It was almost lunchtime. Inspector Helmut Koenig completed his report and placed it in a manila folder that he slid atop a number of other case files resting on a shelf. Another set piece affair. Jews escaping military service in Russia, and bringing along a companion for the road and the bed. His company had a working agreement with his Russian counterparts. Everyone goes back. Even if it is the village idiot who slobbers at every word, the Russians will take him. They are paranoid, those Russians, he was fully convinced. They were actually eager to get back the runaways. He would be delighted to round up a few thousand of his own miscreants, a few thousand additional socialists, labor agitators, all the Jews, and, as a good Nürnberg Protestant, a few thousand Bavarian Papists, and ship them all off to Russia. Good riddance to bad rubbish. And the way those Russians treated the returnees was worth a page in anyone’s book. They were fond of using whips that tore the flesh off backs like peeling an orange.
He walked through the corridor to the staircase and up a flight to the administrative area. At the end of a hall, he knocked upon his commander’s office door, and stepped inside.
Captain Wilhelm Strauss looked up from his paperwork. “What about the three, Koenig?” he asked.
“Jews, Herr Hauptmann. The usual thing.”
“One is injured, is he not?”
“Yes, Herr Hauptmann. The medical orderly says it was due to a saber or knife wound. Quite serious. He is not sure whether the man will live or die.”
“I do not want him dying on this side, do you hear? Those Russians will build up a case that we killed him out of hand.”
“I will get them out this afternoon. I have already sent a telegram to Central Station in Königsberg with their descriptions. It is my guess that they are not wanted.”
“Very well, but do not let that one die.” He stood up, a tall, spare man, with prematurely gray hair. “Come along. We’ll take lunch.”
They left the building and walked across the parade field to the military headquarters building. Koenig was delighted to be going along. The police company had only two officers–the captain and his executive, a lieutenant– not enough to set up an officers’ mess. Had he gotten promoted to chief inspector, he would have had officer’s rank. But that conflict of personalities three years ago between him and his senior in Frankfurt, that Bavarian Catholic piece of shit, had ended up with his transfer to this outpost of civilization without that coveted promotion. No theaters, concerts, museums. These Prussians were closer to the Huns than to Plato. His position of inspector was actually senior non-commissioned rank, but it was regarded as enough of a gray area at this remote station to allow him into officers’ country when invited. The grenadier battalion of fifteen officers and three officer candidates had an officer’s mess. Not only was the food better, the drinks of higher quality, but he felt more comfortable among those whom he regarded as his own class.
Cooperation between the police and the military was founded on an uneasy truce. The grenadiers came under the Imperial Minister of War, while the police fell under the Imperial Minister of the Interior. Actually, if Germany went to war and a battle erupted on the border, the commander of the grenadier battalion, Major Westerhof, could no more order help from Captain Strauss than he could from the navy. Only if the Minister of War went to the Minister of the Interior to seek his help, or if he went directly to the Kaiser and asked, could the police company come under the jurisdiction of the military.
But here, where the only shield between their forces and those of the Russians were military screening patrols, which the Jews had managed to elude, well, it was more practical to work together. So the two police officers, and Koenig as a guest, were invited to join the grenadier’s mess.
While Koenig went to a junior officer’s section, Strauss approached Westerhof’s table and gave a sharp bow of greeting. A young, red-faced major was seated to Westerhof’s right. His purple tabs identified him as an Imperial General Staff member.
“Major von Raasch,” said Westerhof, by way of introduction.
Strauss bowed quickly in his direction. “An honor, Herr Major.”
Von Raasch raised his hand casually in greeting. The police captain promptly took his seat across from Westerhof. “Strauss is commander of the border police company stationed across the parade,” explained Westerhof. “He is responsible for frontier security.” He turned to Strauss. “Major von Raasch is the Division Chief of Staff, down to inspect the battalion.”
So young to be a chief of staff, thought Strauss with envy. Well, the whole General Staff business is more politics than substance. In each major unit, the chief of staff was appointed by the Imperial General Staff, not by the commander, who selected the remainder of his staff. While the commander had to go through his chain of command for assistance or responses, the purple tabbed officers reported directly to the General Staff, bypassing all of their nominal commanders. It was resented by everybody except the General Staff, of course, but everyone took pains to step lightly in the presence of a GS officer. He could send up a secret message, which could ruin a man’s career.
