Chapter One
BERLIN Thursday September 28, 1933
Hana crept out of the dilapidated brick apartment building. The dark before dawn concealed the deep crack that ran down the steps, the stained buildings encrusted with soot and grime. She started down the stairs, stopping near the bottom, a furtive glance to each corner. She didn’t see him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She could feel him, lurking about, vigilant on patrol. Be it several yards away under the dim, almost burnt out streetlight, or a block away. He was there, watching.
She held her breath for a moment, steeling herself to go forward. Nonchalantly, she set onto the sidewalk. A quick movement, anything conspicuous could give her away. Not now. Ben was waiting. They were getting married tomorrow and leaving Germany forever. He planned to meet her at his grandfather’s later in the morning, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. After endless hours of being apart, each minute was an arduous moment of misery. She’d fitfully turned on the couch all night, missing his arms and legs tangled around her, his broad chest. Not able to stand it, she’d gotten dressed and slipped out of her parents’ flat.
Puddles abounded from last night’s rain. The dark charcoal sky precluded her from seeing her reflection from the wet sidewalk. The storm had turned to a fine drizzling mist. The sun would rise soon enough. In an hour, pedestrians would begin crowding the walkway on their way to work. Automobiles and horse drawn wagons would be cluttering the road. If only she was part of the quiet, nondescript, blending in.
She heard the splash of footsteps from behind, but kept walking. She only had to get to tomorrow. Once she and Ben moved to Skagen, it would be better. The footsteps were drawing closer. Taking labored strides against the wind, she held her pace.
“Fraulein!”
She froze, and then slowly turned, coming face to face with an outstretched salute. “Heil Hitler,” the brown-uniformed guard said in a loud clip, his eyes undressing her. The fat middle-aged storm trooper adjusted the red band on his arm, rubbing his fingers over the black swastika.
“Heil Hitler,” she managed to eke out, returning the salute. Was her body shaking? Could he smell her fear? “Can I help you?”
“Why, may I ask, would a young woman be out so early?”
“I have employment a mile or so from here. I’m a maid, sir,” she lied. He probably thought she was a prostitute going home after a profitable night. “I have linens to press and silver to polish before preparing breakfast.”
The storm trooper grasped a strand of her thick brown hair, and rubbed it through his fingers.
“I didn’t have change for the subway this morning, so I decided to walk. I’ll be late if I don’t hurry. Lose my job,” she said softly.
His crooked grin showed off a wide gap between his two uneven front teeth. “Address?”
“Tucholskystrasse 33. The third floor,” she rattled off. It was a ritzy neighborhood, the apartment where she was to meet Ben at nine. His grandfather was loaded. Who would question that such a man would be a demanding employer to a lowly servant?
The storm trooper grimly nodded, as if disappointed by her more than adequate explanation. She turned and clutching her purse, continued on. Rosa Luxemburg Strasse was at the next corner. She turned, heading south. If he was still stalking her, she’d have to bypass Ben’s street, and go straight to his grandfather’s apartment, hours too early. She had until the fork in the road at Rosenthalerstrasse to ditch him.
Edges of light crept out through the sky, filtering over the gray stone buildings. Dawn was breaking. Her thick chestnut brown hair hung loose from a red beret atilt on her head. She shivered in her flimsy broadcloth coat, but it wasn’t from the cold. She licked a finger, rubbing it over her chapped lips. Thoughts of crawling under Ben’s brown comforter, the one faded and smudged with ink, warmed her through. She could almost smell its muskiness intermingled with his scent, their scent, seared into the coarsely woven fabric. Feel his hands clutching her body as she breathed him in.
Not letting down her guard, Hana strode with purpose through the drizzling rain. One false move could bungle things up. She had to know if the same storm trooper was still following her. She wasn’t new at this. She and Ben, along with their underground network, had eluded the police and storm troopers for months, handing out pamphlets, working too hard, for long hours in beer halls and factories, spreading the word. She gritted her teeth. One more time, and then it would be done. Tomorrow they’d be in Denmark, safe and out of reach.
Uneasy, not sure what to do, she spied a telephone booth up ahead. Slyly, she snapped open her purse, pushed a thin stack of pamphlets and the note from Ben out of the way, and grabbed her wallet. A coin in hand, she stepped into the stall, glancing out from the corner of her eye. Only a few laborers trudging to work. She sighed with relief, returned the wallet to her bag and pulled out the stack of the black and white flyers. Stupid. She flapped the brochures in her hand. How could she have kept them? Scanning the street and sidewalk to make sure no one was watching, she let the papers fall to the ground in the booth, and fleeted away. The rain had stopped. Light footed after that, thinking about the train out of Germany, she nearly broke into a skip. She and Ben were leaving. She and Ben–she loved the sound of their names together.
Ben’s street was nearly deserted. She hurried into his building, and opened the door to his apartment with her key. The brown comforter was smoothly spread across his bed. Had it even been slept in? She looked to the sink in the corner. The dishes were washed and neatly stacked on the drain board. His easel and paints were packed up in the corner.
“Ben,” she called, looking about the sparsely furnished efficiency. “Sweetheart?” Her voice cracked. She looped her hair behind her ear, and then walked into the washroom, peeking behind the shower curtain.
Ben wasn’t there. Hana shook her head, and scanned the small apartment one more time. Had he gone to his grandfather’s early? She pushed down the feeling of dread swelling up inside her chest, and left, locking the door behind her.
There were distant blares of sirens. Hana walked a half mile and turned onto Tucholskystrasse. She was a block from Ben’s grandfather’s apartment. The morning sun peeked out from the stormbound clouds and businessmen hurried from their apartments, newspapers in hand, wearing expensive wool coats and dark homburgs. Their well clad feet hit the cobblestone sidewalk with buoyancy and self-confidence.
She kept walking, keeping her face low, trying not to stand out among the chicly dressed women in fur coats. A storm trooper patrolled the corner, but he wasn’t interested in her or anyone else on the block. He was staring towards the main thoroughfare. Another dead body was being hauled away in a police wagon down Oranienburgerstrasse.
Tightening her grip on her handbag, she reached the stylish three storied apartment building topped by an adobe red tiled roof and five window boxes. The ivory bricks were freshly painted, the bas-relief geometric sculptures under and above the large spacious windows were exquisitely designed, but Hana hardly noticed the intricacies.
She rang the buzzer to the third floor apartment. After a short pause, she tried again. When no one answered, she glanced at her watch. It was only seven–two hours before her appointment. Maybe the old man was indisposed in the bath, unable to hear the bell.
She bit her nail, and she looked up to the dark windows above. It didn’t appear as if anyone was home. Ben could after all, be out for a walk with his grandfather, preparing him for her introduction. Thinking things over, not sure what to do, she paced back and forth from the black lacquered door, and then forcefully pushed in the buzzer one more time.