by Pam Jenoff
“I thought the flight wasn’t until morning,” I say.
Jan shakes her head. “It is nearly morning.” Paul and I exchange surprised glances. How much time has passed? “Anyway, the flight is out of the question now.” She holds up a newspaper. Printed across the front page under the headline are unmistakable sketches of Jan, myself and Paul.
CHAPTER 23
“I told you we should have killed that police officer,” Jan says to Paul, her voice recriminating. I take the paper from her and scan the article.
“What does it say?” Paul asks, looking over my shoulder.
Jan answers before I can. “That two foreigners liberated the notorious criminal Jan Marcelitis,” she reads, her voice wry. “And murdered an unarmed police officer in cold blood.”
“Unarmed, that’s bullsh—” Seeing my warning expression, he does not finish the sentence.
“How could this have possibly made it to the paper so soon?” I ask.
Jan shrugs. “Someone must have come in shortly after we left and rescued that officer. I doubt he could have escaped on his own. The police brought the description to the paper right away, demanded they print it. Does it matter? Going through the airport, with Immigration and Customs, is out of the question now.”
“Maybe we hole up here for a while?” Paul asks. He sounds almost hopeful, I note with surprise. But I understand. Even with everything that is happening, the urgent need to escape, part of me wants to stay in the cellar and be with Paul.
Jan shakes her head. “Impossible. The wine cellar is a good hiding place, but it’s not undetectable. I won’t put Herr Meierhof in danger by keeping you here any longer.”
I refold the newspaper, my heart sinking. “So what are we going to do?”
“I’ve come up with one other possibility. There’s a freighter ship, the SS Bremen, leaving for Britain later today from a port city north of here. If we can get you into the hull, you can stow away.”
“How long will the trip take?”
“Considerably longer than if you had been on that flight. A day, maybe two. But I think it’s our only option. I’ve arranged for a truck to take you to the port. Come on.”
Jan starts for the door. As Paul buttons his jacket, I race after her. “Jan, wait. I want to explain. Earlier, I told you that Pa—I mean, Michael and I weren’t together, that I am married to someone—”
Jan raises her hand. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“But I want to explain.” I hesitate. Jan has trusted us with so much; I cannot bear for her to think I have been less than honest. But I am not sure how to explain what I do not quite understand myself. “You see, Michael and I were together years ago. We were engaged, but then something happened and I thought that he was dead. I married someone else, but then a few days ago I found out that Michael is alive. So we…” I falter, realizing how improbable my explanation must sound. “Anyway, it’s complicated. But I didn’t want you to think I had lied to you.”
“Life is complicated,” Jan replies. “It is also unpredictable and short. You two obviously care for each other. But remember, there’s always a price to be paid for our choices.”
She stops speaking as Paul approaches. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” I reply quickly.
“Nothing,” Jan echoes. “Let’s go.” We follow her back into the main wine cellar, but instead of walking toward the ladder, she goes to another bookshelf. Paul and I exchange puzzled expressions as she walks to one of the wine racks and begins pushing against it with her shoulder. “This one is heavier. I need you to help me,” she says to Paul. He goes to where she stands and pushes in the same direction. Slowly, the rack begins to move to the left, revealing a small wooden door. Jan opens it. “This way, quickly.”
Jan goes through first, crouching to fit inside the low doorway. I follow, wondering if the space is large enough to hold all of us. On the other side, I gasp. We are in a tunnel of some sort. Here the ceiling is high, the walls well carved out of stone.
“These are the Nussen tunnels,” Jan says, not looking back. “The first ones were created in medieval times, and they were expanded by independence fighters during the Prussian war, who used them to avoid foreign troops. They connect to points all over the city. Come.”
“Were they used during the war?” I ask. “The recent one, I mean.”
“They were used by what little resistance managed to survive in Berlin. Fortunately the tunnels are a well-guarded secret and the Nazis either never discovered them or didn’t understand their true value. Berlin would have been a much harder city to take if the Allies had to fight the war down here.”
