In this gripping, high-stakes novel of World War II, the bestselling author of Before the Storm draws on real events to tell the story of one woman’s daring role in the Dutch resistance as part of a most unusual taskforce.
May 1940: In the months since the war in Europe began, nineteen-year-old Aafke Cruyssen and her family have tried to carry on as normal—running their modest grocery store in Eindhoven, hoping that Germany will leave Holland alone as it did during the Great War. But this time, Holland will not be spared. The invasion comes, swift and merciless, and Dutch forces are easily overpowered. In Eindhoven, a valuable transport and trade hub, Nazi soldiers swagger through the streets. Aafke’s one glimpse of humanity comes from a young German corporal who intervenes when a gang of looters tries to rob her family’s shop.
Aafke joins the Dutch resistance and is drawn into a relationship with its charismatic leader. Wanting more than the menial missions assigned to women, she and her friends create a taskforce of their own—a “dating club” where women target Nazis, luring them to their arrest or death. Discovery by the Gestapo will mean torture and execution. Just as dangerous is the reappearance of the soldier who once helped her family. Otto Berg is now an influential Nazi commando, intrigued by Aafke’s fragile courage.
As the conflict deepens, so does Aafke’s quandary. The tides of war continue to bring her and Otto into each other’s circles. And beyond the battles that make history are countless sacrifices and unthinkable choices she must make for the sake of the resistance, and to save her own life and those she loves.
Release date:
November 26, 2024
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
368
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
War. The radio vomited the threat, screeching of tanks and troops menacing the border. “What do you think now?” Aafke Cruyssen asked her father, as she flipped an egg crackling in the pan. She crossed herself, saying a quick prayer for her country and her family. The impending invasion was all the talk that morning when she’d attended her morning mass at Sint Catharinakerk.
“It’s a load of dung,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve heard it all before. The Germans passed us by in the last war and they’ll do so again. We don’t have anything they want.” He switched the radio off in disgust. Her father reached for a pot, pouring a steaming cup of coffee. He lifted the drink toward his lips and then hesitated. Glancing at his daughter, beneath thick peppered eyebrows, he set the mug down and reached up to the cupboard, extracting a bottle. He twisted the top off and poured some amber liquid into the coffee.
“It’s not yet seven,” Aafke protested.
“Bah. It’s just a drop for warmth.”
“It’s May, Father.”
He pushed past her and shuffled toward a cluttered table. “There’s still a chill in the air. Now to business. Arno is expected at eight. You’ll help him unload while I do the inventory. Understood?”
She nodded. Taking down two plates, she placed some fried ham and eggs on each, and brought them to the table. Her father dug into the food, his eyes scanning the morning paper. “All these fools can talk about are the Germans,” he said. “As if we didn’t have enough problems already. Worked themselves into a right panic they have. Now they’ve gone and taken my boy to the front for no reason, half my children, and the better half at that.”
“Father!”
He looked up. “Don’t pay me any mind,” he said. “You do the best you can. But a skinnier little mouse I’ve never seen. I don’t know why I bother feeding you, none of it ever reaches your bones.” He took a deep drink of his coffee. “Bring the pot over, won’t you? And the bottle.”
She hadn’t taken a bite yet, but she complied with his request. She thought about leaving the spirits behind, but she knew there was no point. “I wonder where Christiaan is?”
“At the front!” he snapped, finishing his first cup, and pouring a second. This one was equal parts coffee and brandy. “Those bastard Germans better not come.”
They ate in silence, his face buried behind the news. After a while he crumpled the paper and pushed back his chair, draining his cup with the same motion. “Well, I’ve got to get ready for the delivery,” he announced. “Attend to those dishes but do it quickly, mind you. I need you downstairs when Arno arrives.”
Aafke rinsed the plates and scrubbed the pans, her thoughts on her brother. Christiaan was a year younger than she, just turned eighteen. He’d had a bare few weeks of training before his unit was rushed to the front. There hadn’t even been time for a leave home, just a few hastily scribbled letters. What good would it do? she wondered. The rumors of what the Germans had done in Poland haunted her. Tanks rolling through the country, crushing everything in their wake, while airplanes streaked out of the sky, bombing and burning. What chance did her peaceful little country have against all of that? Mustn’t think about it right now. Perhaps her father was right. Maybe the Germans would leave the Netherlands alone like they did in the last war?
