He pulled the top bundle free. Passports. Not one, but several with different names, different countries, and different photographs of the same man. Some bore his uncle’s unmistakable face, others had subtle variations, a younger version of the same man slipping through identities. Andrew’s stomach lurched. What had Henry been doing with so many lives?
Stamps littered the pages: Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Warsaw. Years spanning the war and after. Andrew flipped through feverishly, disbelief mounting. Each passport told a fragment of a life lived in shadows, moving across Europe at times when ordinary travel was impossible. His uncle hadn’t been reclusive—he had been covert.