Autumn Street by Lois Lowry

again, nervously, at the Hoffmans' attic windows, wondering if Nathaniel's father could possibly be there, chatting with Hitler. The Autumn
Street attics were very hot in summer, and there was a wasp's nest in Grandfather's.
    "Charles," I said slowly, terrified by my own daring, "Mrs. Hoffman took Nathaniel to Harrisburg this morning, to buy clothes for school. And she always leaves the back door unlocked."
    Charles grinned. He was always looking for something exciting to do, and I still refused to go with him to the woods. "You wanna go in?"
    "What if he heard us?"
    "We gotta make a plan. We go in in our bare feet so we don't make no noise. Then we creeps up the stairs without no noise, and we creeps all the way up to the attic door and we listen."
    "What do we do if we hear him?"
    Charles thought. "We call the army and tell them."
    "Charles, what if he knows that Mrs. Hoffman and Nathaniel are gone, and he comes down in the house and sees us?"
    "Elizabeth Jane, you don't know yet that spies is serious stuff. He staying in that attic all the time because if he comes out except when it be real dark, somebody might see him through the windows. No, he gonna stay right in that attic in daytime, tapping at his radio to Hitler."
    "What will the army do to him?"
    "Kill him. They always kills spies. First they torture them some."
    "I don't want anybody to be killed."
    "Long as he sits there talking to Hitler, people getting put into them ovens. You like that better?"
    I remembered Red, with his quick, cocky voice, calling softly to Lillian as she got into the car, "Hey there, Roasted Chestnut!" I didn't want Red to be in an oven, trussed like a turkey, with juices oozing pink from the prick-marks in the browning skin. It was the vision of Red in a baking pan, a cigarette still propped in his grin, that made me agree to go into Hoffman's house.
    We slipped through the opening in the hedge, glancing back to be sure that Tatie wasn't watching, that Grandmother had not appeared on the porch to check the roses, or that Mama was not bringing the baby to the yard for some sun. But the house was silent, closed, and uncaring.
    The Hoffmans' back door was, as I knew it would be, unlocked. The kitchen was sunny and neat, the breakfast dishes washed and draining in the sink, a bowl of bananas on the table next to a bottle of vitamins. Nathaniel's treasured stack of Captain Marvel comics was on a shelf beside the telephone; I saw Charles eye them greedily, and I nudged him forward through the kitchen. The floor was cool and clean,
recently scrubbed, against our bare feet. The only sounds were the loud ticking of an ornate clock in the dining room and the stealthy brush of our feet on the rug as we passed through on our way to the stairs.
    But even empty rooms are populated with the presence of those recently there. I thought that I could smell the thin flowery scent of the cologne Mrs. Hoffman sometimes wore; and I could almost hear the soft laughter of Nathaniel as he played. I grabbed for Charles' hand and held it tight; he turned to me and formed some words with his mouth.
    "What?" I whispered.
    "Shhh." He formed the words again, adding a little breath to them so that I could understand. "Look for
clues.
"
    Clues? I didn't know what he meant. Surely there would be no evidence of Hugo Hoffman's presence here in the empty first floor. Then I stiffened and pulled Charles back into the dining room. I pointed to the large carved wooden clock on the buffet.
    Charles looked at me, puzzled, and I remembered that he couldn't read.
    "Made in Germany," I whispered, pointing to the words.
    He raised his eyebrows, praising me with the look. It was a clue.
    At the foot of the stairs, Charles whispered to me. "We should've brung the knife."
    I shook my head. I wanted no part of the knife. I had even, when Charles wasn't there, rearranged the leaves and stones over its burial place so that we couldn't find the spot again.
    Still clutching his hand, I