“Caught some more Jews, eh?” said Westerhof.
“Yes. Three,” replied Strauss.
“Spies?” asked von Raasch.
“I do not think so, Herr Major. They do not appear to be the type.” He gave his order to the waiter.
“What is the type?” went on von Raasch.
“It is easier to describe what is not the type. Our prisoners consist of a woman, and what appears to be her lover. The inspector said they gave such bumbling explanations that he did not bother with a grilling. It is obvious that they are Jews trying to escape from Russia.”
“You said there was a third,” said Westerhof.
“He is in the medical ward. Got a saber or knife wound in his chest.”
“By your people?” asked Westerhof.
“No. My men took them by surprise. From the report, the wound seems a few days old.”
Von Raasch stopped ladling soup to his lips. “What makes you think it is a saber wound?”
“It is rather deep. But then, we have only the orderly’s word on that.”
“That seems strange,” mused von Raasch. “A saber wound in a Jew’s chest.”
“As I said,” went on Strauss quickly. “It could also be a knife wound.”
Von Raasch paid no attention to the remark. He sat back in his chair and pulled at the lobe of his ear. Something seemed to drag at his memory. Oh, yes, now he had it. The report by the intelligence officer at the division briefing just two or three days ago that the Russians were working over their Jews again. The division commander had looked askance at the officer for having brought up the subject. Thrashing the Jews did not constitute a military exercise, nor did it require military consideration. Now, if there were reports of Russian artillery being moved towards the border, or the stockpiling of grain for horses or ammunition at forward areas, or any of a score of criteria for a sudden attack, he would find it pertinent. But knocking the Jews about. Indeed. The general had raised his brows at von Raasch, who, as chief of staff, should have known what the staff officers planned to say at the briefing.
Later in the morning, von Raasch had cornered the intelligence officer in his cubbyhole and asked for an explanation.
“I am sorry I brought it up,” said the officer. “It probably has no relationship, but at a corps briefing a few months ago, we met a liaison from headquarters who explained that undercover agents had been placed in Russia to undermine the government. They planned to stir up minority groups, and other such rot. All of the officers were offended by this immoral activity, but apparently some dunderheads have the ear of headquarters. The briefing was conducted to let us know that some of the covert actions might be launched from our sectors, and that if we were called upon for assistance, we would have some idea what it was all about. Major Reiner of the Thirty-Second whispered, quite loudly, of course, that if one of the provocateurs came to him for help, he would drop him in the nearest river.”
“What has this to do with your comment?” asked von Raasch impatiently.
“Well, the city where the principal action against the Jews is taking place is one of the areas mentioned at the briefing. It is Kovno. It has spread to other parts now, but something happened there.”
Von Raasch turned his thoughts back to Strauss. “Hauptmann, is it possible to hold onto those Jews until I check on something at division?”
Strauss was delighted to be of service to von Raasch. “Of course, Herr Major. I wait your command.”
Von Raasch began ladling soup again. “Please try to get their names and where they are from.”
“I will start directly after lunch.”
“Don’t be rough on them.” He passed his empty soup bowl to the waiter and accepted with relish a large plate of pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut. He took a large mouthful, and then stopped chewing. “You did say that they seemed bent on getting out of Russia?”
“Without a doubt. The girl pleaded with the inspector not to send them back.”
Von Raasch silently ate two or three more mouthfuls, and then he abruptly stood up. “Excuse me, meine Herren,” he said, and swiftly left the table.
The officers seated there eyed Westerhof. Polite manners at the mess were a fetish, and to leave in the middle of a meal was rude, except for a sudden emergency. Westerhof eyed them in return. “The Herr Major, regardless of his youth, is one of our most brilliant associates. No more need be said nor implied.” Deliberately, he took a long swig of beer to quiet any possible comment.
Von Raasch walked into the communications room. The soldier on duty at the switchboard rose to attention. “Get me Imperial General Staff, intelligence, at Berlin. I will speak with the deputy, Oberst Wetterstein. Pass the call to the battalion commander’s office. I will take it there.”
