are so many young men being assigned to the dozens of daily airlift flights coming out of Rhein-Main Air Base that no one notices one more. All I had to do was put on a uniform and start helping load the plane.
When the Skymaster comes to a stop, we reverse the process begun three hours earlier, transferring everything in our cargo area onto the trucks that pull up one after the other.
“Nobody disappear!” Driscoll shouts as we launch into action. “General Tunner’s orders! We get this stuff off, turn around, and land back in Frankfurt in time for eggnog and cookies!”
The airlift is a well-oiled machine. Planes land at two-minute intervals, and the total time from unloading to takeoff is 25 minutes. Everything moves like clockwork, and everyone has a job to do. I can’t make a break for the main terminal or someone is bound to notice the missing pair of hands. But when we’re almost finished, one of the mobile coffee trucks arrives filled with pretty German girls who hand out drinks and smiles, and I take the opportunity to slip away while the others are distracted. I don’t look back, and nobody calls Peterson’s name. Even when they finally notice he’s gone, it won’t matter, as the United States Army has no record of him anyway.
Once I’m away from the airport, I make my way into Berlin. In an attempt to maintain a balance of power, the city has been divided into four sectors, each one controlled by one of the Allied superpowers: Great Britain, France, the United States, and the Soviet Union. In reality, though, it’s become the Soviets on one side and everyone else on the other. Fortunately, Tempelhof is in the American sector, and a GI walking through the streets is a common sight. I’d prefer to be dressed like a civilian, but at least wearing a uniform means that nobody questions me. And in case they do, all my identity papers carry the name of Alan Peterson.
It’s early evening, a little past seven, and already dark. A light snow is falling. And even though the streets are dotted with rubble—some of the buildings I pass have shattered windows and walls that have crumbled, so you can see into living rooms and kitchens still filled with furniture—it somehow manages to feel like Christmas. There are wreaths on some of the doors, and trees decorated with ornaments are visible in the parlors of some of the houses. The shops I pass don’t have much displayed in their windows, but signs reading FRÖHLICHE WEIHNACHTEN are taped to the glass.
Bells chime, and when I turn a corner, I see people walking into a church. The inside is lit by candles, and the sound of a carol being played on an organ floats from the open doorway. This makes me think of my own family back in Illinois. It’s just after noon there, and I know my mother is getting ready for the Christmas Eve gathering. She’s been cooking all day. The Tom and Jerry bowl and glasses that only come out once a year are set out on the sideboard. She’s probably already hung the stockings from the mantel over the fireplace, one for each kid, arranged in order from youngest to oldest: Marnie, Evan, Lily, Ella, Peter, me, and Jackson. In the morning, the stockings will all be filled to overflowing. Even mine, although I won’t be there to open it. And even Jackson’s, although it’s been three years since he died. The people of Berlin aren’t the only ones who’ve lost something to the war.
I hurry by the church, clearing my mind by focusing on the address the council gave me. I memorized it, as well as the best route to reach it. Writing things down is risky. As my father told me repeatedly when I started my Player training, the brain is the only notebook nobody can steal.
It takes me another 20 minutes to find the house. It’s in a section of the city that was hit hard by the Allied bombing, one of a row of connected brick town homes. Most of the buildings are empty, uninhabitable because of the damage. This one looks empty too. Most of the windows are boarded up, and the front door has an official notice on it warning people not to enter due to unsafe conditions. But looks can be deceiving. Just because you can’t see somebody, it doesn’t mean nobody is there. Sometimes, you just have to look harder.
I don’t announce myself by knocking on the front door. This isn’t a social call. Instead, I go into the bombed-out house next door, climb the stairs to the third floor, and step through a shattered window onto a narrow ledge that runs along the front of the whole row of houses. I press myself against what’s left of the wall and slowly move one foot at a time toward the house next door. If anyone notices me, maybe they’ll just think I’m Saint Nicholas coming to deliver presents.
When I reach the closest window of the target house, I pause beside it and look inside. The bedroom behind the cracked, dirty glass is empty. When I push on the window frame, the window slides up. I slip inside, turn on the small flashlight I carry in my pocket, and look around. It’s just as cold in here as it is outside, and I can see my breath. There’s no heat. But coal is in short supply, and no one is supposed to be living here anyway, so this might not mean anything. More telling is that everything in the room is covered with a thick layer of dust. No one has been here in a long time.
Then I notice the footprints. They start just outside the door, run along a hallway, and disappear down a flight of stairs. A faint glow emanates from the second floor. Someone is here after all. I creep to the end of the hall and pause. I can hear voices. There are two speakers, a man and what sounds like a younger woman.
This is a problem. There’s supposed to be only one person here. A man. I haven’t seen him yet, but even if the man I hear talking is the one I’m after, who is the girl? Is she a wife? A daughter? Something else? I need to get a look at them.
I draw my M1911 standard-issue military pistol and walk down the stairs. It’s not my weapon of choice, but it’s what Private Peterson would carry, and nobody would think twice about me having it, so it’s what I’ve got. The voices grow louder as I descend. When I reach the landing, I pause. The speakers are in a room just to my left.
“I wish Oskar and Rutger were here with us,” the man says.
“You know how Oskar is,” the young woman says. “He didn’t want to risk anyone following us to you.”
“I think everyone must have forgotten about me by now,” says the man. “Still, he’s right to be cautious. I worry about you making visits here.”
“Perhaps it’s time for you to leave,” the girl says. “You’ve shut yourself up in here long enough. Pass the duty on to someone else. Oskar and I—”
“Lottie, please,” the man interrupts. “How many times have we talked about this? I cannot leave.”
“You mean you will not,” says Lottie. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life here?”
“I’m already a dead man. Remember?”
The man’s words chill me. What does he mean? And who is this girl? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m better off if I don’t know who Lottie is. I know from experience that it’s easier to kill someone when you know nothing about her.
“Let’s not discuss it further,” the man says. “It’s Christmas Eve. Play something for me. You know I always love to hear you play.”
A moment later, I hear the sound of a piano. It’s badly out of tune, but the melody is familiar. “Silent Night.” The girl begins to sing, and the man joins in.
I risk moving closer and looking through the doorway. Inside the room, a scraggly pine tree stands in front of a boarded-up window, its branches hung with silver tinsel and a handful of colorful glass balls. The piano is against a wall, with the young woman seated at it. The man stands beside her. Both of them are wearing long, thick coats.
I recognize the man from the photo the council showed me. It’s Evrard Sauer. I’m in the right place. But the council said nothing about
