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“That was fun,” von der Haas said, putting the car in gear and driving away. “Haven’t mashed potatoes since the war.”

The stick hand grenade von der Haas had used, with its long hollow wooden handle and sheet-steel cylinder containing the explosive charge, resembled a potato masher, thus its nickname.

“Your wife’s getting out of the country?” asked von der Haas.

Bauer nodded. “Tonight.”

Von der Haas looked over at him. “Does that mean you’re leaving the country, too?”

“It won’t take them long to figure out which police officer helped her escape.” Bauer shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me here.”

They went quiet, driving in silence for several minutes.

“You sure about that?” asked von der Haas.

84

Bad Reichenhall

Near the Germany–Austria border

ERICH VON DER HAAS and Thomas Bauer drove for hours along dark, empty roads. The meeting place was on a hill near a barley farm, only five kilometers from the border crossing into Austria. They easily found Selig Geiger’s Mercedes 770, the carmaker’s newest and largest model, parked facing the view of Salzburg with its headlights on.

The family emerged from the Mercedes. Amalie all but leapt into her husband’s arms. They gripped each other as if holding on for dear life, their bodies trembling. Bauer felt tears on his cheeks for the first time in memory.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered to him. “I just knew it.”

The kids were bundled up for the frigid air. Their eyes looked dark and tired; it was long past their bedtime, but they were excited for this sudden adventure, the details of which were currently unexplained. Would they adjust to leaving the only home they’d ever known?

The answer, Bauer knew, was twofold. On one hand, the answer was yes. Their kids were resilient and happy. They’d make new friends. They’d have their family surrounding them. For kids their age, Bauer realized with a pang, Munich would soon become a distant memory.

But more to the point, the answer didn’t matter. There were no options for them in Munich. By tomorrow, the Nazis would hunt for them. Their home would be raided. Selig and Marina’s home would be, too. Bauer would be wanted for assaulting an SA trooper and countless other offenses. Amalie would still be on a list destined for protective custody.

Bauer told himself, as well, that it was only going to get worse for Jews in Germany. Amalie could no longer teach. And how long before they banned Jewish children from attending schools? It was best they left now, before it was too late.

Selig was a week removed from his ordeal. The swelling and discoloring had just started to recede, but he was looking better. He gripped Bauer’s hand and placed his other hand on Bauer’s shoulder, the closest he would come to a hug. “You saved my baby, Tom,” he said, his voice faltering. “You’re a truly great man.”

Bauer introduced Amalie to his “spy buddy.” Von der Haas was not exactly social, his eyes meandering as he offered a hand to Amalie. But she pulled him into a hug, thanking him for his part in her rescue.

Though it was close to midnight, they took this moment to eat, sitting inside the running Mercedes for warmth. Marina had made biscuits and pork sandwiches. Amalie hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was too nervous for food as she wondered whether she would ever see her husband again.

Bauer could not eat, his insides roiling. He stuffed his hands in his pocket as he stood on the hill, looking at Salzburg in the distance. His body began to tremble. Not from the cold. Not from the warmth of embracing Amalie, whom he loved so fiercely that it stole his breath.

No, it was rage, frustration—pain. It was almost unfathomable how quickly it had happened. Less than two months after taking the chancellorship, Adolf Hitler had seized full control of the country. And yet less than eighteen months ago, that same man had killed his young niece, his lover. Bauer could have caught him. He could have stopped him.

And at the Brown House. The Brown House! Bauer, in his repairman’s uniform, had a gun in his pocket while standing across a desk from the man.

“I should have killed him right then,” he whispered.

Behind him, a car door opened and closed.

“Hey.” Amalie walked up, looped her arm with his. “It’s cold out here.”

Bauer felt a lot of things, but cold was not one. “Amalie,” he said. “Listen—”

“I know, Tom.” She leaned against him. “I know.”

He turned to her.