Prisoner of Night and Fog

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GRETCHEN MÜLLER PEERED THROUGH THE CAR’S rain-spotted windshield. Up ahead, a man was crossing the street, so far away he was little more than a child’s cut-out stick figure of spindly legs and arms and head. She could tell from his broad-brimmed hat and long coat that he was a member of the Hasidic sect.

“Look at the Jew,” her brother, Reinhard, said. He and his friend Kurt started snickering. Gretchen ignored them and glanced at her best friend sitting beside her in the back. Lights from passing buildings flashed over Eva’s powdered face and the lipstick tube she was opening.

“You needn’t fuss with your appearance for Uncle Dolf.” Gretchen smiled. “You know how he always says he’s a man of the common people.”

Eva reddened her lips with a quick, practiced sweep of her hand. “Yes, but he’s so fascinating. I want to look my best for him.”

Gretchen understood. Adolf Hitler might be an old family friend to her, but to Eva, he seemed glamorous and mysterious, the most famous man in Munich. Although Uncle Dolf had never held an elected office—for serving as a mere Reichstag deputy would be beneath him, and local politics didn’t interest him—he had set his sights on the Chancellery itself, and was campaigning for the presidency. Lately, politics had kept him so busy that his invitation to share dessert and coffee with him was a rare treat.

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