THE FÜHRER'S DAUGHTER

THE FÜHRER'S DAUGHTER (Episode 2 ) - Chapters 12, 13, & 14

CHAPTER TWELVE

IT COULDN’T BE TRUE, could it? This story Miles was telling her was much too fantastic to believe. Grace felt tempted to stop him, or wait for him to say the whole escape had been an elaborate prank, or perhaps a simulation, a test of character and loyalty for her confirmation as Regent.

But then, she’d have failed miserably.

And besides, she’d seen the bloodshed before her very eyes, up close. You just can’t fake such things.

Miles continued. “You survived the purges and were raised as the Führer’s daughter because of one person. I think you know who I mean.”

She reached into her backpack and pulled out one of the photos she’d kept from the archives. She’d have taken them all, but had been in such a hurry to escape. There stood Sophie Drexler—her mother all these years—with a gun, standing next to Hans Drexler before the ghastly pile of Infekt corpses. Grace passed the photo to Miles, who nodded but didn’t take it, only glanced down at it.

“Sophie never enjoyed the mass murders, but was wise enough never to let it show; after all, she had just married the man who would become Führer. But your mother Anne had seen it in her eyes. She knew Frau Drexler would not allow a baby to be killed if she could help it. So on the day Anne was executed, she handed you over to Sophie.”

“You were there?” Grace said, her heart pained at the story, true or made up.

“I’d been working as a servant to the Nazi officers; that’s how I stayed alive longer than most. Thank the good Lord, I had me some favor with Sophie. So when I saw that she was standing there with a baby in her arms, I went up to her and told her that I’d be happy to help look after you, if she wanted.”

“Miles, you know I trust you, but this is a bit too unbelievable.”

“I did look after you, though. Held you, bottle-fed you, sang you lullie-byes.”

“You’ve been doing that in the palace since I was a little girl.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, conjuring up some kind of memory. Then opened them and looked straight into her eyes. In a voice as fragile as a spider’s web, he began to sing, emotion stitching the words: “Numi, numi yaldati, Numi, numi, nim. Numi, numi k'tanati, Numi, numi, nim.”

It had been years since he did this, but she remembered enough to know he’d never sang this one before. Each syllable of this in this strange tongue brought a stab of emotion to her, drawing tears to the surface. Why was it so familiar, and why did it ache so, hearing it?

Then it came to her.

She realized.

It was those recurring dreams, the nightmares she occasionally experienced.

That song, sung by a woman.

A baby crying.

A gunshot.

Blood.

“Stop it, Miles!” She said, her lower lip trembling. “Please, stop it!”

“Grace…”

“No, this can’t be. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe any of it!” She got up, stormed out into the hall, found an empty corner in the back of a dark room, and curled up hugging her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. “No…”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

COLONEL OTTO WERNER SMASHED HIS FIST into Julius Belfour’s left jaw. Drexler stood before him and watched with detached interest. With both eyes nearly swollen shut, Belfour refused to comply with the Führer’s demands. Belfour scanned the room of soldiers and guards, then stopped on Drexler, and scoffed.