《Indigo》 One Prologue: Dusseldorf, Germany, November 1938. ¡°It¡¯s an official decree,¡± Erik told her. ¡°No Jews allowed in the parks.¡± ¡°What, are you joking?¡± ¡°No, I¡¯m not. I would suggest we sit on a bench, but that¡¯s also an official decree. No Jews allowed on benches.¡± ¡°This is absurd. How would they even know we were Jewish to begin with?¡± She made to sit down, defiant as ever, but Erik caught her by the arm before anyone saw. She¡¯d always been temperamental, Theresia. Ever since they were children. ¡°I don¡¯t know, I don¡¯t know,¡± Erik laughed, his breath clouding in front of him. ¡°We should just stand here and talk,¡± he suggested. ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re not allowed to do that.¡± - Outskirts of Warsaw, Poland, December 1942. Erik wondered if he¡¯d been lonely then, or if it was something deeper. What lived beyond ache? He was cold. Hungry. He wasn¡¯t quite sure what day it was, but he thought it must be past Hanukkah already and closer to the curtains falling on another year of hiding. He peered through the cracked window, looking down at the empty street. A Wehrmacht division had put up camp nearby just a few weeks ago and had been fighting with the Russians across the river ever since. It was a constant cacophony and a presiding anxiety as to who would find him first: the Russians, who might be considerate enough to kill him quickly and be done with it; or the Germans, who would send him to Krakow. Erik leaned back, trying to imagine better times. - Whistling as he ambled down Warsaw¡¯s abandoned streets, Richter wondered what ¨C or who ¨C he might find. Technically, this wasn¡¯t his job; the last thing he was meant to be doing was searching an empty city, but he¡¯d left camp with a small squadron doing just that regardless. They hadn¡¯t seemed to notice when he¡¯d disappeared, probably figuring he¡¯d only used scouring Warsaw as an excuse to get out of camp. All he wanted was peace and quiet. Difficult things to find in war. In the sky, so high above the world that the city lights looked like a maze of constellations, it was all so incredibly different. He could escape himself up there in a way he couldn¡¯t on the ground. These were his last hours in Poland, and his night mission the previous week had been the final time he would contact the Underground until he was back in business at Stalag 5. That might not happen for who knew how long, and it felt like the end of an era. Richter looked up, catching sight of a very, very dim light coming from the second story of one of the few buildings still standing. - A Luftwaffe colonel. His eyes were the first thing Erik noticed, besides the uniform. They were the gray of an overcast sky with that peculiar hint of blue before dark. Sharp. Calculating. And yet he carried with him an aspect of loneliness, of emptiness ¨C but there was an equal, intense depth of emotion surrounding him that matched the thousand shades in his eyes. Erik was stricken with fear, unable to move as the colonel stepped closer, moving with the same caution one would exercise when approaching a wild animal.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°Can you understand me?¡± He asked, in German. He thought Erik was Polish. Erik nodded. His gaze shifted to the worn, discolored armband bearing the Star of David. ¡°Where are you from?¡± ¡°Dusseldorf.¡± ¡°Dusseldorf?¡± He sounded surprised. ¡°I¡¯ve never met a German Jew before.¡± He took another step closer, and Erik now stumbled backwards against the wall. ¡°How did you survive the bombing?¡± His intrigue was just that: a simple interest. The last thing he came across as was malicious. ¡°I ¨C I don¡¯t know, I just ¨C stayed here.¡± Snow drifted in through the jagged hole in the window; a frigid breeze drifted in. The colonel considered Erik, the thin Jew cowering by the window, for a long moment before taking off his coat and holding it out to Erik ¨C an offering of both peace and warmth. When Erik hesitated, he took yet another step closer, insisting, ¡°Here. Take it.¡± ¡°And you?¡± Erik¡¯s fingers closed around the collar. He shrugged. ¡°I have another one. Warmer.¡± He glanced at his watch, frowning. ¡°I don¡¯t have much time to explain, so I¡¯ll get right to it ¨C I work for the Allied Underground.¡± Erik almost laughed ¨C surely he was joking? ¡°You¡¯re in a German uniform.¡± ¡°If you want to survive, you¡¯ll have to believe me.¡± ¡°Do you have a plan?