Many thanks to those who have so kindly reviewed. And a note to those who have reviewed anonymously: many thanks! I'm only sorry I can't respond to your reviews and let you know how grateful I am. :)


THE GERMAN BOOK EXPOSITION IN BARCELONA: A vision of the cultural labor of National Socialism – a gift from the Reich to Spain

The Exposition to be inaugurated in the assembly hall of the university will be a broad exposition of German books, and will take place under the lofty patronage of the most excellent Minister of National Education.

The aforementioned Exposition is of special interest, given the interruption of the cultural interchange between Spain and Germany from 1936 to 1939...

– La Vanguardia, February 2, 1941

Epiphany passed. "The Flying Dutchman," which had enjoyed tremendous success, ended with the holidays. Christine received invitations to sing at social gatherings, most of them at the Ritz Hotel. Erik continued to tutor her in her dressing room at the Victoria and to compose her musical messages in Morse code, but there was a growing tension between them. Sometimes he would snap at Christine for no apparent reason; often he was sarcastic. Christine, for her part, studiously ignored his frequent touches and whatever their meaning might be – and tolerated his bad humor without complaint. She realized vaguely that she was cheating him in some nameless way.

Spanish newspapers continued to give lavish descriptions of spectacular Axis victories in Europe and Africa. They also depicted the desolation and despair of the English population caused by the devastating bombings of London.

Erik chuckled dryly as he leafed through Christine's newspaper in her dressing room. "La Vanguardia is becoming more spectacularly depraved by the day! Why, it's the journalistic equivalent of a mash note to Hitler and Mussolini!"

"That's true. I don't know why I buy it anymore," sighed Christine. "But it does appear that Germany and Italy are going to win the war."

Erik arched his visible brow. "Please do not tell me that you believe this propaganda! The British are receiving some help from the United States and can expect more now that Roosevelt's been elected to a third term. They're also conscripting men into the military over there. And, as I've told you, Hitler's ambitions will soon outmatch his resources. But let's return to the subject of your believing what you read in the Press here. Perhaps during those post-recital gatherings you've heard the name Hans Lazar?"

"No, I don't believe I have."

"Your Nazis are terribly remiss, then! Lazar is only the most powerful and influential member of the German colony in Madrid, and he happens to be the Press liaison for the Germany Embassy. He's married to a Romanian noble, the Baroness of Petrino, and they give lavish parties right in the middle of famished Madrid. He manages a great deal of German capital, which he uses to keep the most influential Spanish journalists in his pocket. What you see in the guise of 'war news' in the local papers is simply propaganda, Christine. Oh, the Nazis may garner victories in the short run, but as Ortega y Gasset says, they're a motor with no brakes.

"In the meantime, I am preparing our way to New York, Christine. There is still much to be done here, it's true. Transporting gold is a tricky business, but I will not have us arrive as paupers..."

Christine remained silent and focused her attention on the sheets of music she was memorizing. Whenever Erik spoke of a future he assumed they would spend together, she felt numb. She knew that she would never leave Barcelona with him, knew that she would wait forever for Raoul, if it came to that. Yet she did not want to injure or alienate Erik by telling him the truth – not yet, at least. Perhaps she would never have to tell him. Perhaps his infatuation with her, or with her voice, would end, and he would leave her. Erik's references to their future together were on the increase. He seemed to be searching for some reaction from her, and she knew she owed him one – but she could not give him the one he wanted.

He seemed to read her mind. "No matter what you think, Christine, you will be leaving with me when the time arrives," he said quietly. There was a steel in his voice that did not admit contradictions.

Margarita slapped at the door, and Christine jumped. She turned to say something to Erik, but he had disappeared.

As soon as she opened the door, she knew that something was wrong. Margarita was pale and breathless and quickly closed the door behind her as soon as she entered.

"You know that Gloria's been working on that 'Oscar' situation ever since opening night, when I passed on your message. Well, something's come up. Today. You remember where you met Gloria? Do you have your rationing book? Good. Same place, same discretion. There can be nobody in the shop. Make sure you're not followed! I think somebody saw me, and the place might be under surveillance, so..." Marga seized Christine's arm and nearly dragged her towards her dressing room.

