Ebner nodded and produced a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took a slow, pensive drag, then released the gray smoke. As it filled the space between us, he offered the pack to me. When I didn’t acknowledge it, he put it back in his pocket.

“All I need is the truth. If you cooperate, we’ll get along just fine.”

I almost heard Irena’s voice in my head—Dammit, Maria, how many times did I warn you about what those bastards will do to you? My fellow resistance member had filled my mind with tales of Gestapo brutality, and her vivid descriptions washed away Ebner’s false reassurance.

The typewriter let out another shrill ping while Ebner smoked and waited for me to say something. When my mouth stayed closed, his expression didn’t change, but a gleam of annoyance flickered in his eyes. He blinked and chased it away.

“I presume you are aware of the penalty for aiding Jews,” he said. And I was aware, of course, but was he really threatening such a minor member of the resistance with severe punishment, even death? He set a second document before me. “You delivered blank baptismal certificates for the Polish underground resistance?”

The proof was right in front of us, so there was no point in denying it. I nodded.

“How did you keep your work a secret from your family?”

“When you were a boy, did your parents know every time you disobeyed them?”

He chuckled. “No, I suppose they didn’t.”

My lie must have been far more convincing than it felt. If Ebner believed my parents had been unaware of my resistance work, surely I could convince him they hadn’t been involved alongside me. Whatever it took to spare my family an interrogation.

Ebner dropped his cigarette stub onto the floor and ground it under his boot heel to extinguish the smoldering embers. He placed the certificate next to my Kennkarte and leaned closer, slow and calculated, eyes alight, prepared to ensnare his prey. Although I tried not to move, I gripped the edge of my seat.

“For whom are you working?”

His voice remained even, but all I heard was the unspoken threat behind the question. A selfish part of me tried to force its way to the surface, desperate to prevent what would come if I stayed quiet, but I pushed it back. I wouldn’t let the Gestapo turn me into a traitor.

My fingers ached, unable to loosen their hold on my seat. Ebner retained the power to do anything to me. To my family. Sitting in the tram, I’d overheard how the Gestapo rewarded prisoners who didn’t give the answers they sought. And my time was coming; I knew it was.

“My family lives in Berlin,” Ebner said as he settled into his chair. “It’s difficult being away from them.”