“Nothing. I can do precisely nothing. My fear is that Anna with her defiant nature will not have endeared herself to her captors. What makes it even worse is that Amy keeps asking when Mummy’s coming back home….”

“How old is she now?”

“She’s just turned six. She can hardly remember her mother. In fact, when she was a little younger, she thought the photograph of Anna actually was Anna, and she would talk to it.”

“So who looks after her?”

“I did for a while, but it was hopeless. She’s now with Anna’s sister, who’s a gem.”

They sat in silence. Manoli placed his hand on Lockhart’s shoulder.

“I try not to think about it,” said Lockhart. “And I try to keep myself as busy as possible. But as soon as I stop, even for a second, my brain starts bringing up terrible images. I think that maybe she’s been shot. Not knowing if she’s alive or dead is a very cruel trick indeed. Sometimes I think it’s better to think she’s dead, but I feel so guilty when I do. But when I think she’s alive, I’m tortured by thoughts of what they might be doing to her….”

Manoli looked at his old friend. Although he was only thirty, Lockhart’s hair was starting to go gray. His face looked leaner than he remembered—the puppy fat had disappeared. Manoli thought he looked more handsome for it, but as with too many, the war had given his eyes a faraway look. But the swagger remained, complemented by a new firmness and a quiet authority. The war had changed them into men they had never thought they would be. They had both foreseen peaceful lives of digging up past civilizations, and now they were killing to protect their own. That was what Manoli hated most of all: that the Nazis had taken not just lives, but the futures of those who were still living. It was like being made to grow up all over again.

Berlin had been especially cold all November, but this morning seemed colder than ever, thought Hauptsturmführer Carl Strasser. The forecast said it would stay at ten degrees below all day and he didn’t doubt it—he could even see his breath as he lay in bed. Still, at least he had a bed, a luxury he didn’t have in Russia, where it would hit forty below. Strasser had been with the SS Das Reich Division, fighting with them from November 1941 until last March, when he was posted back to Berlin.

It was still dark outside. He looked at his watch. It was six o’clock, as he knew it would be. He had woken up at that time for months now, but he always liked to check. He was due at work at the SS Hauptamt—headquarters—on Berka Strasse at half past seven. As it was only a ten-minute walk from his barracks, he had time to have a leisurely breakfast down in the mess room. He wouldn’t have a shower—the water was bound to be cold and he couldn’t face it. A cold shave was bad enough, but a cold shower, no way. This time last year he would have killed to have gotten clean, to have washed off even a few lice. But barrack and office life was making him soft once more, and to be honest, he didn’t regret it one little bit. He had paid his dues.