“Aafke!” Her father’s piercing shout rang up the stairs. “Haven’t you finished yet? Get yourself down here!”
She set the towel aside, glancing at the half-finished chores. She would have to attend to the rest of it at the end of the day. Aafke peered out the window. The sky-streaked blue, dotted with a few cotton clouds. It would be a beautiful day. And a warm one.
“I said get your behind moving!”
Hurrying down the narrow staircase, she opened the door at the bottom and entered their little store. Her father was at the counter, scribbling notes in a dusty ledger. “It’s about time. Arno will be here in the next half hour. We’ve got to make room for the delivery. With all these war rumors, we should do a right brisk business,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “With any luck, we can catch up on the rent and get that bastard landlord Beek off our backs.”
Scrambling around the narrow room, Aafke combed the cluttered counters, straightening cans and stacking produce. She tried to weed out some of the overripe fruit, but her father shook his head. “It’s still edible. Put the ripest at the top and turn it to its best side.” She followed his instructions, but when he wasn’t looking, she tossed a few of the worst specimens into the trash.
Aafke could hear the street outside already bustling, cars rumbling by, drowning out the chirping and chatter of pedestrians hurrying to work or on some errand or another. Today Aafke could smell something different though. An urgency. An escalated pitch to the bustle. She was about to comment on this to her father when the front door of their store banged and rattled as if someone was trying to force their way through. It couldn’t be Arno, that wasn’t how he knocked and, in any event, he wasn’t due here yet. Whoever it was started banging violently on the glass. With the blinds closed Aafke couldn’t be sure who they were or what they wanted.
“For God’s sakes girl, find out who is making that infernal racket,” her father ordered. She stepped over to the door, turning the blinds before breathing a sigh of relief. It was only Mrs. Smit, their neighbor across the way. Aafke glared down through the window at her, a ruffled dump of ill-fitting clothes topped off with a mop of iron-gray hair. There was little Mrs. Smit didn’t know about the neighborhood, and less she wouldn’t share.
“Open the door, you foolish girl!” she demanded. “I need to speak to your father.”
Aafke looked back at Maarten. They didn’t normally let anyone in before the store was open. He nodded once without looking up. “Do as she says.” She reached up to the lock, turning it halfway and beckoning for the woman to enter. Mrs. Smit shoved forward and slammed into the glass.
“It’s still locked!”
Smiling to herself, Aafke turned the knob the rest of the way and opened the door. Mrs. Smit waddled past her, glaring and huffing. “Honestly, Maarten,” the woman said to her father, “is the girl simple?”
“I’m right here.”
“And lucky your father has a kind heart to keep you.”
A kind heart and free labor, she thought. “What’s the news?” Aafke asked, diverting the conversation to Mrs. Smit’s favorite topic: neighborhood gossip of any kind.
The woman’s lips curled around her ears. “Do you know the Jansens?”
“From over on Bergstraat?” asked Maarten. “I do. The husband’s some big shot at Philips, isn’t he?”
“The same. But he won’t be feeling so fine right now. Their daughter is with child, and no father to claim him.”
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” exclaimed her father, clapping his hands. “The little flower couldn’t keep her petals to herself, aye? That will knock him out of his tower. Hah! What will the neighbors say?”
“They’ll say plenty,” said Mrs. Smit. “She’ll have to go to Amsterdam or the country to have it. Still, the damage is done.”
“I’d not be surprised if he loses his post at Philips,” said Maarten. “Those prim and proper pricks won’t like that, not one little bit.”
“You two should stop clucking over there like a couple of chickens,” said Aafke, the words slipping out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Mrs. Smit gave her an appraising eye. “You better be careful yourself, girly,” she said.
“Now, now,” said her father. “Look at her. Skinny as a broom and pale as skim milk. There are no boys lined up outside this store, I can assure you that.”
“Father!” The words seared her, and she saw Mrs. Smit’s eyes dance and dart.
“You’ve hit home there, Maarten, I fancy.”
Aafke wanted to retort but she was distracted by the commotion outside. Voices were rising and shouts could be heard.
“What’s all the barking about?” asked her father.
