https://www.authorcaseymorales.com

Chapter 1

Will

Present Day | May 1946

Paris was slow to wake, her arms stretching in the soft rays of dawn, casting a glow across the cobblestones. The French capital was the only place I knew where buildings shimmered like liquid sunlight.

It was unseasonably cool, even for a late European spring. Most still donned thick woolen coats, stylish hats, and fluffy gloves to shield from the chill. Colorful scarves encircled slender necks, as Parisians refused to let postwar struggles strip them of their sense of fashion.

It felt like I was walking through a dream. It always did here.

London was home when the war ended. Thomas and I celebrated with the Brits, laughing and dancing in the streets, raising glasses and, in some cases, whole bottles. For a brief moment, despite Hitler’s destruction that enveloped everything—and everyone—the topsy-turvy world in which we’d lived seemed to right itself.

I had hoped we could stay in London, see British children return from exile with their infectious laughter and watch as the grand old city patched its wounds and knitted itself back together.

Unfortunately, Uncle Sam had other plans for us.

Near the end of the summer of ’45, our OSS London chief called us into the Embassy and told us to pack our bags.

We were headed to Paris.

Our job was to quietly assist that city’s recovery while gathering intelligence on the presence of former Nazis who might be hiding in plain sight. As the station chief concluded his instructions, he added, “And keep your eyes open for Soviet activity. Uncle Joe has been restless lately.”

Thomas and I wrestled with exactly what that meant but were unable to fully wrap our heads around the meaning buried beneath the words.

Such was the life of a spy.

Our move from London to Paris flowed as smoothly as any postwar move could, and the French welcomed us with open arms. Given America’s role in helping free Europe from Hitler’s grasp, few days passed without hugs from elderly women or pecks on the cheek from younger ones. It felt a bit like being a celebrity without the stage or screen. I wondered if US soldiers stationed throughout Europe felt the same.

For a year, Paris stirred and rose, as if shaking itself awake from the nightmare of war.

Thomas and I ambled along Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, the street damp from a light, early rain. Everything smelled fresh and alive. But it wasn’t just the city that felt different; we felt different, too.

Today, for the first time in forever, we had nowhere to be.

Side by side, we took our time, brushing shoulders as we walked, letting our hands drift close, fingertips touching but never quite lingering. For one brief moment, it felt like the world belonged only to us.

We passed vendors setting up for the day. It was only in the past few months that they had returned to Paris’s streets. Rationing had taken its toll. Fields were only beginning to produce for locals rather than foreign occupiers.

Fresh bread and pastries, their golden crusts peeking out from beneath cloths, filled storefront windows. Thomas tugged me toward a boulangerie with a grin. I laughed, knowing full well he had no plans of letting us pass without stopping. I left him standing on the street, a lopsided grin on his lips, as I darted inside to retrieve our treats.

Thomas stood in the cool air, chatting amiably with nearby patrons. He was the one with the charm, his bright-eyed enthusiasm drawing attention, and I didn’t mind fading into the background to watch him soak it all in.

His accent marked him as American, but that only added to his appeal. It might’ve been the resistance who struck the match and lit the flame, but it was the Allies who ultimately finished the Nazis off and freed Europe from their shackles—and the French people loved us for it.

Pain au chocolat?” I asked, holding two warm, flaky pastries between us as I returned from inside.

Thomas took a pastry, his fingers brushing against mine. “You know me so well.”

He groaned in an almost vulgar manner as he took his first bite. A nearby couple turned, then broke into quiet laughter, the older woman covering her mouth despite her dancing eyes.

His gaze twinkled in a way that made my heart skip.

I’d seen him hardened by war and duty, but on that morning, he was just Thomas—the man I loved, with no shadows or secrets between us.

We continued our stroll, passing a few shops with their windows still taped up, reminders of everything that had befallen Napoleon’s great city. Here and there, a street sign gleamed with fresh paint. Walls bore faint marks where bullets had pocked the stone. Paris wore its scars like whispers, visible only if you knew where to look. It was an odd mix of sorrow and beauty, as though the city told its own story of survival.

