As a child, Martin had learned that lines equaled borders. While coloring in a coloring book, you're not supposed to cross over the line with your crayon; otherwise, the picture won't come out as precise.
The lines of coloring books were absolute to him.
As a teenager, he started driving his stepdad's stickshift and, later, with Mirjana, the bike. While driving the he thick white lines between two lanes should not be crossed if you want to avoid a fine or losing your license.
The lines on the highway are absolute.
He stared at the map of the Third Reich on his bedroom wall. The borders of countries were not absolute. Prag was no longer part of Teschoslowakia; it was Germany, and so was much of Poland. The lines surrounding the countries on the maps were so much more significant than the ones on the highway, let alone coloring books. It seemed to him that Hitler had crossed those lines as quickly as a five-year-old child with a red crayon. If leaders do not recognize national borders, what kind of lines matter at all?
A knock on the door interrupted his study of the map. He didn't know who it could be, and at this hour, he couldn't expect any deliveries or visitors; it was already well past midnight. Panic flared up in his chest. What if it was the Gestapo? Maybe his cover had been blown, perhaps they'd figured out he was an impersonator, or they expected Franz of espionage? It wasn't impossible; Martin was a boy, Franz was a man, and everyone noticed a significant switch in behavior—worst case scenario, they'd found out about the Jews in Franz's cellar.
He made his way to the door and peered through the peephole.
Martin didn't recognize the man on his doorstep. He stood alone, dressed in civilian clothes. His hair was swept to the right and he kept alternating between staring down at his shoes and at the corner of the ceiling. As Martin reached to unlock the door, the man on the other side cleared his throat as if he knew that Martin was standing there watching him.
Martin swung open the door. The second he made eye contact with the unexpected visitor, he laughed out loud. It was no stranger, but Jan Reißer. "Donnerwetter! (verbatim 'thunder weather,' an exclamation like 'Jesus Christ' or 'My goodness') I wasn't expecting you, Jan! I didn't recognize you in those clothes. You look very different than in your SS uniform."
"Evening, Franz. I apologize for coming by so late and unannounced, but there were some...things I wanted to talk to you about."
"No problem; come inside." Martin stepped aside and waved his comrade in. Jan Reißer took off his boots and joined Martin at the table. He refused the tea that his host politely offered him.
"I wanted to talk to you about the Natzweiler and August Hirt." Reißer paused and rested his head on his knuckles. He stared directly at Martin. "And about Adolf Hitler."
Martin's eyes narrowed. "Go on." He prompted carefully.
"I saw how you acted when we did the experiments and how," he struggled for words, "how careful you always are around the professor."
"I'm not used to doing experiments on this scale, and I deeply respect August. He'd one of the most intelligent people I have ever met—at least in his field."
"I didn't mean it that way, Franz. I know you disagree with the idea of experimenting on the inmates of the concentration camp."
Martin didn't answer.
"I saw how you acted during the experiments, Franz. You were trying to distract yourself. When you came out to smoke with me, you were trembling noticeably. And don't say you're always nervous about experiments. I know you helped August in the lab. If you were convinced that what you were doing was morally defendable, like August is, you wouldn't have been shaking like a leaf."
"I was nervous about messing up," Martin argued bluntly.
"No, Franz. You weren't." Reißer said with a shake of his head. "All you did was call names; there was no way you could have messed up."
Martin couldn't argue with that.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone. I don't agree with the experiments either. They're horrible. What I'm trying to say is...I know you're not a National Socialist, not at heart. You can wear their uniform, bark their commands, and march in line with a thousand SS men, but you," he pointed at Martin, "aren't one of them. And neither am I."
Martin remained silent. He looked at Reißer for a few long seconds, then looked down at his hands, which were neatly folded together in his lap.
"I don't like Adolf Hitler," Reißer said, breaking the silence. "I never liked him. He's a fucking bastard."
Martin didn't answer or look up. His mind was reeling. Was Jan Reißer being honest, or was he lying? Had Kramer, Hirt, or someone else been suspicious enough of Martin to send Reißer to spy on him?
"Would you like a cigarette?" Reißer asked as he took the little pack out of his breast pocket. He struck a match and lit the cigarette between his teeth, then after pulling one of the sticks out a little like smokers often do when offering; he handed the box to Martin.
"I don't smoke in my apartment," said Martin finally. "I'd like you to leave, Herr Reißer." He stood up, signaling his counterpart to do the same. His guest was taken aback by the sudden formality in his tone. Reißer stepped backward towards the door but stopped and looked back before leaving. Martin watched him closely. Before Reißer could open his mouth to say something, Martin interrupted him coldly. "I never want you to come here again, Herr Reißer."
A thousand emotions swirled up in both men. Martin's judgment was clouded by panic, fear, and determination not to be caught saying or doing anything against the government. Reißer felt overwhelming sadness, desperation, hopelessness, and the loss of someone he thought could have been an ally. "Of course, Franz," he said with a small smile.
"Heil Hitler," Martin answered and then closed the door.