6
Paris 1944
“I can hear them coming up the stairs,” Stanza said softly. “There’s three of them. No. Two. Who are they? What do they want?” I could hear the strain in her voice and held her; she grabbed my arms and wrapped them around herself; I held her tight as she buried her face against my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” I said in a close whisper.
“Are they Germans? Is it Eisner?” she hissed.
“No.”
“No? Then who? Black marketeers? What do they want? They’re here to kill us! Oh God! Yevgeny?”
“I haven’t done anything,” I insisted. And I hadn’t, I told myself—except for stealing my own painting.
The fact that she thought they might be Black Marketeers made me wonder just who they were if they weren’t with the Resistance. Did someone stumble across my secret? That’d be the end of everything. For all involved, and I say all because I don’t know what names he has written down in that notebook of his.
S…
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