Once seated, I look around at the other passengers. They are mostly young and male; a few wear military uniforms. Who are these people and why are they traveling to central Europe? My thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang as the stewardess shuts the plane door. The urge to stand up and run from the plane engulfs me. But it is too late; the engines roar as the plane begins to roll forward. I fasten the seat belt around my middle, my fingers trembling. Brave like Paul, I tell myself. But I cannot think of him without seeing the fiery crash. I force myself to picture Rachel instead, sleeping peacefully in her crib.

The engines grow louder as the plane picks up speed, pressing me back against the seat. There is a loud bump, then another. My breath catches as I feel the earth disappear beneath us. The plane seems to hover above the ground for several seconds, then begins to climb. Forgetting to be nervous, I look out the window at the sky, which is beginning to grow pink at the horizon.

“Tea?” Nancy stands in the aisle beside my seat, holding a tray.

I hesitate, surprised. I had not known that airplanes had waitresses. “May I have some water?”

“Certainly.” She pours a small glass, hands it to me. “Our flight to Munich should take about four hours, not counting the hour’s time difference.”

So that is our destination. “Thank you.” I turn back to look out the window once more. Munich. I shudder. It had not occurred to me that we would be landing in Germany. Dachau was near Munich. Don’t, I think, but it is too late. I feel the concrete prison floor beneath my head. Panic rises in me, making it hard to breathe. I dig my nails hard into my palms. I cannot go back there. It is too much. That was a lifetime ago, I think, forcing myself to breathe. The Nazis are gone now. Still, it seems inconceivable that in just a few hours I will be back in Germany again.

I glance around the cabin once more. Some of the other passengers have pulled out small pillows and blankets that are stowed under the seats. I barely slept before the alarm went off. I should try to get some sleep. I lean my head back and close my eyes, lulled by the gentle rumbling of the engines.

Suddenly there is a loud bumping sound. My eyes fly open. Is something wrong with the plane? I sit up. The other passengers do not look afraid but instead are gathering their belongings, buttoning coats. “Welcome to Munich,” Nancy says from the front of the cabin. “When you disembark, please proceed inside to Customs and Immigration.” I must have slept through most of the flight and the landing. I look out the window at the snow-coated grass beside the runway.

The plane rolls along the tarmac, then turns and continues for several more minutes. Finally we stop and the door opens. I follow the other passengers down the aisle, collecting my suitcase from Nancy before walking down the stairs. The air is cold and crisp, with a damp smell that suggests more snow is coming. “This way, please.” Nancy, who has come down the stairs, begins to lead the group toward a drab three-story building.

Suddenly someone bumps into me from the left. Startled, I jump. “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice, barely a whisper, says. As I turn toward the voice, a hand grabs my arm. Instinctively, I pull back. A petite young woman, wearing a dark, boxy man’s suit and brimmed hat, stands beside me. I do not recognize her from the plane. “Marta?” She does not wait for an answer. “I’m Renata, from the embassy.”

How did she recognize me? I note then that other than Nancy, I was the only woman on the flight. “Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, but Renata draws me close, into a cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke, kissing me on the right cheek, then the left.

“Act as if you know me,” she whispers close to my ear in crisp, accented English. “I need to tell you this now, because once we are in the car you must assume that our conversation is being listened to, possibly recorded. I’ve been sent to get you. I know why you’ve come and I’m here to help you.” I am too surprised to respond. Renata pulls me away from the group. “Come, we have a long drive ahead of us.” I notice for the first time a black sedan like the one that had picked me up at home parked to one side of the plane. She leads me to it and opens the rear door. Inside, she leans forward and says something to the driver, then sits back and removes her hat, revealing a tight cap of dark hair. Her cheeks are pockmarked, scars from past acne, but her features are striking, her eyes a deep chocolate-brown. “How was your flight?” she asks in a loud voice as the car begins to move. I realize that she is making small talk for the benefit of whoever might be listening.

“Fine,” I reply.

She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and holds it out to me. I shake my head. “You’re lucky that the weather wasn’t worse,” she remarks, taking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with a sleek silver lighter. “We’ve had some early snow.” She cracks the window open so the smoke wafts away from me.

Neither of us speak further as the car turns from the airport out onto the main roadway. I peer out the window. In the distance I can just make out the pine-covered Bavarian mountains silhouetted against the pale gray sky. I shiver, drawing my coat closer. How could so much evil have come from such a beautiful place?

“Cold?” Renata asks. I shake my head. “We’ll be at the border in a few minutes. I brought your paperwork from the embassy. Do you have your passport?”

I nod, pulling it from my bag and handing it to her. Simon gave it to me last night with the papers. It was like the others I had seen at the Foreign Office—its cover is black instead of the usual deep red, and the word diplomatic is engraved across the front. But when I thumbed through it, I was surprised. Its issuance date was eight months earlier and its pages were worn and stamped. “We want you to appear as a seasoned cultural attaché,” Simon explained. “So as not to arouse suspicion.” Amazed, I studied the stamps from dozens of places I had never been, trying to memorize them in case I was asked.

The car climbs one hill for several minutes, then another, without seeming to ever descend again. Soon we reach the border checkpoint. Renata rolls down her window. “Guten tag,” she greets the lone border guard in German as she hands him our passports. He does not answer as he thumbs through them, then peers into the car. My breath catches. Will he question me? But he only nods, then stamps the passports and hands them back to Renata. It is like I am someone else, I muse, as the car begins to move once more. Suddenly, I think of Emma. After she escaped from the ghetto to Jacob’s aunt, she had to assume a whole new identity as Anna, a non-Jew. And to make matters worse, she had to go to Nazi headquarters every day to work for the Kommandant. At the time, I had been so disdainful: how could she become close to a man like him? It must have been so difficult for her, wondering if at any moment her secret might be discovered. I wonder if she is well, if she and Jacob were able to escape. Perhaps if I can find Marek, he will have news of them.

As we climb above the tree line, the snowcapped peaks break into full view. I feel a tug, remembering the first time I woke up in Salzburg and saw the mountains. We are north of Austria, I know. Salzburg and the palace are several hundred kilometers away. But I cannot help thinking of Dava. I tried to write to her once after Simon and I were married, enclosing money to repay what she lent me. But the envelope came back undeliverable. I read in the newspaper a few months later that many of the displaced persons camps closed, all of the residents relocated to new countries. I wonder where she is now.

“We still have several hours until we reach Prague,” Renata says sometime later. “Feel free to nap, if you’re tired.”