Jan does not speak further but leads us through the tunnel. My ankle begins to throb as I struggle to keep up with her swift strides. “Are you okay?” Paul, noticing my limp, asks in a low voice behind me. I nod. Ahead, another tunnel intersects with ours. Jan turns right into it without warning. The new passageway slopes upward, causing us to climb as we walk. Ahead I can sense cool dawn air. A few minutes later we reach the end of the tunnel. Above us is a hole, revealing the star-filled sky.
“Wait a second,” Jan says, reaching into her pocket. She hands me a small metal object. “I believe that’s what you came here for.”
I hold up the cipher. It is a cylinder, no bigger than my thumb. “Thank you.” I tuck the cylinder into my pocket.
“And these are yours,” Paul says, pulling the papers he took from Jan’s apartment out of his pocket and handing them to her. “We took them for safekeeping in case the police came back to your apartment.” I had nearly forgotten about the papers. I realize now that Paul held them back deliberately as insurance until Jan gave us the cipher.
“Thanks.” Jan tucks the papers into her pocket. “I guess I’ll have to work with you now that you’ve seen my operational notes.” Before either of us can answer, she locks her hands and lowers them to her knees as if to give me a boost out of the tunnel. “Here.”
Paul steps forward. “Let me.” Before I can react, he puts his strong, warm hands around my waist and lifts me over his head. My head swims as I remember his earlier touch. I raise my head through the hole, then use my arms to pull myself up and outside to the ground. Standing up and brushing the dirt from my dress, I discover that we have reached a park.
Jan climbs out of the hole. “All clear?”
I nod, then point to a truck that is parked several hundred meters away. “Except for that.”
“That’s ours,” Jan replies as Paul appears beside us. “Let’s go.” We hurry across the grassy field to the truck. Jan waves to the driver, then leads us around to the back carriage, which is covered by a tarp. “In there. Stay away from the edge, out of sight.”
“You’re not going with us?” Paul asks.
Jan shakes her head. “The driver, Milo, is a good man and can be trusted. He’ll get you past security into the harbor and as close as he can to the ship. After that it’s up to you.”
“What about you? Where will you go?” Paul asks.
“South.” She touches her pocket. “To make use of the information you’ve given me.”
“You’re going to Prague?” I ask. Jan nods. “Is that safe now?”
“It will be fine,” Jan replies. “They’ll never expect me to come back so soon.”
“Jan, there’s one thing. Marek Andek’s wife, Emma, is a good friend of mine. She’s still in Prague with the children.”
“I’ll look in on her,” Jan promises. “Andek gave up everything for us. I’ll make sure his wife is safe, that she has whatever she needs.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I know what it has taken for you to bring me this information, what both of you have risked. I won’t let it go to waste.” She shakes Paul’s hand firmly, then reaches over and kisses me on the cheek. As she pulls back, she lingers for a second, her lips close to my ear. “Don’t let him go again,” she whispers before straightening. I am too stunne
d to reply. “Now, get out of here.”
Paul turns to me. “You ready?” I nod, and he helps me onto the back of the truck and climbs in himself, pulling the tarp closed. I drop to the wooden floor. As Paul follows me, the truck begins to move, sending him flying toward me. He reaches out to break his fall.
I look out the back of the truck, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the famous Jan Marcelitis. But she has already disappeared into the darkness. “She’s pretty remarkable, isn’t she?”
“You’re pretty remarkable yourself,” Paul replies.
“Me? I’m just a diplomat’s wife.” I look away, remembering his earlier words.
“Marta, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean…”
“I know.” I turn back inside the carriage. It is mostly empty except for some wooden crates piled against the wall that separates us from the driver. Curious, I crawl toward the crates. Closer to the front of the carriage, I notice that some floorboards have been peeled back, revealing the road beneath us as we drive. “Paul, check this out.”
He crosses the carriage to me on his hands and knees. “Careful,” he says, putting his arm around my waist and pulling me back from the edge of the hole. “I don’t need you falling through.”
