by Anne Perry
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.
CHAPTER
23
Elena woke with a jolt, staring in the dark, barely making out the lines of the unfamiliar bedroom. Her eyes were wide open and yet she could still see the insane faces of the young people capering around the fires, cheering as the books burned. They were perfectly ordinary humans. She could have met them in the street any day and not even know them again.
There was one in particular, a man who had been standing near the flames, in whom some remnants of sanity seemed to be left. She had seen it in his face, had tried to catch it with the camera.
She lay still on the hard bed, huddled up into herself.
She was cold now, clasping her arms around her knees, in her second or third strange, bare lodging-house bedroom.
She could not stay here. She must get the pictures developed before someone searched her, either to confiscate the film or expose it to the light and ruin the images.
She got up, washed and dressed, then went downstairs carrying her meager luggage. She had paid the night before. It was the condition of renting in places like these. She said “Guten Morgen” politely to the owner, thanked her, and went out into the street. She would have to look for another place to stay tonight. She must find a photographer’s. A chemist would take too long to develop her film. And paying extra money for haste would draw attention to her. It was a huge risk that the photographer she found would question her, even betray her if her story was not convincing, but she had no alternative: She had to get the photographs developed.
It was a brisk day, in spite of the sun, and she was glad for the excuse to wear the nondescript scarf she had bought to hide some of her pale blond hair. She felt self-conscious when people gave her more than a momentary glance, as several people did. She might be noticeable, but not as Elena Standish.
When she got the photographs, w
hat was she going to do? Jacob already had his copies of the assassination. She had hers. But the book-burning pictures were priceless. They were a depiction of utter horror that would haunt the mind forever. She wished she could forget it herself, and knew she never would, especially not that one man whose eyes looked out at the camera as if he had seen hell.
Of course, she had yet to see the photograph. It might not be good at all. She might have taken it with insufficient light, or too much, or maybe her hands had shaken at the terrible sight of it.
Getting those negatives developed and the images published was the only thing she could do to fight against the darkness coming, a darkness so palpable she could almost feel it settling on her skin, as if it could make her disappear, too. It was a time to choose sides. Later would be too late.
She asked a passing woman for directions to the nearest post office. There was no time to waste in wandering around looking for one.
The woman pointed and said it was two blocks up, to the left.
“Thank you,” Elena replied, and hurried on. She must not run, it would draw attention. Be invisible. The sort of person you pass and instantly forget you ever saw.
At the post office, she bought a large envelope, and then enough postage stamps to send it to England, holding twenty photographs, with negatives and prints.
She addressed it to Lucas, scribbled an illegible return address on the back. To leave it out might be suspicious. She put the stamps on, then folded it up and put it into her camera case.
Now it was time to go and get the film developed.
She had to ask for a shop that would develop film. There was no help for that. She could waste half a day and never find one. She felt a painful urgency. How long would it take the police to find her? She looked different, but was that enough?
She finally found someone who directed her to a photographer’s shop. Arriving there, she hesitated only a moment, looking in the window. It was small and shabby. But the camera equipment she saw for sale was good quality. What was she waiting for? Some sort of affirmation? There was none. She pushed the door and went in.
The interior was drab, worn linoleum on the floor, one long counter with a bald man behind it, a visor on his forehead to shield his eyes from the light. The light was excellent. The cameras were in locked glass cupboards. She knew it would be glass that did not shatter easily. Two of the cameras were Leicas, older models, very like her own.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Yes, please.” Her mouth was dry. She swallowed. “I have some rolls of film I would like developed, please. Negatives only will do. I’m not sure if there is time to make prints. I have to travel soon, and if they are opened, to search or anything, they might be ruined. I’ll wait.”
“You want them immediately?” He looked slightly surprised.
Had she made a mistake? What else could she do? If he had time to look at them, he might show them to others, or even burn them. “Please? If I can get an earlier train, I would like to.”
“Very well. It’ll cost you extra.”
“I’ll pay twice your regular rate.” Was that too much? “I realize it takes you from your other work.” Don’t be too eager! And she still had to survive, find a room for tonight. And then pay her train fare after she’d somehow made it to the British Embassy for a passport she dared use! But first, more important than anything else, she had to get the pictures out of Germany. They would force people to see, before it was too late, the nature of the thing they were fighting.
“Twice?” he asked.
“Do I have to take them elsewhere?” She glanced at the glass case with its cameras. “I need them done well, and from the look of your cameras, you deal in the best.”
He held out his hand. “I’ll do it.”
She took the film canisters out of her bag and passed them over. Her hand was shaking. He had to pull a little to take them from her. Was she making a mistake? There was no other reasonable choice.
The man looked at her. Their eyes met for a moment. He half smiled. “I will make a good job of them, fräulein,” he said.
