Prologue:

Dusseldorf, Germany, November 1938.

“It’s an official decree,” Erik told her. “No Jews allowed in the parks.”

“What, are you joking?”

“No, I’m not. I would suggest we sit on a bench, but that’s also an official decree. No Jews allowed on benches.”

“This is absurd. How would they even know we were Jewish to begin with?” She made to sit down, defiant as ever, but Erik caught her by the arm before anyone saw.

She’d always been temperamental, Theresia. Ever since they were children. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Erik laughed, his breath clouding in front of him. “We should just stand here and talk,” he suggested. “I don’t think we’re not allowed to do that.”

-

Outskirts of Warsaw, Poland, December 1942.

Erik wondered if he’d been lonely then, or if it was something deeper. What lived beyond ache?

He was cold. Hungry. He wasn’t quite sure what day it was, but he thought it must be past Hanukkah already and closer to the curtains falling on another year of hiding.

He peered through the cracked window, looking down at the empty street. A Wehrmacht division had put up camp nearby just a few weeks ago and had been fighting with the Russians across the river ever since. It was a constant cacophony and a presiding anxiety as to who would find him first: the Russians, who might be considerate enough to kill him quickly and be done with it; or the Germans, who would send him to Krakow.

Erik leaned back, trying to imagine better times.

-

Whistling as he ambled down Warsaw’s abandoned streets, Richter wondered what – or who – he might find. Technically, this wasn’t his job; the last thing he was meant to be doing was searching an empty city, but he’d left camp with a small squadron doing just that regardless. They hadn’t seemed to notice when he’d disappeared, probably figuring he’d only used scouring Warsaw as an excuse to get out of camp. All he wanted was peace and quiet. Difficult things to find in war.

In the sky, so high above the world that the city lights looked like a maze of constellations, it was all so incredibly different. He could escape himself up there in a way he couldn’t on the ground. These were his last hours in Poland, and his night mission the previous week had been the final time he would contact the Underground until he was back in business at Stalag 5. That might not happen for who knew how long, and it felt like the end of an era.  

Richter looked up, catching sight of a very, very dim light coming from the second story of one of the few buildings still standing.

-

A Luftwaffe colonel. His eyes were the first thing Erik noticed, besides the uniform. They were the gray of an overcast sky with that peculiar hint of blue before dark. Sharp. Calculating. And yet he carried with him an aspect of loneliness, of emptiness – but there was an equal, intense depth of emotion surrounding him that matched the thousand shades in his eyes.

Erik was stricken with fear, unable to move as the colonel stepped closer, moving with the same caution one would exercise when approaching a wild animal.

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“Can you understand me?” He asked, in German. He thought Erik was Polish.

Erik nodded.

His gaze shifted to the worn, discolored armband bearing the Star of David. “Where are you from?”

“Dusseldorf.”

“Dusseldorf?” He sounded surprised. “I’ve never met a German Jew before.” He took another step closer, and Erik now stumbled backwards against the wall. “How did you survive the bombing?” His intrigue was just that: a simple interest. The last thing he came across as was malicious.

“I – I don’t know, I just – stayed here.”

Snow drifted in through the jagged hole in the window; a frigid breeze drifted in. The colonel considered Erik, the thin Jew cowering by the window, for a long moment before taking off his coat and holding it out to Erik – an offering of both peace and warmth. When Erik hesitated, he took yet another step closer, insisting, “Here. Take it.”

“And you?” Erik’s fingers closed around the collar.

He shrugged. “I have another one. Warmer.” He glanced at his watch, frowning. “I don’t have much time to explain, so I’ll get right to it – I work for the Allied Underground.”

Erik almost laughed – surely he was joking? “You’re in a German uniform.”

“If you want to survive, you’ll have to believe me.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Barely. I’m a pilot – I fly Allied intelligence in and out of Germany, but I can’t fly you out of here without arousing too much suspicion. I’ve just taken a post in Ludwigsburg, and I’m meant to leave at dawn –”

He stopped suddenly, something apparently dawning on him. He looked at Erik, caught up in the silence, before asking,

“If I ask you to wait here, will you stay?”

Despite the peculiarity surrounding this entire encounter, Erik nodded. “I… don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Erik watched him disappear down the street, laughing to himself that he must be dreaming. He felt absolutely clueless, in the same dazed state he’d been many months ago when he’d witnessed the deaths of his family and friends firsthand. This seemed opposite: his life, if he were to trust this man, was to be saved in defiance of so many others who had lost theirs to senseless violence and genocide. There were a thousand questions on his tongue but the silence wouldn’t answer him; so all did was sit and reflect on how he was, still and yet again, alive.

The colonel returned twenty minutes later with a bag and a pistol. The bag he handed to Erik; the pistol he loaded as he spoke.

“I stole some poor man’s uniform,” he explained, with a laugh, “and some poor man’s pistol.” He spoke quietly, understandingly, lacking the boisterous confidence Erik had encountered in countless other officers and soldiers alike.

“What is all this for?” Erik asked, bemused.

“I’m due for a train ride to Ludwigsburg in the morning, and I’m going to sneak you on. You’re going to hide in plain sight for a while.”

“And what about after we get to Ludwigsburg?”

A shrug. “My post is at Stalag 5. You’ll act like a prisoner.”

Erik didn’t feel like himself, wearing a German uniform. It felt like assuming someone else’s life and, strangely, someone else’s ideals. The colonel studied him for a long time, nitpicking. It started with stand up straighter, then not that straight, then he laughed and threw up his hands. He was, Erik decided, was too brave and foolish for his own good. Acting like this was all some sort of practical joke when both of their lives were on the line. He risked being court-martialed and shot all for Erik, a man he didn’t know but had already decided to save.

Something had struck Erik the moment he’d met this man, however. It was as though he thought differently. As though he saw and understood more; as though he tried to be more than he should.

Erik thought he might’ve seen his face in a newspaper somewhere; on a discarded flier or on faded propaganda pasted up on walls, once-bright colors worn away by weather. “Who are you?” He asked, curious.

“Colonel Wilhelm Richter.”

“The pilot?”

Richter smiled. “You’ve heard of me?”

“I think everyone has.” Erik stuck out a hand and they shook. “Erik Kehlmann.”

A pause. Slow, deliberate; and then with almost comical seriousness, “The pianist?”

Erik was surprised – taken aback, even – that Richter recognized his name. “How did you know?”

“I heard you on the radio a couple of years ago. You played Chopin.” Richter paused, seeming to reminisce for a moment. “If I remember correctly,” he continued, “the radio broadcaster called you the greatest pianist in Germany.”

“He might’ve been kidding about that,” replied Erik, embarrassed and, perhaps, a little too modest.

“You’ll have to play for me sometime. Then I can decide for myself whether he was joking or not.”

He was an interesting man, Colonel Richter. He had an immediately perceptible air of sadness and was, of course, alone; but he was also the first man Erik had encountered that struck one as being deeply and truly lonely.

He wondered why that might be.