29

Corey followed Stanislaw out the door. He was climbing up the hill when he remembered his coins. Quickly he ran back and looked for them by kicking up the snow. One . . . two . . . three.

Perfect. That would be enough. He stooped to pick them up and shoved them back into his pocket. He would need them.

“Wait for me!” Corey cried out.

He caught up to Stanislaw at the top of the hill, where the forest thickened and they could easily hide if they needed to. The wind had picked up, whipping the snow from below their feet. The sunlight was dimming behind the clouds.

Stanislaw beat a twisted path through the trees. But it wasn’t until they’d been walking for a half hour that Corey saw he was limping.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Stanislaw stopped, breathing hard. He gazed tensely back in the direction of the shack. But they were way too deep into the trees to be noticed. “Yes, I am all right,” Stanislaw said. “Back in the camp, before we marched, they beat me. Because I gave my bread to a child.”

“They beat you for that?”

He took off his cap. Under it was a dirty, blood-soaked bandage. The wound was just above Stanislaw’s left ear, and the blood was outlined in a yellowish white.

Corey winced. “That’s getting infected.”

“Yes.” Slowly Stanislaw put his cap back on. “The Nazis are crazy. They know they are losing the war, and this makes them crazier. I know this. They are moving prisoners from place to place. To hide us. To hide their shame.”

“This will sound like a dumb question,” Corey said, “but can you tell me today’s date?”

Stanislaw thought for a moment. “February nineteen forty-five. Maybe fifth? Sixth? I do not know exactly.”

Corey nodded. Nineteen forty-five was the year the war ended. “This is going to work out. It will be over soon.”

“Yes, I believe so,” Stanislaw replied. “Sometimes I hear them talk. They are afraid. When we go to villages, I hear radio also. The Allies have learned about the camps. So the Nazis, they need to do something. The weak prisoners, they kill. But those of us who are strong, who can work, they march us from camp to camp. Already I have been to many. Theresienstadt, Auschwitz, Sachenhausen, Flossenbürg, Ganacker. Sometimes we go in trains, sometimes we march on foot. Each camp is worse than the other. I see my family shot, hanged. Why do I live? Because I am lucky. Nothing more. Yesterday we are in Traunstein, Germany. We stop at a farm. This is where I meet a Resistance spy. I can tell by the eyes. I can always tell. Her name is Marlene. No one suspects. She milks the cows! She gives me a map, and I go to toilet to read it. But I stay a long time. Heinrich notices this. He comes into toilet to find me. And for this—for this I am beaten for second time.”

Stanislaw led Corey to a tree stump. He sat, quickly rolling up his right pant leg and rolling down his sock. “The fool,” Stanislaw said with a snort, pulling out a sheet of paper from inside his sock. “He did not see the map. I hid it.”

But Corey was staring at a sharp bulge above Stanislaw’s ankle. The skin around it was bright red. “That’s where the guy beat you?”

“With a metal pipe,” Stanislaw said. “He aimed higher. But I fell.”

Corey cringed. “It looks broken. I don’t know how you can put weight on it. Even looking at it hurts. How did you manage to pull that guard through the window?”

Stanislaw let out a low whistle. He covered his leg up again and stood. “It feels much better if I don’t see it.”

Corey knew he’d been given some kind of superpower. But for strength or bravery, nothing he’d done compared to his great-uncle Stanislaw.

They huddled over the map, trying to shield it from the wind and snow. It was hand drawn with teeny writing, in crazy detail. A path, drawn in deep red, led through the woods. Each turn was indicated with a landmark—a tree with an almost human shape, the ruins of a hut, a steep valley. The last part of the journey was along a river. The path ended at a big star, just beyond the forest. Over the star was the word KURTSTADT.

“I believe,” Stanislaw said with a smile, “we are on the right track. You see that, where I am looking? It is the first turn marked on the map.”

He pointed straight ahead. Looming over the forest was a tree that looked like it had been growing since the dinosaur days. Like some kind of gnarled, petrified, mutant tyrannosaur.

