Pulling a heavy key from his pocket, Josef fumbled with the lock on the door. He blew out a breath. I will make myself worthy. I will prove it by my deeds, Father. I will live up to that name.

  Someone touched Josef’s shoulder, and he jumped. Gripping the key harder, Josef turned with a swing.

  “Josef, it is I!” a woman’s cry split the air.

  He quickly dropped the key into his pocket and placed a finger over the woman’s mouth. “Quiet, do you wish for the soldiers to come? Do you wish for us both to be killed?”

  The woman’s dark eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, widened. A single brown curl slipped from her cap. Freckles dotted her nose. Josef blinked as recognition came to him. “Hermina?”

  She nodded, and he quickly apologized and removed his finger from her face. The woman whimpered, her body shivering while she gripped his sleeve as she inched forward.

  He’d known Hermina Roth since he was a child. At least a decade older than his nineteen years, she had worked as a seamstress at the dress shop his mother favored. Yet this waif standing before him was a withered replica of the round, jovial young woman she’d been before the German occupation.

  Josef’s gaze darted to the dirigible overhead from which the Zeppelintruppen aimed their rifles, their focus fixed on something beyond him. He slowly released a breath. Moving his key to the lock, Josef opened the door. Hermina relaxed her grip on his sleeve and followed him inside.

  The now-slender woman with sunken cheekbones crumbled into his arms as soon as the door shut. He awkwardly patted her back until she drew a shaky breath and righted herself. Her pale, blotchy face caused his stomach to tie into knots.

  “We are next on the list.” She pulled a photograph from her pocket and held it out. “We will be required to report to the train station in three days. My uncle sent me a warning. My husband has already been taken away. I am strong. But the children . . .”

  Josef took the photo and peered at the image of two small girls in smart frocks, hair curled in ringlets, sitting on matching white wicker chairs. Their toddler brother stood beside them, solemnly staring off to the right as if he alone knew the danger to come. A flare of anger rose, and Josef ground his teeth.

  The hunters and the rabbits. Soldiers seeking children.

  Yet how much more could he do? He worked tirelessly on weapons. On shuttling Jews. What more could he give? Must he start hiding families, too?

  I know what my father would do. And what Judah Loew had done before us—risked all for our people. Josef ran his thumb along the photo’s edge and offered it back. Pain tightened the back of his throat.

  He swallowed it away. “I will do my best. I will see what locations are available. Yet even if we find someplace to hide your family for a while, it’s nearly impossible to get anyone out of the city, children especially.”

  The woman pulled her coat tight around her and lowered her gaze. Her shoulders visibly shivered. He touched her arm and sucked in another deep breath. You are a Loew. Remember that. Josef forced a smile. “It is nearly impossible, but I will do my best to find a place. And then we will see about getting you out of Prague to safety.”

  Hermina’s face lifted, and tear-filled eyes met his. “Thank you. Thank you. God bless you.”

  Josef straightened his stance. “I will get word to you within a day.”

  Hermina nodded, accepting his word as a promise. Then she slipped out, and Josef secured the door. He closed his eyes and, for a moment, wished he didn’t carry the weight of these responsibilities on his shoulders. So many lives at stake, so many more futures to be cut short. He wiped his forehead and then rubbed his eyes. Although weariness caused his head to ache and his senses to dull, he needed to continue.

  For as long as Josef Loew could remember, stories of his ancestor Judah Loew ben Bezalel had been told. Or, more accurately, of the creature the esteemed rabbi had created. Magical, mysterious. What some would claim a monster. But Josef believed there were times when a beast was needed to fight madmen. If only he could believe in the legend. A creature like that could help his people, the Jews, against this new Nazi horror.

  Some families passed down romantic legends—with stories of love and adventure. But not Josef’s family. Josef’s family had been called to protect the weak in the ancient city of Prague, known for Bohemian rulers and artists.

  I will do what I can, legend or not. I might die, but I’ll protect those who cannot defend themselves, as the Loews have always done.

