Read Online Prisoner of Night and Fog by Anne Blankman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Blankman
Ads: Link
throw the old man out on sight, but that’s all he knew.”
His expression didn’t soften, but he pulled her into his arms. When she started to jerk away, he said, sounding annoyed, “We’d better dance, if we want people to stop staring at us.”
Uncertainty froze her in place. But she sensed the others’ curious gazes. Reluctantly, she placed her hands on Cohen’s shoulders. Beneath her fingers, his tightly corded muscles flexed. Tense and hard, as though he were barely holding himself together. His hand fit into the curve of her waist, his fingers felt warm through her dress’s thin fabric. The orchestra slid into a slow number, and they began to waltz.
Their eyes were only inches apart. As their bodies moved together, repeating the same box step, she watched his pupils, waiting for them to enlarge and swallow the brown-and-gold irises, to turn into black pools as Uncle Dolf had promised.
But nothing happened. And the sour stink of sweat and decay she had expected, she didn’t smell. Only a light scent of soap and cologne. The fingers holding hers felt smooth and soft, not rough with tangled hair.
Could she have been wrong about him?
He twirled her around. She spun across the dance floor, the other couples blurring into a whirl of blacks and reds and greens and blues. He drew her close to him again. His hand, at the small of her back, gripped her too hard. As though he hated having to touch her.
“We can be useful to each other,” he said, his breath a warm flutter on her neck. “I tell you what I know, and you use your connections to get me the information I want.”
Nerves prickled the back of her neck. She could easily imagine Uncle Dolf’s disappointment if he learned she had worked with a Jew. Then she thought of the bullet hole in her father’s shirt, and everything else fell away. “Explain to me why Herr Dearstyne is so curious about my father’s death.”
“Dearstyne started wondering about the street shoot-out after he read his late brother’s diary,” Cohen said, his hand relaxing on her waist as they swayed back and forth. “And before I tell you anything else, I think you need to share something, too. What convinced you to search me out here tonight?”
“I remembered something. About the clothes my father was wearing when he died.” She took a deep breath, like a swimmer bracing herself before diving into icy water. “There were powder burns on the back of his shirt.”
Cohen’s eyes widened. “Then I was right! I knew it! I—” He broke off with a curse. “What’s your brother doing here?”
She twisted in his arms. Standing near the nightclub’s entrance, washed by the golden chandelier lights, stood two familiar figures. Reinhard and Eva. And it was obvious from the way their heads turned, surveying the milling crowd, that they were looking for someone. It had to be her.
Hastily, she pulled away from Cohen. “Get out of here! Go, go!”
“Why, Fräulein Müller,” he said, sounding sarcastic, “I might almost believe you care about me.”
“Just go! My brother probably outweighs you by fifty pounds. He could crush you in an instant.”
Cohen laughed. “Fräulein Müller, don’t you know it’s rude to insult a man’s ability to fight?”
The unexpected flash of humor startled her. She had thought the boy could fit into a small box of fierceness and determination and loyalty to his ideals, however misguided they were. Now she saw that he couldn’t be contained, or understood, so easily.
She watched as he cast a speculative look toward the entrance. How could he be so reckless with his own safety? Or did he think other things mattered more than his well-being? She couldn’t figure him out.
“Please, Herr Cohen.” She touched his shoulder, nudging him forward. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. We can meet some other time.”
His head snapped back so he could stare at her. “You wish to see me again?”
“Yes. I—” The words stuck in her
His expression didn’t soften, but he pulled her into his arms. When she started to jerk away, he said, sounding annoyed, “We’d better dance, if we want people to stop staring at us.”
Uncertainty froze her in place. But she sensed the others’ curious gazes. Reluctantly, she placed her hands on Cohen’s shoulders. Beneath her fingers, his tightly corded muscles flexed. Tense and hard, as though he were barely holding himself together. His hand fit into the curve of her waist, his fingers felt warm through her dress’s thin fabric. The orchestra slid into a slow number, and they began to waltz.
Their eyes were only inches apart. As their bodies moved together, repeating the same box step, she watched his pupils, waiting for them to enlarge and swallow the brown-and-gold irises, to turn into black pools as Uncle Dolf had promised.
But nothing happened. And the sour stink of sweat and decay she had expected, she didn’t smell. Only a light scent of soap and cologne. The fingers holding hers felt smooth and soft, not rough with tangled hair.
Could she have been wrong about him?
He twirled her around. She spun across the dance floor, the other couples blurring into a whirl of blacks and reds and greens and blues. He drew her close to him again. His hand, at the small of her back, gripped her too hard. As though he hated having to touch her.
“We can be useful to each other,” he said, his breath a warm flutter on her neck. “I tell you what I know, and you use your connections to get me the information I want.”
Nerves prickled the back of her neck. She could easily imagine Uncle Dolf’s disappointment if he learned she had worked with a Jew. Then she thought of the bullet hole in her father’s shirt, and everything else fell away. “Explain to me why Herr Dearstyne is so curious about my father’s death.”
“Dearstyne started wondering about the street shoot-out after he read his late brother’s diary,” Cohen said, his hand relaxing on her waist as they swayed back and forth. “And before I tell you anything else, I think you need to share something, too. What convinced you to search me out here tonight?”
“I remembered something. About the clothes my father was wearing when he died.” She took a deep breath, like a swimmer bracing herself before diving into icy water. “There were powder burns on the back of his shirt.”
Cohen’s eyes widened. “Then I was right! I knew it! I—” He broke off with a curse. “What’s your brother doing here?”
She twisted in his arms. Standing near the nightclub’s entrance, washed by the golden chandelier lights, stood two familiar figures. Reinhard and Eva. And it was obvious from the way their heads turned, surveying the milling crowd, that they were looking for someone. It had to be her.
Hastily, she pulled away from Cohen. “Get out of here! Go, go!”
“Why, Fräulein Müller,” he said, sounding sarcastic, “I might almost believe you care about me.”
“Just go! My brother probably outweighs you by fifty pounds. He could crush you in an instant.”
Cohen laughed. “Fräulein Müller, don’t you know it’s rude to insult a man’s ability to fight?”
The unexpected flash of humor startled her. She had thought the boy could fit into a small box of fierceness and determination and loyalty to his ideals, however misguided they were. Now she saw that he couldn’t be contained, or understood, so easily.
She watched as he cast a speculative look toward the entrance. How could he be so reckless with his own safety? Or did he think other things mattered more than his well-being? She couldn’t figure him out.
“Please, Herr Cohen.” She touched his shoulder, nudging him forward. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. We can meet some other time.”
His head snapped back so he could stare at her. “You wish to see me again?”
“Yes. I—” The words stuck in her
Similar Books
