“He had your number, Mr. G, didn"t he? That Frederick.”
“I suppose he did.”
“Why didn"t you like him?”
I shrugged. “I don"t know. Maybe it was just his blond good looks. Too Aryan. That air of superiority.”
“You were jealous maybe?”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “Just maybe.”
I suffered through the longest two weeks of my life. During the day, I toiled at the mill. After the evening meal, I submitted to whatever torture Frederick dreamed up – and he had a vivid imagination. We"d run to the river facing forward hands above our shoulders, then return to the villa running backward. Frederick taught me to spar, blow after blow after blow. My arms turned to lead, so heavy, I couldn"t lift them above my waist. Then came the drills; up on my toes dancing, side-to-side, forward and back until my calv