¡± ¡°Barely. I¡¯m a pilot ¨C I fly Allied intelligence in and out of Germany, but I can¡¯t fly you out of here without arousing too much suspicion. I¡¯ve just taken a post in Ludwigsburg, and I¡¯m meant to leave at dawn ¨C¡± He stopped suddenly, something apparently dawning on him. He looked at Erik, caught up in the silence, before asking, ¡°If I ask you to wait here, will you stay?¡± Despite the peculiarity surrounding this entire encounter, Erik nodded. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t have anywhere else to go.¡± Erik watched him disappear down the street, laughing to himself that he must be dreaming. He felt absolutely clueless, in the same dazed state he¡¯d been many months ago when he¡¯d witnessed the deaths of his family and friends firsthand. This seemed opposite: his life, if he were to trust this man, was to be saved in defiance of so many others who had lost theirs to senseless violence and genocide. There were a thousand questions on his tongue but the silence wouldn¡¯t answer him; so all did was sit and reflect on how he was, still and yet again, alive. The colonel returned twenty minutes later with a bag and a pistol. The bag he handed to Erik; the pistol he loaded as he spoke. ¡°I stole some poor man¡¯s uniform,¡± he explained, with a laugh, ¡°and some poor man¡¯s pistol.¡± He spoke quietly, understandingly, lacking the boisterous confidence Erik had encountered in countless other officers and soldiers alike. ¡°What is all this for?¡± Erik asked, bemused. ¡°I¡¯m due for a train ride to Ludwigsburg in the morning, and I¡¯m going to sneak you on. You¡¯re going to hide in plain sight for a while.¡± ¡°And what about after we get to Ludwigsburg?¡± A shrug. ¡°My post is at Stalag 5. You¡¯ll act like a prisoner.¡± Erik didn¡¯t feel like himself, wearing a German uniform. It felt like assuming someone else¡¯s life and, strangely, someone else¡¯s ideals. The colonel studied him for a long time, nitpicking. It started with stand up straighter, then not that straight, then he laughed and threw up his hands. He was, Erik decided, was too brave and foolish for his own good. Acting like this was all some sort of practical joke when both of their lives were on the line. He risked being court-martialed and shot all for Erik, a man he didn¡¯t know but had already decided to save. Something had struck Erik the moment he¡¯d met this man, however. It was as though he thought differently. As though he saw and understood more; as though he tried to be more than he should. Erik thought he might¡¯ve seen his face in a newspaper somewhere; on a discarded flier or on faded propaganda pasted up on walls, once-bright colors worn away by weather. ¡°Who are you?¡± He asked, curious. ¡°Colonel Wilhelm Richter.¡± ¡°The pilot?¡± Richter smiled. ¡°You¡¯ve heard of me?¡± ¡°I think everyone has.¡± Erik stuck out a hand and they shook. ¡°Erik Kehlmann.¡± A pause. Slow, deliberate; and then with almost comical seriousness, ¡°The pianist?¡± Erik was surprised ¨C taken aback, even ¨C that Richter recognized his name. ¡°How did you know?¡± ¡°I heard you on the radio a couple of years ago. You played Chopin.¡± Richter paused, seeming to reminisce for a moment. ¡°If I remember correctly,¡± he continued, ¡°the radio broadcaster called you the greatest pianist in Germany.¡± ¡°He might¡¯ve been kidding about that,¡± replied Erik, embarrassed and, perhaps, a little too modest. ¡°You¡¯ll have to play for me sometime. Then I can decide for myself whether he was joking or not.¡± He was an interesting man, Colonel Richter. He had an immediately perceptible air of sadness and was, of course, alone; but he was also the first man Erik had encountered that struck one as being deeply and truly lonely. He wondered why that might be. Two Berlin, SS Headquarters. 1942. Facts, in Adler Strauss¡¯ opinion, were misleading. Rumors, on the other hand ¨C be they true or false ¨C were often revealing. He¡¯d wanted to make the most of his time back in Berlin; a night out, perhaps, or staying in and relaxing for the first time in what had to be years ¨C but while walking through the narrow and bustling corridors of SS Headquarters, it was difficult not to overhear snippets of conversations that caught his unfortunate interest. Rumors abounded in a place like Berlin; and spread quickly among men who had long since run out of anything else to gossip about. Something about Colonel Richter, the Nighthawk. The name itself snagged Strauss¡¯ interest immediately, as despite Richter¡¯s renown as one of the best pilots Germany had ever seen, there had always been something off about him. Something suspicious. As for what Strauss suspected Richter of, he¡¯d never been quite sure, but the latest rumors to reach him did spark the flame. ¡°Do you have access to Richter¡¯s file?