She shook her head, correcting him. “No. I told you-”
“They’re officially registered as members of the Party. Not just that. They’re devout, active members. One of the daughters, the older girl-Gertrud-she was even in the Lebensborn program. That’s when they send them to a special maternity house. It’s for birthing pure, Aryan babies.”
“Gene, no. That can’t be right.”
All of this was absurd. There had to be an explanation.
She raked her mind for possibilities. Quickly she realized: “It’s the names. The names I gave you, they must be the same as another family’s.” For all she knew, the surname of Hemel could be the German equivalent of Jones.
“It’s them, Vivi.”
“It can’t be. There’s just a mix-up.”
“No. There isn’t.”
“How do you know that?” she demanded. He should at least consider it. Only God Himself could possess such certainty.
“Because all five of the names matched. Two I could see as a coincidence. On an off-chance, maybe three. But not all five.”
To this she had no answer.
“Also, you were right about the man in the family, about him running a paper. One of the issues he’d printed came in from Europe with a batch of intelligence, some propaganda. It’s probably what first put them on the radar. I brought a picture for you. It’s all I could manage.” From a shirt pocket he unfolded a photo slightly larger than his hand. He presented it as one would evidence in a trial. “See for yourself.”
She rushed to accept, propelled by the scantest hope that all of this was in error. Due to the size of the image, most of the newsprint was too small to read, but the headlines appeared to be in German. Confirming this was a pair of symbols that flanked the title of the publication; they were solid black swastikas.
Instinctively she moved her thumb from the marks. With how easily they seared her thoughts they should have been in red: blaring and molten.
“Back in the files,” he continued, “there were some translations of the articles. Mostly praising Hitler, exaggerating German victories. But some pretty hateful stuff too, condemning Jews and whatnot. One of the worst pieces I saw was actually written by the publisher’s own nephew.”
Her throat quivered at the mention, at the idea of who that might be. There were only nieces on Isaak’s list. It took everything in Vivian to keep her voice steady. “Who is the nephew?”
“His name was Jakob. Jakob Hemel.”
A tiny part of her relaxed. “I hadn’t heard of him,” she admitted as Gene tucked the photo into his pocket.
“His mother’s one of the people you know, from your list.” He provided this as if merely to jog her memory. “Anyway, his father served as a pilot for Germany in the Great War. As it so happens, you and his son might have passed each other on the street.”
She shook her head, not following.
“In London. He went to the university there-paid for, incidentally, by a Nazi war profiteer. This nephew, Jakob, majored in journalism. Probably so his anti-Semitic articles would actually sound intelligent.” Gene laughed at this without humor. “And the best part? The creep was born in America, if you can believe it.”
The university.
Journalism.
An American.
In her mind, the pieces intertwined like the wires of a switchboard. They sparked and buzzed on the verge of an overload. Through the din, a single word emerged.
Lies.
The lies she was told. The lies she believed. Those for which she had given every part of herself.
Even now, by hiding her knowledge of Isaak in New York-or whoever the man really was-she was committing treason against her own country. She was jeopardizing her future and that of her parents too. Not to mention the scandal and suspicions that could befall Gene and Luanne.
And what of the conspiracy, the alleged espionage? If there were indeed other agents, they might have already arrived. Maybe it had always been a solo mission. Either way, there must have been reasons for involving her, a true purpose to moving Isaak’s family. Assuming that was ever the goal.
“Point is,” Gene went on, “you’d be wise to forget all about these people. Clearly they’re nothing but trouble.”
Vivian looked up at him and he paused. His expression softened. Tenderly he squeezed her hand. “Sorry, Vivi. Probably said too much.” He had switched from informational to personal. “I know it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”
“No. Please,” she said. “Don’t be sorry. You did the right thing.” Which was much more than she could say for herself. If anyone should apologize, it was she, for believing there was ever a choice to be made between the two men.