Midnight Hunter

“She suffered and died while I was a prisoner of war, and I was powerless to stop it.” He puts his empty glass aside and gets to his feet. I see how tired he is, but also how conviction burns brightly in his eyes as he looks at me.

“But I’m not powerless now. So you see, Liebling, if anyone hurts you, and I’m able to, I will kill them.”

Chapter Thirteen

Evony

Volker insists I go to bed after that and asks Frau Fischer for a sleeping draft. He watches me drain the milky, benzodiazepine-laced glass of water as I sit on the edge of my bed, and then accepts the tumbler back.

“It will be better in the morning,” he tells me, watching me get under the covers and turn my back to him.

Liar. It won’t be better in the morning. Everything will be just the same.

He leaves me alone, shutting the door softly behind him. Within minutes the drug starts to work its numbing effects on me, and I’m grateful. I don’t know what to do with the things he’s told me. That he was once in love. That he holds Germany dear and believes he’s doing his part to keep the peace. That he feels no remorse about imprisoning and will kill anyone who tries to take me from him.

Am I like her, this girl the Nazis murdered? Does he see her when he looks at me?

Cotton wool finally encircles my brain, muffling my thoughts, and I sleep.

When I appear at the breakfast table the next morning, sluggish and gray-faced, Volker tells me to go back to bed. I shake my head and reach for the coffee pot.

“I’m fine,” I rasp. “I’d rather keep busy.” The last thing I want is to be in the apartment alone but under guard while the nightmare that was yesterday churns in my head. Volker has a righteous air about him as he examines the bruising on my face and neck, as if he’s congratulating himself for killing Ulrich.

It’s too painful to swallow anything solid so I just have coffee for breakfast. Frau Fischer ties a printed satin scarf around my neck in an effort to cover the bruises but it doesn’t work very well.

Hans must have taken the Mercedes-Benz to be repaired as we drive to Stasi HQ in a different car. When we arrive at the office Lenore’s eyes widen at the sight of me, but she waits until Volker closes his office door before she says, “What happened to you? Evony, your lip.”

I touch it carefully. It’s a little less swollen this morning but it looks terrible, all black and red, the stitches making me look like something out of a horror film. “Car accident after leaving the office yesterday. We hit a Trabi. I hit the back of Hans’ seat.”

Her eyes slide to the scarf. “Why do you sound funny?”

“I, um, ran into someone while Volker was talking to the Trabi driver. He wasn’t pleased to see me.” Lenore looks perplexed, but she recognizes my desire not to talk about it and we get to work.

I don’t know how to deal with Ulrich’s death or what to make of the things Volker told me last night, so I throw myself into typing. Now I know why Volker works so much. Working means you don’t have time to remember terrible things.

Lat

er in the morning both Volker and Lenore are in another part of the building and I’m alone at my desk when someone steps into the alcove.

“Is Volker in his office?”

I look up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, and freeze. A Stasi officer is standing a few feet from my desk. He has a captain’s decorations on his uniform, meaning he’s a few ranks below Volker. It also means he shouldn’t be referring to the Oberstleutnant as just Volker, even to me. But that’s not what makes the bottom fall out of my stomach.

I know him. He was in the bakery the night of the raid, yelling orders to the border guards. He’s thirty or so, dark-haired with a thin moustache. I don’t like his eyes, which are an unsettling shade of ice blue. They seem to be looking at me speculatively and my heart starts to pound, wondering if he’s recognized me, before I remember he must be looking at my injuries.

“Nein, Herr Hauptmann. He’s out at the moment. Shall I let him know you wanted to see him?”

He says, with what I’m sure is artificial concern, “Oh, dear. What happened to you?”

I feel guilt flash over my face at the thought of Ulrich and my attempt to flee. “Nothing. Car accident.”

The Hauptmann tuts sympathetically and sits down on the edge of my desk. I have the urge to lean away from him but I hold myself still, looking up at the man with blank politeness. He hasn’t recognized you. He’s just being nosy, like all Stasi officers are.

“You’re living with Volker, aren’t you?”

I see his eyes stray to the bruises on my neck and I resist the urge to fidget with the scarf. “Yes. I’m—I’m from outside East Berlin. He’s a friend of my family’s so I’m staying with him.” Why are you saying this? Just shut up. No one expects you to volunteer this information.

Herr Hauptmann smiles down at me once more and I see the first honest expression in his eyes: one of vague recognition. “Have we met somewhere?”