Heart thudding in his chest, he finally dared a look, seeing nothing but a cloud of dust behind them. “What happened?” he asked. “Why were they shooting at you?”
Several seconds passed before his uncle responded. “Robbers. After the treasure. They came in from the back as I was leaving.”
Greta said, “Herr Heinrich?”
“Dead. They killed him.”
“What about the papers?” she asked.
“In the suitcase.”
“Good,” she replied. “If they found those—”
“Enough!” Uncle Ludwig looked at Klaus in the rearview mirror, then back at the road.
“Take me home,” Klaus said, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to do this.”
“No,” Uncle Ludwig snapped, driving even faster. “Too late.”
“I—I don’t understand. Why do you need me?”
Greta answered. “Because no one looks twice at a man and woman with their son.”
The only reason that would make sense is if they knew they were being watched. They were using him as a prop.
Klaus wondered what Dietrich would do if he were in this position. Was this why he’d died? Surely it was none of Klaus’s business. Besides, he was only twelve.
Follow your heart . . .
In his heart, he knew that his mother would choose death rather than allow the Nazis to come back into power. And if his presence made it easier for his uncle to succeed?
He knew the answer.
Keeping an eye on the back of his uncle’s head, he edged his hand toward the door. As soon as the car slowed for a turn, he threw the door open, jumped out, tumbling into the street. Ignoring the pain, he scrambled to his feet, then ran. Tires screeched as his uncle slamme
d on the brakes, bringing the car to a stop.
“Klaus!”
He didn’t turn, just barreled on. There was a light in the building at the corner, and he darted toward it, seeing an open door. Music drifted out—an Italian folk song—along with loud voices and laughter. “Help!” he screamed. “Please! Someone help me!”
He reached the doorway just as his uncle grabbed him by the shoulder. “Klaus!”
“Help me!” he said, trying to pull free.
A man, holding a wine bottle, looked out at them.
“Mio figlio,” his uncle said.
The man nodded.
“No!” Klaus shouted as his uncle dragged him away. “No mio figlio! I’m not his son! I’m not!”
“Shut up!” Uncle Ludwig backhanded him across the face. “Do that again and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Pain mixed with terror as he read the anger in his uncle’s eyes. Klaus glanced toward the bar. The man who’d come to the door lifted the wine bottle to his mouth and took a long drink, then walked away. The street was empty, dark, and Klaus was utterly alone. He looked at his uncle and silently nodded.
“Good,” Ludwig said, digging his fingers into Klaus’s arm, holding tight. “Now, walk quietly back to the car. Not a word.”