¡± Strauss inquired of Hilda, his secretary, once curiosity had gotten the best of him. ¡°Yes, Herr Colonel. I can procure it for you.¡± ¡°Do so.¡± Strauss perused the most recent Gestapo file, filled in with details from four enlisted Wehrmacht men. The Nighthawk had accompanied them on a routine check of the buildings in and around camp, though he¡¯d quickly disappeared. Finding this odd, they had tailed him. The Nighthawk, wandering the empty streets of Warsaw after hours. Witnessed by multiple men going into a building twice, bringing a bag and a pistol with him the second time. A second man, unrecognized yet dressed like a Wehrmacht captain and presumably having been in the building for the duration, had accompanied Richter to the train station in the morning. It was certainly strange, but not enough for anyone to declare an investigation. Strauss would need more than this if he wanted to pin something on Richter once and for all. ¡°Hilda,¡± he called, ¡°bring me the records of all Jews in the area Richter was in.¡± - Stalag 5, Ludwigsburg. 1942. One exceedingly long train ride later, Erik and Richter arrived in Ludwigsburg. Erik didn¡¯t so much as have time to protest before Richter quickly shoved him into the trunk of his staff car; and Richter could only hope he realized how suspicious it¡¯d be if two officers from separate branches of the military arrived at Stalag 5 together. ¡°Colonel Graham Pearson, senior POW officer,¡± was the first introduction Richter received. Everyone in the Underground had heard of this man ¨C Pearson based his sabotage and intelligence operation here, from Stalag 5. He¡¯d been shot down over a year ago, had quickly set up a network of tunnels and contacts with every Underground ring in the area and had never been caught once. An impressive, reliable record. They shook hands and Pearson leaned closer, whispering, ¡°Have you ever been on a double decker bus?¡± ¡°No, I prefer to walk,¡± Richter replied, recognizing the security code his Allied contact had given him. Relief swept over Pearson¡¯s face, though it vanished when Richter added, abruptly, ¡°There¡¯s a Jew in the trunk of my staff car.¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Pearson looked at him quizzically, totally clueless. ¡°That¡¯s not code for something, is it?¡± ¡°No,¡± Richter laughed. ¡°I found him in Warsaw, and I couldn¡¯t leave him there ¨C¡± ¡°So you brought him to a POW camp? I mean, they told me you were crazy, but I didn¡¯t think it was like this ¨C¡± ¡°In any case,¡± Richter interrupted, tone stern now, ¡°get him out of there and disguise him as one of you, before someone notices.¡± - ¡°Christ, he wasn¡¯t kidding!¡± Two men lifted Erik out of the car, helping him stand and brushing him off. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Erik Kehlmann. Who are you?¡± ¡°Colonel Graham Pearson,¡± came the reply. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I already talked to the commandant. Let¡¯s get you to the barracks before someone sees.¡± - One week later. Stalag 5 was a surprisingly pleasant place, charming in its innocuousness and a kinder plot of land than Erik had stepped foot on in months. He quickly learned that the men, all of them Allied air force and resistance, were generally agreeable despite the propagated disillusion. And despite Erik¡¯s strange circumstances, they accepted him and treated him just as they would anyone else dragged into this camp ¨C with brotherhood and roughness around the edges. Pearson provided him with a fake name, fake rank, and a fake serial number. It was, essentially, another false identity that Erik had no trouble taking on, if it meant an easier time assimilating. Erik also discovered within a matter of a few hours that Pearson, much like Richter, ran a very slick Underground unit. They were saboteurs, blowing up trains and factories, halting supply trucks and the like. They¡¯d clearly been in business for some time, as they had a network of tunnels underneath Stalag 5 and a number of hidden radios. London sent information and jobs, and Pearson and his men did them. Richter was strict, keeping with the reputation of commandants at the camp but also making an image for himself. It wouldn¡¯t do to have Berlin writing off one of Germany¡¯s ace pilots as incapable and bumbling, especially when he¡¯d made so bold a decision in saving Erik¡¯s life. That was, for now, a