Marga's dressing room was cozy, with a pink divan and embroidered doilies and blankets, watercolor flowers decorating the walls, leg warmers and ballet slippers arranged in a corner, and cushions everywhere. There were several costumes hanging on a rack; Margarita was notorious for not returning costumes. There were also wigs.

"Hmmm," appraised Marga, looking from Christine to the wigs, and she took a chestnut wig and brusquely positioned it over Christine's piled-up hair, her hands so taut and tense that they pushed her friend into a cringe. "Here – take this black mantilla and put it over your head." She quickly opened her dresser drawer and extracted a devotional book, which she tossed to Christine. "You'll look like everybody else on their way back from Mass. And hurry!"


"Nigel Bowers is indeed collaborating with the Gestapo here," said Gloria as soon as Christine had run up the stairs and entered her salon. "And he's exposed Oscar. Actually, Bowers was collaborating with the Soviet NKVD and giving them information, at least at one time. He knows Oscar was a communist who left Germany for Spain and fought in the International Brigades. He knows Oscar is collaborating with us while pretending to respect Gleichschaltung – submission to Nazi doctrines. You know that Spain honors an agreement it made with Himmler to arrest and repatriate Germans suspected of not supporting Nazism. There won't be any trial for Oscar if he falls into the hands of the Regime. You know what will happen to him. We have Oscar and his wife in a safe place and will smuggle them out of the country if we can, but there's one problem." Gloria had been pacing with an unlit cigarette in her hand, but now she stopped and looked at Christine.

"And the problem is...?"

"Their son, Joséf, is at school today, and neither of his parents can be seen collecting him there. There'll be police posted around the area, but I don't think they know what the child looks like; they're concentrating on the parents. So we're sending you to collect the child early. You're blonde – well, you're usually blonde – and kind of Teutonic-looking, so you can go the the Deutsche Shule on the Calle Moià and collect the boy without attracting too much attention. You look a little like the typical Colegio Aleman mother. I'll need to lend you some of my clothes, you look too down-at-heel..."


Christine hailed a taxi, which stopped for her immediately. Feigning a German accent, she directed the driver to go the the German school on calle Moià. As the car rattled up the Avenida Diagonal, she looked down at herself in disbelief yet again. Gloria's deep gray pencil skirt and jacket fit her closely and gave her curves she had not realized she had. The high heels were slightly large on her, but her legs and ankles looked attractive in them. She looked and felt like an entirely different person. A jaunty fedora was tipped low over her eyes, and she wore red lipstick.

She alighted from the cab after giving the cabbie a tip generous enough to suit the character she was adopting. Squaring her shoulders, she looked up at the school. It was a large, four-story building including its basement level, and imperial eagles soared in painted relief at the top of the facade. The street was quiet. There was a woman pushing a baby carriage down the sidewalk, and a couple in deep conversation walking in the opposite direction. Christine proceeded forward on her borrowed heels, trying to walk as Gloria would walk – one foot in front of the other, model-style. She clicked up the stairs of the school and through the front doors.

The school's concierge examined the note she pulled out of her purse: Joséf Fischer's mother requested that the child be surrendered to her sister, who would accompany him to a doctor's appointment. The concierge read the note and said something in German to Christine, who shrugged. He stared at her, then abruptly left his chair to walk down a hallway. Christine lifted her chin, trying to appear arrogant, and was relieved when the man returned with Joséf, who looked at her with wide eyes. He was about six and wore the school uniform – shorts with belt, a light brown shirt, and tie. The concierge returned to his desk with a bored expression, and Christine bent to murmur to the little boy in Spanish, "Don't worry, I'm taking you to your mother." She took his hand.

Christine looked at her watch. Four minutes. She took the boy slowly towards the stairs. He was a docile child, carefully trained to respect authority, and he let her lead him without question. Was the sweat between their clasped hands hers or the child's? His grip was too tight on her hand, his breathing too shallow, and Christine realized with a pang that the boy was terrified.

Three minutes. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and waited.

Two...nobody on the sidewalk at this hour. Good.