“Of course. I’m sorry…”
He took the canisters into the back room, leaving her alone in the shop, pacing the floor.
Eventually she stopped pacing and sat down to wait. There were a lot of photographs and it would all take a long while. The time seemed endless, but finally he emerged. She thought his face had altered. Or perhaps she had never really noticed what he looked like.
“Do you want the prints?” he asked.
“You made prints…already?”
“You said you wanted the negatives quickly. But making prints only added a few minutes. I hung them on the line with clips and put the heater on gently. I took the extra water off with cotton. Don’t know if they’ll be perfect, but that’s as fast as I can get.”
“Yes…” she agreed. “Thank you.” Perhaps it had been longer than she thought, almost two hours. “Thank you,” she said again and walked around the counter, following him into the back passage and then into the darkroom. It felt close, airless, and smelled of familiar chemicals—acrid—that always made her eyes sting.
She looked at the pictures.
The instant she saw them, she knew how good they were. The contrast was sharp, the balance excellent. But when she looked more closely, the real impact struck her. They were laid out in the order in which they were taken. Of the forty-eight exposures altogether, there were ten that he had picked out. She stared, almost mesmerized by the violence of the images. They were at once terrifying and absurd. She knew with sudden insight why some people are terrified of clowns. There was a clownlike look to these people, but it had tipped over from reason to insanity. They were still laughing, but the malice was there, let loose. There was no control to anything. In the silent pictures, she could hear the screaming and feel the heat in her mind.
She looked for the last one, the one she almost dreaded to see. And yet she wanted to. It would all be an anticlimax if she had not caught that dreadful face as it looked into the abyss.
It was there. Perfectly focused. In the subject’s eyes was horror, looking at an endless fall.
She turned away; she could not help it. Her voice came out sounding almost normal. How could it? “Thank you. You have made a superb job of them.”
“Who are you?” the man asked. He was standing between her and the door.
“A photographer,” she replied. “My name doesn’t matter.”
“You’d better take the ones you want. And the negatives. I’ll burn the rest. Pay me what you owe me and go.”
She began to gather them up.
There was a noise out toward the front.
“The back way!” the man commanded. “Get out of here!” He did not want to burn the pictures. He put them in acid.
She pulled out all the money she could afford to give him, slipped the pictures and the negatives into the envelope, and sealed it. Clutching it in her hand, she went out the back door, just beyond the darkroom, and into the yard, and then up the steps to an alleyway.
She cared what was going to happen to the man, but she could not save him. In fact, her presence would only make it worse for him, especially if they found the pictures. She must get them out of Berlin, and back to London. Lucas would see them and know what to do with them. Please God, she would be there to tell him! But if not, he would know.
She went down the alley steps and into the street. Better stay away from the front of the shop. She walked as quickly as she could without running. There were little knots of people standing here and there, heads bent in conversation. Some of them stared toward the photographer’s shop.
But she must get into the main street, where there would be a post box. She had to get rid of the pictures as soon as possible, not only to save herself, but above all to save the pho
tographs.
She glanced once more toward the camera shop. There was a policeman at the door. Had they worked out that she was a photographer? They knew her name. Perhaps they knew her occupation as well? Not very difficult. She must get away from here. She could only hope the shopkeeper would be all right. She had not asked his name, nor given him hers. She felt as if she was abandoning him as she hurried away, but her presence was damning.
A block farther on, she saw a post box and slipped the envelope through the slit. With relief but also a sense of loss she heard it fall inside. She didn’t have it anymore—it couldn’t incriminate her, but neither could she control it.
She walked away. There was nothing left to do now but try to get into the British Embassy and find someone who would give her a passport she could use to get out of Germany.
She was on the right street, she was almost there, just two blocks more to go, when a policeman put his hand on her arm, bringing her to a sudden stop.
“Just a minute, fräulein. There’s been a complaint about you. A woman says that you stole from her. Let me see what you have in your bag.” He wrenched it from her roughly and opened it, saw the camera bag inside, and her few clothes and toiletries. He looked up at her challengingly. “Come with me!”
CHAPTER
24
“Cherry tree. Now,” Howard had said briefly on the telephone. He had not waited for a reply.
Lucas had heard the tension so tight in Howard’s voice that his hand shook as he tried to fasten the lead on Toby’s collar. Toby caught his mood and pulled anxiously. Josephine came to the kitchen door. She did not ask what the matter was.
“Just taking Toby for a walk,” Lucas told her.
“Did he say anything?” she asked, obviously aware he was going to meet Howard.
“Only to be there. I’ll be back as soon as I can…”
He stood up, smiled bleakly, and turned away before he could read the fear in her eyes—or perhaps it was before she could read it in his?