Maisie looked both ways along the alley, then up at the windows of the neighboring houses. A shaft of daylight from behind fell past her through the open door as far as the steps within. She opened her handbag, pulled out a box of matches, and struck one. It burned long enough for a glance around a room now revealed to be a scullery, with a large square sink to the left, an old cast iron stove to the right. Shelves hung on the walls, and the door to a larder stood open. The floor was wet, with water seeping from a leaking pipe under the sink. It was so cold Maisie felt as if she were turning blue from head to toe. She lit another match, located an inner door, and stepped toward a narrow passageway. In the light of a fresh match, she saw dark brown smears across the wall. She drew closer, and as the match flickered and died, she knew it was blood. Plaster fallen from the ceiling above crunched underfoot. She reached out toward the door she knew was to her right, and pushed it open.
Two bright eyes peered at her. Light from the window at the front slanted across the black cat. Its coat rippled, and with a yowl it leaped past her and into the passageway. She turned back to the room. Enough light filtered in from the street to show her what had come to pass here. Copies of the Voice of Freedom, torn to shreds, were strewn across the floor. She suspected the remnants had been left as a warning to others who were thinking of crossing Hitler’s regime. Fragments of cast iron were piled in the corner. She lit another match and brought the flame closer; they were parts from what had once been a small printing press. Ink had been poured across the floor, mixed with the reddish-brown stains that could only be dried blood.
It was all Maisie could do to remain on her feet. She held out her hand to steady herself. As if she were being taken back in time, she could see before her what had happened in this place. A small cadre of like-minded men and women had gathered here to write and publish what they believed to be the truth about Herr Hitler’s Third Reich. They had been discovered, and they had paid the price. Were they all dead? No, not all. The young man to whom Leon Donat had offered a job had escaped, according to reports. But had Leon Donat been here? As she stood in the room, she believed he had—for no other reason than it was something she wanted to believe. Given all that she had seen in Munich, she wanted to believe that Leon Donat had supported the dissidents who dared to speak out. She wanted to believe that he had, in fact, escaped with his life—or died because he was a man committed to truth. She shivered.
The meager light had begun to fade. She knew she should leave and return to the hotel.
As she stepped into the passageway, a feline sound, a squawk almost birdlike, caused her to stop.
“What are you doing here?” She bent down to run her hand across the sleek black coat. “I think you’re a witch’s cat.”
The creature wrapped its body around her ankles, so she chivvied it away with her hand. “Go on now, don’t trip me up.”
Holding on to the now-broken door, Maisie stepped with care onto the rough ground that led to the street, only to be met by the screams of two little girls.
“Haben sie keine Angst. Ich werde dir nicht weh tun—ich war gerade auf der suche am Haus.” Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you, I was just looking at the house.
“Bist du ein Geist?”
She laughed. She was not a ghost, she assured them, or a witch—even though a black cat was following her.
One of the girls had hair the color of wheat, her pale blue eyes mirroring the color of her coat, which had a dark blue velvet collar. A blue dress and leather lace-up boots peeked out beneath the coat, a blue scarf was wrapped around her neck, and gloves secured with tape hung below her sleeves.
The other girl’s thick brown hair was tamed in two braids. She too wore a coat, with a matching hat pulled down almost to her eyes. Her gloves were secured to the sleeves of her coat in a similar fashion to those of her friend, and she wore almost identical lace-up boots.
“Is this your cat?” Maisie asked in German.
The dark-haired girl shook her head. “No, but we bring him food when we come.”
“I see, so that’s why you’re here. But it will be getting dark soon, and this doesn’t look like a safe place.”
“This is my friend, Rachel,” the blond girl explained. “We can play together here. No one can see us.”
“And what’s your name?” Maisie smiled to encourage the girls.
“Adele.”
Adele leaned toward Rachel and whispered in her ear. Rachel nodded.
“We’ve seen a ghost here,” said Adele.
Maisie widened her eyes and stepped closer. “You have? Goodness, that is a very scary thing to see.” She cupped her ear as if to hear a secret. “Tell me about the ghost.”
Soon both girls began talking at once, their words tumbling out to form a story. They explained that they came to the street to play together so Adele’s parents could not see them, and on two different occasions they had seen the ghost going in through the door, but they’d never seen him leave.
“Though he might go back to his grave after we’ve gone home.”
The girls nodded in unison, as if in agreement about the ghost’s final destination.
“Do you think he comes often?”
The girls shrugged. Maisie could see they were losing interest.
“We have to go now,” said Adele. “Rachel shouldn’t really be here, because it’s Shabbat. She has to go home before her mother finds out she’s playing.”