One...

She approached the curb, and the black Mercedes she was expecting came into view.

"Waiting for a lift, Chelo?" asked the driver. The correct phrase.

"Alto alli! Stop now!" The shouting began as she opened the door for Joséf. The child hesitated, a deer poised on the verge of flight, looking with wide eyes for the source of the noise.

"Get in!" Christine said, and pushed him bodily into the car. As she tried to get in after Joséf, the driver began to move, pulling away from the curb slightly. The shouting was much closer now, and she could hear the sound of feet running...and a gunshot. A quick decision: "Go!" she shouted to the driver, and she slammed the car door shut. If she could divert attention to herself, she would. She quickly kicked Gloria's shoes off her feet and, dropping her purse, she started to run. An alleyway presented itself between buildings, and she hurried through it, but her assailant was closer. This time, she heard the whine of the bullet as it flew just past her head. To her right, the school's extensive patio wall reared high over her head. She threw herself onto it, jumping to hook her fingertips over the top and trying to gain a purchase with her feet on the stones in the wall. A hand grasped her leg, pulling her downward roughly, and she fell, skinning her hands as she went down. A sharp pain radiated up her leg, but she ignored it and twisted around to face her attacker. He was, as she expected, a policeman. His gun was drawn but lowered, and as she fumbled for the cyanide capsule in her sleeve, he jerked the firearm upward. Christine watched in amazement as his arm went up in a seeming burlesque of a fascist salute. The gun flew to the ground beside him, but he paid no attention to it; his hands were working desperately at his neck, and his face was darkening from red to purple. His eyes bulged, and he made a gurgling noise as he collapsed to his knees. A snap of bone, a rattle, and he lay in a heap on the ground, unmoving.

Erik dropped with catlike grace from someplace above, and he hovered over her, his ice-cold hands assessing her. When they reached her ankle, they lingered, and Christine moaned involuntarily. "We've no time," he finally said, more to himself than to her, and he lifted her into his arms. All the noise had attracted attention, and she could hear voices raised in alarm. They were coming closer. Pressed against Erik's chest, she could smell blood. She felt his arm move, and heard the click of steel on steel – a gun of some kind? She could only see his face if she looked up, and very little of that, thanks to the mask. He moved quickly with her, his sinewy muscles strong and supple as he carried her through narrow streets. They twisted and turned in direction until he came to a rudely-made wooden door. He opened it with one brutal kick, exposing hoes, pickaxes, a wheelbarrow, and several buckets. He placed Christine carefully on the ground and replaced the wooden door carefully, working with his fingers on bits of its broken hinges.

There was some little sunlight coming in from above and under the door, but the musty storage room was otherwise in darkness. Christine's eyes were slow to adjust, and she did not see Erik at all, until his eyes became visible as he turned his head away from the door.

"You're injured. I smelled the blood," Christine murmured.

"No," he said simply, and in the gloom she saw him reach into his cloak and pull something out – the lasso. She smelled the blood on it afresh and felt a chill rack her.

He hovered over her, and she saw his handkerchief in the half-light. He applied it to her forehead. She felt his hands on her ankle, and she tensed in pain.

"It's only a sprain, but a bad one," he diagnosed. Voices and footsteps sounded outside, and Erik's eyes disappeared as he turned to regard the door. Christine saw the outline of a revolver in left hand. In his right hand, he grasped his lasso, and she could see his fingertips working with it. They waited. Christine felt the cyanide capsule slide past her cuff; she had loosened it from its place in her sleeve. She fidgeted with it quietly. The noise faded. Minutes passed.

"What do you have in your hand?" His eyes were narrowed and hovered over her once more.

She closed her hand into a fist over the capsule before she realized the enormity of the mistake.

"...And what do you think you are hiding from me?" He wrenched the capsule out of her hand. His eyes disappeared again, but he had not turned his head.

"I will kill Miss Gloria Munroe," he hissed, finally. His eyes glowed hot now above her with terrifying rage.

"Please, Erik, no..."

"She's treated you as expendable. She will understand that you are not to be used for errands such as today's – if she wishes to live."