“So you’re saying we can try to help him?”

Paul shakes his head. “Not we. Me. I can try, but I won’t have you a part of this. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re not going without me. This is my mission.”

“Marta, be reasonable. You would be risking your life, even more than you already have. Think of your daughter.” I bite my lip, resisting the urge once more to tell Paul that Rachel is his. “Anyway,” Paul adds, smiling, “rescuing people from prison is what I do best, remember?”

I am not amused. “What’s your plan?”

Paul looks upward, thinking. “I’m sure there’s a back way into the police station. The local stations tend to be small, so hopefully there’s only one or two policemen on duty. If I can get in and overpower the guard without anyone else hearing, we have a chance.”

A chance. “You need a decoy,” I reply. Paul cocks his head. “I can go into the police station, claim I lost my passport. Flirt.” A wrinkle of displeasure forms on his brow. “That way any other policemen will be distracted while you are in the holding area.” Paul opens his mouth, but before he can speak, I continue. “Come on. I’m right and you know it. You need my help.”

“I don’t know…” Paul begins. “I mean, what if something goes wrong?”

“Then I’m just another woman in a police station. I can walk right back out the front door. But it could make a huge difference in your being able to get to Marcelitis.”

I watch Paul’s face as he searches for another argument. “Okay,” he concedes. “But at the first hint of any trouble, I want you to get out of there and go to…” He stops, unable to finish the sentence. I know that he wants to be able to tell me to go to the embassy. Suddenly I am reminded of playing tag with the other children in my village as a child. There was always home base, a safe place that one could run to and not be caught. But we are behind Soviet lines, completely alone. There is no home base here. “Well, just get out of there, okay?”

“Agreed. When are we going to do this?”

I follow his gaze to the clock over the bar. It is almost nine o’clock. “Soon, I think. The night shift should come on around ten and hopefully they’ll be on a skeleton crew after that.”

An hour later we stand in a doorway around the corner from the police station. It is a drab, one-story concrete structure, no larger than a corner grocery store. “There’s the shift change,” Paul whispers as three policemen exit the station. Their voices fade as they walk away from us down the street. “You’ll go in the front door,” Paul instructs, pointing. “There should be just one guard at the desk. Talk slowly. I’ll go around to the back and find the holding cell. It’s probably in the basement.”

“What if the back door is locked?”

“I’ll get in,” Paul says, his face resolute. “There’s always a way.”

I wonder then about the work he has been doing since surviving the crash, the things he must have seen. “How long do you need me to stall?”

“Fifteen minutes at least. Twenty would be ideal. Any longer and Marcelitis is either not there or dead.”

A shiver runs up my spine. I hadn’t considered the possibility that we might be too late. “You don’t think…”

He shakes his head. “That they would kill him here? Highly unlikely.” I start to walk out of the doorway but Paul grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me back. “Marta, wait.” I turn back. His eyes search mine and for a second I wonder if he might try to kiss me again. “I want to say, I mean, in case something happens…” He falters.

I look up, fighting the urge to touch his cheek. “Let’s just get this done.”

He nods. “Be careful.”

I cross the street hurriedly. At the door of the police station, I pause and turn back. Paul has disappeared from the alleyway. I take a deep breath, then open the door. Inside, there are two desks, set about a meter apart. A heavyset policeman sits behind the desk to my right, reading a newspaper. “Ja?” he says, not looking up.

“G-guten abend,” I stammer.

At the sound of my voice, he lifts his head. Taking me in from bottom to top, his expression changes. “Guten abend, fräulein. How can I help?”

I summon my most distressed expression. “I was on my way to visit my aunt when I realized my passport was gone.”

“Lost or stolen?”

I hesitate. “Stolen, I think. My money is gone, too.”

“You’ll need to fill out a report,” the officer says. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a form.

I approach the desk slowly, stalling for time. “I’m Lola,” I say softly as I sit down. “What’s your name?”

He gestures to the name on the breast pocket of his uniform. “Sergeant Schobel.”

“No, I mean your first name,” I press.

Schobel hesitates, and for a moment I wonder if I have gone too far. “Joseph,” he replies.

“Joseph, it’s nice to meet you. Do you have a pen I can use?” As he hands me the pen, I brush my fingers against his, lingering for just a second. He pulls his hand back and quickly begins shuffling the papers on the desk.

I look down at the form, feeling queasy from the effort of flirting with Schobel. Is this what it felt like for Emma, I wonder, having to be close to the Kommandant? Concentrate, I tell myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I look up. Schobel has picked up his newspaper and begun to read once more, but I can see him taking small furtive peeks at the top of my blouse. On the rear wall, I notice the outline of a wall hanging that has been removed. A swastika, I realize, suddenly nauseous.

Forcing myself to breathe, I turn back to the form. A minute later I look up again. Behind the desks, there is a doorway leading to a corridor. That must be the way to the basement stairs. But I do not see any sign of Paul. I look down at the form again, pretending to write. Suddenly, there are footsteps in the corridor and another officer, older than the first and also heavyset, appears in the doorway. “What’s going on, Schobel?” he asks.

I freeze, pen suspended midair. I was not prepared for a second policeman. “Young lady was on her way to visit her aunt and had her passport stolen,” Schobel replies.

“You’re having her fill out a report?” asks the older man, whose name tag reads Hart. Schobel nods. “Good. I’m going to check on things downstairs.” He turns and begins walking toward the staircase.

Oh God. If Hart goes downstairs now, he will surely catch Paul. I jump to my feet. “Excuse me…” I call after him.

He turns back, clearly annoyed. “Yes?”

I take a step toward him, pretending to read his name tag. “Officer…Hart, is it?” He nods impatiently. “Well, I wanted to ask you and Officer Schobel what I should do now that I have lost my passport and money.” I speak as slowly as I can, stalling for time.

“Officer Schobel will be able to provide any assistance you need. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“But I wanted to ask both of you. I mean…” I stop as something moves behind Hart in the corridor. I recognize the flash of Paul’s brown coat before it disappears again. I have to keep Hart talking. “I mean, that is…” I falter. Noticing my distraction, Hart spins around. But the hallway is empty.

“Fräulein, I really must ask you to sit down and let Officer Schobel assist you.”

If I sit down, Hart will go downstairs and discover Paul. “But surely with your experience…” I press, stalling for time.

Hart draws his eyebrows so closely together they look like a single knot of hair. “What street does your aunt live on?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your aunt, the one you came to visit in Berlin. What is her street address?”

I hesitate, trying desperately to come up with an answer. “Number seven, Ringlerstrasse,” I reply, coming up with the name of the only street I remember passing on our way over to the police station, then adding a house number.

Watching Hart’s eyes go wide with recognition, I know that I have made some kind of a mistake. “That’s quite impossible, fräulein. The houses on Ringlerstrasse have been completely uninhabitable since the last bombing raids during the war.” He grabs me roughly by the wrist. “Now, what are you doing here?”