1 emerald ring – gold
1 set diamond earrings – gold
1 set cuff links – silver
These may have just been things, but they told a story, didn’t they? Around that dining table that sat ten people, there were conversations, birthday celebrations, family arguments, and Passover dinners. In the bedrooms, childbirths and lovemaking. There were special occasions that called for pearl necklaces and cuff links. Music coaxed out of the pianoforte. Diamond earrings given from a husband to his wife on a special anniversary, never dreaming they would one day adorn the ears of anyone but his love.
Audrey knew the valuables would be assessed and distributed or left in place for an incoming officer, depending on Weber’s instructions. The items would take on new identities then, generate new stories for imposter families as the rightful owners’ memories turned to dust and eventually blew away.
Could she really do this? Could she go into these homes over and over, cataloguing the remnants of people’s lives? If it meant finding some piece of information that would end this nightmare, she had to. She took a steadying breath, then went back downstairs to find Johanna. She was standing over the kitchen sink, and Audrey caught a whiff of vomit. Johanna looked up and began to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Audrey asked. “Are you ill?”
“I only put up with it because I need the work. I don’t even fancy him. But he offered me a pay rise, and my father’s gone, and it’s just me and my mum. She cleans houses, but it’s not—and I don’t—” She broke off in a fit of sobs, leaving Audrey scrambling to understand.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s he done?”
“It’s his child. Rolf’s. Herr Weber’s.”
Audrey glanced at her flat stomach. “You’re—you’re pregnant?” She knew very little about pregnancy beyond how it came to be. She didn’t know it could make a woman sick.
Johanna nodded.
The hair rose on the back of Audrey’s neck. Was this a trap? Had Johanna been told to concoct this story, fake her emotions to test Audrey’s allegiance? She had disappeared into Weber’s office for some mysterious conversation right after he’d mentioned the assessment. And wasn’t Audrey doing the same? Fabricating lies to extract the truth. Still, her gut told her this might be real. And so she stepped out onto this high wire behind Johanna, balancing with enough care that she could still hop back to safety should the rope prove unstable.
“He didn’t force you, did he?” she asked gently.
“No,” Johanna gasped. “Not as such, anyway. But…” She pressed her lips together. “Men like that, these men in the higher ranks… they don’t give you much choice. Not truly.”
Vogt’s face flickered.
Be a good girl, now.
Ludwig and Claus were right; this was Weber’s routine. She wondered how many Johannas there were within the Party and the government administration, how many derailed lives and illegitimate babies, all because these men in power simply took whatever they wanted. Weber had made a career of appropriation in more ways than one.
Johanna fished a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with water, swished, and spat. She dabbed her face with a hand towel embroidered with someone else’s initials.
“It’s not just me,” she said, sniffling. “There was Ursula, before me. I knew why she left, knew I was next. And I still let it happen.”
“Oh?” Audrey prompted.
“It happened in bits and stages, before I really realized what he was doing. He picks us for what we look like, to impress those friends of his in the Führer’s office. He’s a bad man, and I’m a fool. It’s your first week, Ada.” Her little nose was swollen, eyes raw as a winter night. “If I were you, I would leave. Find a job elsewhere, any job that’s not near him.”
Audrey’s mind spun far beyond the walls of the kitchen.
She’d been tasked with becoming the bait to Weber. That’s what she’d agreed to do. Johanna’s presence had allowed Audrey to remain at arm’s length from him, and her departure meant Audrey’s buffer from Weber’s advances was gone—but it also opened the door to get closer to him, walk the razor’s edge of seducing him just enough for him to let slip something that might be useful to the resistance. She would be next, just as Johanna had been after Ursula. An unnerving awareness engulfed her—who would be her own replacement? And why?
Johanna reached for Audrey’s arm and held fast. “You seem like a nice girl. He will take advantage. Be careful.”
Audrey’s heart beat fast. The weight of her mission settled on her shoulders, pressing down like a hot iron, branding her.
“I will,” she lied.
Chapter 17
Kate
ALNWICK, ENGLAND | LATE NOVEMBER 2010
Kate can’t stop thinking about Audrey’s story as she scans old records in the Oakwood office. She’s spent most of this cold, snowy morning digitizing the inn’s files, finally getting somewhere with modernizing the administration after purchasing a brand-new scanner and shredder—neither of which Audrey had. She’s begrudgingly allowed some progress—albeit with ample doses of grunts and frowns—but she’s also seemed more preoccupied since she and Kate began their chats.
When Kate referred to her recorded experience as an interview last week, Audrey had scoffed. “Interviews are for employees and celebrities.” Kate had tried “memoir,” but Audrey flapped her hands and insisted on the term “chat,” clearly preferring to keep her recollections to Kate firmly—though ostensibly—casual.
As she scans then shreds the yellowed, typewritten invoices, working her way backward through the 1980s, ’70s, and now into the ’60s, Kate considers the monochromatic monotony of her previous work at the insurance company—the grey carpets, Lego block furniture, and inane corporate culture—things that feel laughably inconsequential in comparison to Audrey’s dive into the dark waters of the Third Reich. Kate’s gut would swirl over pissing off her bland, inept manager, and here Audrey was, spying on the German government with a false set of papers as she conspired about the downfall of the system.
Kate had been astounded at Audrey’s description of the Red Orchestra. “But why have I never heard of any of this?” she’d asked.
Audrey had shrugged, scratched her scalp. “I don’t write the history books, dear. And I’ve never met anyone who does. Have you? Makes you wonder where they get it all from.”
As Kate feeds the paper through the shredder—a task that’s immensely satisfying—she glances at the mess of pens, letters, and scrap paper across Audrey’s desk. She can’t quite believe how sloppy this office is. It’s evident that Sue never comes in here to clean. Either because it’s too untidy or because Audrey refuses, Kate isn’t quite sure, but she suspects the latter. Kate has always had a tidy and meticulous nature. A place for everything, and everything in its place, as her mum used to say. No anxious last-minute searching, no questions. Nothing missed or lost. It was one of the things that made her and Adam a good match at the time.
She pulls the manila folder for 1968 out of the old metal filing cabinet against the back wall, and her stomach lurches with excitement. The year of her parents’ honeymoon. Shoving some stationery detritus aside, she splays the file out and shuffles through, searching for the invoice from her parents’ stay. She’s sure it’s nothing special, not a handwritten note like her dad’s entry in the guest book, but it’s another piece of the picture, another thread of connection to the Oakwood, this place that’s starting to feel like home. She sifts through the file, but doesn’t see their names.
“Hm.”
Brow crinkled, Kate double-checks, but still, nothing. She pauses on the last invoice in the file, notices it’s been misfiled. This one is from January 1969. She sighs, unsurprised that Audrey’s record keeping hasn’t exactly been scrupulous. Maybe she’ll find her parents in the 1967 folder. Or maybe, she thinks with a prickle of irritation, she already shredded it with the 1969 batch. She hadn’t really paid attention to the details of the invoices, but she’s sure their names would have jumped out at her.
