“You needn’t speak to the guards. You can read a magazine and pretend to be very bored with the whole thing. It’s what they’ll expect.”
“They’ll still have guns and dogs and uniforms. They might have heard there are fugitives from East Berlin at large. They might have a description of us.”
“Ja, possibly. But no one is going to expect us to be trying to get into Ukraine. This is an inner Eastern Bloc border near a small city and the guards are going to be very bored. No excitement, and nothing for us to worry about.”
All the same, before he restarts the engine he produces a pistol and counts the bullets. Pushing the clip back into place he stashes the gun over his head behind the sun visor. Noticing my white face he murmurs, “Just a precaution, Liebling. We shan’t need it.”
As the border looms ahead I grab a magazine out of my bag, bought specially for this purpose. I bury my nose in the pages and pretend to be absorbed in recipes for casserole. There’s no queue at the crossing and Reinhardt pulls smoothly up to the barricade and hands our false passports out the window.
I glance over so the guard can get a look at my face. He’s younger than I am and has the smooth chin of someone who probably hasn’t started shaving yet. But despite his youth he’s still dangerous, and he has a rifle slung over his shoulder and the sight makes the back of my neck prickle. I feel an insane impulse to glance up at the sun visor where the handgun is hidden and immediately look back down at my magazine.
A moment later I feel the car accelerate through the barricade. I hold my breath, straining to hear shouts, gunshots, the sound of a car giving chase, but nothing happens. I drop my magazine into my lap and bury my face in my hands.
“Are you all right?”
I look over at Reinhardt, my expression pained. “How many more of those?”
He takes a hand off the wheel and feels for mine. “Just two, and then we’ll be in Bulgaria. Not long now, I promise.”
It takes us just a few hours to drive southeast though Ukraine and then we pass uneventfully, though stressfully for me, through the Ukraine–Romania border and stop for the night a few miles to the south.
The next day we’re back in the car first thing as we have most of Romania to traverse. As we drive I want to ask Reinhardt to describe Sozopol in detail but I don’t dare. It feels like tempting fate to picture us there too vividly. Do we deserve our happy ending, a Stasi officer and his captor who’s not only forgiven him but fallen in love with him? I want so badly to believe that there is hope for us. Germany has made us bleed, inside and out, and all we have left is each other.
In the afternoon we arrive in a large town just north of the Romanian–Bulgarian border and buy tourist paraphernalia like magazines and cans of sticky orange soda. I’m examining several postcards when beside me I feel Reinhardt stiffen. Without looking up from the German-language newspaper he’s perusing, he murmurs, “Liebling, will you do as I say and don’t ask any questions?”
I look up at him, my heart pounding in my throat. His expression is neutral but a wave of fear sweeps through me.
“Put the magazine back and walk with me. Slowly. Nothing’s wrong.”
He means pretend like nothing’s wrong, because we’re being watched. Even though he’s affecting a relaxed stance I can feel the tension rolling
off him. I dearly want to peer around the town square for the danger he’s spotted but I school my face carefully blank. Is it the Stasi? Is it the Romanian secret police? Romania has its own spies and a regime that’s controlled by the Soviet Union. If the East German authorities have alerted them to the possibility of fugitives then they will work with the Stasi to capture us. It could even be Heydrich himself, following us from country to country, hotel to hotel, dogging every mile, every step we take. Reinhardt’s betrayal must seem like all of his Christmases have come at once and I can imagine the sharp-eyed, smiling captain gloating over the thought of bringing in his hated superior.
We walk along a row of shops and Reinhardt seems to scrutinize the wares for sale. I understand what he’s actually doing—using the reflective glass to look for someone tailing us.
The shopfronts end and Reinhardt takes my hand and murmurs softly, “Next left.” We continue to stroll as if without a care in the world. We reach the street, still walking, and then he squeezes my hand and we duck quickly down the side street. There’s an alleyway parallel to the main street and we turn down that, half walking, half running. A kitchenhand is having a cigarette at the rear of a restaurant and we go in at the kitchen door. Reinhardt calls brisk apologies in Russian to the surprised kitchen staff and we go into the restaurant itself. There are a handful of diners and a surprised waiter, but Reinhardt ignores them and takes us upstairs where there’s more seating. The room is dark and silent and clearly not open for dining at this moment, but when the waiter follows us up Reinhardt pretends not to understand and he and the confused man converse in stilted Russian about the menu for several minutes.
While they’re busy I think what I can do to help us lose this tail. I’m wearing a bright green scarf and I take it off and surreptitiously stuff it behind a pot plant. Then I pull the pins out of my hair so it’s hanging down my back, take off my cardigan and stuff it and my handbag into an empty shopping tote. It’s not much but it might help. There’s nothing to be done about Reinhardt’s white shirt and tan trousers. He hasn’t even got a coat he can put on.
Finally the waiter gets angry and we have to go back downstairs. I stop Reinhardt before we reach the front door. “We shouldn’t leave together. If there’s someone following us they’ll be looking for a couple.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“You know that’s not the right thing to do. It’s safer if we split up.” I know nothing of the sort, I’m only guessing, but the flicker in his eyes tells me I’m right.
Finally, he says, “All right. The pond on the outskirts of town as we were coming in. Head there and hide in the bushes, and don’t come out until you hear me. I’ll whistle.”
I nod, feeling sick but determined, hoping that this isn’t going to be the last time I see him and we get out of this town alive and with our freedom.
He seems to be thinking the same thing as he pulls me close and kisses me hard. “Be careful, Liebling.” But the kiss is more than just a kiss, and I feel something heavy drop into my tote.
“The safety’s on,” he murmurs in my ear, and I realize he’s given me his pistol. “Flick it off as soon as you get into the bushes and shoot anyone who tries to come near you.”
I nod and then head outside, walking quickly up the street. My neck prickles with awareness, the weight of the gun in my bag feeling like a live bomb. Is there someone following me even now? Reinhardt could have been mistaken and someone might have been watching us out of boredom or curiosity. But when it comes to spy craft and surveillance I trust his judgment, and it’s better to be safe.
A cold breeze is blowing and I push a hand through my curls to get them out of my face. As I do I glance over my shoulder, and my heart thuds painfully. There is someone following me, a man in a dark brown coat about forty meters back. It’s not Heydrich, but didn’t I see someone very like this man in the town while we were buying postcards? Don’t I recognize that gray hat? I walk faster, and the pond and the scrubby park are just a short distance away. Do I dare turn now? The road curves a little and I take my chance, hoping I’m hidden from view for a moment, and dive into the bushes. They’re thick and woody evergreens and they scratch my face and bare arms, but I plunge in deeper and crouch down, breathing hard. I can’t see the road. I can’t see anything in fact, so hopefully no one can see me.
There’s nothing but silence for several minutes and then I hear someone moving through the long grass and I go weak with relief. I nearly stand up and call out for Reinhardt before I remember. Whoever it is isn’t whistling, and I clamp my hands over my mouth, horrified that I nearly gave myself away. Whoever it is walks up and down for a moment, as if they’re looking for something. Or someone. Maybe it’s just a dog walker but I feel in the pit of my stomach that it’s the man in the brown coat.