Mrs. Smit turned and cocked her ear for a second. “I almost forgot. That’s the second piece of news. The reason I came here in the first place.”
“And what news is that?”
“It’s war.”
“What?” asked Aafke.
“War. It started a half hour ago. The Germans are coming.”
Aafke and her father said nothing for long moments. This only seemed to increase Mrs. Smit’s satisfaction, and her sly smirk stretched until it threatened to swallow her face. “I figured you didn’t know. Why don’t you have your radio on?” She drew herself up as if she’d finished a long list of chores. “Well, I must be going. Much to do and much to see.” She shuffled back out of the store, leaving them in a stunned silence.
“I can’t believe it,” said Aafke, finally.
“I knew it would come,” her father answered.
“You’ve said nothing of the kind. With all your talk of them passing us by.”
“Keep those lips shut now!” he warned. “Get back to your work. I’ve got to think.”
She tried to busy herself with straightening again, but her mind raced. The Germans were invading her country. They were at war. What would happen next? Would the English and French come and save them? Could their own little army hold back the Nazis until help arrived? Their own army! “My God, Christiaan!” she stammered out loud.
“Is that thought just occurring to your dim little mind?” her father said. “Yes. My boy is in a fight now.” He shook his head. “God help him.”
“God help all of them,” she said, closing her eyes and whispering a silent prayer.
Her father merely grunted. Glancing down at his watch, his forehead furrowed. “Where’s that Arno? It’s ten past the hour. He should be here by now.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s rarely late.”
“Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you. You spend half the day in Mass, then you lounge around when there’s work to be done. You’re as useless as he is. Go out there and find him!”
Outside? Aafke froze. There was a war on now. Was it safe to go out? She felt a flash of shame. Her brother was on the front lines, facing tanks and bullets. Surely, she could find the courage to walk a few blocks in her hometown. The Germans couldn’t reach them this quickly, could they?
“Are you still here?”
“Going now.” She stepped around the counter and reached up to retrieve a coat off the handle. It was still early and there might be a chill after all. She turned to her father, but he was deep in his ledger, scribbling notes while he sipped another cup of coffee, probably laced with more brandy. She hurried away and out the store on to Julianastraat.
She was surprised to see the sun still shining and the sky as blue as ever. So strange that nature could ignore the end of the world. Pedestrians hurried this way and that, some she even recognized. But there were no friendly greetings this morning. Faces everywhere were set in a granite grimace, the color drained out like so many corpses. Everything had changed in an instant, Aafke realized, and she wondered if it would ever be the same again.
Striding down the street as quickly as she could, she passed Mauritsstraat and ’t Vonderke streets, finally reaching Nas-saustraat. Arno’s flat was on the opposite end of the street. She moved on and soon found herself at his garage. The double doors had been painted blue at one point but were so chipped and scratched that one had to search to find specks of the original color. A rusted chain held the two sides together, an uneven crack an inch or more wide gaping between them. She stepped up and pressed her face into the chasm, straining to see. After a few moments her eyes adjusted, and she could just make out that the truck was gone.
Arno wasn’t here. Had she just missed him? How would that even be possible? His route to the store would have followed the same streets she just walked. Surely, she would have seen him driving by. But she had been thinking about the war. Was it possible he’d passed her, and she hadn’t noticed? No, she was sure she hadn’t seen him. But what did that mean? She decided she would wait a few minutes for him before she returned to the store. Maybe he had another delivery before theirs this morning and the war news had delayed him? Yes, that made some sense.
The street here was deserted and the buildings blocked out the sun. Aafke slipped to the other side of the street where she could at least feel the warmth on her face while she waited. Minutes ticked by with no sign of Arno. She didn’t have a watch and now she wasn’t sure what to do. What if he had taken a different route and was already at their store? Her father would be furious.
She decided she should start back. She twisted that direction and had taken a few steps when she heard the noise. A buzzing off in the distance. She peered up and could see little black dots in the sky. Frozen, she watched in horror as they grew closer, emerging like little silver eagles out of the azure background. They were heading right for her. The rumbling grew until it was a deafening roar. There were two of them, and they were flying so low she feared they would crash into the buildings above her. They roared past like thunder, a few feet over the rooftops. The wind nearly blew her off her feet. Her eyes caught a flicker of black crosses. They were German planes, fighters it seemed to her eye. Her heart shuddered and thumped. She fell to her knees, her breath coming in rapid gasps. The planes shrunk away in moments, until they were little specks again, the sound fading with them. Her eyes were clamped shut, knees skinned beneath her dress from the pavement. She knelt there, shaking, unable to move. God help us!
