JULIAN SAID, “LILI WAS A RARE BEAUTY. HER father’s estate, near Breslau, had this wonderful hunting schloss, where the old brute went to shoot boar in the winter—and Lili and I had some exquisite weekends there. In the spring. Oh, it was wonderful.” Florry nodded enthusiastically. His breath was ragged and dry. They had passed unnoticed beyond the first construction sheds, where the Spanish workers had been quartered during the rebuilding. Up ahead there was some kind of guard post and beyond that Florry could see the bridge, an ancient rough stone arch, now buttressed smartly with a gaudy framework of Krupp steel. Beneath it, a surprisingly mundane little river cut its muddy way through a deep gorge, but neither Florry nor Julian cared for a glimpse. Rather, they had by this time seen the low concrete blockhouse that had brought them all this way. It seemed so utterly nondescript, a prosaic little cube of concrete ranged with gun slits. They were too far to see, but Florry guessed the Germans had at least four Maxims—one for each slot—in the little fort.
