He nodded again to his first mate, who grabbed my arm and propelled me out of the control room.

"Have a cool drink at the lounge. The delay is regrettable, but unavoidable." The mate noticed my suitcases. "You won't need those."

I pulled my elbow out of his grip and ran back to Anton. Engine trouble. I could not make myself believe it. In our lives, nothing was accidental.

What would Rohm expect? For us to assume that we had landed in Switzerland and walk off with the other passengers? He would station men by the ladder. Hide? He would ransack the zeppelin.

That left running. And he was a canny old soldier. He would position men at the exits.

A hot breeze from the land streamed through the gondola windows and against my face, replacing the cool breezes from the lake. All around the gondola, windows stood open to keep the passengers cool. He might not have foreseen that. What if we climbed out a window at the rear of the zeppelin and exited out the back of the hangar? At two hundred thirty-six meters, the zeppelin was big enough to hide the Reichstag building. More than big enough to conceal us while we made our escape.

I hoped.

The landing looked typical. Men raced across the withered field to catch ropes dropped from the sides of the zeppelin. No sign of brown-shirted storm troopers.

I placed our suitcases outside the viewing area so that the other passengers would not see them. Anton stood between the Santanas, his arm pointing out the window.

"Anton." I touched his bony shoulder. "You did not pack your bag. Come."

He raised his delicate eyebrows in surprise, as he always packed his bag perfectly, but he said nothing. He knew that I would not tell a lie about his bags without a good reason. I longed to tousle his hair, grateful for the trust between us. It had kept us alive so far.

"Excuse us," I said to the Santanas.

"You must do your chores properly," Seor Santana said. "Especially since you are the man of the house and must take care of your mother."

"I will always take care of her."

"Such a serious boy!" Seora Santana fanned herself again. "He needs more fun in his life."

"He is a little man," her husband argued. "Fun is only for small boys."

"Fun is for everyone." I wished that Anton had more of it.

He followed me to the hall.

"We are not going out the front," I said when we were alone.

"Why?" His voice dropped to a whisper.

Our lives together had been too filled with secrets. "I think there are men here for us."

During the voyage I had scouted the passages and rooms. We made a detour to a supply closet to snag a coil of rope I had seen there. After I draped the heavy rope over my shoulder, we hurried toward the rear. The interior grew more and more utilitarian until we teetered along a metal catwalk.

The floor jerked, and I stumbled. They had tied off to the mooring mast. Next we would be towed backward into the massive hangar. That meant we had only minutes until the passengers climbed down the long wooden ladder to the ground.

Together we ran to the back window. I measured with my hands. Barely large enough. My size did not help in a fight, but it was an asset while running. I glanced at the concrete floor, four meters below, then tied the rope to the frame that separated two windows. I yanked. The frame held firm. Good German engineering.

Anton's eyes shone. He loved adventure, and it had been so long since we had been in immediate danger that he had almost forgotten it was no game. That was just as well. It would do no good to have him too terrified to think. When danger threatened, let him keep his head clear and be strong like Winnetou.

"As soon as we stop," I said, "I will throw our bags out the window, then drop the rope. On my signal, climb down as fast as you can. Run to the wall and wait."

If we hurried, we might get out of the hangar and around to the front of the airport before the storm troopers noticed that we were not among the other passengers.

The zeppelin slipped inside the hangar. Everything darkened. He clutched my hand. A brave nine year old, but he still had limits.

The zeppelin stopped. We bobbed in place. I dropped the suitcases and rope to the hangar floor. A gray comma of rope curled on the faraway concrete.

I hoisted him out the window. Rope burned against my palms as I slid down after. The hard floor jolted my ankles, but I snatched up the suitcases and sprinted toward the back wall. His white singlet flitted ahead of me like a moth.

At the start of the trip, the captain had informed us that the hangar was so immense that it had its own weather patterns. Sometimes clouds and rain formed inside. Right now it was clear and too hot, the same as outside. I hefted the suitcases and sprinted, winded. The singlet stopped. He had reached the wall.