I slipped my hand into Thomas’s and gave it a squeeze, finding comfort in his steady presence. Gays were not openly celebrated in France, but postwar weariness stole even the fundamentalists’ desire to bicker, allowing men and women who loved in secret to occasionally step into the sunlight. We hoped that progress would continue as the world put the horrors of hatred and war into the past.

We rounded a corner, and there it was—the familiar red awning of Les Bon Georges, a canvas forming a smile that warmed my heart as it flapped in the breeze. The bistro looked the same as it always had, tucked modestly between larger storefronts, its iron sign swinging gently in the breeze. Miraculously, the war had left this eatery alone.

Les Bon Georges was one of those places that looked like it had always been there, and for the resistance, it had been an anchor. George Creuset, the owner, had welcomed us, the bistro doubling as a safe house and a meeting point for fighters and operatives.

Today, though, we weren’t on duty.

Today, we were two men looking forward to a hot cup of coffee and a chance to catch up with an old friend.

A bell tinkled above the door as we entered.

George, a man with Hollywood good looks and a pencil-thin mustache to match, looked up from behind the counter, his eyes brightening.

“Ah! My American boys!” he boomed, his voice filling the room like the pounding of an orchestra’s timpani. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten me.”

I reached out to shake his hand, but George slapped me aside and pulled me into him for a hearty embrace and two quick pecks on each cheek.

“We could never forget you, George,” I said, smiling. “Besides, Thomas is unbearable without his coffee.”

Our old friend chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder before turning to Thomas. “Unbearable, eh? And here, I thought you were the level-headed one,” he said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Getting a bit soft on me? It must be the Paris air. You know it is sweeter here than anywhere in the world.”

“The air or the men?” Thomas grinned as he sloughed off his coat and took a seat.

My George would say both!”

George’s George, his lover of somewhere between a decade and a lifetime—he would never confirm which—was a singer at a local cabaret. Where our George was generally humble and demur despite his gregarious welcome and booming laugh, his George was the sun beneath which all life grew and flourished. His burned so brightly that most had to avert their gazes. It was impossible to not love the man, and he usually traveled with a posse of adoring fans.

The Georges were good men.

Les Bon Georges.

George laughed, disappearing behind the counter to return a moment later with two steaming cups of coffee. He didn’t need to be told how we took it—he knew us well. With a wink and a pat on my shoulder, he left us alone, but not without a knowing grin that told me he hadn’t missed the way we leaned close as our hands brushed beneath the table.

I took a sip and savored the warmth, letting the calm of the bistro settle around us.

Despite having not yet opened his store to the public that morning, George had opened the enormous glass wall that was his front window, allowing us to better watch passersby and enjoy the morning breeze. The café was a modest place, with mismatched chairs and the smell of fresh bread lingering in the air. It had a simple charm, like a relic of a Paris that managed to survive a war, perhaps many wars.

As I looked at Thomas across the table, I felt the weight of memories.

I was sure I always would.

But today they felt lighter, softened by the quiet warmth of George’s bistro. I reached for Thomas’s hand, our fingers linking. It wasn’t much, but that one slight gesture felt like everything.

“Remember that night here with George?” I asked, my voice low.

He chuckled, the rumbling sound warm and familiar. “Leaving here was hard, but it was the first leg in our first mission.”

“Are you saying that George was our first?”

Thomas nearly spat coffee across the table. I glanced down at my coat to check for splatter. “Don’t make me laugh. That’s a waste of the best coffee in Paris.”

I reached behind and grabbed a cloth napkin from a nearby table, then handed it to him. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

Thomas’s eyes softened, and he gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “It was, but we’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

We finished our coffees and said our goodbyes, then strode into the brightening day.

The beauty of Paris awaited.

