After the book-burning, Jacob took Elena to a cheap rooming house run by an American couple. No explanations were asked for. He had paid for one night and advised her not to stay there longer than that.
“I won’t,” she promised. “I’ll try to get into the embassy again. If I can’t, I’ll…find somewhere else for another night and go back the next day. That’s the only place I can get papers. And…” She clenched her teeth, forcing her emotions down. She pictured the books again, the insane faces laughing. Anger overcame fear. “I don’t know why Roger Cordell didn’t prevent the assassination after I gave him the message—but if he’s a traitor, he still has to help me. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll give himself away. I’ll make sure other people at the embassy see me this time. Some will know me, even like this!” She shook her loose, shining blond hair, still in its waves. “If he gets me caught, he’ll betray himself to the other diplomats, and then he’ll be no use to anybody. I don’t know if we Brits kill traitors, but I imagine so. Not in public though. Probably don’t admit we have them.”
Jacob rolled his eyes. “Elena…”
“Please don’t make an issue of this. Isn’t it hard enough already?”
He smiled. “Yes. Very hard, but worth it. I’ll remember.”
She wanted to kiss him, just once, for all the risks that he’d taken, for being her friend in this crisis and asking nothing in return. Even if it was just a kiss goodbye, though, it was a bad idea.
Jacob may have thought that, too, because he looked at her for a long moment, then smiled, turned, and walked out of the door.
With his departure Elena felt as if he had switched off all the lights, but she could still see the whole shabby room very clearly. It was tired, and everything in it was old. Still, it was perfectly clean, it had its own toilet and wash basin, and there was a lock on the door. That was all she needed.
She must sleep. Tomorrow she had to go back to the embassy. Without papers, she could not leave Germany, no matter how different she looked.
In the morning, it took a moment for memory to clear. Then she remembered where she was and, far more urgently, that she must have papers, very soon. It would only take being stopped once and asked for them, and she would be caught.
At the book-burning, she had seen the face of madness. If she had caught the image in any of the photographs, it would show the world in a way no words could.
Elena ate a breakfast of black bread with a little jam, and a hot cup of coffee, then took her bag and left.
She was not far from the embassy, but it was still a good half-hour’s walk. There were no cheap lodgings, the kind that asked no questions, in an area like this. She was hungry. The black bread had not answered her need at all. Was the man who sold the Reibekuchen still somewhere around here? Surely she could smell it? The little grated potato and onion cakes, with applesauce beside them. She could all but taste it now. It couldn’t be far away!
She didn’t want to ask anybody. Not that there were many people around. It was too early for much business. But not knowing such a thing would mark her as a stranger.
It took her another five minutes, but she had managed to buy herself two potato cakes on a cardboard plate, with a good dollop of applesauce, when she became aware of a man watching her. He was taller than she, but not by much. He was fair-skinned, blue-eyed, but his hair seemed of no particular color. The only thing noticeable about him was a certain grace in the way he stood. It seemed so natural, he was probably unaware of it himself. He did not fidget at all, as many people do. And he was certainly watching her.
She felt self-conscious, and suddenly afraid again. Why was he watching her? Did he think he recognized her, even though she had changed her appearance?
She should avoid him. Well-brought-up young women did not speak to strangers in the street.
“Are they any good?” he asked, gesturing toward the Reibekuchen stand.
“Excellent,” she replied in German, of course. “And the apple is nicely tart.”
He was still looking at her. “Did you see the fire last night?” he asked conversationally.
“Yes, for a while. I think it went on almost till morning.” She took another mouthful of crisp hot potato and a little applesauce, trying to be casual, but eating it now almost without tasting.
“Who were they?” he asked, taking a step a little closer to her. “Who set fire to the books,” he added.
Should she answer? She might draw attention to herself if she was needlessly rude. She would look afraid, and that was dangerous. The innocent don’t run away. “A lot of them seemed to be students,” she replied, watching as he bought himself two Reibekuchen and a good portion of the applesauce. “At least, they were that age, early twenties, and dressed as students do,” she went on.
“Students of what, I wonder.” He allowed his feelings of disgust to show through for a moment, then hid them again. “Philosophy, perhaps?” His eyes were bleak.
“Hardly!” she said too quickly. She saw the humor in his face and knew she had let slip her opinion of the book-burners.
“Perhaps you’re a student of philosophy? You watch them and deduce their beliefs,” he suggested.
She wanted to tell him that what she deduced was fear, and a sense of unbelonging. They lashed out at what they did not understand, in the same spirit people will smash what they cannot have. “Was I wrong?” she said instead.
He put his hands in his pockets. It was a casual gesture, but it made him seem at ease, as if they were friends. Did he do it on purpose? “I doubt it,” he replied. “A philosophy spoken of, no matter how elegant and articulate the words, is seldom as powerful as one acted on.”
