Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke (2 page)

GRETCHEN DASHED TO HIM. HOW HAD HE MANAGED
to come tonight? He was supposed to be at work, covering a society dance at a local country club for his newspaper. Before she could say a word, he had wrapped an arm around her, pulling her so close that she felt his heartbeat thudding through his jacket. Then he kissed her, a quick peck on the mouth. He pulled back, grinning.

“Surprised?” he asked. “I traded assignments with another reporter. He’s at the country club tonight, poor soul.” Daniel dipped his head low, brushing her ear with his lips so only she could hear him. “Seeing you has made all the groveling worth it.”

“Having you here is the best birthday gift I can imagine.” She stood in the circle of his arm, drinking him in even though she had long ago memorized the sharp planes of his face, the olive tint of his skin, the fall of his dark hair. There was nothing gentle
or quiet about him—the first time she had caught sight of him, she had thought she had never seen such fierceness—but in his embrace, she felt protected. As though she could withstand anything, as long as they were together.

Alfred cleared his throat. “I take it Daniel’s appearance is a success, then.”

His words pulled Gretchen back to herself. Blushing, she slipped from Daniel’s embrace and introduced him to Mary. They shook hands, her friend’s smile faltering when she glanced at his left arm hanging rigidly by his side.

Gretchen caught her breath.
Please don’t say anything
, she silently begged. Daniel was still so self-conscious about his injury.

But Mary sat down without another word, and Gretchen exhaled in relief. There was no flush in Daniel’s cheeks as he seated himself across the table. He hadn’t noticed.

Mary nudged Gretchen and wiggled her eyebrows, mouthing,
He’s so handsome!
Gretchen managed a weak smile. At school tomorrow all of her friends would probably demand to know more about Daniel and why the devil she hadn’t introduced them. She’d have to come up with excuses to fob them off; she could hardly admit that she’d kept them apart on purpose, fearing she and Daniel would slip and say something about their old lives in Germany. Nobody could know who they really were or what they were hiding from.

As Cook came in with the soup, Julia turned to Daniel. “Daniel, dear, how’s work?”

“About what you’d expect.” The tips of his ears turned red. “I’m a reporter at the
Oxford Mail
,” he explained to Mary. “I write the society column.”

In her lap, Gretchen’s hands tightened into fists, the fingernails cutting into her palms. Although Daniel’s tone was light, she knew how much the words cost him. Working as a society reporter at a daily tabloid was a steep fall from his old job back in Germany at the
Munich Post
. That paper was one of the last publications left that was unsympathetic to the burgeoning National Socialist Party, and its reporters had been writing investigative articles about Hitler for over a decade.

Every time Daniel had gone to the
Post
office, he had risked a beating, for Party storm troopers sometimes loitered outside, waiting for a chance to attack him and the other reporters. Despite the danger, Daniel had loved the work: He had believed that he was doing something important.

Now he wrote about high society folks’ clothes and balls and romances. It was a decent job, for it paid enough that he could afford a room in a lodging house in town, and he never went hungry.

He hated it.

“The job is an excellent starting point,” Alfred said quickly. Gretchen’s hands uncurled in her lap. Thank goodness for Alfred; he always knew what to say. “Just you wait, Daniel—it won’t be long before you prove yourself and all the best editors in England are clamoring to hire you.”

Daniel’s laugh was forced. “Thanks, Dr. Whitestone. You’re very kind.”

Then Jack started begging Daniel to tell him pirate stories, as he always did, and soon everyone was laughing at Daniel’s tale about Captain Jack sailing the seas, searching for buried treasure. Before Gretchen knew it, they’d eaten the roast beef, creamed potatoes, and peas and were sitting in the parlor,
having cake while she opened presents.

She smiled over the hair ribbons and hand-drawn pictures from the boys and the bottle of perfume from Mary. She got a string of pearls, her first grown-up jewelry, from Alfred and Julia, and a German edition of her favorite book, Hermann Hesse’s
Siddhartha
, from Daniel. He must have scoured the cramped bookshops on High Street to find it. She ran her hands over its leather cover, marveling at its softness, while the metal grille in the fireplace glowed red-hot. Faintly, she heard the telephone ring from the front hall.