A hand touched her back. She flinched, trying to jerk away. “Aafke, it’s all right,” came a familiar voice. She opened her eyes to see Arno leaning over her, eyes searching hers, concern creasing his face. She took a deep breath as he extended a hand and pulled her firmly to her feet. She was surprised at the strength beneath the wiry frame. For a moment she could only look at him, eyes nearly even. He was a decade older than her but a hard life had ground and chiseled his features. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She pulled her hand away, taking a deep breath. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I was startled by the airplanes.”
“I saw them,” he said. “The bastards are already flying over us. And where is our air force? Our Queen has been too busy giving butter to the rich, and now we’ll all pay for it.”
“Where have you been?” she asked. “We were expecting you hours ago.”
He grunted. “Her Majesty’s government apparently didn’t have time to invest in transport either. Some police showed up an hour ago and confiscated my truck. They told me I would be compensated . . . later.”
“How awful,” she said. She looked more closely and saw a deep bruise on his right cheek. “Did they beat you?”
Arno’s lips twisted in a wry grin. “You know me, Aafke. I never liked the police much. I argued with them a bit. Several of those bastards got worse than this, I can tell you that.”
“And they didn’t arrest you?”
He shrugged. “Too busy with the war, I guess.”
“How can we get our delivery now?” she said, almost to herself.
“No point trying,” he said. “I doubt the wholesaler would even release the goods. Everything’s changed with the invasion. But that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“What do you mean?”
“If things go badly, like they did in Poland, the Germans are going to take this city, and take it fast. What do you think all those hungry soldiers are going to do with your store? They’ll snatch everything up in a day, and you’ll have nothing for yourselves, nothing to trade. The food and other goods you have at your store right now are going to be scarce soon. You need to find a place to hide as much as you can. All the canned goods and items that will last. If the Germans do take over, you’ll need everything you can save in the coming months to survive.”
She hadn’t thought of that. He seemed to see the world, to see through things, to see through her. “What are we going to do? We don’t have any place to hide things, and nothing to use to move it.”
Arno thought for a second. “I might be able to get another vehicle from somewhere. And we could store the goods in my garage. It doesn’t have much use at this point anyway, and I doubt those government swine will return my truck or pay for it, whether we win or lose.”
“Could you do that Arno? Could you help us?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at her. “But you need to get back to the store. Close it up right now until I can get there. With the war, people will be stocking up, trying to buy as much as they can carry. They’ll pick you clean maybe, before the Germans even get here. Don’t let them. Lock the doors and wait for me.”
“I can’t do that. They’re our neighbors, our friends.”
“To hell with them. It’s every man for himself now.”
“Why are you helping us, then?” she asked. A flicker of emotion crossed his face for just an instant before it was gone, replaced by that set grin that could mean anything or nothing.
“It’s my storage space,” he said. “I figure I’ll have access to some of it, as a renter’s fee.” He laughed. “Sorry to deflate your opinion of me. I’m not as selfless as all that.”
“You’ve always been good to my father and our family,” she said.
He nodded. “Get yourself home as quickly as you can. Tell your father what I said to you. Get the shop closed and wait for me. I’ll be there by early afternoon.”
Aafke hurried back toward her home. There were more people on the street now, some staring up at the sky, others with suitcases in their hands, heading God knew where. She wondered why anyone would be fleeing and then it struck her. They must be Jews trying to escape the city. There were rumors about the Germans and their treatment of the Jews. Terrible stories that couldn’t be true . . .
She wondered if Arno was right. Would the Germans occupy the city soon? If so, would they try to take everything they owned? He was correct about one thing for certain: if it came to that, having some items in hiding to sell later might be the difference between surviving or not. She hurried her step. She had to get to her father and close the store. Two blocks left and then one. Her breath was coming in ragged spurts as she moved as quickly as she could. She turned the last bend, and their corner came into view. She gasped and froze in place, staring. What were they going to do? In front of her was their store, the door open. And winding out of the entrance and down several blocks was a line of people, queued up to purchase everything they owned. The future was gone.
