Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke (34 page)

THE SKY HAD LONG AGO TURNED BLACK WHEN
Gretchen and Daniel reached the Whitestones’ house. Night’s first stars tossed silver onto the brick building, so she could make out the darkened bedroom windows on the second story. The lace curtains she and Julia had hemmed last summer still hung in her room. They hadn’t redecorated her bedchamber. Her throat constricted with swelling emotion. Perhaps, even after three and a half months of silence, they hadn’t given up on her.

She stood next to Daniel at the side of the lane, glancing over her shoulder at the taxi’s taillights fading into red pinpricks in the distance. The June breeze, warm and smelling of summer, swished through the grass. With every breath, Gretchen felt her heart lifting. They had done it at last; they had made it back to England.

After taking a train from Leipzig to Hamburg, they had stayed there for weeks, lodging first in a flophouse where the proprietor cared more about Gennat’s coins than their lack of identity papers. They made splints for Daniel’s broken fingers from handkerchiefs and a leather-bound book they bought from a secondhand shop, Gretchen sawing the cover apart with a knife she’d stolen from the flophouse kitchen.

For a couple of nights, they’d skulked around bars, listening to gossip until they’d learned which establishments were under
Schweigen
’s brother Ring’s protection. They had gone to the closest nightclub and asked to meet with the
Ringverein
head, explaining they had been Iron Fist Friedrich’s associates.

The
Ringverein
had accepted them, but they’d had to earn their boat tickets to England. They had worked at a nightclub in the Ring’s territory: Daniel as a porter, Gretchen as a hat-check girl alongside Birgit. They had wept and embraced each other when they saw each other again. Birgit had been bubbling over with excitement: the money was lousy, but it paid for a bed and meals in a rooming house, and it was a different world from grappling with strangers in the dark.

After each shift, Gretchen and Daniel counted their coins, deducting the amounts needed for rent,
Ringverein
dues, and false identity papers. Every time Gretchen saw brown or black Party uniforms in the street, her heart clutched, but no one gave her a second look. She had dyed her hair back to its natural blond—she’d been certain that Hitler had told his men to be on the lookout for a brunette, since he would believe that the “Jewish virus” had turned her hair brown permanently. Daniel had colored his hair black. Wearing cheap, secondhand clothes
they’d found in a thrift shop, and several pounds lighter because they’d rather save their money than spend it on food, they had looked little like themselves.

When they finally had enough money, one of the Ring’s forgers made their new passports. The next morning they sailed for Dover. As the white cliffs rose above the churning gray waters of the channel, Gretchen had breathed deeply for the first time in months.

Once they had disembarked, they went straight to a post office so Daniel could send a telegram to his parents:
The Lion is safe in his new lair. He hopes you will join him
. He’d left it unsigned. Though he said nothing as they stepped outside into a lightly pattering rain, she knew how desperately he wished his family would leave Germany. But there was no telling what they might do, or what lay before them if they remained in Berlin.

Gretchen and Daniel had taken the first train to Oxford. Now she stood in the lane with Daniel, studying the house and gardens rising before them in the darkness, her heart racing. What if the Whitestones didn’t understand that her silence had been an attempt to protect them? What if they were angry and turned her away?

Daniel’s hand found hers. “Don’t worry. They love you.”

“Let’s go in,” she said, her voice catching. Together, they climbed the porch steps. Gretchen eased the front door open and listened to the classical music, click of knitting needles, and scratch of pencils on paper drifting from the parlor. Her little brothers must be drawing, Julia making another wobbly scarf, Alfred sitting back in his favorite chair, eyes closed, lost in the music.

Her throat was so thick she couldn’t speak. “It’s us!” she choked out at last.

