Page 3 of Beehive

Oddly, it felt like a privilege to see it happening.

We paused by the Pont Neuf, leaning against the railing, watching the river’s lazy current. The Seine sparkled, carrying stories and memories from the past that Paris seemed to be releasing, bit by bit. A few boats drifted by, laden with supplies, their operators shouting greetings to each other across the water.

A few bore men in uniform.

Thomas’s gaze was fixed on the skyline, his face relaxed, softened by the sun. I let my shoulder press against his, our hands coming together in a quiet motion that felt both ordinary and extraordinary.

“It’s hard to believe this place was a battlefield only months ago,” Thomas murmured.

“And now it’s just . . . Paris.” My heart swelled with a strange, fragile hope. “And we’re here, together.”

Thomas turned and met my gaze, his eyes filled with a familiar warmth that had been there since the beginning, since our first days at Harvard.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “Just Paris.”

We continued along the river, taking our time, letting ourselves sink into the city’s quiet rhythm. Near the end of the day, we found ourselves back in the market at Rue Mouffetard, the sun casting long shadows across the bustling street. The vendors were still out, their stalls lined with fruit and bread, flowers and spices. Meat remained in short supply, but few complained.

A woman at a fruit stand caught my eye, her face lighting up as she pressed a handful of cherries into my hand. “Life is coming back,” she said, her voice warm, her smile knowing. “And love, too, I see.”

My cheeks flushed, and the woman’s smile grew. Thomas threw an arm around my shoulder. The woman chortled and clapped her weathered hands.

I thanked her, feeling my cheeks blaze, and offered a cherry to Thomas. He took it, holding my gaze as he bit into it, the smile on his lips both mischievous and tender. It was such a simple moment but held a kind of intimacy that made my heart swell to bursting.

As the sun dipped lower, again crowning the city in a soft golden light, we turned toward our flat, our hands brushing one last time. We wouldn’t be so brazen as to hold hands on the street near the place we called home, but an occasional brush was irresistible. I let myself lean into him, just a little, just enough to feel the warmth of him, to know he was there.

We turned down the final street toward our tenement, and Thomas froze.

“What is it?”

He stared at a building across from ours, and I followed his gaze.

My heart stilled.

Ten windows peered back from ten apartments.

Nine were blind, their curtains closed.

One winked, with one side closed and the other pinned up so the glass pane’s eye was half lidded.

Thomas turned back to face me and said, “Well, shit.”

2

Heinrich

Berlin, Summer 1938 (eight years earlier)

The first half of the year had been orchestrated chaos. Every train departing Berlin carried whispers of what was to come, steel wheels grinding against tracks that would lead us to war.

For most, the preparations were invisible; but for those of us within the machinery of the Reich, the signs were impossible to miss. They were etched into every telegram, every shipment manifest, every hushed conversation in corridors where secrets lived and thrived.

I arrived at the Ministry’s headquarters under a gunmetal sky and air thick with the weight of something inevitable. My office was a modest room tucked into the heart of the intelligence wing, its walls bare save for a map of Europe marked with red and black pins. Each pin represented a target, an asset, or a potential threat. Together, they told the story of a continent teetering on the brink.

I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the rack. My desk, as always, was a battlefield of papers: reports, interceptedcommunications, photographs. While my work was not glamorous, it was vital.

I analyzed. I interpreted. I uncovered.

If the Gestapo was a sword, I was a scalpel.

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