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THE SONG OF SAINT GEORGE by Kate Spitzmiller • Cleaver Magazine
“But Martin was born in Lancashire,” I said to the man seated across from me the afternoon of the arrest. The man, whose black hair was slicked neatly back, offered me a cigarette. I declined. “Martin’s not German, much less a German spy.” The man placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it with the flick of a silver lighter. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, the smoke blue-grey in the dimly-lit room. “Mrs. Ridley,” he said. “We have ample evidence of your husband’s activities in support of the Third Reich.” “That’s ludicrous!” “Madam, I assure you, everything is in order.”