He waited in Westerhof’s office for almost ten minutes. Getting through to his division was relatively simple, but moving out of the chain of command communications into that of General Staff took some doing. When the phone rang, he found Colonel Wetterstein on the other end.
“Herr Oberst,” he said. “Von Raasch, here. I have heard there is a section that deals with covert actions. Do you know of it?”
“Oh, yes, von Raasch. It was argued back and forth for some time. I think it became operational some years ago. Why do you ask?”
“A hunch, Herr Oberst.”
Wetterstein laughed. “Those hunches of yours have made you a major ten years before your time. I will not quarrel with them.”
“Do you know the name of the organization?”
“I do not remember. I think it was called Sectel, or the Area Study Bureau, or some such obscure name.”
“Does it come under General Staff?”
“Of course not. We were, and still are, completely opposed to such operations. I believe it is under the Ministry of the Interior.”
“I would like to contact them.”
“Very well. I’ll have some of my people check about and let you know.”
“Thank you, Herr Oberst.” He hung up and leaned back into the chair.
The blood was coursing through his veins and his hands shook ever so slightly. He recognized the signs. Somewhere in his brain a signal beacon had flashed, and experience had taught him that when it did, he must pay close attention, even though he did not have the foggiest notion why. As an ardent student of history, he had come upon stories of people who had mentioned this unusual ability a number of times. For a short period of time, he was tempted to delve into the occult to seek an explanation. Then he realized that he was treading on thin ice, so he just accepted the fact that it was a good thing to have.
In two hours or so, a call came to Von Raasch from Berlin. On the other end was a soft, yet driving voice. “Major von Raasch?”
“Yes.”
“This is Oberst Dannetz. I am the commanding officer of the Imperial Area Study Bureau. We are known as J Seven.”
Von Raasch sat up straighter in his chair. On the distribution list of every major intelligence report was the code J7. His brother officers had discussed it many times, trying to decipher the identity of J7. One quipster had even remarked that he was positive J7 was an enormous garbage can into which all normal, reasonable, logical suggestions were sorted from those of the absurd and swiftly burned to ashes. “Yes, Herr Oberst,” he said with great politeness. “I know of the code.”
“Excellent,” came the reply. “Oberst Wetterstein of IGS has asked us to call you. Would you be good enough to explain the details.”
Von Raasch gave a quick briefing of the comments of the division intelligence officer and the circumstances he had come upon.
When he had finished, Dannetz was quiet for a few moments. “I commend you, Major von Raasch, for being especially alert. We may be interested in learning more about these people. Have they been interrogated any further?”
“Yes, Herr Oberst. Hauptmann Strauss of the border police reported a short while ago that he spoke to them again, but they refused to give their names or homes. I had requested that he not use force.”
“You have done exactly right.” He hesitated a few more moments to consider his next words. “I would like you to question each one separately. Explain who you are, and that you are there to help them. They will not believe you, of course, but try to act as understanding as possible. During your conversation, casually ask the following question: “Is Hershel all right?” Do not pay too much heed to what they say. Watch carefully their reaction.”
“Yes, Herr Oberst.”
“How is the wounded one? Can he talk?”
“The medical orderly said he was semi-comatose.”
“Get the best medical attention at once. I want him brought to the point of understanding the question.”
“Very well, Herr Oberst.” Dannetz gave instructions how to reach him by phone, and then hung up.
Within the hour, von Raasch was back on the wire. “Herr Oberst,” he said, keeping a tight rein on his excitement.
“Yes, Major von Raasch.”
“The woman was like iron. She did not blink an eye. But the Russian man’s jaw dropped ever so slightly before he regained control. The wounded man turned his head away at the question. I think you have scored.”
There was no hesitation now. “Where is the nearest railroad station?”
“At Gumbinnen. It is about forty kilometers away.”
“My office will call you with my expected time of arrival there. I will be bringing two of my staff. Have a carriage and escort waiting, please.”
“Yes, Herr Oberst.”
“Is there a first class hospital nearby?”
“Yes, at Tilset. About twenty kilometers away.”
“Can the wounded man stand the trip?”
“I think so.”
“Send him there at once. Be very careful with him. Tell the doctors I want priority treatment. Also send an escort. He is not to speak to anyone.”