secret; but the last thing they wanted was for someone to let slip that Erik wasn¡¯t actually an American sergeant, though he was dressed as one. That was something Erik still, no matter how often or how deeply he mulled over it, didn¡¯t understand. Richter had had every opportunity to kill him. One bullet between his eyes certainly would¡¯ve been easier than going through all the trouble from bring him to Ludwigsburg. Erik knew Richter worked for the Underground, knew he had flown other Jews out of Germany and Poland, but he had taken an immense personal risk this time. Finding what he thought ¨C or, at least, hoped ¨C was a kindred spirit, Erik spent most of his time with Richter, trying to make sense of all this. Erik only wanted to know more about him, as his motivations, certainly, were strange. Nor had Erik ever met someone more genuine about his identity. ¡°I¡¯m more than just a uniform,¡± Richter told him one afternoon. ¡°The last thing I¡¯m going to do is kill you, especially after I went to all the trouble of saving your life.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I don¡¯t understand,¡± Erik said, making Richter pause before returning to his stack of paperwork. He repeated his earlier thoughts. ¡°You had every opportunity to kill me. It would¡¯ve been much easier than¡­ all of this. Sneaking me into a stalag and disguising me as an American.¡± Richter sighed, leaning back in his chair, and for a moment Erik feared he¡¯d crossed a line. He had definitely stepped into uncharted territory as of late. ¡°I couldn¡¯t let you die there,¡± he explained, speaking as though it were an obvious truth, ¡°or kill you, or let you be discovered by someone ¨C else.¡± He shook his head. ¡°No. I took this risk because ¨C¡± The words came quickly now. He hurried through them as though embarrassed. ¡°I guess I thought it was the right thing to do.¡± He sighed again, rubbing at his eyes. ¡°We¡¯ll see how that turns out. You know, it¡¯s a strange human instinct ¨C that desire to do something good as some sort of repentance for all the bad you¡¯ve done.¡± Of course he had his doubts, Erik realized. Richter was in a sort of limbo: all the good he did for the Underground was canceled out by the missions the Luftwaffe had, until recently, sent him on. He had his own necessarily selfish desires to remain alive, just as anyone else did. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Erik said, uncertain for what he was apologizing. Richter waved him off. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault.¡± ¡°I ¨C well. I want you to know that I trust you.¡± ¡°We hardly know each other,¡± Richter laughed. ¡°There¡¯s plenty enough time for that.¡± Three Stalag 5, Ludwigsburg. 1942 - Christmas Eve. Richter was from Berlin, the fourth child born to a middle-class family. He and his siblings, two brothers and two sisters, had lost contact amidst the chaos and confusion of war. His parents had long since passed away. Old age, he told Erik. Just old age. ¡°I was a violinist,¡± he added, much to Erik¡¯s surprise, ¡°in the Berlin Youth Orchestra. Not for very long, because of the first World War, but I wasn¡¯t bad.¡± His family had stayed in Berlin during the first War, though his two brothers wanted nothing more than to join the ranks of soldiers marching across France. ¡°All they talked about was the tanks they would drive, or the turrets they would operate. They used to beg our father to let them play with his pistol, but he only laughed and locked it away and told them they could see it when they were older. My sisters, naturally, were unenthused.¡± ¡°What about you?¡± Erik asked. ¡°Me?¡± Richter smiled. ¡°I wanted to be a pilot from a very young age. I built model planes from the moment I could understand the instructions, and my father used to take me to airshows when he could afford it.¡± When he was sixteen, his parents sent him to a military boarding school. Their intentions were for him to join the Wehrmacht, as it was less elite and more likely for a family of a lower-class background. It was not until he was twenty that he joined the Luftwaffe ¨C and they only let him join because of his inexhaustible knowledge of every plane in the force. He had taken apart and put back together models of each and every one countless times. Until then, he had only flown them in his sleep. ¡°I don¡¯t think half the pilots in the Luftwaffe knew as much as I did,¡± he mused. And then, with a laugh, ¡°It must¡¯ve been irritating for my poor flight instructor ¨C Herr Mendl was his name. He was shot down over Paris a few months ago.