When the chauffeur asked “where to?” Nell was surprised Brandt said “office” not “home.” It was Sunday, a dark, miserable, drizzly Sunday evening. Berlin did dark and miserable in spades—she would not change it for the world. But surely even Brandt would want to be home with his wife and kids … with Rut and Lars and Mathias? At the very least there’d be a new episode of Bonanza to watch.
From her office she heard a thump. Something falling. Someone falling?
She found Brandt sprawled on the floor, out cold.
She should have spotted the signs. The fingers pressed to the temple, the uncharacteristic snappiness about Abrassimov’s rose conundrum.
She found a pulse in his neck, heard the rasp of his struggle to breathe and grabbed the phone.
“Doctor to the mayor’s office now!”
“Fräulein Burkhardt. It’s Sunday, there’s no one here. Only cleaners.”
“Find someone. Brandt is ill!”
A few moments later an elderly cleaning lady shuffled in. Put her bucket and mop by the door and leant down over Brandt.
Nell had him on his back, a cushion under his head, his tie loosened. He lay exactly where he’d lain the day she’d found him listening to Schubert.
The cleaner slapped Brandt sharply on both cheeks.
Nell was about to yell out, when the cleaner said, “He’s only fainted. Trust me. I seen lots of it during the war. People dead from the blast. Not a bleedin’ mark on ’em. People blown apart. And people who just drop down dead on account they was tired o’ living. Most of ’em … most of ’em had just fainted with the shock of it all. C’mon Mr. Willy … Wakey wakey!”
Brandt’s eyes opened. His breathing slackened off.
“I … I was choking … I thought I was choking.”
“’Appen you was, but you’ll be right as a rain after a nice cup of tea.”
She turned to Nell.
“Won’t he, dearie?”
And Nell realised what her role was in the crisis.