Page 209 of Winter of the World (The Century 2)

Werner looked hurt. That surprised Carla. She had expected defiance, or at least an effort at insouciance. But he seemed genuinely upset. He said: "Don't you think we each have our different ways of doing what we can?"

This was feeble. "You did nothing!" Carla said.

"Perhaps," he said sadly. "No lemonade, then?"

Neither girl answered, and he went back to the house.

Carla was indignant and angry, but she could not help also feeling regret. Before she discovered that Werner was a coward she had been embarking on a romance with him. She had liked him a lot, ten times more than any other boy she had kissed. She was not quite heartbroken, but she was deeply disappointed.

Frieda was luckier. This thought was prompted by the sight of Heinrich coming out of the house. Frieda was glamorous and fun-loving, and Heinrich was brooding and intense, but somehow they made a good pair. "Are you in love with him?" Carla said while he was still out of earshot.

"I don't know yet," Frieda replied. "He's terribly sweet, though. I kind of adore him."

That might not be love, Carla thought, but it was well on the way.

Heinrich was bursting with news. "I had to come and tell you right away," he said. "My father told me after lunch."

"What?" said Frieda.

"The government has canceled the project. It was called Aktion T4. The killing of the handicapped. They're stopping."

Carla said: "You mean we won?"

Heinrich nodded vigorously. "My father is amazed. He says he has never known the Fuhrer to give in to public opinion before."

Frieda said: "And we forced him to!"

"Thank God no one knows that," Heinrich said fervently.

Carla said: "They're just going to close the hospitals and end the whole program?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"My father says all those doctors and nurses are being transferred."

Carla frowned. "Where?"

"To Russia," said Heinrich.

CHAPTER NINE

1941 ( II )

The phone rang on Greg Peshkov's desk on a hot morning in July. He had finished his penultimate year at Harvard and was once again interning at the State Department for the summer, working in the information office. He was good at physics and math, and passed exams effortlessly, but he had no interest in becoming a scientist. Politics was what excited him. He picked up the phone. "Greg Peshkov."

"Morning, Mr. Peshkov. This is Tom Cranmer."

Greg's heart beat a little faster. "Thank you for returning my call. You obviously remember me."

"The Ritz-Carlton hotel, 1935. Only time I ever got my picture in the paper."

"Are you still the hotel detective?"

"I moved to retail. I'm a store detective now."

"Do you ever do any freelance work?"

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