The kind of fat that was too fat for ration books. Red cheeked from the cold, with a round, friendly, fleshy face and dots for eyes. She smiled at Eric as she unfurled the purple scarf from around her neck, then wound it around her hand before passing it to Mustache.

The room fell silent as everyone looked at Eric in the corner.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t the end.

They didn’t look like a firing squad, that was for sure.

Eric felt himself blushing and his heart pounded. He could bear it no more, so he looked down at the floor again until the woman spoke.

“What’s your name, love?”

Eric looked up. “Eric Cook. I am an American citizen and I demand to be released. I refuse to be some sort of hostage.”

The words had sounded better in his head.

“Oh, Eric, I’m sorry, lover, not just yet. We have to have a talk first. I’m Ma Price, but they call me ‘Ma’ because I’m like everybody’s own dear mum herself. Do you have a mum, my love?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, Ma. Go on, try it.”

“Yes, Ma.”

“I expect she’ll be worrying about you, so far away from home.”

Eric nodded.

“Like I worry about my boys.” Ma Price rested a hand on Mustache’s arm, which he didn’t seem to notice.

Eric looked at Mustache and doubted Ma Price needed to worry too much about him.

“Are you injured, Eric?” she asked in her singsong way.

“Yes, Ma.”

The old man took his cue, and holding his black hat across his chest like a breastplate, he walked across the room toward Eric.

“My head and my back,” Eric said. “I’ve been shot.”

“Lean forward, please,” the old man said quietly.

Eric did as he was told and felt the old man inspecting his back. Eric watched Ma Price as the inspection took place. She smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back, politely, like an idiot. The old man eased him back against the wall again, and then gingerly touched the swelling bloody lump on his head.

“Superficial, nothing to worry about. It’ll need a good clean, but there is no serious damage to you.”

“Thank you,” Eric heard himself say.

The old man struggled arthritically to stand up, then crossed back to Ma Price and the men.

“You are safe for now, as long as you answer my questions truthfully. So, tell me, what is your name?” Ma Price spoke again.

“I told you, Eric Cook.”

“What were you and your colleague doing in the flat two streets away?”

Eric paused and looked at Price and then the old man.

“You should answer the question while you still can,” said the old man.

Eric shifted and then touched the wound on his head lightly.

“That has nothing to do with you.”

Ma Price kept on smiling, but Eric noticed Mustache frown.

“I’ll not give you many chances, lover, so you really need to take them when they come along. One last time now: what were you doing in the flat with your chum?”

“I’m an American citizen, I work at the embassy, and you have no right to hold me like this. You’re going to be in a lot of trouble . . .” Eric stopped speaking as Ma Price lifted a finger.

“I can see, my love, that you’re not a hard case. I’ve only got to look at you to see that, so don’t go puffing out your chest and spouting off.”

“Listen to her,” the old man said.

“But I . . . I’m . . .”

Mustache crossed the room and stopped in front of Eric, who slid farther back into the corner.

“Answer the question.”

“I’m . . . we . . . I’m an American.” Eric swallowed, looking up into Mustache’s sad eyes.

“All right, have it your way. Kill him,” Ma Price said behind Mustache.

Eric didn’t see the pistol until it was pressing into the center of his forehead. He watched Mustache’s finger curl around the trigger and the pink of his knuckle turn white as he squeezed.

“I was guarding a girl.”

“A girl?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eric stared at the trigger finger’s knuckle, which stayed white.

“What girl?”

“She is the child of a German SS major . . .” Eric paused; his mouth was bone dry and his tongue was catching on the roof of his mouth. “We kidnapped her.”

Eric began to cry, and he felt the pressure of the muzzle lift. He sobbed and let his head fall forward, ashamed to let the others in the room see his tears and his humiliation.

“Please don’t kill me, please, I can help you . . . please . . . I don’t want to die, I’m just a clerk.”

 

CHAPTER 17

KOEHLER HAD DRIVEN in snow countless times before.