. I won’t insult you by saying I know how much you’ve lost. You’ve suffered unimaginable loss.” He traced her eyebrows with a fingertip, and the intensity in the gentle caress made her shiver. “That doesn’t make me want you any less.”
His gaze wouldn’t let hers go. They were such a beautiful, deep blue.
“Thank you for the truth, Karl,” she whispered.
It was the first time she used his given name.