Orphan Monster Spy

by Matt Killeen

  “Yes.”

  “And if he does?”

  “Then he’ll probably do it tomorrow and the next night. Drunks are creatures of habit.”

  Sarah snorted. “And they’re lazy and unreliable and unpredictable,” she muttered.

  “True, but he’d already have lost his job at that point. He drinks enough that a fifteen-year-old girl has noticed, but he’s still employed. So my guess, my hunch, is it’s every night, in the beer hall. Social drinking.”

  “Then what?”

  “He has an accident walking home and I take his place.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’m in and I can work.”

  “Tonight?” Sarah was taken aback.

  “No, I’m not dressed for it.” He smiled. “You know this . . . this profession, is a lot of educated guesswork and waiting around and being disappointed. You need to get used to it.”

  This was the first time that the Captain had specifically referred to any kind of future. But before Sarah could mention it, there was movement ahead.

  “Hello . . .” The Captain stirred and smiled. “There’s our stable master.”

  A scruffy, red-faced man, approaching middle age, walked purposefully around the corner and toward the town.

  “He’s half your height.” She laughed, incredulous.

  “I’ll slouch.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The car slowed to a stop in the crush of vehicles trying to drop off girls in the twilit driveway, headlights jostling for position.

  “The town, the estate, they’re only a few kilometers as the crow flies. I want to come,” said Sarah, mind made up.

  “Tomorrow? No. Ridiculous.” The Captain shook his head.

  Sarah needed some control, some success, some say in the unfolding events. If she was not an “excellent spy,” then what use was she? She needed absolution.

  “I’m a spy. I want to do spy . . . things.”

  “You’re doing spy things.”

  “I can’t stand it here,” she complained. “It’s like watching the old men scrubbing the streets of Vienna, but every single day. If I can hold your coat and it gets me out of here thirty seconds quicker, then I am going to hold your gottverdammten coat.”

  He watched her glower at him, face on the verge of fury. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. You can get out of here tomorrow night?”

  “In a heartbeat.” She smiled. “And if it means I don’t have to come back, then even quicker than that.”

  Sarah almost jumped from the car, but as she closed the door she saw something that made her freeze. She began tapping on the car window with a knuckle. When nothing happened, she rapped more frenetically, all the while glancing covertly at the school entrance. The window lowered.

  “What?” the Captain asked impatiently.

  “Look,” rasped Sarah, jerking her head toward Rothenstadt.

  On the steps of the school were Elsa and a man in traditional hunting clothes. Sarah knew, even at this distance, that it was Hans Schäfer.

  “Well, look at that. The Führer wasn’t the big draw that we thought,” the Captain said. “Can you stop trying not to look at them?”

  “She’s staring at me,” replied Sarah in a stage whisper.

  “She isn’t, she’s just looking in this direction. Just . . . go back to school.”

  Everything, everyone, was here in one place. It felt impossible that it couldn’t be finished right now.

  “Can’t you just shoot him here or something?”

  The Captain tutted and wound the window up, leaving Sarah feeling exposed.

  This is stupid.

  She plastered a big smile on her face and walked purposefully toward the school, pausing only to turn and wave at the car, the Captain already invisible behind the glass. As she turned back, Elsa was pointing at her.

  Sarah drove herself on, trying not to stare back.

  She wasn’t pointing at me. She was pointing at someone nearby.

  But there was no other Year Four girl there, and none of the Ice Queen’s attendants. Now Elsa was talking to her father.

  Does she know?

  How could she know? There’s nothing to know. Not yet, anyway.

  As Sarah reached the entrance, Elsa’s father kissed his daughter on the cheek. Sarah concentrated on the steps. By the time she reached the top, Hans Schäfer was alone in front of the doors.

  “Excuse me, mein Herr,” said Sarah, her voice squeaking.

  “Certainly, Fräulein.” He stepped out of the way.

  As Sarah entered the school, it felt like being passed by a fast-moving vehicle. The sense of power, the movement, the slight tug of the wind, and the billowing aftermath. Once inside, she rested against the doorframe.

  One more day here. Maybe just one more day.

  NINETEEN

  THE DORMITORY SLEPT as Sarah, fully dressed, slipped out from under the covers. She dropped soundlessly into her waiting shoes, but the rain beat on the windows with a ferocity that masked any noise she could make. She wondered if she should plan on returning in wet clothes—find a place to dry them, or leave clean clothes for the next day somewhere—but she just couldn’t focus. She was getting out, she was sure of it.

  She looked at her nightstand. Should she be taking the contents? Would she need Ursula Haller again? Would that girl vanish and leave her personal effects behind?

  “Haller? What are you doing?” the Mouse’s voice croaked out of the dark.

  God . . .

  “I’m going for a pee, shush.”

  “In your coat?”

  “Mouse! Shut up, you’re going to wake Liebrich,” she pleaded.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Go to sleep.”

  She slipped soundlessly across the floorboards and was lost in the shadows, hoping that the Mouse would stay where she was.