"Come along," I whispered. Vast emptiness swallowed my voice. I peeked over my shoulder at the rippling silver surface of the zeppelin. My gaze rose to the huge swastikas painted on the tail fins. How had this happened to my country, the land of Goethe and Schiller?

Anton grabbed the handle of his suitcase and we skirted the wall, heading for the back exit. The sunset outlined the front of the hangar in orange, but little light penetrated this far.

My ragged breathing pricked my nerves. Stealth and speed were our only weapons.

An arm encircled my neck. A hard muscle pressed against my throat. Anton cried out, but I could not see him.

"Shut your trap," breathed a squeaky voice in my ear. A cold blade pressed against my ribs. "I can let some air into you. We only need the boy."

I nodded my chin against his arm. The knife retreated, but the man held my neck fast. His sweat smelled of vinegar.

"Put her out," said a voice with a Swiss accent.

The honey odor of chloroform suffused the air. I held my breath. Too late. My captor gripped me so tightly I did not fall.

2.

I drifted awake, slung over the back of a storm trooper who smelled as if he had not bathed since before the zeppelin left South America. To my left, Anton lay as lifeless as a rag doll in the arms of another massive storm trooper. Was Anton still breathing? I struggled toward wakefulness. I could not move toward him.

"You give him too much, Mouse?" asked the man on my right. He spoke like a man in command. He had excellent diction and a light Swiss accent, like the actor Emil Jannings.

Mouse bent his head to Anton's chest, and I flopped around on his shoulder. "He's breathing good." I recognized the squeak. The man who had held the knife to my ribs. And, from the sound of his accent, he was from Berlin. A traitorous voice from home.

Grass crackled underfoot when we marched onto the field. The first passengers milled out of the hangar, silhouetted against the sunset. I thought I recognized Seor and Seora Santana at the front of the pack. They always rushed onto the field.

Because explosive hydrogen filled the zeppelin, smoking was forbidden there and in the hangar. They spent the entire trip snapping chewing gum and dashing off every time we docked to grab a quick smoke. Twin matches flared and illuminated their faces. Surely they must see us. Red embers glowed at the tips of their cigarettes, and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted across the field.

I opened my mouth to call out, but instead I floated away again.

This time I came to in the backseat of an automobile, jammed between Mouse and the storm trooper who had carried Anton. I assumed that Jannings must be the driver but would not know unless he talked.

Anton lay across my lap. I breathed to clear my aching head. He twitched and I squeezed his hand.

The automobile shot forward through the twilight. We must still be near Friedrichshafen, where the zeppelin had docked. Not far from Switzerland.

Flight was our best alternative.

I shifted so that my shoes rested against the floor. When we jumped I would need to push against something solid. Anton tensed. The men on either side of us seemed not to notice.

I counted a few breaths, then cautiously cracked open an eye. Dark trees flashed by the window, illuminated by the last gray light of evening. We traveled about forty kilometers an hour, so perhaps we were in a town with a tree-lined street, full of friendly houses. Did such a thing exist in Germany anymore? I must hope so. It was unlikely that this would work, but we had to escape as soon as we could.

I grasped Anton's hand. Be ready, I thought. One, two, three.

I lunged to the left, swinging my elbow at Mouse's trachea. Unfortunately, his muscle-bound shoulders surrounded his neck, so the target was small. I missed, but scrabbled for the door lever anyway, right hand clasped in Anton's.

Mouse grabbed my arms and tossed me back against the seat. For good measure, he slammed his elbow into my left side. My breath whooshed out. The man on the right yanked Anton across the seat.

Jannings's hands stayed relaxed on the steering wheel. "Keep her quiet, but don't-"

Mouse grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face into the front seat. My nose struck the wooden top. Blood dripped onto the black leather upholstery.

Anton struggled in the other man's arms. He boxed Anton's ear.

Mouse yanked me upright. Springs squeaked in protest. I struggled to inhale. Blood ran from my nose.

"Mind her face, you stupid bastard," said Jannings. "We're not to damage it."