We made our way along the Seine, and I found myself noticing the finer details—tiny buds pushing through cracks in the pavement, the faint scent of blossoms in the air, the way the bridges had been patched up with fresh stones that stood out against the older bricks. The city was healing, slowly, in ways that were easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

Oddly, it felt like a privilege to see it happening.

We paused by the Pont Neuf, leaning against the railing, watching the river’s lazy current. The Seine sparkled, carrying stories and memories from the past that Paris seemed to be releasing, bit by bit. A few boats drifted by, laden with supplies, their operators shouting greetings to each other across the water.

A few bore men in uniform.

Thomas’s gaze was fixed on the skyline, his face relaxed, softened by the sun. I let my shoulder press against his, our hands coming together in a quiet motion that felt both ordinary and extraordinary.

“It’s hard to believe this place was a battlefield only months ago,” Thomas murmured.

“And now it’s just . . . Paris.” My heart swelled with a strange, fragile hope. “And we’re here, together.”

Thomas turned and met my gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar warmth that had been there since the beginning, since our first days at Harvard.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “Just Paris.”

We continued along the river, taking our time, letting ourselves sink into the city’s quiet rhythm. Near the end of the day, we found ourselves back in the market at Rue Mouffetard, the sun casting long shadows across the bustling street. The vendors were still out, their stalls lined with fruit and bread, flowers and spices. Meat remained in short supply, but few complained.

A woman at a fruit stand caught my eye, her face lighting up as she pressed a handful of cherries into my hand. “Life is coming back,” she said, her voice warm, her smile knowing. “And love, too, I see.”

My cheeks flushed, and the woman’s smile grew. Thomas threw an arm around my shoulder. The woman chortled and clapped her weathered hands.

I thanked her, feeling my cheeks blaze, and offered a cherry to Thomas. He took it, holding my gaze as he bit into it, the smile on his lips both mischievous and tender. It was such a simple moment but held a kind of intimacy that made my heart swell to bursting.

As the sun dipped lower, again crowning the city in a soft golden light, we turned toward our flat, our hands brushing one last time. We wouldn’t be so brazen as to hold hands on the street near the place we called home, but an occasional brush was irresistible. I let myself lean into him, just a little, just enough to feel the warmth of him, to know he was there.

We turned down the final street toward our tenement, and Thomas froze.

“What is it?”

He stared at a building across from ours, and I followed his gaze.

My heart stilled.

Ten windows peered back from ten apartments.

Nine were blind, their curtains closed.

One winked, with one side closed and the other pinned up so the glass pane’s eye was half lidded.

Thomas turned back to face me and said, “Well, shit.”

Chapter 2

Heinrich

Berlin, Summer 1938 (eight years earlier)

The first half of the year had been orchestrated chaos. Every train departing Berlin carried whispers of what was to come, steel wheels grinding against tracks that would lead us to war.

For most, the preparations were invisible; but for those of us within the machinery of the Reich, the signs were impossible to miss. They were etched into every telegram, every shipment manifest, every hushed conversation in corridors where secrets lived and thrived.

I arrived at the Ministry’s headquarters under a gunmetal sky and air thick with the weight of something inevitable. My office was a modest room tucked into the heart of the intelligence wing, its walls bare save for a map of Europe marked with red and black pins. Each pin represented a target, an asset, or a potential threat. Together, they told the story of a continent teetering on the brink.

I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the rack. My desk, as always, was a battlefield of papers: reports, intercepted communications, photographs. While my work was not glamorous, it was vital.

I analyzed. I interpreted. I uncovered.

If the Gestapo was a sword, I was a scalpel.

A file waiting for me was stamped with the crimson insignia of utmost secrecy. Inside was a name I recognized: “Leonid Markov,” a Soviet trade delegate stationed in Prague. Markov was no mere bureaucrat. He was suspected of coordinating intelligence operations across Central Europe, operations that threatened to hamper the Führer’s aims. Our evidence was circumstantial, but circumstantial evidence was my specialty.

