He remembered riding through the streets on his grandfather’s shoulders. His tall, tall grandfather, who had taken him to the square with its sweets’ stalls and bought him strudel and let him eat it right there so they could watch the wondrous astronomical clock and the apostles who appeared and disappeared two by two as the clock struck the hour. Isaac could see them clearly from his perch, his lips and fingers sticky with sweet pastry and apple.

The odd little apostles with their in-and-out, here-and-gone movements made him laugh.

But Isaac couldn’t bear to look at one figure on the clock: that creepy skeleton called Death. He closed his eyes and clutched his grandfather tightly.

It was strange that Isaac should be so tall now and hate it. He hated being a clumsy All-Legs, Too-Tall, like a doomed fairy-tale character. No, not being tall—he hated standing out. If only he could be who he was but invisible. Could be who he was but not awkward. Standing out called attention to him. Because in his new Prague, the now Nazi Prague, standing out was dangerous.

His parents’ belief in him, and his desire to believe in himself, kept him going as he left his home behind.

But in Hamburg, Isaac ran up against his worst fears.

He sat on a bench in the train station, waiting to meet his next contact, tucking his too-long legs underneath the seat. He’d learned to scan a room without seeming to, searching, this time, for a gray knit cap and blue peacoat.

So, when a man in a plaid jacket limped over and sat heavily on the bench beside him, Isaac stiffened, readying himself to move away.

Especially when the man began to talk, and much too loud.

“Have some?” the man offered in German. He leaned into Isaac, proffering a tin of mackerel and a fork.

Isaac shook his head, sliding against the armrest. Anyone could be an informant.

“Come on. You look hungry.”

The man nudged Isaac so hard Isaac was afraid the oil would slop onto his pants, so he took the tin and a couple of bites, and returned the mackerel. “Thank you,” he said softly, with a little smile.

“There you go.” The man leaned closer and dropped his voice, though not by much. “You escaping the Hitler Youth, then? You’re, what, nearly fourteen?”

“No, um, I’m only—” Isaac began, but stopped himself. His accent and awkward German might give him away.

“Ah,” said the man, looking at him knowingly. “I get it.” He nodded. “Escaping them, eh?”

A couple of Nazi soldiers moved in their direction, pausing before those who sat at the far end of the bench.

Isaac swallowed hard, and his heart began to pound. Where was his contact?