“From there, we go left,” Stanislaw went on. “And we follow. It is important to memorize this path.”

He ran his fingers along the paper from landmark to landmark. Corey concentrated hard, trying to commit it all to memory. Stanislaw pointed to the village at the end of the path, marked Kurtstadt.

“Here,” Stanislaw said, “is where Heinrich and the Nazi pigs were taking us. I was so happy. You see, in Kurtstadt the Resistance has set up a trap.”

“What are they trapping?”

“Not what. Who.” Stanislaw gave Corey a full smile for the first time. The sight of that smile hit Corey hard. It was his mom’s face in his great-uncle. “Kurtstadt is very . . . far from other places.”

“Isolated,” Corey said.

“Ja. Not many people know it is there. One of the Nazi officers, he was born there. So the Nazis believe this is a good place to hide from the Allies. They plan to gather in Kurtstadt and then make disguises.” Stanislaw shrugged. “In a short time, they plan to leave. They make their way across Europe to Atlantic ports. From there they board ships to South America. They feel they must do this or the Allies will capture them. In Brazil, in Argentina, they will get lost.”

“Can’t someone stop them?” Corey asked. “I mean, if you know about it—”

“Yes, mein Junge.” Stanislaw nodded. “I know something else, too. Something the Nazis do not know. You see, the Resistance has captured Kurtstadt. They set up shops, move in families, make a school—every person in the village is a Resistance member. Ha! This week, maybe next, Himmler and Göring arrive. Marlene believes Hitler will be with them, but she is not sure.”

Himmler. Göring.

Corey could still see their smug faces marching down the center aisle of the Bürgerbräukeller. And walking like a triumphant king, his failed art career long behind him, Adolf Hitler.

But that was 1939, and now it was already 1945. It was too late to save most of the lives Hitler destroyed. And way too late to turn him into a famous stage designer. But the war would still be going on for a few more months. The Nazis would be accelerating their murders in desperation. And Hitler would stay in power until he committed suicide. Because history showed that he did this. Which meant the plan at Kurtstadt was destined not to work.

And Stanislaw was destined to die there. Because of a mistake.

But destiny could be changed. Until now, Kurtstadt had never had a Throwback. And mistakes could be reversed.

“I’m on board with this,” Corey said. “I am so on board.”

Stanislaw let out a triumphant laugh, carefully folding the map and putting it in his pants pocket. As he stepped forward, he nearly fell. Corey grabbed his arm, but Stanislaw brushed him off. “I will be fine,” he said. “Being in Kurtstadt to see Herr Hitler’s face—this gives me strength.”

The big guy was moving a lot slower, so Corey stayed close. Stanislaw’s wool cap was changing color now, too. The blood from his first beating was seeping through, and his face was growing paler.

The next landmark was a battered, roofless old hut, not unlike the one where they had met. By the time they got there, the clouds had lifted. It was no longer snowing, and the air felt crisp. Overhead the sun was beginning to set. The decayed remains of a carriage lay covered in snow outside the hut. The interior floor looked no different than the floor of the rest of the forest. “It . . . gets dark . . . in the woods . . . early,” Stanislaw said. “Maybe . . . we rest. Ankle . . . hurts.”

He was struggling to speak now. His right hand darted up to touch his head, near the injury. Corey couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his head was swelling. The ankle injury could probably wait the night, but not the head.

“The hut doesn’t give us any shelter or warmth,” Corey said. “We’re halfway there. If there are doctors in Kurtstadt, we should keep going.”

“We will not have enough light,” Stanislaw remarked.

Corey could see the faint outline of a full moon against the dark blue sky, through the branches of the pines. That was a good thing, for starters. He quickly fished out his phone and saw it was about 70 percent charged. Turning it toward his great-uncle, he toggled the flashlight on and off.

“Aaaagh!” Stanislaw screamed. “Was ist das?”

Corey grinned. “Make it to Kurtstadt, get healthy, and I’ll tell you where to invest your money in a few decades.”