“Do you like it?” Daniel nodded at the book. “I remembered how sad you were that you had to leave your copy behind in Munich.”

How had he remembered something so trivial? “I love it,” she said, smiling at him. “It’s perfect.”

He leaned closer. “Did you see what Winston Churchill said in today’s paper about the debate at Oxford University?”

She didn’t follow British politics as keenly as Daniel did, and it took her a moment to remember who Churchill was. He’d been a prominent politician during the Great War, but these days, he was a writer and a benchwarmer in the House of Commons, a position so inconsequential that he no longer had any say in policy decisions. The only reason she knew that much was because Daniel had to write about him for the society pages whenever he visited his cousin, the Duke of Marlborough, at nearby Blenheim Palace.

“The debate?” she asked, dredging through her memories. On the other side of the room, the boys had clustered around the coffee table, begging Julia for another slice of cake, and Alfred was asking Mary about school. “Do you mean that talk at the university a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes, when the students debated whether or not Englishmen have a responsibility to fight if there’s ever another world war.” Daniel fished a newspaper clipping out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Look what Churchill said about it.”

She read the smudged newsprint:

Mr. Churchill recently spoke at a meeting of the Anti-Socialist and Anti-Communist Union, saying, “My thoughts fasten on Germany, where the rumors about Jewish persecution and possible pogroms have grown louder since Mr. Hitler slunk into office last month. I understand the Nazis better than most in England, for I was recently in Munich, where the Nazis tried to bring about a meeting between me and their leader. Hitler wants war. And we ignore him at our peril.”

It had happened at last, what Daniel had wanted for so long and despaired of ever hearing: an English politician had spoken scathingly about Germany’s new chancellor. When she and Daniel had first arrived in England, they’d been certain someone influential would listen to their warnings about Hitler. On his days off, Daniel had taken the train to London and loitered outside the Houses of Parliament. As soon as the politicians ambled out, he dashed after them, saying he had important information that would gravely affect their foreign relation policies.

A few of the men had stopped, listening with polite smiles, then thanked Daniel and advised him to write to his local MP instead. Most of them hadn’t broken stride. It had taken Daniel months to accept the truth: Nobody wanted to listen. They were too desperate to hold onto this fragile peace. Too worn down
by the years of want and economic depression and hungry bellies. They would placate Hitler for the promise of quiet lives, full stomachs, steady jobs.

She looked up to find Daniel watching her. “Finally,” he said, “someone in England understands how dangerous Hitler is.”

“At last,” Gretchen said with relief, then paused, biting her lip. “But everyone says he’s a has-been. What difference can he possibly make?”

“I don’t know. We could go to his house in Kent—that’s not so far away—and tell him what we know about Hitler.” Daniel’s face lit up at the thought.

Gretchen’s heart sank. She had hoped that Daniel had finally accepted that English politicians weren’t interested in listening to them. Even if Mr. Churchill was willing to meet with them, he couldn’t have Hitler removed from his chancellorship post. The best thing she and Daniel could do for themselves was move on.

“Can’t we forget about Hitler just for tonight?” Gretchen said.

Daniel’s face fell. “Of course.” He took the clipping back, pasting on a smile. “You deserve to be happy, especially on your birthday.”

Cook appeared at the door. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitestone.” The words squeezed out between each rapid breath. “Mr. Cohen’s landlady just rang.” Her gaze skittered to Daniel. “She said she would have gotten word to you sooner, sir, but you were out of the office all afternoon on an assignment.”

Daniel had been crumpling up the discarded wrapping paper. His left hand convulsed around the ball of red gift wrap, a sure sign that the damaged nerves beneath his skin were turning to fire. “Why does she need to talk to me? What’s happened?”

Gretchen went still.

