BRANDT STUMBLED as he climbed the stairs, reaching out for the wall to hold himself straight. He was struggling to think clearly and each movement he made seemed somehow distant from his intention. He paused, his breathing erratic. It was cold inside the hut but here he was, sweating. His body and mind were not quite connecting – either with each other or with the world around them. He needed to calm himself.
There was no turning back now, and that was just as well. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he had expected from Agneta or, rather, sought – but it hadn’t been that she would deny his existence. It didn’t matter – he was committed to his course. His fate, however, was in the hands of others, and perhaps it was this realization that had left him suddenly drained and distraught. Monika and Agneta wouldn’t betray him voluntarily, he didn’t think, but Jäger was uncertain. Then there was Bobrik, Neumann, Peichl and even the mayor. It only needed one indiscretion or suspicion and his plan would collapse. And if the Commandant gave an order before he’d managed to get them out, then all of this would end in failure anyway.
And even if he were successful, outside the perimeter fence there were a hundred things that could go wrong in the short distance to the small barn. Perhaps he would have more courage and belief if Agneta had acknowledged him. Or perhaps this whole scheme was a self-indulgent attempt to wash away his own guilt about acts that could never be, and never should be, forgiven.
Perhaps he thought too much. But time moved slowly when each second had the potential for disaster – and what else was he to do?
He found himself standing in the men’s washroom, in front of the toilet Jäger had mentioned. He took off the porcelain cover and found a small oilskin package. He unwrapped it. The pistol was small and silver. He discharged the magazine. Fully loaded.
He replaced it, uncertain whether its presence was good news or bad news.