Let me ask you this: What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Really think about it.

Well, multiply your thing by a billion and you don’t even get close to mine. Sorry to brag. It’s just . . . your thing? It’s the Cheeto-dust thumbprint you left on the basement sofa. It’s an ant’s toe you stepped on. And then you said, “Sorry!” and the ant went, “No worries, mate!” Because the ant’s British, I don’t know.

My name is Henry Platt and I am twelve years old. I say it’s “my thing,” but I shouldn’t take all the credit. There were others. Six of us, to be exact. We each had a role to play, all guilty. But it started with me, a decision I made, and for that I guess I’m the guiltiest. Again, it’s not a competition. But, you know, if it were . . . I’d win. Woo-hoo.

So, why am I telling you this? I mean, if it’s so horrible, wouldn’t I want to keep it a secret? Normally, yes. But where we are now is so very, very far from normal.

We’ve done everything we can to fix the mess we made. In a few hours, we’ll see if it worked. These words I’m writing now, they’re like our trail of breadcrumbs. Because if somehow this doesn’t go right, we need you, reader, to know what really happened.

BTW, Frances just read this over my shoulder and said my breadcrumbs suck and to do better. She’s always been really supportive like that.

If all goes well, you’ll never know about us. Life here in twenty-first-century America will seem normal to you. Nazi Germany will stay in the history books. You’ll never know about Nazi America—or Westfallen, as it’s called. The only evidence you’ll have of what we did will be these pages you’re reading right now.

If not . . .

bitte vergib uns…

Continue reading the extract here.

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