“You received a telegram, sir,” Cook said. Her hands fluttered around her sides. “Your landlady wouldn’t have thought anything of it except . . . Well, sir, it’s a foreign telegram.” She hesitated. “It’s from Germany.”

A hush fell over the parlor. Daniel jumped up. His face had gone sheet-white. “What did it say?”

His voice was so hoarse, Gretchen scarcely recognized it. She understood his concern: Telegrams were expensive, and his family would only have paid for one if they had needed to get in touch with Daniel immediately. There was no one else in Germany who knew where he lived. Something important must have happened.

Nerves twisted in Gretchen’s stomach as she rose. Cook said, “Mr. Cohen, your landlady didn’t want to read your mail. I’m afraid I’ve told you all I know.”

Gretchen took Daniel’s good hand in hers, but he didn’t seem to notice, turning instead to Alfred and saying shakily, “Please, can you take me back now? I need to see the telegram straightaway.” He didn’t wait for Alfred’s response, glancing around the room, his eyes unfocused. “I apologize for breaking up the party.”

“You must go at once,” Gretchen said. “Shall I come with you?”

“No. Stay, enjoy the party.” When he leaned forward to press his mouth to her cheek, his touch felt so light she might have imagined it. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he murmured in her ear. “Maybe it’s good news. Perhaps one of my sisters is getting married.”

Somehow she managed to pull her lips into a smile. “Maybe,” she agreed. “Tell me as soon as you can.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand. The flurry of leave-taking began: Cook fetching Daniel’s and Mary’s coats, everyone shaking hands and saying farewell, the little boys bouncing around like tops from too much cake and excitement. Then Daniel, Mary, and Alfred were gone, the front door creaking shut behind them. Gretchen stood in the parlor, listening to her guardian’s car rumble to life in the lane alongside the house, its tires crunching over the gravel drive as it took Daniel away.

That night, alone in her bedroom, she rested her head on the door. The smooth coolness of the wood was soothing. From down the hall, she heard the boys going to bed: the splash of water in a basin, the rustle of sheets being turned back, the low murmur of Julia’s voice as she read them a story.

Downstairs, Cook hummed as she scrubbed the supper dishes, and a sudden burst of static, followed by classical music, sounded from the parlor. Alfred must be listening to the wireless. When he’d returned from dropping off Daniel and Mary half an hour ago, she’d been waiting for him, desperate for news. But he’d shaken his head, saying Daniel had preferred to go to his room and read the telegram by himself. Surely he’d get in touch with her tomorrow.

Gretchen had nodded, her throat tightening. What could have happened? Was his family all right? She knew he missed them terribly. Sometimes he said that he felt as though he had no family anywhere, with his parents and sisters hundreds of miles away in Berlin. She understood how he felt: She had no real family left, either, except for her mother, since her father and brother, Reinhard, had been killed. With seventeen months of silence
between her and Mama, she supposed they might as well be dead to each other, too.

She looked around her bedroom. It seemed the same, untouched by her nerves. Safe. She loved the feather bed covered by a flowered duvet, the simple maple wardrobe, the walls papered with pink roses, the cheap reproduction prints of all the artists Hitler despised: Klee, Kandinsky, and Picasso, the colors bright, the shapes surreal. They reminded her of a drawing she’d made in her primary school’s art class. When she’d shown it to Hitler, he’d sighed, saying,
Whoever paints the sky green and the grass blue is feebleminded.
She’d burst into tears and thrown it into the kitchen stove.

Well, he didn’t make her decisions anymore. She slipped her revolver out of her schoolbag and put it in the cardboard box on top of the wardrobe, where it was too high for the maid to dust.

It was a pity she couldn’t practice shooting, but she couldn’t risk her guardians finding out that she’d secretly bought the gun last summer with the pin money she’d made watching a neighbor’s children. They would never understand why she needed it. To her, owning a revolver was as necessary as air. When she’d been growing up in Hitler’s inner circle, she’d never met a Party man who didn’t carry a knife or a pistol. Uncle Dolf himself was one of the best marksmen in Munich and he had taught her how to shoot when she was small.