Chapter 8
It had been a week since she’d found him. The pain in his legs had reduced to a simmer now, but he was still bound to this bed, trapped in this cabin. The light of the day outside was dying, the sun tossing out bright oranges and reds that cut through the snow-dusted glass of the window in his room. He ran through Franka’s story again and again, searching for inconsistencies that weren’t there. He hadn’t seen her since last night, since she’d walked out after telling him about her past. It had been hard not to tell her what he knew about the activities of the White Rose. He thought back to his training, to the interrogation techniques he’d learned. Her eyes betrayed a profound truth. He knew she wasn’t lying, but he also knew that she was holding something back. She’d told him most of her story, but there was something else, a missing piece. Regardless, it was almost impossible to imagine she was a Gestapo agent. If she knew he wasn’t German and had reported him, he would have been in a windowless room, staring into a spotlight. She was a traitor to the cause, had served time for activities against the regime, and had escaped the guillotine only by being underestimated by the men who’d tried her. Had she somehow worked out who he was? How? He reached over for the glass of water beside his bed and took a cool drink. If she had worked out that he wasn’t German, what else had she worked out?
Today’s weather was fine. It wasn’t easy to tell through the frost-encrusted window, but it hadn’t snowed. The cabin was likely accessible now. The world could encroach on their hidden place. He looked around. There was no room in the cabin for a listening place, for clandestine Gestapo men peering at him through holes in the wall. He heard everything that went on when she brought wood in, when she made herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. He’d heard her take a bath earlier and knew that she was reading in the rocking chair by the fire in the living room right now as she listened to the radio. She acted with absolute abandon in front of him. She listened to illegal radio stations and often spoke about her disdain for the regime. If he were a Luftwaffe officer, as his credentials said, then she could expect harsh treatment from the Gestapo if he reported her illegal activity. She was telling the truth when she said she knew. There was no other explanation. Somehow she knew.
A noise from the living room told him that she’d gotten out of her seat and was in the kitchen now. Her footsteps came toward his door, followed by a knock. The door opened. Her face was colorless and drawn. It was rare that he saw her during the day unless she had a specific reason for coming into the room. She usually came only at mealtimes, but it was still at least an hour until dinner.
“Are you well?”
“I’m quite comfortable, Fr?ulein.”
It was a discipline, a learned behavior, to fight back his instincts, to not reveal himself. He had heard her bedsprings creaking through the night and saw the rings under her eyes now.
“Franka? You’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”
“What?”
“It’s not your fault you’re alive and they’re not. And you shouldn’t feel shame for not wanting to die.” The words came without thought or ulterior motive. He was surprised at himself.
“I sold out the last thing I believed in.” She turned to him, her voice muted, her eyes on the floor. “I had nothing else in this life. At least if I’d spoken out—”
“You’d be dead now, and so would I. What good would that have done? Who would that have served? Hans is dead, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t live on.”
“It’s ridiculous—I’ve never revealed this much to anyone before. I don’t even know you.”
“Confidants are hard to come by these days.”
Could he trust her? Was her story real? What were the chances of finding someone like her? He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t, not while he knew she was holding something back.
“Franka? Is it all right if I call you that?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I want to thank you for telling me your story.”
“Are you going to report me?” she said.
“For what?”
“For listening to banned radio stations? For making seditious claims against the führer?”
“I’m not a Nazi.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Not every German in uniform is a Nazi. You should know that better than most.”
“And not everyone in a Nazi uniform is a German.”
“There is no room for questioning the government in time of war,” he said, feeling the hollowness of his words.
“The White Rose felt quite the opposite.”
“And you consider yourself a true patriot, for speaking out against the government?”
“I did once. I’m not worthy of the name now. Not after what I did. Hans, and Sophie, Willi and Alex. They were the true patriots.”
Silence hung heavy in the room. This was the time. The opportunity was dangling in front of him.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know people. It’s part of my job. I was trained to recognize when someone is hiding something, and I see you are.”
“What about you, Herr Graf?” She spat the name out as if it were sour. “What are you hiding from me?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Oh, isn’t it?”
He was aware of the gun under his pillow and knew what effect reaching for it would have on this conversation, on all of this.
“There’s something in you that you haven’t told me about.”
“You’ve told me nothing!” she shouted.
“I can’t divulge the details of the mission that I’m undertaking—”
“I know, for the good of the Reich. You reach inside me, and when I give, you only ask for more.” She stood up. “You say you’re not a Nazi, but you’re just like them. Maybe you’re the one who’s hiding something.”
She made for the door and slammed it behind her, but the lock didn’t catch, and it came ajar. The entire cabin quaked as she stomped to the kitchen. He heard her pull a chair up to the table and then the sound of her weeping.
He fought the weakness he felt within himself.
She wept alone.
What could he do stuck in this bed, in this cabin, in these mountains? Could he trust her? It was the same question, over and over in his mind, unchanging. Could she do what he couldn’t now? It was true that she’d revealed much of herself, but he could tell there was something else lurking. He could feel it. What had happened to Fredi, her brother? She’d glossed over him in the story as if he’d faded into nothing. Why wasn’t she visiting him if he was in an institution nearby? It was the last part of the riddle, the final puzzle piece. Once revealed, secrets could not be unsaid, and the pistol he’d stowed under his pillow might be his only recourse. He had to be sure. Her life depended on it.
Hours passed. Dinner never came. His water glass ran dry, and his chamber pot remained. He could hear her outside, could hear every footstep, but he didn’t make a sound. He knew they were at a tipping point, and she had to be the one to make the next move. He waited. The cuckoo clock in the hallway chimed eleven. The impenetrable black of night had turned the window into a mirror, reflecting the yellow glow of the oil lamp.
The sound of her footsteps came. She stood at the door a few seconds, the light of the oil lamp dancing through her blue eyes. He didn’t speak.
“I’m going to tell you what you want to know, but not for you, for me,” she said, her voice faded and dull. “I’ve been carrying this around with me for too long. Hans was the only person I told, but there were some details I couldn’t share even with him.”
She stared off into nothing, the words tumbling out of her mouth.