“I will take care of that at once, Herr Oberst.”
“As for the other two, keep them apart, but give them good treatment also. I should arrive in a day and a half.” Von Raasch could hear a sound as if he was tapping the table with his forefinger. “I would like you to know that I am sending off a signal at once to Commander, General Staff, commending you on your diligence.” Without waiting for a reply or thanks, Dannetz hung up.
Von Raasch sat back with a satisfied sigh. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the colonel already starting for the train station with an orderly hastening to his home to get a bag packed, and telephone wires turning hot with instructions.
Hanna and Stephen were startled at the sudden change in treatment.
They were moved to large, separate rooms in the visiting officers’ quarters of the military building, allowed to take showers in the gleaming latrine, Hanna under the watchful eye of a sergeant’s wife, and then they were outfitted with clean clothes quickly purchased in town, and given a hot, tasty supper. The woman even thought of a comb and hairbrush for Hanna. When each of them asked about the others, they were told that all were receiving first class attention, and that the wounded man was already in the hospital under the care of physicians.
For the first time in a week, Hanna and Stephen slept in comfortable beds between snow white sheets.
In a day and a half, as Dannetz had estimated, he arrived at Gumbinnen.
Von Raasch and Strauss were waiting with a large carriage drawn by two horses. Dannetz was a medium height, lean, sallow-faced man of about fifty years, with hooded, brooding eyes. Accompanying him were two hard-faced captains. All were in civilian clothes. After brief introductions, they climbed into the carriage, and, led by a pair of mounted police, started off at a trot.
“How are the prisoners?” asked Dannetz of von Raasch.
“The man and woman are quite well, Herr Oberst. The wounded fellow apparently will live, but has severe damage to a lung.” He was sitting stiffly erect. More information about Dannetz’s power had come down the line, and von Raasch had learned at an early age to sit quietly in the presence of authority.
“We would like a secluded room or house in the village for our interrogation,” he said to Strauss.
“That will be arranged the moment of our arrival, Herr Oberst.”
“Good. Wake me when we get there.” Dannetz leaned back into his seat, and fell asleep at once, followed almost as quickly by his two aides.
It was late afternoon when Hanna was taken from her room by two of the police, placed in a closed carriage, the shades drawn, and driven a kilometer or so to a small house set off from the village. In the parlor, she saw three men waiting for her. The lean, older man motioned for the police to leave and to close the door behind them.
“Young lady,” he said courteously in Russian. “Please sit down.” Heart pounding, she took a chair across from him. He leaned forward. “I would like you to listen very attentively. We are not your enemies. You must believe that. Will you try to do so?”
Hanna did not blink an eye. She sat stiff and tense on the edge of her chair and kept silent.
“I understand your reluctance to talk,” continued Dannetz evenly. “There is only one question I will ask. You can answer or not as you wish. One thing only. After that, you will be returned to the barracks. Do you understand?”
Hanna sneaked in a deep breath and nodded.
He leaned even closer, and his voice dropped. “We are friends of Hershel. All we want to know is if he is safe.”
Hanna blinked. Her mind gushed with sudden hope, then a wave of disbelief and fear swept over her, and, almost on its heels, like rolling end over end down a hill, she was filled once again with hope. In the midst of the confusion, it came to her that she was for it no matter what was said in this room, for once across the frontier in Russian hands, every detail would swiftly be brought to light. There was no secret who had been involved in that bloody fight in Gremai–Hershel Bloch, Hanna Barlak, and Jakob Golub. And since these three men knew about Hershel, what was the possible use of pretense? But wait! They knew of Hershel, but they did not know about his death. So, if they were truly friends of Hershel, perhaps there was still a chance.
“He is dead,” she said softly, the words catching at her heart.
She saw a great shadow of sorrow cloud the lean man’s face, then he sat back into his chair with a sigh that was barely audible. He remained silent for several long seconds, then he said, “Thank you, young lady. We are very sorry to hear that.” He hesitated for another few seconds. “I would like to ask you one more question? Again, you do not have to reply. Were you also his friend?”
Tears came to her eyes. A friend? No, much more than that. If she had an older brother or a friend for life, it would be Hershel. She nodded.
