“And it isn’t just about the Jews, either,” Ilse continued. “The Nazis are vile in other ways. Restricting what you can say, requiring patriotism . . . Maybe other, more backward countries are that way, but we’re a cosmopolitan people. We should be better than this.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Simone asked.

Ilse huffed at her. “What do you think it is we’re doing here? Why we’re helping you? Goodness. You’d think you might be a little more grateful. We’re on your side, you know. A thank-you might not be out of place—don’t you realize the considerable risk we’ve put ourselves in by bringing you here?”

Outside the papered-up windows, the brownshirts drew nearer, boisterously singing the “Horst Wessel Lied.” They must have been right next to the town square. Phillip and Simone exchanged an anxious look.

“I know what will help. Let me head to the kitchens! Jürgen, why don’t you put on some music?” Mitzi asked.

“Um—if it’s all the same—” Phillip started, but she’d already disappeared up the twisting staircase. A heavy door groaned open, letting in a burst of drinking music, then slammed shut. The door, apparently, was the only thing separating them from the drunken stormtroopers. Jürgen turned on the radio in the corner, and cranked it high to drown out the singing on the square and in the tavern above.

“So. What has it been like? Working with the Resistance?” Ilse leaned across the booth to stare at them wide-eyed.

“I’m not with the Resistance,” Rebeka said. “My brother and I barely escaped from getting sent to the Chełmno death camp.”

“Death camp?” Ilse echoed, then giggled. “Well, that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No. They sent my family there to kill them.” Rebeka glared at her, her voice trembling. “I’ve seen it.”

“That seems like an exaggeration. I mean, we know they’re moving people into concentration camps, detaining them and such, which, don’t get me wrong, I happen to strongly disagree with, I think it’s horribly inhumane. But there’s simply no evidence that they’re killing them. I mean, it doesn’t even make sense. Don’t you think, Jürgen?”

“If I were a heartless Nazi bastard, I’d use them for labor,” Jürgen called from the radio set as he adjusted the dial.

“See?” Ilse said. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

Rebeka seethed while Phillip spoke.

“Where I’m from,” he said, “we fought a whole damn war about that, too.”

Ilse rolled her eyes. “Please. Everyone knows your civil war was about economics.”

Phillip glared at her. “Yeah. The economics of losing your free labor source because they’re human beings.”