“‘Der Mond ist aufgegangen,
Die goldnen Sternlein prangen
Am Himmel hell und klar.’”
Ysabeau sang the words in time to the movement of Matthew’s mouth.
“Don’t, Ysabeau,” Baldwin bit out.
“What is that?” I asked, reaching to touch my husband’s face. Even in his torment, he remained shockingly expressionless.
“It’s a German hymn. Some of the verses have become a popular lullaby. Philippe used to sing it after . . . he came home.” Baldwin’s face was ravaged for a moment with grief and guilt.
“It is a song about God’s final judgement,” Ysabeau said.
Benjamin’s hands moved. When they stilled, the child’s body hung limply, head bent back at an impossible angle. Though he hadn’t killed the child, Matthew hadn’t been able to save her, either. Hers was another death Matthew would carry with him forever. Rage burned in my veins, clear and bright.
“Enough. This ends. Tonight.” I grabbed a set of keys that someone had thrown on the table. I didn’t care which car they belonged to, though I hoped it was Marcus’s—and therefore fast. “Tell Verin I’m on my way.”
“No!” Ysabeau’s anguished cry stopped me in my tracks. “The window. Can you enlarge that part of the picture for me, Nathaniel?”
“There’s nothing out there but snow and trees,” Hamish said, frowning.
“The wall next to the window. Focus there,” Ysabeau pointed to the grimy wall on the screen as though Nathaniel could somehow see her. Even though he couldn’t, Nathaniel obligingly zoomed in.
As a clearer picture emerged, I couldn’t imagine what Ysabeau thought she saw. The wall was stained with damp and had not been painted for some time. It might once have been white, like the tiles, but it was grayish now. The image on the screen continued to resolve and sharpen as Nathaniel worked.
Some of the grimy smudges turned out to be a series of numbers marching down the wall. “My clever child,” Ysabeau said, her eyes running red with blood and grief. She stood, her limbs trembling. “That monster. I will tear him to pieces.”
“What is it, Ysabeau?” I asked.
“The clue was in the song. Matthew knows we are watching him,” Ysabeau said.
“What is it, Grand-mère?” Marcus repeated, peering at the image. “Is it the numbers?”
“One number. Philippe’s number.” Ysabeau pointed to the last in the series.
“His number?” Sarah asked.
“It was given to him at Auschwitz-Birkenau. After the Nazis captured Philippe trying to liberate Ravensbrück, they sent him there,” Ysabeau said.
These were names out of nightmares, places that would forever be synonymous with the savagery of mankind.
“The Nazis tattooed it on Philippe—over and over again.” The fury built in Ysabeau’s voice, making it ring like a warning bell. “It is how they discovered he was different.”
“What are you saying?” I couldn’t believe it, and yet . . .
“It was Benjamin who tortured Philippe,” Ysabeau said.
Philippe’s image swam before me—the hollow eye socket where Benjamin had blinded him, the horrible scars on his face. I remembered the shaky handwriting on the letter he’d left for me, his body too damaged to control a pen’s movement.
And the same creature who had done that to Philippe now had my husband.
“Get out of my way.” I tried to push past Baldwin as I raced for the door. But Baldwin held me tight.