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“Several times, but my last visit was over a decade ago,” I say. “And yes, I love it.” The truth is I’ve always had mixed feelings being here, where all the evil and madness started in the 1930s. Most of the people living here back then committed the sin of blindness, often willful, of not wanting to believe that they were led by a monster, of not reacting quickly or forcefully enough when it became clear that he was assuming full and absolute control, of allowing themselves to become numb to the coercive propaganda machine.

“What about you?” I ask. “Have you enjoyed your time here?”

“I have. I really have.” She chuckles. “My German’s much better, that’s for sure. I’m only a semester from completing my master’s in international studies. I’ll miss Munich when I go back home to Chicago. But…” Her smile fades. “I can’t stop thinking about Francis Linderman’s suicide. It was so unexpected.”

I bow my head. “I never actually got the chance to meet him,” I say. “I only saw the research materials he sent me.”

“I never met him, either,” she sighs. “But I met with his grandfather, in this market, actually, right over there. He’d heard that my great-grandfather kept a journal. And he had one, too, from his father. When we compared them, we realized we had the makings of an important story.”

“Why did the two of you decide to have Francis send the journals to me, of all people?”

“‘Of all people’?” Monica gives me a sidelong glance. “Don’t be modest, Professor. You’re one of the leading American scholars on Nazi Germany.” She grinned. “You were the obvious choice.”

I bow my head at the praise. “Well, then, to honor Francis’s memory, let’s continue the work. Did his grandfather give you the remaining evidence to pass along?”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t give it to me. He wants to give it to you directly, Professor. I think, in part, he wanted to test your commitment by seeing if you’d come here. But he’s also extremely cautious. Extremely. He’s written out explicit instructions on how you two are to meet. That’s what I’m supposed to give you today. I apologize for all the cloak-and-dagger. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, Professor. It’s just that after Francis’s death, his level of caution has amped up considerably—”

As Monica reaches into her pocket, I sense something not quite right among the mass of people casually strolling among the vendor tents. A blip on my internal warning system too tiny to even acknowledge until it’s too late, and a lone man suddenly darts in our direction and swipes my purse without breaking stride.

In an instant, he dashes between two vendor tents and disappears onto the streets.

The snap of a finger, and my purse is gone.

I am frozen, stunned, still processing, as Monica calls out “No!” and jumps up from the table.

“Monica, don’t,” I manage. “Please.”

“Oh, my God.” Monica, on her feet, staring in the direction of the thief who is now long gone, turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Professor.”

The after-adrenaline hits me. I take deep breaths and try to keep still. “It’s—it’s—it’s—it’s just a purse.” I bring a trembling hand to my face.

Just a random purse snatching, a crime of opportunity. The kind of thing that happens every day in public places all around the world.

Or was he targeting me specifically?

No. I’m sure it was a garden-variety purse snatching. A middle-aged woman who didn’t secure her purse. I was an easy target. That’s all.

“Well, we should report this,” Monica says. “We should get the police. Was your wallet in there? Your passport?”

That’s the good news. I pat my midsection. “Lucky for me, I always keep my passport, phone, and credit card in a travel band under my coat.” I look up at her. “It was just some euros and odds and ends like my hand sanitizer. Nothing I can’t easily replace.”

Monica leans forward. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s just a shock, that’s all.” I stand up from my seat. “No need to report this. I can’t imagine what that would get me, other than a lot of paperwork and hassle.”

“You’re shaking.” Monica loops her arm in mine. “Let’s at least get a change of scenery. You poor thing.”

We walk through the market, past the maypole, a blue-and-white-striped wooden pole with wooden banners protruding on each side depicting the various aspects of Munich entertainment, and stop and sit on a bench near St. Peter’s Church.

“So here is the information,” Monica says, handing me two sheets of paper. “I thought the directions were overly cautious. But now I’m beginning to wonder…”

“My bag getting stolen had nothing to do with our meeting or the book I’m writing. I’m sure of it.” I read over the paper she handed me. She’s right. Cautious is an understatement. It reads more like a treasure map than a set of instructions.

Monica still looks concerned. “And you’re sure you’re okay?” she probes once more. “You call me for any reason—any reason at all, yes?”

“Of course, yes, I will. Thanks, Monica. I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Absolutely fine.”

“If you’re sure…” She doesn’t seem convinced.