Free Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke by Anne Blankman Page B

hurried into the clearing, her thin-soled shoes sinking in the snow. When she reached the center of the tree-ringed circle, Uncle Dolf had shouted for her to halt, and she turned to watch them, waiting obediently. The men stood a few dozen yards behind. Papa wore a woolen cap, but Uncle Dolf was bareheaded. He never seemed to feel the cold.
    “Throw a snowball high into the air,” Uncle Dolf called as he pulled something small and dark from his waistband. “Pack it tightly!”
    Gretchen rolled the snow into a ball and flung it upward as hard as she could. She heard a popping sound. The snowball exploded in a shower of soft powder, raining fine white crystals down on her.
    She whirled around.
    “Adi!” her father shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Uncle Dolf was smiling and tucking his pistol into his waistband. “I knew exactly what I was doing, Müller. As you can see, I’m an excellent shot. Even better than in our days together during the war.”
    Gretchen’s legs had locked her in place. Uncle Dolf had shot at her. And he was smiling.
    He strode toward her. With a gloved hand, he grabbed her chin, tilting her face back so she had to look at him. “Why so grave, my child?” His lips twitched as though he were trying to suppress a grin. “You weren’t frightened, were you? You knowbetter than to be scared of your uncle Dolf!”
    Politeness forced her to nod. “Of course not, Uncle,” she said, and he laughed, pulling her close in the quick embrace he always had for her.
    “Stop acting like a nervous old woman, Müller!” he shouted to Papa, releasing Gretchen and tramping on ahead. “Your daughter has stronger blood than you!”
    Papa rushed to her side. “I’m sorry, Gretl.” His face was paper-white. He took her hand, and they followed Hitler farther into the woods. “I’m certain you weren’t in any real danger.”
    She had nodded because she wanted to believe him. Fathers protected their daughters, and besides, Uncle Dolf liked to tell her stories about the Great War and listened to her singing and praised her looks. He loved her, and he wouldn’t do anything to harm her. She was sure of it.
    Now, twelve years later, she touched the suitcase on her lap, feeling the curve of the revolver through the leather. After the snowball incident, Hitler had insisted on teaching her and Reinhard to shoot. Everyone ought to learn how to handle a weapon, he had said, wrapping her little fingers around the Walther’s handle while her father watched, objecting until Hitler had spun on him and told him to keep your mouth shut, can’t you! and Papa had finally slid into sullen silence.
    She was glad of those lessons now.
    Even though it hurt to owe Hitler anything.

    The streetcar let her off down the street from the Munich Hauptbahnhof. In the early evening, the station was packed: exhausted-looking commuters leaned against pillars, briefcasesdangling from their hands; burghers in fine suits clogged the platforms, skimming newspapers while waiting for trains to nearby towns.
    Gretchen walked along the platform reserved for the night express to Berlin. It was crowded, mostly with men and women, dressed in their traveling best, clutching their suitcases. Most of them had their backs to her, their eyes trained on the long line of track. A short fellow, hands in his pockets, dressed in a camel-hair coat; a beanpole of a man in a pinstripe suit, striking a match to light a cigarette; a middle-aged man who’d taken off his cap to smooth down his curly gray hair; and a tall man, turned away from her, the lines of his broad shoulders tight beneath his dove-gray woolen overcoat. There was something slightly off about his shoulders—the right one was raised a little higher than the left. She knew those shoulders and the injury they concealed. Her heart shot into her throat; she could barely breathe around it.
    Daniel . Everything within her screamed his name. She bit down hard on her bottom lip so she