I look up at him. Our eyes lock. Neither of us speak for several seconds. “Marta, about what happened—”
I cut him off. “We shouldn’t talk about it.”
“I understand. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I never should have kissed you.”
“You didn’t. I kissed you, remember?” Paul does not answer. “Anyway, like I said earlier, I’m glad it happened.”
“Me, too,” he admits, leaning back against the crates. “But it’s kinda difficult, you know? Remembering how good it was between us…”
“And knowing it can’t happen again?” I finish for him. He nods. “I know.”
I lean back beside him and he puts his arm around me. “This is okay, though, isn’t it?” He gestures with his head toward his arm. “I mean, it’s like that night in Salzburg. Innocent.”
Innocent. I look from his face to his arm around my shoulder, then back again. There’s nothing innocent about our feelings. But soon we’ll be home and Paul’s arm around me will be a distant memory again. “It’s fine,” I say at last, reaching up and squeezing his hand.
We bounce along in silence, not speaking. “How long do you reckon until we reach the harbor?” he asks.
“A few hours. I wish we hadn’t left the deck of cards back in the wine cellar. I’d like a chance to redeem myself at gin.”
“True,” Paul agrees. “Why don’t you take a nap?”
“I am a bit tired,” I admit. “But it’s probably not a good idea.”
“You go ahead. I’ll stay awake. Honestly, I’m not at all tired.”
I lean my head against Paul’s chest and close my eyes. His arm tightens around me, drawing me close. Like Salzburg, I think. I can almost smell the turpentine, hear the rain on the roof of the gardener’s shed.
Suddenly, the truck screeches to a halt, jarring me awake. I sit up groggily. “What is it?”
Paul turns around and pulls back the tarp slightly, peering out. “We’ve reached the harbor,” he whispers. “But the trucks are stopped ahead. It looks like there is some sort of checkpoint at the gate.”
Panic rises within me. “What are we doing to do?”
“Maybe they won’t look back here.” But as he continues to look outside, his face falls. “No, they’re inspecting each vehicle very closely. We need to get out of here. The floor,” he says suddenly. “We need to get out through the hole in the floor.”
“But Jan said to stay on the truck, that it would drive us right to the ship.”
Paul shakes his head. “That isn’t going to work anymore.” He crawls over to the hole in the floor. “You go first. When you hit the ground, I want you to move away from the truck quickly so you don’t get hit if it starts to move. Stay low to the ground, out of sight.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Paul replies quickly. An uneasy expression crosses his face. “Now hurry.”
I crawl to the hole, then pause, looking up at him. “Paul—”
He cuts me off. “If anything happens…I mean, the ship is the SS Bremen. Find your way there and get on it.”
I freeze. It had not occurred to me that we might be separated again. I open my mouth to protest. But he touches my cheek, silencing me again. “No matter what happens, you keep going. Get home to your daughter.”
“I won’t go without you.”
“You won’t have to,” he promises, looking deep into my eyes. “I stood you up once in London and look what happened. I’m not about to do it again.” Outside the truck, the footsteps and voices grow louder. He reaches down and kisses me hard and quick. “Now go.”
I slip through the hole, cringing at the soft sound of my feet hitting the ground. Then, remembering Paul’s instructions, I crouch low and crawl from beneath the truck, away from the voices, finding cover beneath some bushes beside the road. I made it, though my heart is pounding. Suddenly, I hear an engine sound. I spin around, looking through the brush at the underside of the truck, searching for Paul in the dim light. But he isn’t there. The truck begins to roll forward, moving closer to the checkpoint. Paul’s still inside!
I hesitate, uncertain what to do. Keep moving, Paul said. Get inside the ship. I duck into the bushes and make my way toward the metal fence that surrounds the harbor. But it is nearly three meters high; I cannot possibly climb over it. I look sideways toward the gate. Where is the truck? Is Paul still on it? The bushes obstruct my view. Keep moving. I crawl along the fence farther into the brush. I spy a small tear in the fence, low to the ground. I drop to my knees, pulling against the bottom of the fence to lift it farther from the ground. Lying on my stomach, I try to force myself through the opening. It is working, I realize, as the jagged edges tear at my clothes and skin.