Mouse grimaced, obviously used to causing pain but unused to keeping faces pristine while doing it.

He drew his palm across the blood from my nose and wiped it on the automobile seat, leaving a dark streak on the leather. My eyes watered.

"It ain't broken." He released me and I slumped against the seat.

Air returned to my lungs in painful, shuddering breaths. Each one sent a dagger of fire down my side, but my body craved oxygen.

Anton bit his assailant on the thumb. He grabbed Anton by the scruff of the neck and squeezed. I could not speak to tell Anton to let go, that they would hurt him. Mouse wrenched Anton off the other man's hand. Beads of scarlet blood dotted his thumb. With an ease born of long practice, Mouse twisted Anton's arms behind his back. He yelped.

"Easy on the little one," said Jannings. "He's not to be harmed."

"He bites." Mouse did not let go of his arms.

"He's a child," said Jannings. "Should I hold him while you drive? We could switch, if you're not up to the task."

Mouse swore under his breath, and Anton swore back at him. I looked at him, shocked. I had not heard such language from him in years. But he remembered everything, even the vocabulary of his early years being raised by a prostitute.

I gritted my teeth and drew in a long breath. "Where," I gasped, "are you taking us?"

"Where we're told," said Jannings. "And no harm will come to you unless you fight us."

"We will comply. Release the boy."

"Do it," Jannings said.

Mouse let go of Anton's arms. Anton rubbed his wrists and glared.

"Respect your Uncle Mouse."

"You're not my uncle." Anton looked ready to attack. "I don't have any uncles."

I studied Anton. His emphasis on the word "uncle" gave me pause. Before I took him in, an uncle in his world was a pimp. Was Mouse a pimp? Did Anton recognize him? I held his hands to calm him down.

"Winnetou stalks the deer." I hoped that he would know what I meant. Winnetou knew that stalking meant waiting for your moment, quietly. Anton nodded and some tension drained out of his shoulders.

Then I turned toward Jannings. "We are Adelheid and Anton Zinsli. Swiss citizens. I demand to be brought to our embassy." I said it more because it was what a Swiss citizen would say than because I expected results.

"I'm sure it will get sorted out." Jannings's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. "Fraulein Hannah Vogel."

Anton gasped, and I cursed inwardly. "I have no idea to whom you are referring."

"You will," Jannings answered. "In good time."

Anton fumed next to me. Bruises bloomed on the pale skin of his arms. I fought down a rush of blind rage at Mouse. He would pay for hurting Anton.

After the anger subsided and my nose stopped bleeding, I had time to become afraid.

We drove north and east, probably toward Munich. But Rohm should be in Berlin. Or Venice. I thought of the pictures of Hitler and Mussolini in the newspaper, Rohm absent from them. Since we left Germany in 1931 he had stood on Hitler's right in almost every photograph I had seen. His absence was unexpected. I hated the unexpected.

"He'll be glad it went off so well," said Anton's assailant. I named him Santer, after the villain in the Winnetou books. His breath reeked so strongly of beer that I smelled it even through the metallic scent of blood in my nose.

"It's not over yet." Mouse ran a scarred hand through his greasy blond hair, revealing gray streaks at his temples. His pale blue eyes had more cunning than I expected.

"Will be soon." Santer flexed his fist. "They won't give us any more trouble."

Santer in the books died most painfully, I reminded myself. I fingered my side. It hurt every time I inhaled. I breathed shallowly to lessen the pain. Every so often I endured a deep breath to keep from getting dizzy.

"How's your side?" Mouse asked. "I don't reckon I cracked more than one rib. Just enough to keep you quiet."

No accident then. He had known just what he was doing. Breaking ribs was probably his trademark.

"Thank you for your restraint." Sarcasm dripped from my words, and he smiled.

"Feisty one, ain't you?" He wound a strand of my hair, the same shade of blond as his own, around his index finger.

I yanked my head away.

"None of that." Jannings watched in the rearview mirror. "The boss has his own plans for her."

Mouse shrugged. "Maybe after."