Free Prisoner of Night and Fog by Anne Blankman

throat. “I need your help. And you said you need mine. We can work together.”
    He nodded, his expression wary, as though he wasn’t sure if he believed her. “A Jew and a National Socialist, joining forces. I never thought I’d see it. Very well. I accept your proposal. I shall contact you soon. Watch for my message.”
    “Yes, but go !”
    To her relief, he turned away. He had barely taken two steps into the whirling mass of dancing bodies when Reinhard reached her.
    “Who was that?” he demanded.
    “Nobody.” She twined her fingers together so her brother wouldn’t notice that they were shaking. “Nobody,” she repeated, and Reinhard watched her with his blank eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw, before turning and heading toward the bar for a drink.

 
    9
    “HOW COULD YOU BETRAY ME?” GRETCHEN SAID to Eva as they walked into the powder room. Her friend wore a short beaded dress with a dropped waist, and she’d curled her hair into tiny ringlets. She looked like the American flappers in the film magazines she loved to read.
    “What?” Eva sounded scandalized. “Gretchen, I would never—”
    “Wait.” Gretchen glanced under the wooden stalls—no feet—and peered into the adjacent lounge, where a couple of fraying upholstered chairs sat—empty. The mirror reflected the room back to them, a mix of wood and gilt that should have looked rich but seemed tired in the harsh lighting. The patterned paper had begun to strip from the wall; the sink basins were chipped, the wooden stalls splintered. It looked like everything else in Munich, beautiful once but slowly decaying. Only Hitler could reverse this gradual rot, he had promised so many times.
    “You told Reinhard where I would be tonight,” she said. “I didn’t mention it to anyone but you.”
    “He rang me up, looking for you. I didn’t realize it was a secret—”
    “I should have thought it was obvious! You knew I was sneaking out to come here—”
    “Yes, but this was your brother telephoning me! I would hardly expect you to hide things from him.”
    Gretchen rested her head against the mirror. The glass felt smooth and cool. Eva didn’t understand. She never would, for how could she possibly comprehend the fear that welled within Gretchen whenever her brother came near? The way Reinhard treated her was her most shameful secret.
    “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
    “That’s all right.” Eva touched Gretchen’s shoulder. “You never told me why you wanted to come here. Is it a boy?”
    “Yes. In a way.” Although she yearned to tell Eva everything, she said nothing more, fearing that someone might come in and overhear. Or that Reinhard, waiting in the dance hall, would grow impatient and demand to know why they had taken so long.
    Eva leaned close to the mirror, smoothing the rouge on her cheeks with her fingertips. “I suppose we girls must have our secrets.” Her high giggle sounded unnatural, and Gretchen frowned, thinking how different Eva sometimes seemed since coming home from the convent school two years ago—concealing her face beneath layers of cosmetics and wanting to bleach her hair, as though she yearned to turn into someone else. Eva added, “What a darling frock. Wherever did you get it?”
    The black dress sparkled back at Gretchen in the glass. “From Geli Raubal. You know how she likes to hand off clothes she’s grown tired of.”
    “Oh,” Eva said flatly. “Her.”
    Gretchen watched Eva redden her lips. She had never understood why Eva disliked Geli. The two girls hadn’t even met—Geli revolved within Hitler’s elite inner circle, while Eva was merely a tiny fixture on the outer rungs of the Party, since she knew Hitler only through casual conversations at the photography shop. Once, Gretchen had suggested introducing the girls, but Eva had refused, muttering that they were probably too different to get along.
    When Eva was done, they went down the curving