Technically, Soviets were off limits.

According to leadership, Hitler had secured our eastern flank. They would never say how, only that the Father of the Fatherland had worked his magic, and there was no need to worry about Stalin moving against us.

Who was I to argue? The Führer had worked one miracle after another. He could do no wrong. In the eyes of his people, he was nearly a god. If he said there was no need to worry about Stalin and his Red Army, so be it.

Within the intelligence community, confidence was high that it was only a matter of time before the war turned and our Führer aimed his swords at the bear. And so, as with every other major power on the globe, I studied the Soviet Union, watched them, and planned for the day when our blades would swing at Russian throats.

Running my fingers across the edges of the file, its texture felt rough against my skin. Markov’s photograph stared up. A man in his forties, his black hair was slicked back, and he maintained a thick, bushy mustache. His eyes were heavily lidded, betraying nothing. I admired that about him. Secrets, after all, were a kind of currency, and Markov was a wealthy man.

He was also my first major target, the first mission to offer me real advancement and the attention of our most senior leaders. In short, this Soviet and his careless dalliances were everything I had hoped for.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

“Come in,” I said, not looking up.

The door creaked open, and Major Koch entered. His presence filled the room like a gathering storm. Koch carried authority effortlessly, his shoulders broad and his every movement calculated. He wore the black of the SS with silver accents gleaming in the light.

“Heinrich,” he said, his voice clipped. “Walk with me.”

I shoved the file in a drawer, locked it, and followed him into the corridor. The clicking of typewriters and hum of muffled conversations created a symphony of efficiency.

As we walked, Koch spoke in low tones.

“Markov,” he began. “Our sources indicate he has been frequenting certain establishments in Prague. Places where men like him exchange more than pleasantries.”

I nodded, understanding the implication and the way Koch practically spat his words. Homosexuals were among the more vile of creatures, almost as detested as Jews, perhaps even more so. Stalin had not hidden his dislike of their abhorrent ways. I was confounded at why this man was allowed to rise in Soviet ranks. In the Fatherland, he would already be in prison or dead.

“Do we have specifics?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Koch admitted. “But the Abwehr[1] has been monitoring him closely. They have identified a pattern. He is cautious, but even the cautious make mistakes, especially when passions are involved.”

We reached a window overlooking the courtyard where a truck loaded with crates was being inspected by guards. Koch turned to face me, his expression grave.

“I need you to compile a full profile,” he said. “Habits, weaknesses, vulnerabilities. If Markov is a threat, we must neutralize him before he compromises us.”

“Understood, sir.”

Koch’s eyes narrowed. “Do not underestimate him, Heinrich. Men like Markov are dangerous because they believe in something greater than themselves. He may be a deviant, but he is a faithful follower of the communist dogma.”

I almost laughed at the irony of his statement but kept my expression neutral. No loyal Nazi would ever equate Hitler’s truths to other men’s hollow creeds. “I won’t, sir.”

Koch nodded once, then turned and marched away, his strides—and likely his mind—already shifting toward whatever was next on his day’s agenda. I stared a moment into the courtyard before returning to my office.

I spread Markov’s file across the desk. Each page, each photograph, was a piece of the puzzle. How did they fit together? What story did they tell? I studied his movements, his associates, his coded messages. Patterns began to emerge, faint but discernible.

As I sat back to ponder everything that lay before me and sort through what I knew, not just of the man’s actions but of the history that led him to this moment, my thoughts drifted to my own past.

My mother died when I was little. I barely knew her. My younger sister Julia and I had to fend for ourselves while Father worked to provide for what was left of our family.

Julia was everything.

Her smile was as wide as her eyes were bright. Her laugh made the world a better place. I took my role as her big brother every bit as seriously as Father did his as our provider. I vowed to protect my baby sister, to shield her from the world, to keep her smile shining brightly.

Tuberculosis didn’t care about my promises. It didn’t fear my vow.

