“Now you’d better get back to your children,” I say.

Emma nods, then steps forward. “Thank you, Marta. For all that you’ve ever done.”

I kiss her on the cheek. “No, thank you. I know what you risked coming here tonight. Now go.” Emma turns and leaves the room quickly, closing the door behind her.

Berlin, I think, turning back inside the room. Will I be able to manage it? Should I? But there is no time to deliberate. I walk to the armoire and start to put my clothes into my bag. Then I stop. Renata was right. It is still better to leave my belongings behind so no one knows that I have gone. I can travel more quickly without these things, anyway. I pick up the gun from the carpet and put it in my purse, checking to make sure that my passport and the papers are inside. Then I pick up my coat and, taking one last look around, turn and flee from the room.

CHAPTER 20

I peer out of the doorway of the ladies’ room across the deserted train station. Five-fifty, reads the clock on the far wall of the station. I arrived nearly two hours earlier after making my way across the city by foot, hoping to catch a night train. But the departure board was blank and the concourse deserted, except for a Roma family that had set up camp at the base of one of the platforms. The father, a swarthy man with a heavy mustache, informed me that with the curfew, there would be no trains until morning. Not wanting to attract attention by waiting out in the open station, I ducked into the washroom. At first I nearly gagged at the damp, fetid odor that reminded me so much of prison. Then I remembered how to breathe shallowly through my mouth until the smell was barely there at all.

A loud screeching noise comes from the far end of the station. I turn to see a man opening the metal grate on the front of a kiosk, the first sign that the station is coming to life. A few minutes later, I notice an older woman with thick shoes and a kerchief on her head much like the one I now wear, sweeping one of the platforms. The earliest of morning travelers begin to trickle into the station.

I step from the washroom, inhaling deeply to clear my nostrils with the scent of freshly brewing coffee. Then I start toward the departure board to read the listings that have begun to appear. Across the station, I spot two policemen. One holds a German shepherd on a leash. I freeze. Easy, I tell myself. The city is under martial law. There are going to be police. But my heart pounds harder as I force myself to continue walking, looking up at the departure board as though I am any other traveler. There is an express train to Berlin at six-forty-five, though I do not dare take it. A second train, fifteen minutes later, will go to Děčín, a town I recognize from my drive to Prague with Renata as being close to the German border. I will take that one, I decide. I walk to the ticket counter, using most of the money Renata gave me to purchase a ticket, round trip so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I make my way to one of the now-open kiosks, buy a newspaper and a coffee. I sit down at a table and open the newspaper, pretending to read. Peering out over the top of the paper, I see that the policemen have gone.

Relaxing slightly, I look across the station. It has grown crowded now, travelers rushing in all directions toward the trains. My eyes lock on a tall man in a dark trench coat, crossing the station. There is something about his awkward gait, his dark curly hair, that reminds me of Paul. I stand up to get a better look, nearly spilling my coffee. But the man disappears into the crowd. I stare after him. Suddenly I am not in Prague at all but at Kings Cross, waiting for Paul, watching the disembarking crowds in vain. Then, noticing the woman at the next table looking up at me, I sit down again. I pushed thoughts of Paul away for so long. Why am I seeing ghosts now? It must be because I am back on the continent again, I decide. Or because I was just talking about him to Emma.

A minute later, I finish my coffee and stand, carrying the empty cup to a nearby trash bin. The train to Děčín has been listed for platform four. As I start across the station, a phone booth catches my eye. Do I dare call Simon? Renata said communications were down, but at least I can try. Hurriedly I rush to the phone booth and pick up the receiver. “International operator,” I request in Czech. A second later, an operator answers in English and I give her the number. The phone rings once, then a second time. Answer, Simon, I think; pick up before the ringing wakes Rachel. “Hallo,” Simon’s voice, thick with sleep, comes over the line.

“International call,” the operator says. “Accept the charges?”

“Yes,” Simon replies, instantly awake.

“Simon, it’s me.”

“Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Still in Prague. But, Simon, about Marcelitis—”

“We know about the coup. We’ve been trying to get hold of the embassy, but the lines have all been down. There was a convoy of diplomats, we were hoping you would be with them. You have to get out. If you can get to Vienna, I can arrange—”

“Simon, there’s more.” Quickly I tell him about the bald man impersonating Marcelitis on the bridge. “Marcelitis didn’t show, but I have an address in Berlin. If I can get there, I still think I can get him to help us.”

“Marta, that’s crazy! You don’t even know where to find him.”

“I have an address, on Oranienburger Strasse.”

“But you have no support in Berlin. We don’t have an extraction plan—”

“I’ll be fine, Simon.” Suddenly I notice a policeman walking toward the phone booth, looking at me. “I have to go now. Tell Rachel I love her and I’ll see her soon.” I can still hear Simon talking as I hang up. I look out at the policeman, my heart pounding. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing my train.

I step from the booth. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm as I step around the policeman. I force myself to walk past him slowly, looking straight ahead. A few seconds later I reach the gate and join the queue of passengers boarding the train. When I look back, the policeman is in the phone booth, talking.

I board the train and make my way to an empty compartment in one of the second-class carriages. It is similar to the train I took from Salzburg, with three worn orange seats on each side of the compartment, facing one another. I sink into the seat closest to the window, then peer out. The policeman is still on the telephone. He had not been looking for me. Relieved, I lean back against the musty seat cushion.

Soon the train begins to move. As we pull away, the door to the compartment bangs open. I jump, thinking of the police. But it is just an elderly man, carrying a small suitcase. From the doorway, he gestures with his head toward the empty row of seats facing me, asking permission to sit. I nod. The man lifts his suitcase to the overhead rack, then takes the seat across from me nearest the door. He looks at me, and for a second I worry that he will try to start a conversation. Czech is close enough to Polish that I can get by, but my accent would never pass as native. And I cannot afford to stand out, not now. I pull out the newspaper, hoping to discourage him. The man produces his own newspaper and begins to read.

I press my head against the window, too tired to care if it is dirty. My entire body sags with fatigue. Was it really only the day before yesterday that I arrived in Prague? I see the bald man lunging at me, Renata dead in the car. The demonstrators fleeing. The reality of it all crashes down, overwhelming me.

I pick up the newspaper once more, scanning an article about the government. Though the article does not say so, I know that the implications of the coup are much broader than just Czechoslovakia. The country has always been a balancing point between East and West and it is possible that their takeover here might embolden the communists to seek more power elsewhere. I touch my bag, thinking of the papers inside. I have to get to Marcelitis.