Hidden Away by J. W. Kilhey Read Free Book Online Page A

quietly with the French professor of Political Science. Instead of lingering behind stacks of books as I did last time, I wait across the hall for one or both to leave. After a half hour, they both emerge from the room.
    Outside, they walk together with a great space between them. The professor turns left toward the parking lot, and the janitor turns to the right. They part ways with only a nod between them. At a safe distance, I follow the German. He’s the one who interests me. The connection between the Frenchman and the German is intriguing, but it is the German who is haunting my dreams. I need to find out why he’s here, if he truly is a German soldier, or if I’m just driving myself insane.
    He goes into a large auditorium. The back row gives me the shelter I need to watch him without alerting him to my presence. I stay hunkered down so even if he looks toward me, he can’t tell I’m here. The stage has been set for the musical recital that will take place in a few days, marking the end of the semester and the beginning of the Christmas holidays.
    The custodian moves around the instruments as I study him, and I remark to myself that he does not seem like an evil person. I’d be able to tell. Although, I remind myself, even that day back in April six years ago, I hadn’t been the best judge. Those men in German uniforms were just regular army. They had nothing to do with the horrific visions of evil I’m still plagued with today.
    The German runs his hand over the top of the grand piano. I think for a moment, he might play, but he moves over to a stool a few feet away and picks up a violin. I don’t know why he’s so hesitant to play.
I remind myself that I shouldn’t care because this man is most likely a foe from years past.
    He holds the violin up to his chin and draws the bow across the strings. The sound is less than pleasant, and he pulls the violin away. I wish I’d chosen a spot closer to the stage. His expression— or what I can see of it—is haunting. Almost reverently, he sets the violin back down, then moves back to the piano.
With one finger, he depresses a key so softly that I cannot hear it back here.
    He doesn’t stay long. In fact, my heart starts beating faster as he comes striding down the aisle. I’m not sure what I should do, slink away from him, hoping not to be caught watching him, or confront him.
    I’ve never been a man to avoid confrontation, especially when it can lead to gaining something. Confronting him now could ease my troubled mind and help the dreams subside. At least for a little while.
    I stand up, but he keeps his eyes on his path and doesn’t notice me until he’s right upon me. Even then I have to clear my throat in order to get his attention. When I make the noise, he jumps, then stands as straight as he can. Eyes flick over my face before dropping to the floor again. Hands fisted at his sides.
    He doesn’t apologize as he had before. Instead, he just silently stands there. It’s strange and awkward and forces me to speak first. “What’s your name?”
    When he doesn’t answer, I recognize how hard my voice sounds. He might be a Nazi, but he might just be a regular guy. He could’ve lived here before the war and never shed his accent.
    I try to make my tone something more charming, like Charles’s voice. “I’m John. I saw you playing a few weeks back. I—”
    He clears his throat but doesn’t look up. “I won’t touch them again.”
Nazis don’t act like that.
“I don’t care if you touch them. They’re not mine.” It isn’t what I want to say or how I want to say it, but there is nothing I can do to return the words to my mouth. “I just want to know who you are.”
“No one,” he answers slowly. “Just a janitor.”
“You’re German.”
His lips purse together, and if it’s possible, he lowers his head even more. Finally, he shakes his head.
“I know a German accent when I hear one,” I say. “You’re—”
“Please don’t,”