  Josef’s feet shuffled across the aged, wooden floor of the clock shop and down three steps toward Grandfather’s workbench, which separated the front of the shop from a brick wall at the back. Before the occupation, when the shop was a busy place of commerce, the hum of customers’ voices filled the space. Now only dozens of clocks ticked in unison—their chimes ringing out on the hour and half hour. These days, Grandfather only left one clock unwound, an iron-and-copper mechanical clock dating from the sixteenth century.

  Next to that elaborate mechanical clock, a dull silver wall clock with a cracked face hung on a hook on the back wall as if waiting to be repaired. Pausing before the wall clock, Josef glanced over his shoulder to ensure the dark curtains blocked the front windows completely. Satisfied no one from the street could see in, he opened the glass in front of the clock face. Then Josef wound the clock until it read 10:17.

  A small click sounded, and to his left, a tall grandfather clock gently swung open, revealing a hidden doorway. It remained ajar long enough for Josef to slip inside. Then it closed again. The Pavouci might be crawling the streets of the Jewish district with the racket of their feet on cobblestone, but Josef refused to struggle without hope like a fly within their web.

  Before tonight, Kateřina Dubová had never attended a formal party. Her father thought her too young for such things. Yet now, a distinguished officer—one of the Nazi elite—pulled her undeniably close and led her across the dance floor. If she were to prove to her father she could write a story to make the newspaper’s front page, she had to pay attention She had to learn the secrets of their enemy, all while making the Nazis believe she could be trusted.

  Who wouldn’t trust someone who’d landed the job because of who her father was, not due to her skill? Her date believed so. She felt it in the way his warm touch spread across her back as if he’d already claimed his prize: her belief in him, his party, and the conquering of their enemies. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Sturmbannführer Langer smelled of cigarettes and a heavy cologne that reminded her of sage and an earthy aroma similar to the dark clay that lined the banks of the Vltava River near her home. It was the first time Kateřina had danced with a man who wasn’t a cousin or childhood friend. The first time she was given a real story to write. Even though she was twenty and had already finished her journalism degree, her father still saw her as a child. Well, at least he had before tonight.

  An SS officer dancing with a reporter, an unlikely pair. Yet they were one of a half dozen couples on the makeshift dance floor. A string quartet played nearby. So close that if Kateřina tried, she could reach out and touch the cello.

  When her father had first asked her to write a story for his newspaper, Zemědělské Listy, about new products coming out of the glass factory in Sázava, Kateřina had been disappointed. What story could one find in a small village southeast of Prague? That was until Father told her to dress formally and be prepared by five o’clock, when a car would arrive. A car and driver? A formal Nazi affair?

  Even more intriguing, the banquet was set up in the glass-cutting room of the factory where the finest Bohemian crystal in all of Czechoslovakia had once been crafted. The simple workroom had been staged with the familiar decorations of swastikas, eagles, and other symbols of Nazi power. Yet, unlike extravagant Nazi events with carefully arranged seating plans that emphasized the hierarchy and importance of the attendees, only eight round tables had been set up tonight with an open seating plan.

  Why this factory? Kateřina had wondered on the drive down. And why invite me?

  When she arrived, her questions found their answers. This factory was no longer used to manufacture fine crystal pieces. Since Adolf Hitler came to power, the Nazi regime had transformed many industries to support the war effort. This was the Reich’s newest accomplishment.

  With a turn and a step, Kateřina’s escort spun her. She had a full view of a table ladened with glass cylinders approximately 30 centimeters in diameter and 60 centimeters in height. The glass glimmered in the flickering candlelight.

  Kateřina’s stomach clenched. The words clicked through her mind as if she were already sitting in front of her voice box, watching black-typed words appear on crisp white paper as she spoke them into existence.

  Furnaces that once produced delicate crystal stemware now manufacture glass cylinders for Nazi chemical warfare.