She was startled. He had spoken in English as naturally as if it was his native tongue. Had she given herself away? Developed an English accent in German since she had left Berlin? That was a mistake! Why had Jacob not told her? Warned her, at least?
As if he had understood, the man spoke again. “We can continue in German, if you prefer. It would be less conspicuous, and perhaps we should not stand here too long or we will be noticed. I can see the anger and grief in your face, and maybe you can see it in mine.”
She looked at him steadily. He had said it as an invitation, and to ignore it would have been a rebuff. But why on earth would she not rebuff him? He was a complete stranger. She did not want to discuss any subject of depth with him. It would be so easy to say something negative, and any criticism of Hitler at all was dangerous. And yet the intelligence in his eyes, the humor, pleased her. In some way it reminded her of good memories, long discussions with Lucas, and with Mike. Laughter that was always comfortable. But now that was dangerous, too. “Yes, I can, German is fine,” she admitted reluctantly, because she must have raised suspicion in waiting so long to answer. Or was everybody suspicious these days?
A group of young men sauntered past them, arm in arm, laughing. One of them turned back and called something at her over his shoulder. It was in German, naturally, but she did not understand.
She saw the anger in the face of the man beside her. She had not yet learned his name, but she was certain he was English.
“You don’t need to know what he called us,” he said bleakly. “I dare say your German didn’t extend to the gutter…or the brothels. We should leave. Which way are you going?”
She dared not tell him she was going into the embassy. The police would have guessed that was where she would go, in order to get new papers to leave. Unless she intended to remain in Germany? Disappear into the countryside? But now she must answer this man. She started to name the street where the Hubermanns lived, then stopped. How easily she had let her guard down. She should not even go in the opposite direction, but neither could she afford to get lost.
“It doesn’t matter,” he dismissed it easily. “We can go down that way.” He gestured in the direction she had come, and then before she could complain, he took her arm and began to walk at a gentle pace along the footpath.
She was angry. He had no right to do this, but she couldn’t afford to draw police attention to herself by resisting him.
“Stop looking like that,” he warned with a rueful smile. “People will think I’m abducting you. Do you want to be rescued by them?” It was as if he had read her thoughts, or perhaps anticipated them. He looked at another group of young men sauntering toward them.
Elena forced herself to smile and held on to his arm a little more tightly.
“Talk to me,” he said quietly. “We should look natural.”
“What about? I don’t know you,” she said angrily.
“You’re perfectly capable of talking easily to strangers,” he said. “ ‘Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—’ ” he quoted. “ ‘Of cabbages—and kings.’ Whatever you like.”
She had loved Alice, both Through the Looking-Glass and Adventures in Wonderland. “ ‘And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings,’ ” she said tartly. “I know most of it. Do you know it all? Perhaps you had better not discuss kings or Führers.”
He was smiling. It softened his face.
Elena regarded him without emotion. He seemed to be in his early forties, his hair a little gray at his temples, not so noticeable because it was not dark. There was nothing remarkable about him at all. Then she noticed shadows in his face. The war had cost him, too.
“What sort of opinions do you want?” He was suddenly completely serious.
“What do you have?” She kept her voice light. “Comfortable ones? No, of course not. We learned the cost of that with the Great War. We won’t make all those mistakes again.”
“That’s naïve,” he retorted. “We make the same mistakes all the time. All right, yes, there probably will be another war. Or more accurately, a continuation of the same one, after a decent interval when there’s a new generation to sacrifice, and new people in government who think that somehow they will do it differently this time.”
“Isn’t that awfully cynical?” she asked. “Or is that only you saying it? You think that world-weariness and wisdom are the same thing?”
“That’s harsh,” he observed. They were still walking away from the embassy, and he was still holding her arm too tightly for her to break away.
“Don’t pretend you’re hurt,” she replied. “Did you expect me to swallow that whole?” She was very aware of being younger than he was, and comparatively naïve. Margot thought Elena was waiting for tomorrow to have fun, to do all the dancing and wild things young people should do, except that there was not going to be a tomorrow. The difference between them was that Elena was not interested in pretending.
“I expected you to argue,” the man said quite genuinely. “If I agreed with you, it would put you in an untenable position of having to contradict yourself. No gentleman should do that to a lady.”
She was not sure whether to laugh or to be angry. Was he deliberately baiting her? Yes. She was quite certain that he was. A wave of anger rose in her. She didn’t have to be polite to this man. For once, she could say what she thought.
