27

“Ssssshhhhhh . . .”

Corey didn’t need the warning. He was too scared to make a noise. He retreated into the shack until his back made contact with the wall.

The man stood there, staring. His face was broad and pockmarked and covered with sweat. His eyes were dark, but strands of reddish hair flowed out the sides of a thick wool cap, almost to his shoulders. He wore a coat not much different from the one Corey had taken from the dead body, and he looked as shocked as Corey felt. “Junge . . .” he said under his breath.

Corey recognized that German word. “Boy!” he said. “Yup. I’m a boy. A helpless one. So don’t kill me.”

“Englisch?” the guy asked.

“American.”

Taking a deep breath, the guy walked in. “You dropped coins. But I do not think you will need them here. The wolves, they do not accept cash.”

“Wolves?” Corey said

“I am not afraid of many things.” The guy chuckled. “But I am very much afraid of wolves. It is why I do not like der dunkle Wald.”

“I don’t speak German.”

“The dark forest.”

The guy had to duck to fit through the door. His shoulders were enormous. He seemed to take up most of the space in the room. Not to mention the air. Corey was finding it hard to breathe.

He stared at Corey, scratching his head. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you here?” Corey asked.

“To make peepee.” He gestured toward one side of the shack. Then he gave the tiniest hint of a smile. “But I am finished.”

The man went right for the window. He grimaced as he lowered himself to one knee and peered through, in the direction of the shots. For a moment he stared, not moving a muscle. “I hear nothing,” he said finally.

“No,” Corey agreed.

“Do you have gun?” he asked, his eyes not wavering. “Knife?”

“Sorry.”

“The shots. Outside. You heard them, yes?”

“Yes.”

Bullets. Wolves.

Get me out of here.

“I . . . sort of have to go,” Corey said lamely. He eyed the holes in the snow, just outside the door, which marked where the coins had dropped.

“No!” The man grabbed Corey’s arm and pulled him down onto his knees. “It is not safe.”

“Right. Okay, I’ll stay a few minutes.”

“They tell us—all of us—we are the best workers in camp. . . .” The man’s voice was raspy and strained. His eyes darted as he spoke, and his words spilled out over one another. “They say they are taking us to freedom. To border town near Austria called Kurtstadt. We have food, drink while we are walking. Then one man, Oskar, he is very sick. He asks them to warten. Wait. But it is so cold, and they are not patient. They tell him come, come, schnell, we must go! Oskar tries, but he cannot move. And so they shoot him. In den Kopf. In the head. Just like that. They say this is act of kindness. Because otherwise he will die slowly in snow. Kindness!”

The man’s eyes were red and moist now.

Corey gulped. “I think I’m wearing Oskar’s coat.”

But the man didn’t seem to hear him. He was talking as if to the air. “They say they will take the rest of us to freedom. But we must walk. This is when I know they are not telling the truth. They do not want to walk. They do not want to go all the way to another Nazi camp in the cold. They want to return. And if they return with no prisoners, pffft, the Nazis do not ask questions. They do not care what happened to us. So I tell guards then I must go and peepee, and I hope they do not notice I am gone. . . .”

“Yeah. I hope so, too.”

The man whirled around to Corey. “Who are you?”

“My name is Corey Fletcher,” he replied.

“Because when I come up the hill, I find this in the snow.” He held out the metal cigarette case to Corey. “Yours?”

“Uh, yes. Thanks.” Corey reached for the box, but the man pulled it back.

“Not so fast,” he said. “One question.”

“What?”

The man eyed him oddly. “If your name is Corey, then why you have a cigarette case with this card on the inside?”

He flipped open the box and lifted out the ID card, which was now newer looking and intact, displaying the name STANISLAW MEYER.

Corey thought fast. “Because that’s my . . . uncle. My Polish uncle. He gave this to me. I’m using it as an alias. Because the Nazis are after my family. I was sent away. I don’t want anyone to know my real name.”

“Ah.” The guy snapped the box shut and handed it to Corey, who quickly stashed it in his pocket. “This is a coincidence. Because this name, Stanislaw Meyer—this is my name, too. And I have a case that is exactly same.”