Wind rustled in grass browned by the drought plaguing Europe. Unseasonable heat and a parched smell invaded the gondola. The Graf Zeppelin’s massive shadow stole over tidy Swiss houses, streets, and fields. I wiped my palms on my thin cotton dress, sweating as much from fear as heat. I had not been so near Germany since I fled three years before, after kidnapping the purported only son of Ernst Röhm.

Röhm was Chief of Staff of the storm troopers and commanded thirty times more men than Hindenburg, the president of Germany. Yet reports of homosexuality dogged him. Doubts the small boy squirming in front of me could quash. Anton provided final proof of Röhm’s virility.

“Good day, Frau Zinsli,” said Señor Santana. Like everyone else in the past three years, he used the name on my forged Swiss passport. I had left my real name, Hannah Vogel, behind. Except for brief visits to London to meet my lover, Boris, I had not had a true conversation with an adult I trusted in more than one thousand days.

“Good day.” I looked out the window again. We were nearing a large lake. The zeppelin was scheduled to land in Zürich, Switzerland, but I remembered no lakes near Zürich.

“How is the young man of the house?” Señor Santana nodded to Anton and snapped his fingers for Dieter, the waiter. Twice. “Bring me a cup of that excellent coffee!”

“Yes, sir.” Dieter’s gray eyes searched in vain for the beautiful Señora Santana.

“Have I told you that my plantation supplies the coffee for the zeppelin line?” asked Señor Santana.

“You have.” Several times.

“Wonderful harvest this year.” Señor Santana produced two sheets of stationery from the pocket of his cream-colored linen suit. Even at its hottest, Europe was no match for South America in temperature, and he always looked crisp and fresh.

“Will you show me a new plane?” Anton asked. “Please? Please?”

“Do not beg.” I tousled his short blond hair. Without turning, he removed my hand. Too old for that, at nine?

“My husband loves being begged for his silly planes.” Señora Santana, a former flameco dancer, made her entrance. She paused at the edge of the viewing area, as if expecting applause, patted her sleek black hair, and dropped gracefully into a chair. Spicy perfume drifted over me, and I coughed.

Anton ran to her, hand out.

“That counts as begging.” We had left Pernambuco, Brazil five days ago and his manners had already deteriorated.

Señora Santana laughed and dropped a chocolate-covered ball of shredded coconut into his palm.

“Gracias,” he said, around the sweet.

“Thank you,” I said as well. The Santanas seemed harmless. They were traveling to Hamburg to visit his warehouses. Fashion interested her more than politics, he spoke only of the coffee business, and neither was outwardly pro-Nazi.

I turned to the window just as we floated north over the midnight-blue mass of the lake. Cool air dried the sweat on my arms and raised goose bumps. The only lake this large in Swizterland was Lake Constance. Its depths were frigid in both winter and summer. But on the northern edge of Lake Constance lay Germany.

Dieter set Señor Santana’s drink next to him and he took a large sip. He handed a sheet of paper to Anton with trembling fingers. Nervous energy, or too much of his own product?

“A drink, Frau Santana?” Dieter was besotted with the glamorous Bolivian and rarely let her out of sight. His fingers fidgeted with brass buttons on his jacket.

“Please.” Her accent lent the German words an alluring lilt. “A cold lemonade.”

I rubbed my palms along my cold arms, fighting to stay calm while we flew north. It was probably a sightseeing diversion. No need to worry.

Anton drew a feather, his Indian symbol, and scribbled his first name inside it. He loved Karl May’s popular Westerns and wanted to become an Apache brave like Winnetou. He had invented an Indian communication system, complete with symbols, twigs, and smoke signals.

“Can you show me a new design?” Anton asked. “A plane I never saw before?”

Señor Santana tapped the sheet with his bitten fingernails. “Perhaps you have seen them all.”

He and his wife exchanged a smile as Anton looked stricken. Watching him squirm was part of their game.

The northern edge of the lake came into view. Fishing boats dotted the beach, and dark pines surrounded a German lakeside town. I stared down, heart racing.

“Maybe one more.” I barely heard his words, but I knew that behind me Señor Santana folded a new plane, fingers quick and dexterous, and Anton copied each movement, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

“Always straight creases,” he said, before Señor Santana could remind him. I nodded in agreement without moving from the window.

The pines were beneath us now. We were in German air space. I inhaled sharply.

“What’s wrong?” Anton’s voice sounded worried.

“I do not know, yet.” I never lied to him, although it would be easier. “But we are off course.”