“Yes,” said Dannetz. “I can understand that he would be your friend.” He clasped his hands in his lap, the film of sadness still clinging to his face. “I do not know whether Hershel told you, but he was a member of our Socialist Trade Union. He was in Russia to assist the unions there. We are an international organization, not German or Polish or Russian.” He waited a proper moment before going on. “That is why he died, you know.”
“I did not know that,” she replied. “He said he was an artist, but we were never sure.”
“Was he killed by the police?” asked Dannetz casually.
Hanna shrugged. There was not much use remaining silent now, since they were appraised of this much. But the mystery was how they knew she was acquainted with Hershel. Were they tricking her? For what purpose? She felt that she actually knew less about her relationship with Hershel than they did. Except, apparently, how he died. And they could learn all about that quite simply by asking anyone in Gremai. “He was being chased by some men and ran into the village.”
“Which village?” asked Dannetz at once.
“Gremai.” At the curious look on his face, she continued. “It is about ten versts from Slabodka. That is across the river from Kaunas.”
“Then what happened, please?”
“Two of the men began shooting at him. He fired back and shot them. Then some Cossacks rode up.” Her breath caught in her throat, and her face went taut with memory. “One stabbed him with his lance. He died there.”
There was a great silence for a while, and then Dannetz turned to one of his aides. “Get some wine for the Fräulein.” They sat quietly as the man left the room, soon returning with a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass and handed it to Hanna. She nodded her thanks, took a few sips, and sat back in her chair.
“Where were you when this happened?” asked Dannetz.
“In the square, with Hershel.”
He sat forward and asked casually, “Did the police or Cossacks question him before he died?”
She shook her head. “No, he died right there, soon after the Cossack lanced him.”
Dannetz took an engraved case from an inner pocket and extracted a cigar. “Do you mind?” he asked Hanna. She shook her head no. He snipped an end with a small knife, and lit the cigar carefully. “Thank you for your cooperation. My name is Herr Eric. May I know your name?”
“Hanna Barlak.”
“Why are you running from the Russians, Fräulein Barlak?”
Now she saw what they were after! They were trying to have her incriminate herself and Stephen and Jakob. God, what a fool she was again. Why had she not remained quiet? Now they were all doomed. Well, if they were lost, she must protect Stephen at all cost. “They saw us in the square. That is, Jakob and me.”
“Jakob? The big fellow?”
“No. The one in the hospital. They must have thought we were helping Hershel, so they came after us. Stephen, the big man, he had nothing to do with it.”
Dannetz saw at once that he had touched a raw nerve. He stood up. “Thank you, Fräulein. I cannot tell you how sorry we are about Hershel, and your misfortune at having helped him. We will let you return to the kaserne now.”
She stood up, her heart pounding with apprehension. “What is to become of us?” she asked.
“As mutual friends of Hershel, we will speak to the authorities about your case.” He motioned to one of his men to take her outside. When they had gone, he said to the other, “It seems certain that he is Levi. Well, have von Raasch allow the woman and man to meet and talk, unsupervised. Let them eat together, take walks.” He snuffed out his cigar. “After a night or two, we will have another talk with her.”
Hanna could barely conceal her joy when she was taken for supper into a room where Stephen was seated at the table. The moment the door closed behind the escort, she ran into his arms. Their lips pressed hungrily upon each other.
“Oh, Hanna,” murmured Stephen. “You’ll never know how worried I have been about you.”
“And I you, my dearest.” She drew back in his arms. “I told them about Hershel.”
“You didn’t!” he exclaimed, shocked. “They’ll send you back to Russia for sure.”
“They know Hershel. They said they were his friends.”
“And you believed them?”
“It was so believable, Stephen. Why would they mention Hershel’s name if they didn’t know we were acquainted? They did not know he was killed, though.”
Stephen looked straight into her face. “I think Hershel was a German spy.”
She bit her lower lip softly on that. The idea had passed through her mind more than once, and pieces that pointed in that direction were beginning to fall into place. “Do you really think so?”
“I do. Anyhow, tell me exactly what happened.”
She spoke of the closed carriage ride to the small house, the meeting with the three men, and the conversation she had with Herr Eric. She cut off speaking as the door opened. In came a policeman bearing a large tray of food. He placed it on the table, nodded courteously at them, and left.