¡± He sighed, reminiscing. ¡°I met a USAF pilot when I was twenty-five ¨C we shot each other down, actually. I was on my first solo mission. But he chose to save my life instead of letting me go up in flames as I should have. He dragged me out of my plane.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Who was he?¡± ¡°I never knew. He didn¡¯t speak any German and I didn¡¯t speak any English. Hardly a word was said between us, but I figured out from meeting him that everything I¡¯d been taught to believe wasn¡¯t right.¡± From there, he¡¯d collaborated more closely with the Allies, had begun working for the Underground and had ended up here, stationed at a Stalag, his only close relation a Jewish pianist from Dusseldorf with not a single mark to his name. Erik knew the only reason he was still alive was because of Richter¡¯s goodness of heart and sense of right. If anyone else had found him, that night in Warsaw, he wouldn¡¯t be alive. To think that he¡¯d gone through so much and here, in an odd twist of fate, was where he had found himself. ¡°Enough about me. What¡¯s your story?¡± Richter leaned back in his chair now. The sky had grown dark, indigo in color. Erik¡¯s story was a longwinded one, but he wanted Richter to know where he was from and where he¡¯d been. It seemed only fair. ¡°I¡¯m from Dusseldorf,¡± he began, thinking it a fitting place to start. He¡¯d had two brothers and a sister, all of whom had been murdered at the hands of the SS. ¡°My parents never met that fate, fortunately,¡± he elaborated. ¡°My mother died of cancer and my father died of a broken heart three weeks later.¡± ¡°How on earth did you survive?¡± Richter asked, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows as he tried to put the pieces together. ¡°I was at the radio station,¡± Erik said, his voice choked with shame, ¡°when the SS invaded my neighborhood and shot and killed my only family.¡± Richter rubbed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Erik.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± Erik said, managing a small smile. ¡°I think they¡¯re all better off where they are now.¡± With nothing to keep him in Germany and the persistent threat of death if he remained, Erik had fled to Poland in 1940. He¡¯d shared a room with three strangers in Warsaw ¨C all of them Jewish, all of them terrified for their lives. They read newspapers, heard propaganda, watched more and more of their friends and neighbors disappear. There were more gunshots at night, more screams and cries ¨C but when the city finally fell silent, the bomb dropped. ¡°My roommates all fled after we heard they might bomb the city, but I stayed. Somehow I thought I might have more luck surviving a bombing than being captured by the Gestapo or SS.¡± Richter frowned. ¡°How long after that did I find you?¡± ¡°Almost a year.¡± ¡°You must really have a guardian angel,¡± Richter laughed, good-humoredly, and Erik smiled. Although he did not celebrate Christmas, Erik did enjoy the good cheer and general lightheartedness of the camp. The very air seemed to radiate with warmth and briefly, very briefly, Erik felt at home. Four Berlin, SS Headquarters. 1943. ¡°They say they saw a German officer leaving the same building several hours later,¡± Hilda told him, reading her typed notes from this morning. ¡°They were certain that no other officer or soldier besides Colonel Richter had entered that building all day.¡± ¡°Which means someone was hiding there,¡± Strauss concluded. ¡°Any idea who it might be?¡± Jewish, probably. Somehow alive and in hiding. ¡°The men I spoke to on the telephone did give me the address, Herr Colonel, but I have not yet found any record of who might¡¯ve lived there.¡± She handed Strauss her notes and his gaze immediately drifted to the address. ¡°What do you think he was doing, if I may ask? Colonel Richter.¡± Strauss sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not sure yet,¡± he replied, ¡°but I suspect he might not be who he seems.