  Sarah knew her escape route well. The landing window was still broken, just as she had left it weeks earlier. Always have another way out. The swing to the drainpipe was no kind of challenge. The bushes were evergreen and gave good cover all the way to the crumbling walls. But in the moonless midnight hour, in a rainstorm, each of these things acquired a new peril. The windowsill was slick. The rainwater poured from the blocked guttering and down the outside of the drainpipe. Sarah waited for her eyes to adjust, but the grounds were invisible in the gloom.

  She climbed out of the window and felt the water beat against her face. Since the race, she’d started to dislike getting her head wet: she couldn’t shake the feeling that the water was going to swallow her up. She’d avoided the showers, and washing her hair had actually been frightening for her. Now the water soaked into her hair and ran down her face. It dripped into her nose and filled her ears. She resisted the emerging chaos inside her, the animal that had to run, to flee, to escape.

  When she was calm enough, she swung to the pipe and slid down the two floors to the ground. She looked up into the deluge and wondered whether she’d be able to climb back up later if it was still so wet—another reason to hope this was it.

  She sped through the grounds away from the school, from tree to bush, skipping over the growing puddles until she had no choice but to splash through them. As she reached the wall and leapt onto it, a bright white flash illuminated her. She was relieved to realize it was just lightning. She began counting.

  One.

  She threw a leg over the top of the wall.

  Two.

  She rolled over the top and landed smoothly on the other side.

  Three.

  She took a moment to remember which direction she should be heading, and then cautiously trotted into the darkness.

  Four, five, six . . .

  The thunder was so loud that Sarah, who was waiting for it,
jumped and let out a squeak.

  You’re pathetic. The storm is two kilometers away . . . but coming or going?

  She pushed on into the dark in search of the road, beginning to doubt the wisdom of leaving the school at all. But she didn’t want her fate decided without her being there . . . she didn’t want to miss out.

  When she reached the road, the rough tarmac was awash. It looked like a river, although in Sarah’s opinion, a very poor sort of river, but it was galling that she had to trample through the undergrowth to stop the rain soaking through her shoes. Her clothes weighed heavy on her, and everything had begun to chafe. Her discomfort preoccupied her as she trudged.

  “Your spy-craft needs some work,” said a voice in the bushes next to her.

  Sarah covered her surprise by pretending to shiver. She put her hands on her hips and stared up the road.

  She shrugged. “I’m here, am I not?”

  “And moving along the verge like a buffalo,” he mocked. “I could hear you coming for the last five minutes . . . and see you.”

  She pursed her lips. “He’s not coming in this weather.”

  “I think you underestimate the drunk.”

  The world turned white. “Yes, you understand drunks better than me.” Her reply was scornful.

  Thunder broke in a series of deep, tearing snaps, a ball bouncing on a drum of broken glass. As it did so, a figure rounded the bend, draped in a waterproof cape and hat. His progress was slow, a protracted stagger that meandered irregularly into and off the road. The Captain gently took Sarah’s arm and guided her deeper into the trees.

  They waited in silence as the man approached. He was singing.

  “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit . . .” His gravelly voice trailed off as he scrabbled about for the next line. He gave up and started from the beginning. “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit . . . a toast . . . a toast . . . a toast . . .”

  “Here.” The Captain pushed something toward her.

  “What is that?”

  “My coat.”

  Sarah waited an insolent few seconds and took the damp, voluminous overcoat and bag. She bundled them up in her arms. “Great. Now I’m helping,” she said sarcastically.

  “A toast . . . a toast . . .” the man mumbled as he passed.

  Sarah felt the Captain tensing up, a coiling snake.

  “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit . . .”

  The Captain emerged from the bushes.

  “. . . der Gemütlichkeit! . . . to good times!” the man sang into the darkness.

  The Captain loped after the retreating figure, easily catching him up.

  “One, two, three! Drink up!”

  With one swift motion of the Captain’s arm, the man in the raincoat dropped like a stone onto the tarmac. It was like the Captain had squashed a spider on the way to the kitchen, and his matter-of-factness frightened Sarah.

  The Captain dragged the body into the bushes. He pulled the raincoat away from the stable master’s limp arms and unbuttoned the man’s shirt.

  “Open the bag,” the Captain ordered.

  “Have you killed him?” Sarah was still shocked.

  “No, probably not,” the Captain said, like he was discussing a forthcoming soccer match. “Still, it’s a cold night. He wouldn’t be the first drunkard to die of exposure in a ditch.”

  He seized the man’s trousers and began to pull at them. Sarah flushed and turned away. She had never seen an adult man with no clothes on, and she found that the idea made her feel a bit sick.

  “Bag,” the Captain reiterated. She held out the shoulder bag behind her, and he laughed. “He’s not going to bite.”

  Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to look. Something about this felt wrong.

  She took a step backward and shook the bag. The Captain stuffed something into it. She had an uneasy feeling in the nape of her neck as she realized these were his clothes.

  “Take my coat and bag and wait for me in the barn.”

  “Goodness, spying is glamorous,” Sarah gasped theatrically. She was relieved to see the Captain dressed and pouring a bottle of liquor over his head.

  “You’re saving me a walk back to the car, and it’s valuable extra time. Sleeping Beauty here could wake up any minute.”

