Free Petty Magic by Camille Deangelis Page B

their civil-servant husbands would receive a promotion and the elderly ladies who only wanted to know if their dear Heinrichs were still waiting for them “on the other side.” If I’d grown to trust them, I might even give them a glimpse of the snow globe I kept under a knitted cozy on the mantelpiece, my very own crystal ball, where flakes of porcelain snow fell on Alpine villages inhabited by their loved ones in miniature.
    Inevitably, though, there were the one-time callers I couldn’t wait to be rid of, and I’ll never forget the first Nazi who showed up on my doorstep asking for a palm reading.
    Nazis were the original stock villains, sneering and stomping and slapping their leather gloves about, demanding to hear all you knew under pain of death when you copped perfectly well they were going to kill you regardless. And yet they loved their wives, children, and pets, same as anybody else, and experienced happiness and sorrow as keenly as you or me. We thought of them as monsters, even the underlings; but I could only regard this man as a singular creature in a hive of insects, or one of the apes who wait upon Mephistopheles.
    I let him in, repugnant as I found his uniform and manner, because I thought perhaps I could learn from him. He would pay me for my services, but I would receive his for free and in perfect ignorance on his part.
    “You have a secret, which must be concealed at all costs,” I said. His father was half-Jewish, meaning he was a Mischling —rather common as far as secrets went, in those times, but to him the revealing of it would have brought ruination.
    “Will I be able to keep it?”
    I raised an eyebrow. “Even the safest secret can’t be kept forever.”
    “You say I’ll be found out?”
    “In the end, yes. But your position will not be affected.”
    He heaved a sigh of tempered relief. “And … will I have a long life?”
    “That all depends.” I carefully avoided his gaze. “I can only tell you what will happen if you continue on your present course.”
    All at once the air in the room grew dark and heavy. He understood me. “Yes?”
    “You will die in a labor camp,” I said.
    A long and icy silence. I wasn’t afraid of him, mind, but I hated to think of the mess he might cause if it came to a scuffle. I’d rather not waste my oomph on a thing like that.
    Finally he said in a low voice, “What must I do?”
    On the one hand, I was rather repulsed by his determination, his primal instinct. Most folks know right from easy, but they choose the latter every time.
    On the other hand, it took courage even to ask that question; he must have suspected my parlor might have been bugged or that I could have been an informant. That it was a risk he was willing to take indicated, perhaps, that he wasn’t altogether hopeless.
    I studied his face for a moment—the fear and uncertainty were breaking through the mask—and then consulted his heart line one more time. No, in all likelihood this man would never find the courage (or conviction) to join the resistance. It was only after the war was plainly lost that he would get up the gumption to cooperate with the Allies, thereby saving his own hide.
    “An opportunity will present itself. Remember this, for it may be several years yet.” I leaned back from the table and pushed back my chair, indicating the session was at an end. “You will recognize it, and you must take it. The risk will be worthwhile.”
    “But—but—how will I know? Tell me more!”
    I shook my head, and he drew out his wallet. This time, I couldn’t keep the disdain from my voice.
    “No amount of money will make the future any clearer,” I said as I strode to the door and opened it wide. “Good day.”
    H E WASN’T the last of them. Neverino’s friends in the Centaur network were thrilled when they heard a growing number of bureaucrats and military drones were coming to me for advice, and they instructed me to tell the men whatever they wanted to hear.