44
It was a place where people didn’t ask questions.
Vivian perceived this the instant she entered the hotel. Stacked chairs and an old mattress lined the walls, creating nooks and crannies to shelter guests’ secrets. Down the stairway, a suited man escorted the type of female who provided company by the hour.
An orange sunset spilled muted hues through the lobby windows. It was too dark for the sunglasses over Vivian’s eyes, too warm for the scarf enwrapping her hair and neck. Yet for now, she would retain her semi-disguise.
As she crossed the chipped tiles to reach the caged elevator, the grizzled man behind the counter never once glanced up from his newspaper. In fact, he appeared to deliberately drop his head. No wonder Isaak had chosen this place as his hideout for the duration. With the funds he had been given, he could have stayed at the Martinique or the Hotel Governor Clinton, but here, tucked away on a side street in Queens, he had optimized discretion while minimizing use of dirty Nazi money.
She rode the creaky lift alone, glad for the uninterrupted transport to the fourth floor. So close now to voicing her declaration, she could barely contain her smile.
In the vacant hallway, she gave the area a quick scan before knocking at 42. “Isaak,” she said quietly, “it’s me.”
Seconds later came the rattle of a chain sliding and screech of a bolt turning, and the door opened halfway. Isaak stood with his shirt unbuttoned, tossed on haphazardly, as if he had been undressed only a moment ago.
She slipped past him, concentrating on her news. The air held a musky scent, corralled in the room by the closed curtains. Food wrappers, empty Coke bottles, and half a loaf of bread crowded a table in the corner.
The instant Isaak finished resealing the door, she announced: “Everything is done.”
He turned to face her.
“It wasn’t easy, but Agent Gerard pulled it off. Somehow he did it. Documents, travel arrangements, IDs. All of it in just two days. Your family should be crossing the border into Switzerland within hours.”
Isaak responded with only a nod. No trace of the elation she had envisioned since her latest stop at the FBI office. Perhaps relief was overwhelming him.
She removed her sunglasses to connect with his eyes. “Isaak. Did you hear what I said?”
“The Gestapo would’ve been watching them. Now more than ever.”
“Well, yes. Likely so. But the FBI took this into account. That’s why they’ve taken precautions. Their contacts there–”
“Which ones?”
“I’m ... not sure who they are exactly.”
“Which precautions?” His sudden impatience caused her to draw back. Her impetus to smile had fallen away. But so had Isaak’s, she reminded herself, long before today, his worries justifiable.
She sat on the foot of the bed with purse and glasses on her lap. “What I’ve been told is, they’ve created a fake order from German Intelligence. It calls for your family’s relocation to Berlin as a reward for your service. And for their loyalty to the Third Reich.”
“Berlin?”
“This is only to get them on the first train. Once they’re in transit, someone will guide them to switch routes to travel south, using other papers. Their new identities.”
“Nazi officers will be patrolling every stop. Where will they be detouring?”
She shook her head. “Agent Gerard couldn’t tell me. He said it’s best that we not know all the specifics.”
“Of course it is-for him.” He huffed a dark laugh. Then he rubbed his hair and started to pace back and forth over the threadbare carpet.
Vivian wondered how much of the floor’s wear had been caused by his shoes alone.
“How do we know this agent of yours isn’t a spy for the Nazis? They could have infiltrated the FBI. That’s how the arrangements could have been made so quickly.”
“That’s absurd. Agent Gerard is not a German spy.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s not,” she said. “He was handling a case of a missing child before this. Isaak, please. Come sit down.”
He continued his laps, not hearing her. The bedside lamp flickered its amber glow, as if tension in the room carried an electrical current. “So, my family’s documents,” he said, “how much proof did he show you?”
Timid but honest, she answered, “He ... couldn’t exactly.”
Isaak stopped. His eyes darted to her face.
“But the man did give me his word.”
“His word?” Isaak said. “What the hell were you thinking?” She felt like a gullible child who had squandered the rent money. She began to second-guess her actions, of where she had gone wrong-but no. No, that was nonsense. She didn’t deserve a scolding of any kind. She had done her best with what she was given. What more did he expect of her? Did he really believe he could have done better?
She shot to her feet. “If I had demanded proof, Agent Gerard could have easily created false evidence. Either way, I wouldn’t have known the difference. And neither would you.”
He paused, his shoulders lowering. “Vivian–”
“I never asked to be pulled into the godforsaken mess. I’ve risked everything-endangering my parents, people I care about-in order to help you.” Pressure from all the lies, the anxiety, the flip-flopping emotions, at last reached a tipping point. “So, no, Isaak. There is no proof. There is no guarantee. But I have faith Agent Gerard is telling the truth,” she said. “Just as I had faith in you.”
He said nothing as she collected her purse and glasses from where they had fallen to the floor.
Moisture rushed to her eyes. She kept them down, unwilling to satisfy him with a show of caring. “By tomorrow morning, they should have confirmation of your family’s safety. Once they do, you’re to report to Agent Gerard’s office.”
“Vivian,” he said again. When he reached for her, she angled away. She was hanging over a chasm with a fraying rope in her hands. His touch was a blade that would send her plummeting.
She stated her final message: “I’ll send word to you through the front desk.”
With that, she headed for the door, where she briskly released the bolt. The chain caught halfway. She was struggling to slide it free when Isaak’s arm reached past her. He braced his hand against the door to prevent her escape.
“Forgive me,” he rasped. “It’s my fault, all of it. Darling, please don’t leave.”
She told herself not to listen. But his chest brushed her back, and as always, the warmth of his skin, the feel of his breath, weakened her resolve.
“Look at me,” he told her. “Please.”
She did not fight him as he guided her around, though she managed to avert her gaze. He loosened the scarf from her head, threading his fingers through her hair, and she cursed the tingling of her skin. Soon he leaned forward. She prepared to defy a kiss. Instead, his forehead gingerly rested on hers. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Vivian, I’m scared.”
It wasn’t just the words that captured her but the ache in his tone, a helplessness she, too, had once endured. His soul lay before her, raw and open like a wound. She could not bring herself to walk away.
“Everything will be all right,” she told him. “You’ll see.”
He tilted his head and smoothly, slowly nuzzled her cheek. A familiar but foreign sensation. “I love you so very much,” he said. “All this time, I always have.” He covered her lips with his before she even noticed their approach. What started out brief and tender-an apology, a token of gratitude-gained the charge of something greater.
It was a yearning, deep and buried. A grieving for years past. It was for every touch and smile and kiss they were promised, stolen by the grips of war. It was a need, for even a moment, to be in control yet swept away by an emotion too vast to describe.
Above all, it was freedom. And like a plucked string, that feeling reverberated to Vivian’s core as Isaak laid her on the bed. His hands and mouth rushed over her, fulfilling wants of their own. A distant voice whispered in her mind, a reminder that no freedom came without a price. But that voice swiftly faded at the sound of Isaak’s breathing, the clank of his loosened belt. Flames chased his fingers as he moved under her dress and a moan slipped from her throat.
The last sight Vivian caught before closing her eyes were wiry cracks on the ceiling, the markings of a structure on the verge of crumbling.