For an instant, there was no sound except the radio. Then voices shouted, “Gretchen! Daniel! Thank God!” and footsteps rushed toward them. Gretchen stood by the front door, smiling so hard her face ached as Alfred, Julia, and the three boys raced into the hall. She glimpsed a jumble of wide-eyed faces before Julia swept her into an embrace, shaking and sobbing. Gretchen hugged Julia back, inhaling the soft scent of her lily perfume.

Then Julia released her, and Alfred surprised her by overcoming his usual reserve and kissing her cheeks. He held her hands, beaming down at her despite the tears filling his eyes. Looking at him, Gretchen’s heart seemed to fill her chest until it pressed against her ribs.
This is what a family feels like
, she thought, smiling until she caught sight of Daniel, standing off to the side, his hands in his pockets, his head downcast.

Something tightly wound inside her seemed to break. She ran to him, flinging her arms around his shoulders, drawing him close for an instant before letting go and turning to face the Whitestones.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “All I’ve wanted for months was to come home to all of you. But I won’t live without Daniel. He can’t stay in Oxford, because he’s known here under his real name. We—we couldn’t prove his innocence,” she faltered.

Alfred studied them, his expression grave. “Boys,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, “upstairs. Now. Your mother and I need to speak with Gretchen and Daniel.”

Sighing, Colin, Andrew, and Jack dragged themselves upstairs, sending pitiful looks over their shoulders. Alfred and Julia ushered Gretchen and Daniel into the kitchen, where Julia put on a pot of tea to boil and fixed them sandwiches, saying that they both looked far too thin. As they ate, the whole story tumbled out.

It took nearly an hour. When they finished, Gretchen stared at the tile floor, its pattern of white and yellow squares blurring together as she blinked back tears. She thought of gentle Herr Gerlich, dragged off to jail, and Daniel’s old colleagues at the
Munich Post
. Friedrich, who had died because he’d cared about what had happened to an employee. The deluded Dutch arsonist, sitting in a cell, waiting for his trial to begin. The hundreds of Communists and journalists who’d been imprisoned, and the anonymous men who were even now being tortured in the trade union cellar. So many people had already been lost.

She knew she and Daniel had been fortunate. Her heart, though, ached so badly that she could not take a deep enough breath, and her head felt light from the lack of air. She had to tell the Whitestones that she and Daniel were here to say good-bye and that they had to move on to another place, where they could be anonymous and safe.

She saw by the sadness in Alfred’s and Julia’s faces that they understood what she needed to tell them, without her saying a word. Tears burned in her throat as she said, “I’m sorry.”

“It seems to me that there may be another solution,” Alfred said slowly. “Daniel, you said that you want to tell Mr. Churchill about Hitler’s intentions to start a war someday. I could arrange for you to see him—I know his cousin slightly, as he lives nearby
and has often supported the clinic over the years. Why don’t you tell Churchill your own story? He may not be an influential politician anymore, but he’s a prolific writer and an avowed anti-Nazi. Perhaps there’s something he can do for you.”

Daniel hesitated. “What if he decides to alert Hitler’s government about my whereabouts? I’m a wanted murderer, after all.”

“Nonsense,” Alfred said. “You’ve been out of the country, so I suppose you wouldn’t know—Mr. Churchill recently gave an impassioned speech before the House of Commons, warning that Hitler will stir up pogroms and Jewish persecution in Germany. It’s clear he despises the man. You couldn’t find a more sympathetic ally.”

Daniel shot Gretchen a wary glance. Giving him a smile that she hoped looked encouraging, she took his good hand in hers. “Very well,” he said at last, but his tone was despondent. “It’s worth a try, but I don’t see how he could possibly help me.”

Gretchen didn’t see how, either, and had to blink back tears. They may have managed to get to England, but there was nothing here for Daniel except for her. He had no job prospects, no references; he couldn’t even live under his own name. As his grip on her hand tightened, she couldn’t help thinking that this might be one of the last times she got to see the Whitestones before she and Daniel had to move on to somewhere else.