They stood bunched up on the near side of the bridge like so many runners waiting for the starting gun. The squad stuck together, jammed into the middle of the throng so tightly they could barely move their arms, although they managed to pass a thermos of tea back and forth for a swig or two. The captain didn’t know it was laced with schnapps. That was strictly against the rules. But what the hell, they were heading into combat.
“What can you see, Otto?” one of the men inquired. He peered out over the mass of gray and green, squinting toward the far shore.
“Sheep,” he said. “White ones and a cute little black one.”
“Are they armed?” joked Lieutenant Fritz Geier, their platoon leader, cracking a crooked grin.
“I don’t think so,” said Otto. “But the black one keeps glancing this way. He could be a scout.”
Fritz laughed. “What could they report at this point, Corporal? We’ve been sitting here for three days.”
Otto grunted and, extending a limb, snatched the container of tea away from a private mid-drink and drew it back, smacking against the head of another man in the process. “Watch it!” the private protested. Otto tipped the metal sphere to his lips and drained it in a gulp.
The roar of engines mixed with a rising crescendo of voices as the soldiers and vehicles streamed forward, surging onto the bridge. Scattered shots rang out, clanging against the armor of their panzers, but Otto didn’t see anyone hit. The defenders, such as they were, must have been few, and were skittish at that. After the first few retorts, they heard nothing else as they shuffled across the span and into Holland.
He waited for fear to hit him. The terror of combat all the veterans of the Polish war talked about—if you could get them to talk about anything. But he felt nothing. Well, that wasn’t quite true. In reality he was elated—like he was back on the pitch waiting for a match to start, standing like a mountain in front of the goalie. Fritz had been there too, a skinny little forward rushing to and fro. But this wasn’t a game anymore. You could die here. He was surprised he didn’t feel the fear. He could smell it around him, taste it in the wooden movements of his squad mates. He grunted, burping up a little schnapps. He would worry later.
They scrambled down a ditch to their right as they hobbled off the bridge, fanning out, rifles at the ready. The ground sloped upward, away from the river through a field of thick grass, toward a farmhouse at the crest of a gentle hill. Fritz motioned for them to halt while he scanned the ridgeline, looking for enemies. “Nothing,” he said, finally. “Not a one.”
“We should take a prisoner for questioning,” said Otto, nodding toward the sheep.
“Questioning?”
“Well, dinner.”
Fritz laughed. “Good idea.” He fished a length of rope out of his pack and gestured to a couple of the men. “Go capture one of our little friends over there and we’ll bring it along for a victory feast.”
“Not the black one,” said Otto.
“What difference does it make?” asked one of the privates.
“Not the black one.”
The soldier looked as if he was going to say something else, but he broke off instead and headed toward the flock to secure their evening meal.
Fritz approached Otto. “Have you seen the captain?” he asked, looking around.
Otto scoffed. “He’s probably still on the other side of the river, soiling himself from those sniper shots.”
The lieutenant laughed. “We’re better off without him. When we’ve secured the sheep, take two men and let’s move up to that farmhouse. It’s too close to the road to leave unattended. We’ll cover you from here.”
Otto nodded. Selecting Schmidt and Abel, two of his best men. He started up the hillside, gesturing for the privates to keep low and fan out. He unslung his Karabiner 98k and cranked the bolt, locking a round in the chamber. Glancing up, he scanned the farmhouse windows, searching for faces, but the glass was empty and dark. He gauged the distance, less than a hundred yards. He picked his way onward. The grass was knee high and the ground uneven.
Halfway up, Schmidt stumbled and fell. Otto turned to chastise him when a sharp crack of thunder pierced his ears. The private hadn’t tripped after all. He was hit. Otto dropped into the grass, shouting at Abel to do the same. Rolling a few times to his left, he reached Schmidt. His legs were facing Otto and the ankles danced and shivered. He could hear a gurgling from the private’s throat as the soldier thrashed about.
“It’s all right,” whispered Otto. “You’ll be all right. Fritz is right behind us with the rest of the platoon. We’ll send the medic.”