  “Then tie him up . . . or . . .”

  The Captain froze and rounded on Sarah. “What? Kill him? You kill him, then.”

  Lightning lit up the white, pudgy flesh of the stable master between them, then he was covered in darkness. The Captain waited while Sarah confronted the horror of what she’d almost found herself saying. Dumb monster. The thunder crackled and rumbled.

  “Storm’s getting closer. Time to move,” the Captain declared, pulling on the raincoat and hat.

  “Good luck,” ventured Sarah, unconvinced by his disguise.

  “No such thing,” sneered the Captain.

  “Then break a leg.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sarah wanted to follow him, to watch him work. To see if feigned drunkenness, a raincoat, and hair washed in cheap spirits would be enough to fool the guards. There was that drive again, a tickling sensation building in her belly. She realized it was hope. Hope that this would all be over soon, that . . . something else would follow, something warmer, dryer, safer. It warmed her as she headed for the rendezvous point.

  She picked out the hedges she needed to follow to reach the barn near the school. She’d seen it in the distance on runs. It was dilapidated and probably abandoned. It made a perfect place to wait. There was another flash, lighting up the side of the building ahead, just about visible through sheets of water. Sarah counted as she approached, curving her run away from the door to arrive behind the building. The thunder followed, louder and nearer, meaning the worst was still to come—although Sarah could hardly believe that it could rain any harder.

  The slats that formed the walls of the barn had shrunk with age, and the paint had split and peeled away. The darkness within could be seen between the boards, and it made Sarah feel exposed. Anyone inside could probably see her, while they remained invisible. Again, a perfect meeting place. She reached the double doors and listened but couldn’t hear anything over the sound of rain beating down on the thatched roof and walls. She gently pulled at the nearest door, and it creaked open.

  Inside it was pitch-black and smelled of old hay and animal dung. She took a step in and waited until the lightning broke across the sky again, revealing nothing but a stall and a pile of straw. She felt for the back wall and finally settled onto the straw to wait.

  She peeled off her coat and shook it. It was hopelessly soaked. She wrung out her hair and tried to braid it back into place, wondering how long she would be waiting. The barn was dry inside—its roof was a tribute to the thatcher’s art. Here, out of the wind, it was almost snug. Sarah could picture a candle, a horse blanket, and a good book. She covered her legs with her coat instead and rested her head against a pillar. She yawned, realizing how her excitement had masked her tiredness. Each yawn made her eyes water. She had always hated that. She never wanted anyone to think she was crying. She closed her eyes so she could wipe them with her sleeve.

  “What’s all the noise?” Her mother met her by the door, wrapped in her frayed silk kimono.

  “There are mobs in the street. They’re smashing up the windows of the Jewish shops, and the SA are beating up anyone they can find. They threw bombs into the Leopoldstädter Temple—everything’s burning.”

  “Well, we’re safe up here. You come in, Sarahchen.”

  Sarah hovered on the threshold. “But there are so many people in danger, who need help . . .” she trailed off.

  “But what can we do?” her mother whined. “We need to stay out of it.”

  “How can we stay out of it? We’re in it.”

  As if to illustrate her point, there was h
ammering and shouting down below, followed by the noise of tearing, smashing wood. Sarah ran to the top of the stairwell and looked down. The curving spiral was dancing with panicked shadows and vanishing lights.

  “Sarahchen . . .”

  There was a final crash, and the checkerboard floor at the bottom of the well was painted with a rectangle of dancing firelight.

  “Come away . . .” her mother tried again.

  Dark figures swarmed across it, and the first scream was heard.

  “Dumme Schlampe, inside now,” howled the voice behind her.

  The shadows cast by the encroaching gang coiled around the heart of the building. Doors were being set upon. Shouts and the crunch of forced locks traveled up the stairs.

  “Now—”

  The door of the first-floor apartment had been flung open, and a stream of candlesticks, papers, and bits of furniture were being thrown out of it.

  Sarah turned and pushed her mother through the door. “Go through the window in the kitchen onto the roof and close it behind you.”

  Her mother stopped, surprised. “Sarahchen . . .” she pleaded.

  “Go now and stay there until I bang the glass for you.” There was command in Sarah’s eyes, and her mother took a step back. Sarah softened. “Go on, Mutti, I’ll join you soon. I need to block the door, that’s all.”

  Her mother retreated into the kitchen, and Sarah licked her lips in concentration.

  Just a coat in a closet, just a coat.

  She ran down the corridor, pulling the few pictures off the wall and letting the glass smash on the floor. She crashed into the kitchen and overturned the table, pushing the few pots and pans from the sideboards. She flung the blankets into the hall, and, grabbing an empty bag, her book, and some matches, she entered the small bathroom. She lit the paper and laid it carefully in the sink, taking one apologetic look at the ceiling as it caught. She ran to the bedroom, but her mother had already wrecked that room by living in it. She extinguished the candles, and she pulled off her shoe. In the hall, jumping, she smashed the light bulb, raining slivers of glass into her hair. She ran through the darkness, kicking the blankets out of the door of the apartment onto the landing.