Morphine tablets. Sadly, it had become a common way for a life to be ended, a bitter swallow followed by a blanket of dreamless sleep from which one never woke.
Otto was a man who fought for his success, for a chance at life. What could possibly make a man so determined give up after all this time?
“Why?” she asked. “Did the note say why?”
“He was denied an American visa again,” Ethan said slowly. “He’d already tried twice before, waiting out the six months in between rejections to attempt it again. I think after the third time…”
“If he had told me, perhaps I could have—”
Ethan shook his head. “His parents were German. There was nothing you could have done.”
Pain crumpled in Ava’s chest with the truth of Ethan’s words. There was truly nothing she—or anyone else—could have done for him. He had been failed by a system that was inherently broken.
“He left something for you,” Ethan said gently. “A moment, please.” He disappeared into his office, leaving Ava standing where she stood, her body numb.
She gazed across the room, seeing nothing. How could she when her thoughts were overflowing? She had intended to see Otto once she’d spoken with Ethan, to bask in the familiar sweet scent of his pipe and tell him about the mother and child who would soon be arriving in Lisbon. To seek his counsel.
How had she not seen the depth of his misery? How had he hidden such desperation from her?
The room blurred.
“Ava.” Ethan put his warm hand on her shoulder.
She looked at him, her throat aching with an emotion that wouldn’t let her speak.
He extended a packet of papers toward her. Combat showed at the top. She shook her head vehemently. She would not have his last act be retrieving newspapers for her. He was so much greater than that.
“It is not only these.” Ethan sifted through the stack, finding first the well-worn letter from Petra, then a second envelope with Ava’s name written in short, neat print across the front.
“What is that?”
Ethan handed her the small pile, the envelope thick with what felt like several sheets of paper. “I believe…” He cleared his throat. “I believe it’s Otto’s story and he wanted you to have it.”
EIGHTEEN
Elaine
The Citro?n sluiced through an onslaught of rain with Elaine tensely sitting on the hard leather rear seat with the officer and the young Nazi in the front. They spoke in German, which she could not understand, but she did recognize a single word that made her blood go cold: Montluc.
By some miracle, she managed to maintain a calm demeanor. Beneath the surface, however, she was a torrent of fear, worry, and doubt. If the Germans found the stack of newspapers under the filthy box, if those who were arrested gave away a name, if her identity card was spotted as a fake—she might never leave.
Upon her own inspection, the identification appeared to be an exact replica of the ones that were officially issued. But it had never been subjected to scrutiny before. Would the integrity of it hold up?
The car came to a stop, and she was yanked from the back seat into the deluge. Rain whipped at her from all directions, slashing into her eyes and leaving her momentarily blinded. The officer shoved her toward a small building, barking orders she didn’t understand. Her handbag was snatched away, her identity card ripped out for examination. Thankfully her basket with its damning false bottom lay behind on the street where she had dropped it upon her arrest.
Even as she was whisked in the confusing whirlwind, some part of her mind remained calm enough to offer pithy protests declaring her innocence, claiming to be a mere housewife visiting a friend. Even when no one bothered to acknowledge she had spoken, she continued her objections.