“They used to round up any Jews or ‘Jew-lovers’ they could find, and parade them down the street for humiliation,” Rebeka explained as they slowly crawled down the tunnels. “Make them wear humiliating signs. Or worse—much worse.”

“Sounds like back home,” Phillip said under his breath. When Rebeka stared at him quizzically, he shook his head. “All it takes is a few crocodile tears from a white lady for the Klan to attack our neighborhoods. Sometimes not even that.”

“Is that not illegal in America?”

“Are you kidding? Half the time, it’s the sheriff or the mayor under those hoods.”

He shook off the tension that had settled onto his shoulders just thinking about it. Of everything he’d had to fear this past week, the unnerving sensation of white eyes watching his every move hadn’t been among them. Back home, they waited, breaths held, for him to slip up while carrying out the simplest tasks of buying a cup of coffee or getting a drink of water from the correct fountain. Now he strung up illegal radio transmissions and shot demons, and no one was around to judge.

Maybe he should walk around with the solemn intent to kill every fascist he encountered more often.

“You said the stormtroopers used to do this,” Simone said.

Rebeka laughed bitterly. “No need to now that they’re making every city judenrein. I suppose the brownshirts will have to find new targets to torment soon once all the Jews are gone.”

Ahead of them, Ilse started humming the same melody, until Mitzi shushed her. “What? It’s catchy.”

Finally they reached their destination. A rattle of heavy keys, a latch, and they entered a dank basement, wet and slimy like the tunnels.

“Here we are. Our little cellar social club.” Ilse smiled wryly as she waved them inside. “It isn’t much, but it’s safe and it’s ours.”

“Technically it’s my father’s,” Jürgen said with an air of disdain, “but he’s been sent elsewhere for the war, so I’m in charge.”

Phillip flinched as he realized which side of the war.

“This is . . . a beer hall?” Simone asked.

The cellar before them was a low-ceilinged tavern, complete with wooden benches and booths, electric wrought-iron chandeliers, and a wall of beer taps. Half-moon windows ringed the tops of the low walls, presumably offering a view onto the streets of the town, though they’d been covered with newspaper.

“It’s the private party space. The beer hall is upstairs.” Mitzi sauntered over to the wall of taps. “We only let people we like down here.”

Phillip didn’t miss the warning in her tone, in her sharp look. But he’d about had enough of tying himself in knots to fit in someone else’s box. He met her gaze, calm and quiet, and she finally looked away.