¡± Strauss was familiar with the area Richter had, until recently, been stationed in; before the final bombing that had flattened the better part of Warsaw, he and his men had scoured the city looking for any straggling or hiding Jews. A little more digging provided him with a record of the previous inhabitants of the building; and one name stuck out at him, nagging him for attention. Erik Henri Kehlmann. Strauss said the name over and over again, until it sounded formless and odd on his tongue. Strauss had, several years ago, encountered Kehlmann in Berlin. Not directly, but he¡¯d attended one of the Berlin Orchestra¡¯s concerts. He¡¯d had the night off and, for once, nothing better to do. When the war broke out, Strauss had taken the job of eradicating Jews from Germany very seriously. Kehlmann had been one such Jew on his list ¨C and one of very few to date whom he suspected still lived and hadn¡¯t found. And now, by the workings of some unexpected miracle ¨C or perhaps just good luck ¨C this Jew with nothing to his name had been rescued by none other than the Nighthawk. A name feared by even the best Allied pilots. Though he hadn¡¯t yet acted on them, Strauss had his suspicions that Wilhelm Richter wasn¡¯t who he claimed to be. His loyalty to the Reich was an easy thing to question. Why would Richter, one of the Luftwaffe¡¯s best pilots, take a command post at a nasty little stalag in Ludwigsburg? Why would he, a man who¡¯d always been in the sky, voluntarily ground himself if he didn¡¯t have ulterior motives? Strauss wanted to get to the bottom of this. All he had to do if he wanted to catch the pianist and the pilot was do a little more investigating. He had all the patience in the world ¨C and they didn¡¯t call him the Wolf for no good reason.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. - Stalag 5, Ludwigsburg. 1943. ¡°Pearson! I need to talk to you a minute.¡± Pearson crossed the compound quickly ¨C Richter didn¡¯t call for him if it wasn¡¯t important. ¡°What¡¯s up, commandant?¡± ¡°Where did you and your men go last night?¡± ¡°To a ball bearing plant east of town.¡± ¡°And I presume you blew it to pieces?¡± ¡°Well, of course. It was a pretty clean job ¨C¡± ¡°Pearson. The Gestapo are suspicious of all the sabotage in the area. They¡¯ve sent out troops to investigate, and they will be stationed here at Stalag 5 until they find what they¡¯re looking for.¡± Pearson sighed. ¡°That¡¯d be us, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Call off all sabotage for the next few days. Radio London and tell them you¡¯re indisposed or on vacation ¨C give them any excuse ¨C but whatever you do, don¡¯t go out at night.¡± ¡°Wait a minute, what are we supposed to do about Captain Holtz? We¡¯re meant to pick him up from town tonight.¡± Richter weighed their options, limited and equally as dangerous. He had to remind himself that this was not Pearson¡¯s first rodeo ¨C he had, in times past, evaded the Gestapo. ¡°Go ahead with the mission. But make it quick.¡± - ¡°The Gestapo? What do they want?¡± ¡°Us,¡± Pearson scoffed. ¡°We still pick up Holtz tonight. But we¡¯re out of business for the time being. If the Gestapo catches us, that¡¯s the end of our operation ¨C¡± ¡°And our lives,¡± Dubois interjected, shaking his head. ¡°We¡¯ve got it good here, and the last thing we want is to end up facing is a firing squad. Just ¨C be careful. And don¡¯t do anything harebrained.¡± The others dismissed themselves, going back outside, while Erik and Pearson remained inside. ¡°Do you know how long he¡¯s been working for the Allies?¡± Erik asked. ¡°Colonel Richter, I mean.¡± Pearson, leaning against one of the bunks, considered for a moment. ¡°A few years. He¡¯s one of very few who haven¡¯t been caught yet. He specializes in night missions, you know, flying people and supplies in and out of Germany. But that was when he was an active pilot. As commander of a stalag, he¡¯s more of a first line of defense for our operation. Those Gestapo goons will trust a German officer more readily than a prisoner, naturally. In any case, he¡¯s smart. Smarter than most who¡¯ve ended up in his situation.¡± ¡°Situation?¡± ¡°Imagine being free as a bird one moment, getting away with everything without any worries at all, and suddenly the better part of Berlin¡¯s on your back. They keep a very close watch on stalags, Kehlmann. Uncertainties, you know. There are too many loose ends here and Richter knows it.¡± Pearson adjusted his hat, something new in his expression. ¡°You¡¯d think this place would be secure, given that it¡¯s a prison and all, but it¡¯s probably the most dangerous place to be besides a battlefield.¡± Pearson made it sound as though the entire camp was balanced precariously on a cliffside, and that one wrong move would send them all toppling over the edge. While he had known fully well that Richter¡¯s actions had endangered himself and everyone he worked with, Erik had never imagined it might take on this magnitude. And he still had to reconcile with himself the fact that he did not know everything about the man who had saved his life.