Julia’s was the first death I witnessed. She was only five years old.

I never knew a person could hurt so intensely.

As much as I believed in the Reich and the better future we sought to build, I would have given anything to return to when Julia’s smile spread sunlight across my face. I would have moved mountains to hear her laugh, just one last time.

Alas, despite all my wishes and wants, the world moved on.

Father was a schoolteacher, a man who valued knowledge above almost all else. He said understanding the world and our past helped us shape a better future. He said it also helped us understand those around us. He once told me that divining a person’s motivations was the key to grasping their actions.

At the time, the wisdom of his words had fallen on fallow ground.

Now, they guided everything I did.

He was a kind man, yet stern in the way German fathers often were. I wasn’t old enough to remember how he struggled with Mother’s loss, but in the years that followed, there were lingering signs of the scars her death had left.

He bore remarkable strength for such a broken man.

When Julia died, what strength remained in him shattered.

Despite my youth, I knew, in my soul, how he felt. Something deep inside me had shattered, too.

The first time I betrayed someone, I was twenty-two.

It was a small betrayal—a friend who’d spoken out of turn about the Party. I reported him because it was expected, because loyalty demanded it. It was my patriotic duty, and I was proud to do my part.

The guilt that followed had been a dull ache. Over time, that faded, replaced by a deeper sense of purpose.

Betrayal, I realized, was simply another tool.

Two women chatting loudly passed by, their too-loud conversation snapping me back to the present. I refocused, lifting a photo of my target from his file and searching for hidden clues.

Hours slipped by as I pieced together Markov’s web.

By evening, I had a clearer picture. He was methodical, disciplined, but not infallible. His greatest weakness, I suspected, was his humanity. Like all men, he had desires, fears, and blind spots. Unlike most in clandestine service, he acted on his.

Exploiting his weaknesses would be my task.

Someone knocked at my door.

“Enter,” I called.

A young courier, no older than twelve or thirteen and wearing the uniform of the Hitler Youth, stepped inside. Unruly brown hair poked out the sides of his too-small cap.

The boy extended an envelope. “For you, Herr Müller.”

The moment the door closed behind him, I opened the envelope. It was brief but significant:

MARKOV CONFIRMED AT RENDEZVOUS POINT. ORDERS TO FOLLOW.

The game had begun.

Chapter 3

Heinrich

Poland, Late Winter 1944 (six years later)

Konrad flinched as the rat-tat-tat of a distant rifle echoed off pockmarked buildings. The Nazi army were the only predators lurking about Poland for the past few years, and, while we had jointly occupied the country with Stalin’s men for a brief span, we were still unused to the odd Soviet-style gunfire.

“They’re getting closer,” he muttered.

Konrad reached up and adjusted his cap, stuffing sandy blond curls beneath the faded fabric before scooting forward, his belly dragging a line in the snow that covered the office building’s roof. Once in position near the edge, he lifted binoculars to his eyes and slowed his breathing.

We were perched atop the tallest building in Voivodeship, a tiny Polish town positioned miles from anything remotely important. Command had selected the village because it was insignificant, a location few but locals knew—or cared about.

Below, a smattering of aging structures surrounded a ramshackle courthouse. Our troops’ retreat, followed quickly by the Soviet advance, ensured the pristine snow of the streets remained little more than murky sludge.

“I know it’s chilly back home, but this feels worse, like living in an icebox,” I said, rubbing my gloved hands together, begging for blood flow to offer respite. “They will control Warsaw soon.”

I immediately regretted my words.

Konrad would be impossible to soothe once that seed took root in his mind. The man had a fragile constitution and an even more brittle will.

“Do you remember home?” I asked. “Before all this? Before the war?”

For a moment, neither of us stirred, then Konrad whispered, “Yeah.”

“Where are you from?”

Another moment passed.

“North. Near Denmark.”

Konrad was normally chatty, the man in our unit who never shut up. Perhaps it was the Soviet soldiers below. Maybe it was the winter chill. Something stilled his tongue.

