White Rose Black Forest(57)

Another explosion almost blew out her eardrum, knocking her off her feet. The buildings all around her were a sea of flames sending black smoke billowing into the air. She wiped grit out of her eyes, tried to focus despite the ringing in her ears. She checked her body. No blood. She could move. Only a little pain. She rose to her feet, falling behind most of the crowd now.

Another bomb exploded, but several hundred yards away this time. The thought emerged from the swamp of her mind that she was alone and still had to get to a bomb shelter. The crowd in front of her was still running toward the air-raid shelter, which she could now see was a few blocks away. Where was Hahn? She felt a warmth flowing down the side of her face, and her hand came back stained with her own blood. The cacophony of the sirens was changed now, mixed with the agonized moans of the wounded. She stumbled across rubble and broken glass, searching for Hahn. She counted seven dead within fifty feet of where she was standing, some missing arms and legs, others crushed under bricks and mortar. The whistling of the bombs came again, farther away now. The bombers had passed over, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come again. She still needed to get to a shelter. Staying out in the open meant death.

Franka screamed as she saw him. Hahn was on the other side of the street, lying on his side in a pool of thick crimson. She stumbled to him and passed the outstretched hands of several wounded and begging for her help. It was against every instinct in her to ignore them, but she did. A faint voice inside her head reminded her to focus on the mission.

“Hahn,” she said. Her voice seemed to echo within her, as if inside a deep black cavern. More explosions rocked the earth as she bent down to him. People were still running past. A young man shouted at her to come, tried to grab at her, but she shrugged him off. Hahn opened his eyes and lifted his head. Blood oozed out the sides of his mouth. He coughed, brought his eyes to hers. His clothes were wet with blood, the pool in front of him thickening by the second. His eyes implored her to help, though she knew there was nothing to be done. A loose piece of masonry lay on his legs, pinning him to the ground. She thought to drop him, to keep running toward the shelter. She remembered John, waiting for her in the cabin.

“Where is the microfilm, Hahn?”

His eyes flickered, and he managed nothing more than a grunt.

“Don’t let your research die on this street. You said that the Nazis didn’t value your work. Let the Americans finish what you started.” He opened his eyes and was looking at her as she spoke now. “Where is the microfilm? Let me safeguard the work you’ve dedicated your life to.”

Hahn tried to turn over, tried to move the concrete block off his legs. Franka reached under the block and strained as she attempted to lift it. It didn’t budge, and Hahn, resigned to his fate, fell back to his original position. His breathing was getting shallower, the color running from his face. Franka knew he had only seconds now.

“Dr. Hahn? Don’t let your work fall into Nazi hands. Let the Americans do something good with it.”

Hahn curled his lips back in a bloody, macabre smile. “Like they’ve done here today? Do you even realize what I’m working on?”

“Nuclear fission? I don’t know what that is. I know it could change the tide of the—”

“It’s a bomb—the most powerful bomb in history. A bomb that could level an entire city.”

“One bomb that could destroy a city?”

“That could incinerate thousands in seconds.”

“Don’t let it fall into the Nazis’ hands. Think of what they did to your Jewish friends and colleagues. Think of what they could do with that power.”

Hahn closed his eyes for a second and then opened them again for what Franka knew could be the last time. “It’s in my apartment, 433 Kronenstrasse. It’s close.” He coughed again. “Make sure they complete it. It’s all there. Go now, while the raid is on and the police are in the bomb shelter.”

“Where is it hidden?” More bombs went off, only a few hundred yards away. Franka knew she had to move. The bombers would come again.

“The picture of my mother,” he said, his voice weakening. “Look into it . . .”

His head fell back, his mustache coated in blood, his eyes open, staring into nothing.

People flashed past. Franka was the only person not running who was able. Hahn’s apartment was being watched. Why else would he have told her to go there now while the Allied bombers rained death on the city below? This could be Franka’s only chance to resurrect the mission, to do her part to defeat the evil that had killed Hans, and Fredi, and her father.

It took a few grisly seconds to rifle through his pockets for the keys. No one was watching. She left him lying there and ran with the others, the safety of the reinforced-concrete air-raid shelter coming into view at the end of the street. A haze of smoke and dust hovered in the air. The sirens were still blaring, and several of the buildings around her were ablaze. Dead bodies littered the way. She saw the name come into view—Kronenstrasse. The street was empty. No police. No soldiers. No Gestapo, and surely no Frau Hahn waiting for her ex-husband to come home. She’d never get another opportunity like this. She stopped for a second, her breath thundering in and out of her lungs, her hair wet with blood. The safety of the air-raid shelter was two hundred yards away. It could wait.

She ran down Kronenstrasse, glancing up at the numbers of the buildings as she went. The bombs came again, and several explosions rocked the ground behind her. Smoking hulks, which had been buildings just moments before, lurched over her, ready to collapse into the street. The mission. The mission. She followed the numbers 411, 413. A bomb fell to her right, hurling glass and concrete onto the road in front of her. She cowered down for a few seconds until she was sure there wasn’t another one coming. She saw the apartment block and ran to the glass door, which was still untouched, and fumbled for the keys. She tried one—the wrong key—and then another, and the key turned. The door opened to a marble staircase. The elevator was a few feet away but would be far too dangerous to use. The postbox on her right told her that Hahn lived, or had lived, in apartment 2b. She made for the deserted staircase as the entire building shook with the concussion from a nearby bomb. Survival would be pure chance. She crouched on the stairs, waiting for the sound to pass, and then continued up. Red-faced and panting, she made it to apartment 2b. The key slid into the lock, and she pushed the door open. The thought arose that his wife may have still been there, but there was no time for hesitation. She ran into the living room, repeating the words he’d said over and over.