“Thinking about telling me the rest of the story?”
“No.” The server refilled his wineglass. “I was thinking I was still hungry.”
“You’re a rotten liar.”
He laughed. “Do you really want to guess my thoughts?”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You are a wise woman, Quenby Vaughn.”
She shook her head. A wise woman would step away from this story before it consumed her.
“Why did you decide to become a journalist?” he asked.
She hesitated. “The answer is as complex as my family.”
“You’re nosy?”
She laughed with him. “I suppose that’s part of it, but I really like capturing the heart of a story. Digging deep to find what others missed.”
He considered her words. “It would be impossible, I imagine, to really capture someone’s heart on paper.”
“A good writer shows someone’s heart by recording their actions.”
“Out of a person’s heart come evil actions,” he said. “That’s what Jesus said, in the book of Mark.”
She leaned back in her chair, surprised to hear him quote the Bible. “But every good and perfect gift is from above—”
“The book of James.”
“Exactly.” She smiled. “We each choose between good and bad in our hearts, and our actions follow. The hardest choices are when we don’t know if something is good or bad.”
“Or someone, I suppose.” He set down his glass. “Mr. Knight doesn’t want to wait until next week for you to begin searching for Brigitte.”
“But it’s been more than seventy years since he lost her.”
“The matter is quite urgent to him.”
She didn’t like to be pushed, and yet . . . “I’ll let you know in two days.”
“He’s asked for tomorrow.”
She didn’t respond, either way. While she wouldn’t admit it to the man across the table, she was hooked on the heart of this story.
Chapter 12
English Channel, October 1940
The night fog was thick as paste, so dense that Dietmar could rub it between his hands. After a few hours, the monks had awakened Brigitte and him and led them away from the monastery, under this cloak of black sky and haze, until they reached a strip of sand along the channel waters separating captivity from freedom.
In the late hours, after Hitler’s men had left, the monks had burned his knapsack and given both him and Brigitte a clean set of clothing, the pockets stuffed with their treasures from home. The monks had no shoes to spare, but Dietmar told them it didn’t matter. He’d thought he’d lost Brigitte, but after a warm meal and some sleep, she was walking beside him again, clinging to his hand.
They were stored like fish in the dark hold of a trawler. Wind and waves battered the wooden frame as they motored across the channel, shaking them like glass marbles in a jar. Brigitte vomited her meal on his new trousers, but she didn’t say a word. Nor did she cry.
He tried to pretend that the stormy sea didn’t bother him. Or the stench and frigid air. England wasn’t far now. They would be warm and well there. In England Brigitte would find her strength again.
Several hours later, the rocking ceased, and Dietmar waited, praying they were safe. A fisherman opened the hatch, and he and Brigitte emerged slowly. The fog was clearing in the sunlight, and he saw a desolate beach before them, covered in pebbles.
One of the fishermen carried Brigitte through the water, up to a patch of tall grass. The sharp rocks cut Dietmar’s feet as he crossed the beach, but he was grateful to be off the boat.
Turning, he looked back at the strait of water. Searching for dogs, for men in black uniforms and lightning bolts chasing them. But all he saw were waves.
No one would follow them here.
He tried to thank the fishermen in English, assuring them he could find transport to London, but they didn’t seem to understand. Minutes after landing, the fishermen climbed back into the trawler, their boat vanishing into the fog.
Dietmar and Brigitte tromped across muddy fields for hours until another fisherman gave them a ride. But instead of taking them to London or the depot for trains, the man left them at a police station.
A constable, dressed in dark blue, glanced between them. There was no red band around this man’s arm or iron cross dangling from his collar. “Where do you come from?” he asked.
Dietmar stood tall, hoping he looked older than his thirteen years. “London, mister.” Mother once told him to call the men from England mister instead of Herr. He hoped this man would understand him and direct him to the city.
“And your parents—”
Dietmar’s gaze fell to his bare feet.
“I see.” He spoke to another officer in English, but his words were a flood, so rapid that Dietmar couldn’t decipher one of them.
The constable looked at Brigitte. “What age are you?”
Dietmar felt Brigitte’s hand tremble in his.