“No use both of us suffering,” he said. “Besides, it’s lightening up.”

It was true. The rain had ebbed from driving to steady to light as the wind picked up out of the south. By the time the trek was halted, they were close to the Romanian border at Barlad.

The lorry with the loudspeaker went around before dark, instructing everyone to prepare their papers, which would be examined before they were given transit documents from the Romanian government. The Martels were exhausted. Right after they’d eaten, they climbed into the back of their wagon and slept.

Chapter Twelve

Emil awoke before dawn to see to the horses. Adeline was up soon after, preparing a breakfast of dried meat, leftover bread, and boiled sliced beets. Not a feast, but far better than grass. More important, their sons had not gone hungry. After their first son’s death, she and Emil had both vowed that would never happen.

While Emil ate, Adeline woke the boys, checked them for lice, and got them dressed. They helped her fold and store the bedding before beginning their breakfast by giving thanks.

“We are grateful for this food and our safety, God,” she said. “All we ask is for another safe day, maybe a simpler one than yesterday, away from war. Amen.”

“Amen,” Walt said.

“Amen,” Will said.

Emil said nothing. He was looking west up the rutted road to the Romanian border and seeing a Wehrmacht vehicle coming their way. It drove up and parked across from their encampment.

Nikolas climbed out of the front passenger side. SS Sturmbannführer Haussmann, the Nazi of Emil’s nightmares, emerged from the rear. Bull-necked, hair close-cropped, he yelled, “I am Major Haussmann, and I have been put in charge of the trek and your safety by the authority of Reichsführer Himmler. I need to see papers for each wagon and each family member. You will show them to me or to Herr Nikolas, who is helping us certify documentation. Raus! Or you will not be permitted to cross the border into Romania or to remain under SS protection!”

Fear rooting him in his tracks, Emil found his vision restricted. He saw the SS major and the willing executioner as if down a tunnel. For some reason he heard Adeline in his mind, repeating a phrase her long-gone father had taught her: Thrown to the wind and the wolves.

Haussmann and Nikolas crossed the street to inspect the documents of another family camped there. Swallowing hard, moving stiffly, Emil went to the wagon, reached beneath the bench, and found a box nailed to the wagon floor. He opened it, got out an old leather sheaf, and retrieved the documents inside.

When he turned around, Haussmann was in the road, talking to Nikolas. The tall man gestured toward the Martel encampment and followed the major, his eyes meeting Emil’s and an oily smile rising on his lips.

The SS major walked up, looked at Emil. “Papers, Herr . . . ?”

“Martel,” Emil said, focusing on a point just above and between Haussmann’s dark eyes as he handed him the papers. “Emil Martel.”

“We share the same given name,” Haussmann said. He did not examine the documents, but instead studied Emil, engaged his eyes, saying, “And where did you get these documents, Herr Martel? Who certified you German enough to be protected by the SS of the Reich?”

Emil felt terror looking into Haussmann’s eyes, but did not let himself look away when he said, “A German officer where we lived and—”

“What officer?” Haussmann said sharply. “When and where, Herr Martel?”

The change in tone rattled Emil, and he took his eyes off the SS officer’s. He heard the tremor in his own voice when he said, “I don’t remember his name offhand, Major. He was an officer with VoMi, Sonderkommando R in Pervomaisk where we lived in mid-August 1941. His name is on the papers there somewhere.”

“VoMi, Sonderkommando R, hmm,” Haussmann said, finally examining the pages in his hands now. “Yes, I see that. On what basis was the certification given?”

“We had our birth certificates and our family Bible. It goes back to when our family came from Germany.”

“Hmm,” the SS major said, glanced at Nikolas. “I find it hard to believe you have a Bible that survived Stalin’s purges. Do you have this Bible with you, Herr Martel?”

He froze a moment. “Me? Uh, no.”

“No?” Haussmann said, taking a step closer.

Before Emil could reply, Adeline blurted out, “Karoline does. My mother-in-law.”

“She does!” Rese called. “We do!”

“I do!” Karoline said. “It’s here!”