Until it loosened.

“We have so much land, Heinrich. Hundreds of acres of farmland. Between the fields whose grains towered above my head and forests thick with trees, I spent most of my youth lost and searching for a path home. My little sister was even worse.”

His voice softened at a memory.

“My mamalein ran the house.” A wistful chuckle escaped. “Hell, she ran everything. If the High Command ever recruited her, all men would follow. They’d be too afraid of her wooden spoons not to.”

I smiled at the simple pleasure in his tone, then realized he’d said ran.

“Where is she now?”

Unintelligible Russian drifted from below. He lowered his binoculars and looked at me.

“They’re all dead, Heinrich.”

My heart sank. “I am sorry—”

“I don’t think the Allies meant . . . Their bombs fell, and our home burned. We were far from anything. I will never know . . .”

I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. We weren’t close, and I despised comforting another man, loathed weakness that required such comfort, but I needed him stable as we stared down at enemy soldiers.

“I am sorry, Konrad.”

He grunted. “The Führer had already called me. I was not there when . . . I should have been there. I should have died with them.”

What could I say to that? I had no words, no gestures, nothing to offer.

He lifted his glasses and stared for a moment before lowering them and half turning toward me. “Are we the last?”

I kept my eyes forward, searching the empty streets. A pair of Polish children raced across, darting from the safety of one burned-out building to another.

“There are a few teams left. Command needs eyes here if they are going to mount a counter—”

“A counter what?” He snorted, a too-loud sound that teetered between amusement and disgust. He lowered his voice. “Heinrich, Poland is lost. The Soviets have barely knocked on the door, and our troops are already gone. There is no resistance, no counteroffensive, no anything. Poland is lost. Berlin—”


“Berlin will stand forever. We have liberated many people, and more will yet know life beneath our banner. The Reich will outlive us all. You will see.”

Neither of us believed my words, but they were the mantra of our Führer, which made them true.

Konrad snorted again, lifting his glasses and peering across the horizon.

Another round of gunfire sounded, then artillery boomed.

A plume of smoke rose a dozen blocks away.

“So close,” he mumbled. “Should we go? Fall back a few blocks? I do not think they are moving quickly.”

I scanned the nearby streets and buildings. Voivodeship was insignificant, far enough from the main road to Warsaw that I was surprised the Red Army had even bothered with the place.

But here they were.

We guessed some four hundred men marched toward us, a fraction of the wave that would surely follow. Most were likely scouts, but one never knew in war. The presence of artillery spoke more of the tip of a spear than mere scouts getting the lay of the land.

Four hundred soldiers outnumbered the residents of the town.

“Shit.” Konrad dropped his binoculars.

“What?”

Gunfire, distant only a moment earlier, sounded so loud I nearly bolted for cover.

He rolled onto his side and fumbled in his heavy cloak, ignoring how much snow he scooped inside the fold that kept him warm. When his hand reappeared, a black-cased camera with silver dials took the binoculars’ place at his eye.

“What are you doing?”

“The Soviets are rounding up civilians.”

“They’re what? What do you mean? Jews?”

“Do Soviets care about Jews?” he snapped.

“No, not really; but if they’re killing Jews, that’s fewer for us—”

“Heinrich! This is our land. Those are our Pols. If they are Jews, we can deal with them later. For now, Soviets are rounding up our people.”

Seeing the red banner invade territory we occupied was horrifying, but I didn’t understand why Konrad was so worked up over someone else killing a few Jews. Given enough time, we would do the same. The Soviets were doing our work for us.

“Here.” He shoved the binoculars at me while he continued observing through the camera. “Look for yourself. There must be three, maybe four, dozen men down there . . . and . . . they’re bringing in a line of more. Women and . . . there’s children, Heinrich, small children.”