  Another spin and the officer’s breath on her cheek reminded Kateřina not to get lost in her thoughts. His grip tightened, and she glanced away from the clear canisters to his piercing blue eyes. Probably the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen, yet like the canisters, they hid death inside.

  “Such a beautiful young woman. Yet why is such a rose among the thorns?” Sturmbannführer Langer’s words purred over the music. His uniform was starched straight, and his medals glinted in the candlelight. Unlike her father, who acted as if the occupation of the Germans was simply another bit of news to report, Kateřina wished she could speak out against the changes, especially the imposition of Nazi ideology and suppression of Czech culture and language. Czechs were forced to learn German, and their language was banned in official settings. With a Czech father and German mother, Kateřina had thankfully grown up knowing both languages. But that still didn’t prevent her from wishing for how things used to be. Mother would have stood against it. She would have said something—German-born or not.

  Kateřina straightened her spine as she replied to the officer in German. “I may be a rose, but I am not weak. I have heard that a flower is a soldier standing in attention to the sun.”

  He shot her a glance of delight. “Ah, I see. So you are here to honor der Führer und Reichskanzler?” The man’s German accent thickened as his leader’s name rolled from his lips.

  “My duty is to report on this new regime.” Kateřina pressed her lips into a thin line. She wanted to say more, but not now. Not to him. Her throat tightened with emotion. Reporting was precisely what she’d tried to do for the last six months, only to find herself covering food shortages and long queues. She was made out as a fool in the eyes of the other reporters, even more so since she was the editor’s daughter. Her chin trembled at the humiliation of it.

  The man slowed his steps. “Fräulein, what is it?”

  Kateřina forced the edge of her lips up and wiped at a tear on the corner of her eye that threatened to break through. Not here. Not in front of him.

  Yet when she noticed sympathy in the man’s gaze, she changed her mind. Perhaps she didn’t need to appear strong. Her weakness might be what got her what she wanted most—a front-page story. A story to get her father’s attention.

  A story to make Father see her for once in her life.

  As the music rose, she allowed her body to shift slightly closer to her dance partner. Kateřina eyed the glass canisters again, more boldly this time. “There is little need for new crystal vases; am I correct?”

  The officer’s brows lifted. Then laughter rumbled from Sturmbannführer Langer’s chest, catching Kateřina off guard and causing her to miss a step. Yet her feet found their way before her dance partner noticed her fumble.

  “Ja, you are correct. There is no need to purchase new crystal vases or other valuable items. We’ve already stripped everything of worth from Josefov.”

  Kateřina’s brow furrowed. Josefov, the Jewish district?

  He glanced at the canisters and offered a lopsided grin. “And soon we’ll claim everything they have, even their very breath.”

  The breath of Jews?

  An ache pressed on her chest as if the air in her lungs had become concrete. It took every ounce of focus to keep in step with the music. To keep inhaling and exhaling. To smile.

  She jutted out her chin and swayed with her steps, like she’d seen in the picture movies. Yes, she could play the part of a character in one of the talking films. She could act like the doe-eyed reporter the officer believed her to be. Maybe who Father thought her to be, too.

  Black-typed words filled her mind again. While industrial leaders believe the Nazis have plans for gas warfare on the front lines, the German high command may have a different enemy they wish to destroy.

  The music stopped, and Kateřina pulled back from his embrace, swallowing down any hint of emotion. “Thank you for the dance, Sturmbannführer Langer.”

  “Please, call me Hilbert.”

  “Danke, Hilbert.”

  Pulling from him, Kateřina turned and eyed the room. As she scanned the cluster of dining tables, she noticed only a few open seats. At every table sat members of the Nazi elite.

  When Kateřina arrived, she was one of the few women in attendance. As she stood before the group, the men’s hungry gazes caused her knees to soften. Hilbert touched her elbow and directed her toward the factory machines. Kateřina was thankful for his closeness. Better to become an ally of one wolf than face the pack.

