Upon this realization, I drew closer to Irena, my heart ticking almost as loudly as the bronze clock mounted on the wall. While the woman browsed the selections, her eyes drifted toward us. Perhaps she wondered why two young girls were shopping in a men’s clothing store. She refocused on her companion, but I didn’t miss the pointed look they shared.

Another one of Irena’s cardinal rules: expect Volksdeutsche to be collaborators. Those with German heritage but not citizenship—since they lived outside Germany—were afforded the opportunity to sign the Deutsche Volksliste in support of the Third Reich’s policies for Germanization in occupied territories. Volksdeutsche living in Poland, even ones with Polish blood, who professed loyalty to the Reich were also notorious for betraying their countrymen to the Gestapo.

If Irena had noticed the couple, she gave no indication. We trailed closer to the hats, the two hovering in our vicinity. Though they attempted subtlety, it wasn’t difficult to guess their intentions. I imagined they would linger to confirm their suspicions about us. We couldn’t fulfill our task without them noticing, so we had to get rid of them.

They were hardly five meters away, close enough to overhear what I planned to do. Traces of leather and wood permeated the air, so I took a slow breath, letting the sweet aroma settle my nerves. None of the plans I’d enacted during my resistance work had failed me yet, and I’d make sure this one didn’t, either. I waited until Irena put down one hat and selected another, then I threw my head back into a groan.

“Would you just pick one?”

She almost dropped the hat and swore under her breath, but, before she could recover, I proceeded.

“Do we have to waste so much time shopping for Patryk? I wasted enough time listening to you flirt with him this morning.”

Her eyes grew as round as the hat’s rim before they sharpened in both understanding and annoyance. After so many weeks of working together, no doubt she recognized the imaginary young man I always referenced whenever we needed a convincing story. It was my favorite resistance scheme—and her least favorite. Fortunately, she always played along.

Irena lifted the hat for closer inspection, her gaze flickering toward the Volksdeutsche. “The more you complain, the longer I’m going to take.”

“Oh, is that why we spent so long at the café? Because I was complaining that you were making us late for errands?” I asked, crossing my arms while she turned back to the shelf. “Or was it because you two couldn’t stop kissing?”

For that, I earned a particularly irritated frown. She wasted no time snapping her retort. “If you’re so paranoid about the errands, finish them yourself.”