Another shot rang out and Otto was washed in hot liquid. He closed his eyes, his ears ringing, the taste and smell of metal filling him. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and blinked several times. Schmidt wasn’t moving anymore. Scenes flashed in his mind. The hours of training with this man. He remembered meeting his young wife when she visited the barracks one weekend. Schmidt who never stopped smiling, even at the end of a twenty-mile run. All of that was over now. He shook his head. He couldn’t think about that.
Otto could feel his heart pulsing now with an intoxicating mix of anger and excitement. He’d seen the flash of the second shot from the farmhouse. He knew where the sniper was. He inched forward, dragging his rifle. A third shot rang out. Abel was hit this time, and the body shuddered for a moment, then was still. Otto reached the private, resting his head directly below the bottom of his boots. Abel was new to the unit. Arriving just a month ago. He’d quickly established himself as one of the top men in the platoon. Athletic, quiet, humble.
A fourth shot. He heard the bullet skip in the ground a few inches from his head. The sniper was persistent. Glancing down at his weapon he took a deep breath. Otto rolled to his right, coming to his knees and raising his rifle. A fifth shot rang out, missing to his left. He took aim and fired. His bullet ripped through the upper right-hand window of the farmhouse, shattering the glass. There was no sixth shot. Rising, he waved the platoon forward.
“Otto, get down, you idiot!” shouted Fritz. He’d hurried up with the rest of the men, weapons at the ready.
“He’s dead.”
“You don’t know—”
“He’s dead.”
Otto turned and marched up toward the building. Reaching the back door, he kicked it open and rushed in, moving his rifle rapidly through the rooms. Not waiting for the rest to catch up, he stomped up the stairs, arriving on the second floor. He swept down to the last room on the right. It was a bedroom, a nursery with a crib and little stuffed animals covered in blood. A Dutch soldier lay flat on his back, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his face registering a vague surprise.
Otto stared at the soldier for a few moments, then nodded once and stepped back out of the room just as Fritz reached the top of the stairs. “Don’t run ahead like that!” he said. “You could have been killed.”
“He’s dead,” said Otto, stepping past the lieutenant and moving back down the landing. He searched around the first floor until he found the kitchen. Opening the covers, he found some bread in a brown paper wrapper. He took the loaf down and sniffed it. It was fresh. This would go nicely with the sheep. He stuffed the bread into the pack and stepped back outside, closing his eyes and letting the sun warm his face. He’d killed a man. His first. He’d seen two comrades die. What did he feel? He had to keep moving. He would think about Schmidt and Abel later. About the Dutchman, the nursery, and the blood.
A half hour later, they were rumbling along the highway in the open back of a two-ton truck, moving farther into Holland. The squad was tightly packed on benches, facing each other as the vehicle rumbled and rattled over potholes. Otto craned his neck, watching the farms and fields on the horizon. The men were quiet, eyes down, a few of them smoking. Only the sheep had anything to say, bleating loudly here and there out of fear or loneliness.
Otto glanced down at the back of the truck. Privates Abel and Schmidt were there, bodies covered by a blanket. Their first casualties. Otto looked away, taking a deep breath.
“What’s next?” he asked Fritz. The lieutenant was seated to his right, puffing on a cigarette dangling from his lips while he ran his fingers along a map he was trying to study through the jostling ride.
“We’re supposed to take this town,” he said, pointing a finger at the paper. “There’s a factory there the big chiefs want to collect.”
“How far?”
Fritz glanced back down again. “Maybe thirty miles. They want us there today if we can make it.”
“Thirty miles! The lines didn’t move that far in the last war in four years.”
Fritz smiled. “A different war, a different time. And they didn’t have us back then. They didn’t have the SS.”
“Or the Führer.”
Fritz nodded. “No, they had that dummkopf Kaiser Wilhelm. He’s here, you know?”
“Here?”
“In Holland. He holed up here after we lost the last war, and the socialists tossed him out.”
“Are we bringing him back to Germany?”
Fritz snorted. “I doubt it. I don’t think our Führer wants any competition for the head job. No, Old Wilhelm is a useless museum piece now.”
“And Hitler knows best, I suppose.”
The lieutenant looked sharply at him. “Without question, Corporal.”
Otto grun. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