Major Haussmann smiled coldly at Adeline, then Emil, before pivoting toward Karoline, who was limping toward him resolutely, leaning on her cane, and carrying an old Bible with Johann shambling behind her.

In a strong voice, she said, “Emil’s great-, great-, great-, great-grandfather carried this Bible with him when he left Germany, to answer Catherine the Great’s offer of land in Russia. The name of every Martel in our family is in it. That’s why we were all certified. And that’s why we were given back our land from the Communists. And that’s why we’re on this trek under your protection, Major.”

For the first time in ages, Emil wanted to hug his mother. He glanced at Nikolas, who appeared less smug. And Haussmann had not seemed to recognize him.

Karoline gave her cane to her husband and flipped open the Bible to pages at the back that revealed the entire Martel family lineage scrawled in ink that faded as it went back generation after generation after generation to Germany.

The SS major traced his gloved finger up a page and stopped. “Gustav Martel, born March 4, 1789, in Hanover, Germany. Dies December 12, 1842, in Friedenstal, Russia.”

“That’s where our land was, going back more than a century,” Karoline said. “That’s what we’ve had to leave forever.”

If Haussmann felt any pity for her, he did not show it. He closed the Bible, handed it to her, and said, “My apologies, Frau Martel. We will not worry about the authenticity of your papers or blood purity any longer. You are all free to cross the border.”

When Haussmann turned to hand back the Martels’ documents, Emil felt a wave of relief. The SS officer would drive on, never realizing their paths had crossed before. And Nikolas would leave and not give him another thought.

But then the major cocked his head and kept the papers just out of Emil’s grasp.

“Do I know you, Herr Martel?” he asked, training his dead eyes on Emil again.

Emil’s terror was complete, but he forced himself again to gaze at the man. “No, Major. I do not believe so.”

Haussmann stood there, glanced at the papers. “Pervomaisk. No, I was never there. And where is this Friedenstal?”

“Sixty kilometers southeast of Birsula. A small village established from the Glückstal colony.”

The major thought about that and then shrugged, shook his head, and said, “I must be mistaken, Herr Martel.”

Emil’s emotions had swung back the other way so fast after hearing the word “mistaken” that it took a beat for him to realize Haussmann was handing him his papers.

He took them, nodded shallowly, and said, “Thank you, Major.”

“You were not taken into the army when we invaded, Herr Martel?” Haussmann said, studying him again.

“My wife’s brother was. If I had gone, there would have been no man in our family left to farm our fields. The VoMi decided they’d rather have me produce food than fight.”

The SS major considered that a moment, glanced at Nikolas, and then said, “You were not a member of the Selbstschutz in your area?”

“We lived in a tiny place in a sea of grain fields,” Emil replied. “I know of only one crime there in three years, and that was a Romanian soldier who raped a widow. He was caught.”

“Hmm,” Haussmann said. “Did you know that all men of ethnic German descent over the age of thirty were supposed to be members of the Selbstschutz? And required to take an oath of allegiance?”

“No,” Emil said. “I did not know that. As I said, we lived—”

Haussmann barked, “Raise your right hand in a proper salute, Herr Martel, as if you were greeting the führer right here and now!”

Emil felt as if he were being both tested and humiliated in front of his family but threw his arm up and out in the Nazi salute.

“Repeat after me, Herr Martel: ‘As a carrier of pure German blood, I swear to Adolf Hitler, the führer of all Germans, to be true unto death, to do my best, and to be absolutely obedient to all of my superiors. Heil Hitler!’”

Swallowing his pride, telling himself to do whatever it took to be rid of this man, Emil recited the oath for the second time in his life and for the second time at Haussmann’s command. As he did so, he was seeing the SS major not as he was now but as he’d been nearly three years before, a younger captain shouting at him beside a remote ravine outside Dubossary.

When Emil finished, he stood there with his arm raised, gazing at Haussmann, who finally allowed the wisp of a smile to cross his face.

“You may lower your arm, Herr Martel. Be safe on your journey today.”