“Look at that!” said Stephen happily. There were two bowls of asparagus soup, thick slices of roast beef, fresh rye bread still warm from the oven, boiled potatoes resting in a sauce of butter and parsley, carrots, and a desert of red currants with sugar. A pitcher of cool beer, and two glasses completed the meal. They fell to with young, hearty appetites.
“That Herr Eric lied to you,” said Stephen, chewing with gusto.
“How?” said Hanna, enjoying each mouthful, but stopping to listen.
“He said he was associated with a Socialist Trade Union. In one of our courses at the university, we were told the Kaiser hates the socialists. So does the Tzar. I can’t accept socialists ordering the police around like they do, unless they are also policemen.”
Hanna nodded, chewing again, but slowly.
“Furthermore,” continued Stephen, “notice how we were suddenly given good rooms, new clothing, fine food. And now, meeting and having this delicious supper together.”
“Do you think they are listening to us?” whispered Hanna, looking about anxiously.
“What difference does it make?” said Stephen, still eating vigorously. “They know everything. So why be quiet.”
“They know you were not involved,” said Hanna in a strong voice. “That you helped us out of compassion.”
Stephen laughed. “A lot of good that explanation will make.”
“But it is true,” said Hanna, fiercely. She motioned for them to stop talking.
They continued eating in silence, each to his own thoughts. Almost at the last swig of beer, the guard came into the room again. “You are allowed to walk behind the barracks,” he said in German to Hanna. Outside were two more guards. It was apparent that the area had been placed off limits to the soldiers and police, for it was empty. The two were delighted by the meal, and now a walk in the fresh air of evening. Guarded carefully by the police, who kept a proper distance away, they strolled up and down a grassy lawn.
“What do you think they will do with us?” asked Hanna softly.
“I don’t know,” replied Stephen cautiously. “But I am sure they want something more, else they would have sent us back over the border at once.”
“Jakob is in a hospital,” said Hanna. “I heard he is doing well.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From one of the men who came with Herr Eric.”
“Hmm,” said Stephen thoughtfully. “They have got to be secret police,” he went on. “And if they are interested in Hershel, he was one of them.”
“Yes, you make a good point.”
“This could be to our advantage, you know.”
She stopped in her tracks. He motioned for her to keep moving. “How?” she said, starting off again.
“Tell me again exactly what Herr Eric asked concerning Hershel’s death?”
“He wanted to know if the Cossacks or police questioned Hershel before he died.”
“That’s the answer. They are afraid Hershel might have revealed some secrets. That’s what they wanted to know.”
She looked up in surprise. “Stephen, you are a genius.” She almost laughed, for even in the dusk she could see a flush of embarrassed pleasure sweep over his face. “You have hit it right on the nose. What shall we do?”
He walked along for a few seconds, thinking it over. Hanna had the opportunity to appraise Stephen again. Because he was so big and strong, and so quiet and gentle, one tended to forget that he had a superior mind. She promised herself that, if the Lord gave them the opportunity, she would not forget for an instant that his intelligence was as large as his body. Stephen finally looked over at her. “We must convince Herr Eric that Hershel did not talk. That is easy, since it is the truth. In that event, if Hershel was a secret agent, they will want to keep everything quiet. So things can blow over. But if Hershel talked, they wouldn’t care what happened to us, for anything we could tell the Russian police would already be known to them.”
It was now crystal clear to Hanna. “So I can tell them everything if they ask again?”
“Yes. And you can bet your last ruble they will be asking you again.”
“I told them the truth about you, Stephen. That you had nothing to do with it.”
“Say whatever you want about me, darling. It won’t make a bit of difference if we are sent back.”
She almost stopped in her tracks again. “You said, ‘if we are sent back’. Do you think we have a chance to be set free?”
“I’d bet another ruble on it.”
On those words, the police ordered them inside and back to their rooms.
The following day, Hanna was brought via the carriage to the same house. Dannetz and one of his assistants were waiting.
“Good morning, Fräulein Barlak,” said Dannetz courteously. “Are you being treated well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’ve asked you here only to talk a little more about Hershel. Could you please tell us how you met him?”
