Aside from my grandfather, who fought in WWII and had a distinct prejudice against the Germans—except for my grandmother, who he adored—I had never seen anyone react so strongly to the idea of someone being German. We were far enough from the days of Hitler that I’d figured that prejudice had been worked through, but here it was—or at least something was.
As Ivan bounced us along the road to Damascus, I braced myself and leaned over to ask Thala if she knew what was going on.
She looked up at the front and then leaned closer. “Your job in Iceland.”
I nodded. We had done our second book-collecting in Rejkjavik, and it had been a doozy. “What about it?” I whispered.
“Any Germans involved there?” she asked.
I looked at Beattie, and she shook her head. “Not that I recall, but we’ve been o