  “I am certain the glass workers are thankful to have jobs again.” Kateřina kept her tone light. This was the story she’d been sent to write.

  Since the occupation of the Germans, the Nazi regime took control of the media. Many newspapers and other media outlets had been shut down or forced to comply with Nazi censorship and propaganda. Zemědělské Listy—the newspaper her father worked for—was carefully observed by Nazi censors. She knew the type of stale story her father expected her to turn in.

  Still, the journalist in her wanted to know the whole story. And maybe she could mold her words to spotlight this new German industry while encoding a warning to Czech citizens that poison gas was being used in other ways. Yet surely not against innocent women and children. War was one thing, but heartless genocide?

  Kateřina tucked her arm into Hilbert’s and allowed him to guide her toward the tables where glass cutters had shaped valuable art pieces for nearly a hundred years. “So, can you tell me more about this new production?” she asked as simply as if she were inquiring about the weather.

  “As you know, the glass industry has a long and rich history in Czechoslovakia.” Hilbert puffed out his chest, taking on the role of a tour guide. “For decades, Bohemian glass has been exported worldwide. We have no desire to destroy this great land of artisans and skilled laborers. The workers have work—work that still requires skill. Perhaps you can relay this in your story?”

  Kateřina nodded, understanding. The Nazis wanted better press from her father’s paper. And Father had sent her. Did he believe she’d get caught up in the glory and the splendor and not realize the truth? Fine, at least Father thought of her. At least he, for once, gave her a shot at the front page.

  “Ja, of course,” she answered in a thick German accent—one she knew from visiting her mother’s family in Berlin. “The Czech people need to know they still have a place. That not every industry has been stripped from our—their—grasp.”

  As Kateřina paused, Hilbert’s arm came around her waist and pulled her close. “And why did the newspaper wait so long to send you? A hidden asset. I can already see you’ll be a great gift to our cause.”

  Kateřina beamed. “Maybe that will change? Maybe soon I’ll be allowed to interview der Führer himself?” She winked.

  Sturmbannführer Langer burst out in a fit of laughter that caused him to bend at the waist. “My, you are ambitious, aren’t you?” He kissed the top of her head before he straightened. “Maybe in time that will be possible. And while I cannot offer up our great leader, perhaps the Obergruppenführer will do?”

  Kateřina’s lips parted in surprise. “Reinhard Heydrich?” The name escaped in a whisper.

  Hilbert’s eyes sparkled, knowing he offered a front-page story on a silver platter.

  “Will you honestly arrange for me to interview Reinhard Heydrich?”

  His fingers reached up and tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. “Ja. Would that please you?”

  “Very much.” Kateřina tightened her grip on his arm. Reinhard Heydrich, Stellvertretender Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia, was said to be the darkest figure of the Nazi regime. From the wolf’s lair to the den of the devil himself. Father isn’t going to believe it. Maybe when the invitation arrived, her father would finally meet her eyes and tell her she’d done well.

  A shaft of light shot down from a high window inside the sheltered workshop, and Josef paused to wipe his brow. Setting down his welding tool, he adjusted the blackout curtain to block the natural light. With the curtain secure, he pushed the switch to turn on the bright electric bulb hanging from the center of the room.

  This could be the weapon that gave his people a fighting chance against the Nazis. They didn’t have the manpower to conquer their enemies, but if they could damage their firepower and sting their pride, perhaps Jewish lives could be saved.

  As dim yellow light filtered in, a fluttering in Josef’s stomach told him today could be the day he finished his newest creation. Over the last year, he’d spent most of his time moving Jews from Josefov to other parts of the city and the countryside. Yet his people could only scatter like seeds on the wind for so long. Soon, they’d have to root themselves and fight.

  The workshop was twice as large as the clock shop storefront. Aromas of gas fumes, acetone, and lubricating oil mixed with the mustiness of faded paper journals and dusty wooden boxes, some dating back to Judah Loew ben Bezalel himself.