Hanna took a deep breath. “I have decided to tell you everything I know.”
“Thank you, Fräulein. Do you mind if my associate makes a few notes while you are speaking?”
“No.” She sat back into her chair and began telling the story fully and factually, from the time she met Hershel until the day they were apprehended by the police on the road to Gumbinnen. Her memory was so clear, and the details so well expressed that Dannetz did not interrupt or ask for clarification. At times her eyes filled with tears, and there were moments she had to stop to regain her composure, and after an hour or so, Dannetz halted the narration while a policeman brought in coffee, slices of bread, and jam. They ate quickly, each eager to continue, and then she went on. It was almost noon when she finished.
Dannetz sat quietly for a long minute, digesting what he had heard, a curious softness in his eyes upon hearing the last part of the story, of how Stephen had carried Jakob, a man to whom he owed nothing, for day after day to hoped for safety in Germany. He must love this girl with all his being, he thought to himself. Then he stood up.
“Thank you, Hanna Barlak. Thank you very, very much.” He turned to his aide. “Have Fräulein Barlak taken back to the kaserne.” When they had gone, he went outside, climbed upon a horse held by a policeman, and rode slowly down the road, deep in thought.
The following morning, Hanna was again taken to the carriage. She smiled with pleasure to see Stephen sitting there.
“Judgment Day,” he whispered.
“Be quiet,” said a guard riding alongside.
They were both taken into the house. One of the aides to Dannetz was waiting there. “Herr Eric had to leave,” he explained. For a moment Hanna’s heart skipped. “But he gave me some very good news. You are both to be taken further into Germany. There you will be set free.”
“And Jakob?” asked Hanna, her head spinning.
“Once he is well enough to travel, he will also be set free.”
Hanna sank onto the chair, weeping, her shoulders shaking in uncontrolled relief. Stephen placed an arm around her. Gradually, she regained her composure and wiped her eyes.
“May I speak to you in private?” she asked the aide.
Stephen was startled. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man interrupted. “Please wait outside,” he ordered the Russian. He spoke politely, but the command was clear. Stephen’s chin tightened, but he turned and walked out of the door.
Hanna faced the man squarely. “I would like your help getting him back into Russia safely.”
The aide was surprised. “Whatever for?” he asked.
“He had nothing to do with what happened there. Furthermore, it will ruin his life if he comes with us.”
“How do you know the Russian police are not looking for him, too? For having helped you?”
For a moment she was brought up short, and then she pressed on. “Nobody saw him. If he gets through the border safely, he can go to the university as if nothing happened. I will not move until he goes back.”
The man stood up a bit straighter, preparing himself for a problem. “I will have to ask. I will return in a little while.”
When he left the room, Hanna sank back into the chair. Her heart was breaking at the thought of leaving Stephen, but her mind was as clear as day. She knew what had to be done, and she set her jaw with determination not to flag in her duty.
In about half an hour, the aide walked in. He was obviously perplexed. “All right, we will get him into Russia. Do you want to say goodbye?”
“Yes. May I see him alone?”
“Of course.”
He went to the door and told the guard to send in Stephen, then left.
Stephen’s face was red with anger and resoluteness as he stepped inside. “I won’t go back to Russia,” he exploded even before the door was closed behind him.
She stood straight, looking directly at him. “You have to, my beloved. If you came along and could not manage, it would break both our hearts.”
“Of course, I can manage,” he snapped. “Are there not farms I can work, or drafting in an office, or shoveling earth if I must? I love you, Hanna. You are my whole life. With you, I can do anything. What makes you think that learning German is that hard? In a few months I will speak it.”
“But will you ever become the engineer you want to be so badly?”
“Is that more important than you and me?”
“No, my dearest, and it will never be. But we have a choice. I could no more think of life without you than you, yourself. But there is a way we can have both.”
“Go to the university, become an engineer, then come here,” he growled.
“What is wrong with that? Look, my darling. You have only two years to graduate. In that time you can learn German, and then you can come here for the kind of future you know is so important to you–and to me. And to the children we will have.”
His face suddenly grew so sad that Hanna instantly regretted mentioning children. “I am still so sorry about the baby,” he said softly, all the anger gone.