I stand up. I am inside, I think with relief. Suddenly, I hear shouting and loud noises coming from the direction of the gate. Paul! Crouching low to the fence, I make my way back toward the commotion. The truck is stopped at the gate, a guard standing by the rear. I can see a flashlight shining beneath the tarp, illuminating the inside of the carriage. My heart drops as two guards climb from the back of the truck, dragging Paul behind them.
Paul has been caught. I start toward the truck. I have to do something. Then Paul’s eyes flick toward me. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, then looks away. Keep going, I can hear him say. No matter what happens.
I hesitate for several seconds, my heart pounding. I cannot leave Paul. But if I stay here, I will surely be caught, too. Rachel’s face flashes through my mind. I have to get home to her. I cannot turn back now. I’m sorry, I think, looking back at Paul one last time. Then I begin to run desperately into the harbor, my ankle throbbing.
Away from the bushes, the harbor is open, exposed. I slow to a walk, not wanting to attract attention. Ahead, the pier juts out into the sea like a long finger, massive vessels lining either side. Stevedores carry large crates from trucks, loading them into the hulls of the ships.
As I near the dockside, I duck behind a tall stack of crates, then begin to scan the side of the boats. SS Bremen, I read, on the side of one vessel that sits at the far end of the pier to the right. I start toward it, crouching behind stacks of cargo, moving as quickly as I can. I hear a gunshot in the distance, followed by another. I stop and turn. Paul! I scream inside, my heart breaking. But there is nothing I can do for him now. I have to keep going. Desperately, I turn and race down the pier, past the stevedores, who have been distracted by the gunshots.
When I reach the base of the Bremen, I stop, staring up the massive ramp that leads upward toward the main deck of the ship, lined with trucks. I start up the ramp, keeping low beside the passenger sides of the trucks as I move. At the top, I duck behind a large pallet of boxes, then crawl away
from the ramp toward the stern of the ship. I made it. I look back out at the pier. In my mind, I see Paul being dragged from the truck by the police. I fight the urge to run off the ship after him. If I can get back to Britain, I can send word to the Americans about what happened to him. Get him help. Then I remember the gunshots. It is too late for help, I realize numbly. I have lost him all over again. Goodbye, my darling Paul. Thank you for saving me once more. My eyes fill with tears.
A minute later, the trucks begin rolling off the ramp. Then a loud horn sounds and the ramp begins to retract from the deck. We are leaving. I must have made it just in time. I look behind me for a hatch, a way to get below deck out of sight. Suddenly I see something moving on the pier, a figure coming closer. I duck down below the railing. Has someone spotted me? Then I look up again at the figure running toward the ship. Recognizing the awkward gait, my heart leaps. Paul! He is alive and he is trying to make it.
Hurry, I pray, fighting the urge to call out to him. But the ramp has been lowered and the ship is beginning to pull away from the dock. He cannot possibly get on board. He keeps running toward the ship, looking straight ahead toward a small dingy attached low to the outside of the ship. Paul, coatless now, runs to the end of the dock and without hesitating jumps into the water. It must be nearly freezing! Surely he will not be able to survive long. My heart pounds as he swims toward the lifeboat with sure, swift strokes. Hurry. His hand catches the edge of the lifeboat, but slips off. Then he grabs it, firmer this time, and climbs in. He made it! But choppy waves, stirred up by the wake of the ship, crash over the sides of the tiny craft, battering him. He won’t be able to last long down there. He reaches up, grabbing the thick rope that holds the lifeboat to the side of the ship. I watch in amazement as he begins to climb, slowly, painstakingly, up the rope. I race to the side of the boat where the rope is secured. As he nears the top, I hold out my hand. Taking it, he hoists himself over the edge.
“Paul!” I cry. He is soaking wet and the front of his shirt is covered in blood.
“I told you I wouldn’t stand you up again,” he manages to say, then collapses to the deck.
