Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

Milice scared Patience even more than the Gestapo. Dead Eyes was scary, Big Ears was quiet, a bit of an unknown quantity, but Kretschmer was not that scary. There were avuncular traits to him, a highly astute uncle, even when he threatened to throw her to the wolves. It was threatened with regret, with options of escape, compliance dependent.

“You keep saying that and you don’t follow through. I’m not going to set them on you. I’ll have the details of the case passed onto them to see where it leads them. That may be to your door, it may not.”

“They’ll see you’ve questioned me.”

“I’m not protecting you while you protect someone else. Right now, you have control over how this goes, Patience.”

She dwelled on this, wondering how she could wrest this control he spoke of. She tried the personal approach, asking, “Why are you heading back to Germany? At this time, I mean?”

He gave the question some thought before answering, opting to be honest with her. “My wife isn’t very well. That she’s hung on as long as she has is a testament to the strength of the woman.”

“My father’s fortitude with his illness astounded me.”

“She’s injured rather than ill. A bomb. She lost her arm and will ultimately lose her life. I shouldn’t really be leaving my post, and I’ll stay here as long as I can, but I do want to be at the funeral for the children. Some funerals are worth attending no matter the consequences.”

“I appreciate you telling me that, and you do have my condolences.” It wasn’t the time to tell him that she wished she hadn’t gone to Deveral’s funeral.

“Thank you. I haven’t checked in with the hospital today. I’m going to leave you to have a think about things while I sort that. I don’t expect you to be worrying about any of that. You’ve got your own problems.”

He wasn’t wrong. Could she plead with him to spare her? No, she’d still have to give him something – someone. But there really was nobody. She had no clue where Florence went. It was hard to imagine her discreetly camouflaging herself anywhere, but clearly they’d not found her yet. She had the length of his phone call to come up with someone. There was nobody she hated enough to throw to the wolves, but she couldn’t be the scapegoat for this either. The crime was too huge, the penalty would be... at least death, potentially a particularly nasty way.

The injustice of it shouldn’t have shocked her as much as it did. The Nazis were hardly renowned for their ethics or sense of fair play. She had no reason to be even-handed, but she was able to acknowledge that such injustices occurred the world over. It had been this way dating back to at least the early days of Christianity (no doubt much earlier, but this was the first example that came to mind). Guilt by association. Punishment meted out without any offence having been committed. Having the wrong associates, religion, politics could seal your fate. How many ‘plotters’ still condemned by the history books today were just like her? The history books in soon-to-be liberated Paris would not mark her down as a villain; being a martyr was no more appealing.

Patience heard Kretschmer raise his voice to another officer outside her room, the language barrier preventing her from understanding the words, but the sentiment was conveyed. He didn’t even speak to her that angrily. He returned shaking his head. He explained, “The phones aren’t working again. Someone’s not paying the bills. The wiring in this building,” he said despairingly.

“At least we still have the lights.”

“True. They went out in the theatre, as you know.”

Patience nodded. “Yes, you did tell me that.”

“I did not.”

One second they were talking normally, then he was suddenly abrupt, as now, calling her out on some supposed lie. She knew that he had told her this – none of the survivors claimed that she was there, she knew this information from his account. Well, one of them had told her, maybe Dead Eyes, but Kretschmer had been hovering around and was involved in the conversation.

“I meant one of you, the blond officer, I think.”

“Is that how you usually talk? When you say ‘you’, you mean someone else?”

“I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be if you were being interrogated over a massacre?”

“A little. More so if I had something to hide.”

“You have power of life and death over me. That’s intimidating.”

“We’re aware of our reputation – and I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending you’re wrong. I would appreciate it if you stopped insulting mine. The majority of cases we investigate are banal. We have had so many cases of neighbours informing on each other, often baseless claims that we dismiss. People claim to hate us, but they’re quick to utilise us in their petty feuds. This case is an outlier, a very heinous crime. We have to get to the bottom of this. It cannot be left unresolved. There are time restraints too due to the obvious climate, the battles we face shortly.”

“I understand all of that, I do. I just don’t think I can help.”

“We’re not asking you to help us. We’re asking you to help yourself.” This was much more motivational, much more personal. “I knew what you meant about the lights, but the lesson there is to think carefully about every word you say to ensure you give us accurate intelligence. You were technically incorrect. Unless we find Florence soon, the next stage of this investigation will be based upon your words.”

“That’s putting me under so much pressure...”

“There is one bright spot to the phones not working. It spares me calls from Germany about this. Those calls are pressure, believe me. I’m not asking you to act like your countrymen and women who lie and throw their enemies at us. Just give us somebody more involved. Don’t feel guilty about it. Provided they’re not directly involved in the deaths,