Chapter 32 Audrey 
BERLIN, GERMANY | MAY 1939
The cell in the basement of the Reich Security Main Office was a small, poorly lit room that smelled of damp and distress. It made Audrey wonder who had occupied this place before her, and what their fate had been, whether they were dead or alive. Was the stench in the toilet beside her all that remained of some poor soul who had come before? What a dreadfully arresting thought, that one could depart this earth and leave behind nothing but the sour smell of urine in some dank basement cell.
She was guarded by two Nazis who looked so much alike that she wondered if they might be twins. But a lot of them looked alike to her now, especially the young ones. The same haircuts, colouring, and pale lashes encircling steely eyes that seemed to have lost any glimmer of life.
Her transfer to the SS headquarters on the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse was a blur of grey suits and bright lights. They had shoved her into this cell where she’d been waiting for at least an hour whilst her brain whirred with questions and possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Horrific fantasies chased each other around her spiralling mind, and she was nearly sick with worry about Friedrich and Ilse, hoping with every fibre of her being that Friedrich’s ostensive loyalties remained uncontested.
But beyond Frau Braun’s testimony, what—and how much—did the SS know? And why in the hell had Gerta Roth been there? There was a rattling sound on the other side of the door and a man entered, tall and thin with a narrow chin that would have been strengthened by a beard.
“Ada Jakob, my name is Graf,” he said. There was a clipboard in his hands. He remained standing, so Audrey was forced to look up at him. “I am here to ask you some questions about your whereabouts on the fifteenth of April.”
She had to at least try to get herself out of this. “There isn’t much to say,” she said, moistening her dry lips. “There’s been some mistake, sir. I was here, in Berlin. At home.”
Graf stared at her. “Can anyone corroborate that? You live with Obersturmbannführer Friedrich Müller, correct?”
Audrey thought fast.
“Yes, I live with him,” she said. “But he doesn’t know much about me. He’s very busy, you see. He’s at the office much of the time.”
Graf watched her. “He was not at home with you on the day in question?”
She couldn’t give a firm yes or no in case Friedrich was asked and offered a different answer. “I don’t know whether he was at home. I was in my bedroom. I didn’t see him.” She wanted desperately to ask whether they’d spoken to him yet.
“Mm,” Graf grunted. “And no one else can confirm your whereabouts?”
Fear flared, but she shook her head. “No. But I—”
“You were positively identified near the scene of the explosion at the Staatsoper Opera House that killed nineteen children, five officers, and two staff,” Graf continued, then summarized Frau Braun’s testimony. “You clearly had knowledge of what was about to transpire.”
Audrey stared at him for several seconds, then let out a long, silent exhale. How astounding, that a single, instinctive moment of benevolence could completely destroy a person.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, as I wasn’t there,” Audrey said, with an effort at dispassion.
Graf smirked. “I’m not sure you fully understand the gravity of the situation, Fräulein Jakob. You would do well to appreciate what is at stake. We know the Führer’s car did not malfunction.”
Audrey tried a different tack, feigned shock. “But sir, it was all over the news. The engine—”
“We write the news. Someone attempted to murder the Führer. We know that the person in question was you. We have a witness attesting to that fact. And…” He unclipped a stack of crumpled-looking papers from the clipboard and laid them out on the cement floor, facing her, as though she were playing solitaire. “These were found in your desk in the Department of Property Reclamation. Schematics for detonators matching the traces of devices recovered at the scene. A map of the city of Hanover, notes encircling the Opera House.”
Shivers of fear gripped her now. Her eyes darted over the documents. Where had they come from? She wondered briefly whether they had been recovered from Claus’s house, or Aldous’s, but knew they never would have been so sloppy as to retain them. These had to be a fabrication.
“Those aren’t mine,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never seen them before in my life. There’s been some sort of mistake. I don’t even understand what these are!”
Graf studied her, expectant. She squinted in the glare of the overhead light.
She stood to meet his gaze. “Only a fool would bring something this incriminating into an office crawling with Party and military officials. Did you plant them?”
A vein in his forehead pulsed. “Who were you working with?” he demanded. “Was it Friedrich Müller?”
They could not suspect Friedrich. She needed to put an ocean of space between them. He needed to believe her. She summoned all her strength.
“No one,” she snapped. “I wasn’t working with anyone because I didn’t do anything. And besides, Müller isn’t clever enough, anyway.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are a pianist, are you not, Ada Jakob?”
Her breath suspended as Ilse’s words filled her mind. Somehow, they know everything about everyone…
If they knew she was a pianist, what else did they know? Her heart pounded. Did they have Friedrich in custody? Had he already told them everything about her, to secure his own innocence? She clenched her fists as though preparing to fight, and grasped for a neutral response.
“I hardly see how that’s relevant.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Are you a pianist?” he asked again.
Where the hell is he going with this? “Yes. Why?”
His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. “You are?”
She watched him.
“And what sorts of messages have you been sending to your conductor on your piano?” he asked quietly.
