He knew all the tricks, braking with the gears, no sudden movements, early anticipation, and easy on the gas.

He knew them all.

It was just that none of them were working.

The little Austin Seven barely had the weight to push down into the snow, even with the combined weight of Rossett and him in it. The car seemed to be sliding from rut to rut, back end flicking this way and that like an excited puppy.

He wondered if it was because he was tense. Koehler rolled his head and breathed deeply, trying to stretch the tension away as he waited at traffic lights on the main road out of London, heading for Cambridge.

His mood wasn’t helped by their decision to not set off too early. The reasoning had been that they were more likely to get stopped on an empty street than on a busy one. They had sat in Rossett’s favorite café, waiting out the night.

Rossett had sat quietly, barely moving, eyes closed, arms folded, as the hours had passed. Koehler had twitched and smoked, fidgeting like the second hand on his Rolex, perpetual motion, unable to relax, cigarette after cigarette counting down the night.

The morning hadn’t hurried; even now that they were moving the sun was still snoozing behind the heavy clouds that looked about to let go of another fall of fresh snow.

All around them now the city was waking up, stretching, and trying to shake off the night before. Koehler tapped the tiny fuel gauge set into the speedometer of the car.

They had a long way to go and not a lot of fuel to do it with. Koehler guessed the journey was about 120 miles, there and back, assuming they made it back.

They had to make it back.

For Anja and Lotte.

They had to.

The lights changed; Koehler lifted the clutch and the car slithered forward a few feet before the back end caught hold of the road, finally picking up what little speed it could muster. Koehler had been in an Austin like this before in dry, clear weather, and it had barely managed forty miles an hour; he guessed he’d be lucky to see twenty-­five on this journey.

The car drifted, and Koehler found his mind drifting with it as his reflexes corrected the slide.

He thought about Lotte, how they’d met at a dance when he’d been at university in Munich.

So long ago now.

She had made him laugh that first night, really laugh, as if they’d been friends for years, immediately comfortable, fitting exactly, made for each other, pieces of a solved puzzle.

As they’d danced Koehler had found himself looking into her eyes and smiling like a man who couldn’t believe his luck. She taught him to waltz, leading him, laughing with him, starting to love him as he started to love her.

He called her “Farm Girl” after she told him how she had grown up in the countryside. When she finally took him to meet her mother and father, halfway across the farmyard, his shoe came off in ankle-­deep mud and he stumbled and blushed.

Lotte had laughed and called him “City Boy.”

And he was.

Koehler smiled at the memory.

So long ago now.

They had made love for the first time that weekend. Softly, silently, in a loft in the barn, as beneath them animals stirred and above them rain thundered on the roof, an angry autumn downpour. Together, on winter straw, they had lain silently staring at each other, eyes inches apart.

In love forever.

Marriage, then Anja. Koehler finished university and found what he thought was his future in the classrooms of Munich, teaching history to children who didn’t understand how important it was.

Lotte never followed her dreams of pursuing a career in science. She held on to them, though, waiting for Anja to grow before she took up her studies again and became the doctor she’d always wanted to be. Koehler had been so happy with his family around him; their little apartment just off the Marienplatz had become a kingdom of heaven, filled with laughter and joy.

They had learned together, grown together, loved and lived together as if every day was the start of an adventure.

And then the clouds came.

Lotte hadn’t liked the idea of Koehler joining the Nazi Party. She had never enjoyed politics; she would frown at the sound of the Führer on the radio when she came home with Anja from walking or shopping.

He remembered their first real argument.

A letter had arrived, stating that old Mr. Cohen was no longer their landlord; the building had been seized as a result of the new laws.

“He is a good man, Ernst! He doesn’t deserve to have his home, his livelihood, and his dignity taken away!”

Koehler had held his finger to his lips and shushed Lotte. She had thrown the letter on the fire before storming out of the apartment, going downstairs to help Mr. Cohen and his family pack their belongings onto the handcart in the street outside.

Koehler had sat on the sofa with a sleeping Anja in his arms, watching the curtain drift in the breeze.

So long ago now.

Rossett coughed, the first noise he’d made since they had set off. Koehler looked across but Rossett ignored him, just the same stare, straight ahead, emotionless, silent, as if he were alone in an empty room.

The Austin plowed on through the snow, doggedly going where it had no place to be. Koehler wiped at the windscreen with the back of his hand as the morning finally brightened.

Another red light, another fumble for the crushed damp cigarette packet in his pocket.

Empty.

“Do you have smokes?” He looked at Rossett, who moved for the first time during the journey to check his own pockets. A quick search and a packet emerged, which he offered across.

“I’ve one left.”

“Shit, I need to smoke. My nerves.”

“Take it.” Rossett looked at him and then back out the windscreen.

“You sure?”

Rossett didn’t reply, so Koehler took the cigarette and then tossed the empty packet over his shoulder onto the backseat of the car. He managed to touch the end with a flaring match, just before the lights changed.

He hadn’t wanted to join the military. His conscription and basic training in the army had been tough, but his education and overall performance had marked him out early as a candidate for promotion.

“You could go a long way, Koehler. You are smart, charming, a good soldier. ­People like you inspire. Your men would follow you. I’m recommending you for officer training school.” His CO had smiled at him, signed a file, and Koehler had gone to the academy, unsure of whether he was doing the right thing.

He’d known as soon as he got there that he wasn’t.

The time wasn’t right.