“And a couple hundred Soviet soldiers,” I muttered, unable to wrap my head around the scene unfolding below. A group of Pols—factory workers and farmers, by the look of them—huddled in the center of the town square, a small, open space ringed by buildings typical in any town in Eastern Europe. A fountain, its water frozen by winter’s wrath, stood silent behind the group.

We were close enough to fire off a shot at the outer ring of Soviets. Maybe Konrad had been right. We should’ve left when we had the chance.

“Is that a colonel?” I asked, squinting through the binoculars.

“Maybe. It’s hard to tell their epaulets apart up close. From up here, he could be Stalin himself. They’re all gold with stars or stars with gold. It’s a wonder they can tell the difference.”

The colonel, or whatever he was, strode forward like he was the king of Poland. His chin raised, he clasped his hands behind his rigid back. His men leveled rifles at the cowering civilians.

“Can you hear him?”

Konrad shook his head. “Wouldn’t matter if I could. I don’t speak Russian.”

He did speak Polish, though, which was the whole point of us being left behind. Surely, the Soviet commander did, too. Why else would he be marching back and forth before those people, speaking as calmly as if he attended a dinner party?

Unfortunately, all we could hear was the commander’s tone. His words were lost to the wind.

Click.

Click, click.

“What are you doing now?”

Click.

“Taking photos. If anything happens, Berlin will want to see it.”

Once an intelligence officer, always an intelligence officer, so the saying went. I had to give it to Konrad; he was quick on his feet. I hadn’t even thought to bring a camera, much less a local one most wouldn’t glance at twice. The Leica was a marvelous piece; though, the Soviets would likely sneer at the local brand and etchings that were as far from Cyrillic as markings got.

Click, click.

“You sure Berlin will want to see images of a Soviet lecturing a group of farmers on how he and Stalin just freed them from our tyrannical grip?”

Konrad clicked again.

“Something’s about to happen. I can feel it,” he said. “Look at how the Pols shuffle back. They are terrified. Why would they be scared of men sent to save them?”

I squinted, then raised the binoculars again.

He was right.

The farmers looked pale and as frightened as when we had first arrived with our liberating force, the women even more so. Children cried and clung to mothers.

What was our colonel up to?

“We need to get out of here. Whatever they’re doing, it’ll go badly for us if—”

Gunfire exploded throughout the courtyard below.

The colonel had stepped back so the nearby soldiers had a clear shot.

The Polish—simple farmers and merchants, mothers and sons and daughters—dropped en masse, wheat beneath the scythe.

“Holy shit!” Konrad shouted as he bolted upright, then remembered his camera and began clicking as quickly as the device would allow.

A bullet pinged off the parapet a yard from my head.

Then another to Konrad’s left.

“Get down!” I hissed.

A barrage of bullets flew in our direction, and Konrad’s body flailed like clothing hung out to dry in a billowing wind. He never had time to speak or cry out. He didn’t look down or signal. Blood splattered across snow, weaving the most macabre blanket of crimson and white.

The camera fell from his grasp, and his body dropped so fast I could barely think.

Shouts barked below.

I peeked around the parapet.

Soldiers raced toward the building—toward our position.

The colonel was pointing up at us.  

My heart boomed.

I shoved off the edge of the roof and turned to flee. Something tickled the back of my mind, and I turned back and snatched up the camera.

A bullet whizzed by my head.

I threw myself to the roof as Russians shouted, “Вот еще один!”

I didn’t understand the words but knew exactly what they meant.

With bullets trailing behind, I raced across the rooftop and leaped atop the neighboring building, then slid down a drainpipe to land on a second-floor balcony. Konrad and I had slept in the abandoned apartment the night before. There was no electricity, but the mid-level placement of the living space kept the wind and chill at bay. The former residents had left a few loaves of bread in the pantry.

“This is as good a place as any to hide,” I muttered, brushing the snow off my coat as I tried to rein in my panicked breath.

Then artillery fired.


[1] The Abwehr was the German military-intelligence service for the Reichswehr and the Wehrmacht from 1920 to 1944.