Audrey leaned her neck forward slightly, as though getting a closer look at him might help clarify this bizarre line of questioning. “I have no—”
Graf lunged at her so fast she barely saw him move. In an instant, he shoved her to the floor. She shot out her hands, cuffed in a grotesque mockery of prayer, to cushion her fall, but her knees and forearms hit the ground. A shadow fell across her as Graf stepped in front of the light.
“We know you had something to do with this, you clever little bitch,” he spat. “And evidence has a way of finding us when we need it. Good luck with the firing squad, Fräulein Jakob. Heil Hitler.”
He raised his leg, then brought it down hard. She cried out as blinding pain coursed through her fingers. The crunch of her fragile bones filled her ears.
“That’s from Gerta. Ought to stop you from playing your little piano,” he snarled.
His footsteps retreated to the door, and he left her there, sobbing, cradling her broken fingers.
Hours passed. Perhaps a day. And the pain didn’t lessen. Her fingers were swollen and throbbing. She was exhausted, she wanted to sleep, but the fierce ache in her hands and the sickening apprehension of what awaited her had prevented any chance of rest. A part of her wondered what the point of sleep would be, anyway. To be well-rested for her impending execution?
At the sound of keys in the cell door, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet. Friedrich walked in, coat slung over his arm.
“Ada Jakob,” he said, pointedly crisp for the benefit of the guard behind him.
She fought her elated relief at the sight of him and bowed her head. “Herr Müller.”
The guard closed the door, then retreated. For a moment they said nothing. Then Friedrich craned his neck to see through the small rectangular window.
“He’s gone down the hall,” he muttered, then strode toward her and pulled her into a hug. “Audrey, good God.”
She closed her eyes against the comfort and wondered if this would be her last ever embrace. She breathed in the smell of him, the starch from his shirt, the hint of rosemary from the airing cupboard, and wished he were Ilse.
“What’s happened?” she demanded as they pulled apart. “Is Ilse okay?”
“Yes, she’s safe.” He took a deep breath. “Devastated though. They asked to search your room this morning. But they were apologetic, and left quickly. They asked me whether I knew anything of your plans, and of course I played it off, offended, said you kept to yourself and all of it. I think they believe you acted alone. The… machinations of a madwoman.”
Audrey’s insides burned. “But how did that woman, Braun—?”
“She’s a friend of Gerta Roth’s. From what I’ve been able to glean, she never swallowed the gas tank story because of your warning. She finally brought it up with Gerta, who recognized her description of you.” His brown eyes raked her grey ones, her hair. “Gerta told her brother. He’s SS too. And…” His shoulders slumped. “Now she gets her revenge for her husband’s death, and her brother gets to deliver Hitler the head he’s been screaming for.”
Audrey stared at him, stunned.
“I am so sorry,” Friedrich pled. “I—” He reached for her hands, but on instinct, she recoiled. He stared at them. “Audrey!” he gasped, looking up at her in agony.
“The interrogator, Graf, kept asking me if I played the piano,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “I said yes, and then he asked me what I’d sent back to my conductor, I—”
Friedrich swore.
“What?”
He seemed reluctant to answer.
“What?”
“He didn’t mean it directly. Counterintelligence refers to radio transmitters as pianists. Their radios are pianos, their leaders are conductors. It’s code.”
She was hollow inside.
“He crushed my fingers,” she said, her voice breaking.
Friedrich had no response. Some echoes sounded down the hall, and Audrey realized they hadn’t much time left. The knowledge seeped like acid into her bloodstream. She felt it course from her chest down to her toes. She began to pace.
“They’ve told me I’ll be tried by a judge,” she said. “He’ll find me guilty, won’t he?”
Friedrich’s eyes lowered. “Yes. I suspect it will be a farce.”
She stopped. “And a death sentence will follow?”
“Most likely.”
She knew it, Graf had said it. It made sense. But somehow hearing the words fall from Friedrich’s mouth crystallized the reality in her mind. She struggled to absorb it. This had all happened so fast.
“I brought you your coat,” Friedrich said, and only as he handed it to her did she notice that it was hers slung over his arm, not his own. She took it from him, slowly, with dawning realization. She ran her hand over the front pocket, felt the shallow lump of the cyanide button.
“It’s going to get cold later,” he said quietly. “You may find you want it.”
She cleared her burning throat. “I need you to promise me again—”
“I will,” he said immediately. “You have my word, Audrey. I will take care of Ilse as long as and in every way that she will allow.” His eyes were wet. “But I cannot help but feel it should be me in this cell. I got you into this. I was prepared to pay the price.”
Audrey looked down at the broken hands that had once created something beautiful out of nothing, filling rooms with soaring music. “I’ve known for a while that if it came to it, I would be the black boar. Because you’re the one she needs, the one she wants.” She forced a weak smile. “And because I would do anything for her.” A tear slid down her cheek, so salty it stung. Her mind ran ahead of her into the shining years beyond, the ones she would never see, where Ilse would grow older and more beautiful and maybe, perhaps, reunite with Ruth and Ephraim. “Please tell her, again, that I love her,” Audrey said. Her heart was beating for both of them.
Friedrich embraced her once more then, and she whispered in his ear. “The last thing I shall do for her is die.”