Then she saw a couple of Brownshirts walking toward them, more or less in the middle of the path. She and this man would have to step aside and let them pass. Would this Englishman have the sense to do that? He was graceful, casual, but he had the arrogance of one used to privilege. He would not be accustomed to the idea of stepping out of the way of bullies, just because they were in uniform. If he had been in Berlin any length of time, he must know their power, surely? Or maybe he was going to hand her over to them? She tensed her whole body in an effort to break free, but he seemed to be expecting it, and he was far too strong for her.
She looked around. There were students coming the other way, a degree of expectation in their faces.
The Brownshirts were only yards from them.
Elena stepped toward the curb and the Englishman kept his grip on her arm. “Don’t cause trouble!” she said to him sharply, but in so low a voice she hoped not to be overheard. “We can’t afford to annoy them!” Please God, he had no idea how much she could not afford it.
The students, if that was what they were, had stopped and were eagerly awaiting the coming test of strength. There was a sickening excitement in them, eyes glittering, bodies tense. Like a sliver of last night’s madness sharply piercing the body.
The Brownshirts stopped, as if Elena and the Englishman were in their way. One of them put out his hand and closed it roughly on Elena’s wrist.
The Englishman stood absolutely still, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Your name and rank?” he asked the Brownshirt, his voice crisp. He spoke German again now, but with a slightly different accent from the Brownshirt, and he stood very straight, back stiff, chin high.
The Brownshirt was taken by surprise. “Johann Hartwig. Who are you?”
“Did Herr Doktor Goebbels send you?” the Englishman asked, ignoring the question.
“No…”
“Then I have the advantage over you,” the Englishman said, without a shred of humor. The grace had gone from him. “You have no idea what you are stepping into. This woman is required by Doktor Goebbels. She has knowledge he needs. If you cause a delay or a difficulty in my getting her to him, you will regret it until the day you die, which will probably not be very long from now. Do I make myself clear, Herr Hartwig? I know your name. Unless, of course, you want to murder me here in the street, too?”
Hartwig let go of Elena and retreated.
The Englishman caught hold of her arm and, pulling her sharply, set off at a brisk walk along the center of the path. Not once did he turn to see if they were following.
“I’m not going with you!” Elena said, pulling away from him again, and failing to break his hold.
“I’m not taking you to Goebbels, for God’s sake!” he said, moving so close to her that he did not have to raise his voice.
“How do I know that?” She was still trying to free herself, to no avail.
They were alone on the footpath now, but other people would come any moment. Fighting like a willful child would draw people’s attention. She could not afford that. Did he know that she was the woman they were hunting for Scharnhorst’s assassination? He must. There was no other reason anyone would look for her, let alone Herr Doktor Goebbels! Even in England, his name was known.
When he did not answer immediately, she asked again. “How do I know that?”
“I want to get you out of here…home to Lucas and Josephine.”
She wanted to believe him, desperately. It sounded wonderful…too good to be true. But how could this man even know of her grandparents?
She must get away. He was far stronger than she was, and she had nothing with which to fight. He was English. She was sure of that. With a wave of nausea, she understood that Cordell had betrayed her again! It was all clear now. He had never tried to prevent the assassination, and he knew which hotel she’d been staying at. He had someone put the rifle there, so she would be blamed. This man must be an ally of Cordell’s. Another traitor! She had liked him instinctively. Both he and Cordell had drawn on all the old memories, the jokes, the images of childhood that reminded her of happy years and people she had loved…and lost. How did he know these things? Of course! Cordell had been a friend of her father’s. This was worse than her darkest fears. This was something she had not even imagined.
They were close to one of the big trees that lined the avenue.
She had nothing to lose. If he took her to Goebbels she would never escape. They would connect her to the assassination, because blaming an Englishman was the whole purpose of having killed Scharnhorst. A woman could use a rifle as easily as a man. She had simply taken Ian’s place.
They were standing next to one of the trees. The faint wind rustled in the leaves overhead. She must escape…now.
He started to speak again. She thought for only a moment and then, because she couldn’t break from his grip, she did the opposite: she lunged forward, standing as hard as she could with the heel of her shoe on his instep. He gasped and his hand loosened on her arm. She swung the arm carrying her handbag and her camera at his head, and he fell backward, striking the trunk of the tree. He slid down and did not move.
He might not be dazed for long. She turned and ran, crossing the street as soon as she could and ducking into a side street, then turned again, then again. Only once did she look behind her, and she did not see him.
Where could she go? Not to the embassy now! Not back to Zillah’s. Not even to the place where she had slept last night. To be caught was terrifying enough, and perhaps in the end it was all that counted. But to be betrayed was a pain that burned in a different way…corrosive, as if it could never heal.
The Englishman had seemed so nice. He had made her think of Lucas, even a bit of Mike. She could not let him win—could not let any of them—whatever the cost.