Two days later, a taxi dropped Gretchen and Daniel off in a country road in front of a brick house. She supposed it looked like a typical rural estate, for she knew little about such things. Its owner, however, was anything but typical: This was Mr. Churchill’s home, Chartwell, outside the village of Westerham
in Kent. Although he had agreed to meet with them, thanks to Alfred’s machinations, Gretchen was afraid he wouldn’t believe them.

As they crossed the large lawn, she glanced at Daniel. By the grim set of his face, she could tell he was worried.

“It will be all right,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “We’re together again, and that’s what matters most.”

He nodded, but didn’t reply. Together, they strode toward the front door. On the house’s south side rose a redbrick wall, and between the wall and the great house lay an orchard of fruit trees and a grass tennis court. To the north, she caught the watery gleams of a swimming pool and a pond where black swans glided along the surface. She and Daniel had entered a different world from Berlin’s long, gray streets. The silence of the tranquil countryside felt so alien that Gretchen looked about uneasily, but she saw no hidden threats, only a small, black goat snorting in the orchard.

A butler answered their knock and escorted them into an enormous study. Out of habit, Gretchen took it in with a glance, noting the windows and doors in case they needed to get out quickly. Above a mahogany desk hung an old-fashioned painting of a man she supposed was Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph. Bookcases were crammed with leather-bound volumes, and a couple of rich Turkish carpets covered the floor. It was the sort of place she would love to sit in for hours, reading.

A middle-aged man in a dark suit entered the room. Wispy white hair covered his head, and his face had the delicate pallor of a redhead’s. The pugnacious thrust of his jaw identified him as easily as if he had introduced himself, for Gretchen had
seen the same expression in her history textbook, on the chapter about the Great War. It was Mr. Churchill.

“My cousin tells me that you have important news about Germany,” he said in a clipped, upper-class accent.

“We have uncovered some secrets about Mr. Hitler,” Daniel replied in his careful English.

Mr. Churchill regarded them thoughtfully, unsmiling. Then he waved at a couple of striped chairs, muttering for them to sit. He stood at the window, stroking a bronze cast of a woman’s hand lying on the sill. “Very well. Go ahead.”

It took only a few minutes for them to explain the real background of the Reichstag fire and the reasons Hitler had wanted the Enabling Act passed. By the time they had finished, Churchill was pacing the room.

“I knew it!” He punched the air with his hands. “That accursed Hitler is preparing for war!” He shot them a fierce, unblinking look. “Unfortunately, there’s no proof I can use to convince anyone else. But you’re right, and I know it. I must work harder than I ever have in my life,” he said to himself, “to get myself back in a more powerful position.”

Daniel rose. “Respectfully, sir, you’ll need help.”

Churchill shot Daniel a sharp look. “I see,” he said slowly. “You wish to volunteer your services to me, don’t you?” As Gretchen watched, silently begging Mr. Churchill to accept, he shook his head and sighed.

“Mr. Cohen,” he said, sounding regretful, “you’re very young. You’ve undergone experiences no one should have to. It’s time you let yourself live a real life again.”

“How can I?” Daniel’s eyes were dry, but his jaw was clenched
so hard his words ground out between his teeth. “I’ll never get another newspaper job. I have nothing, not even my name. Daniel Cohen is known as a killer.”

“Why, I was a wanted man once myself.” Churchill’s face creased into an unexpected smile. “Oh, yes,” he said when Gretchen and Daniel stared at him in surprise. “When I was a young soldier fighting in the Boer War, I escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp. They put a price on my head. Mr. Cohen, there’s no shame in being a wanted man when you’re innocent.”

“Please, Mr. Churchill.” There was a desperate note in Daniel’s voice. “I have dedicated the last two years of my life to investigating the National Socialists. I could be a great help to you.”

“I have no doubt that your intimate knowledge of the political situation in Germany will prove invaluable to me,” Churchill said. “If it’s agreeable to you, I would like to consult with you often.”