Midnight Hunter

My heart moves up into my throat but I keep smiling even though it makes my lip hurt. “I’ve been here a few weeks. You’ve probably seen me around the office.”

“Herr Hauptmann. Can I help you with anything?” Lenore is standing by her desk, an unfriendly expression in her eyes. That’s not like her. Usually she’s all smiles for the officers.

He stays where he is, still watching me and smiling his synthetic, curious smile that makes me want to leap out from behind my desk and run. “Just looking for Volker, Fräulein Hoffman.”

“Herr Oberstleutnant is not here at the moment but I’ll make sure he knows you wanted to see him.” Lenore puts a hard stress on Herr Oberstleutnant as if correcting his insubordination, and gestures for me to come to her desk. “Fräulein Dittmar, can I get your help with this?”

Willing my legs not to shake, I peel myself out of my chair and go over to Lenore. What will happen to me if he remembers where he last saw me? Will Volker be punished, too, or will it just be me who’s sent to Hohenschönhausen?

I feel the Hauptmann’s eyes on me for several moments longer, and then he gets up and leaves. I notice Lenore glaring after him.

Trying to sound curious rather than terrified, I say, “Don’t you like that man? Who is he?”

“Hauptmann Heydrich. And no, I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Herr Oberstleutnant doesn’t like him. No, it’s all right. I didn’t actually need you, I was just getting you away from him.”

I go back to my desk, thinking. Volker not liking Heydrich is enough for Lenore to dislike him? She’s very loyal, so that’s not a surprise. But what can Volker have against him? Remembering Heydrich’s careless use of Volker’s name, the comfortable way he settled himself on my desk to talk to me, I suppose the man’s arrogance could rub Volker the wrong way. There’s probably only room for one self-important autocrat in this building as far as Volker’s concerned.

Twenty minutes later Volker himself strides through our alcove on the way to his office. Lenore calls after him, “Hauptmann Heydrich was here earlier, asking Fräulein Dittmar where you were.”

Volker stiffens, and he turns to me. His tone carefully even, he asks, “Did he talk to you?” But I can see what he really means is, Did he recognize you?

I shake my head. “He didn’t say what he wanted.”

Volker taps his forefinger against his thigh, thinking. He’s got an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before, something akin to wariness. Is he afraid of Heydrich? But from the way he’s looking at me I realize that he’s not afraid for himself. He’s afraid for me. That’s why he changed my name from Daumler to Dittmar, I realize, in case Heydrich got my name from one of the people who were captured during the raid.

Then again, maybe Volker is a little worried for himself. I doubt his superiors would be pleased to hear he’s got a traitor working for him and living with him. How much trouble would he get into if they found out? Those silver epaulettes of his probably get him out of all sorts of crimes.

Like shooting a prisoner. I wince and look down, thinking about Ulrich. Volker’s standing in front of my desk, watching me. Me and my stupid glass face. He’s probably seen every thought I just had flicker across it. There’s a smudge on the side of my typewriter and I rub it carefully, keeping my eyes averted. Finally, Volker realizes I’m not going to look up at him again and he disappears into his office.

Not looking at Volker becomes a habit over the next few days. The bruises on my neck fade to a flat purply-brown and my voice goes back to normal. A few capillaries that had burst around my eyes shrink and disappear, and Frau Fischer pronounces that my lip is healing well and she’ll be able to take the stitches out in a day or two. Volker doesn’t call me into his office to dictate any letters and the drives back and forth between his apartment and HQ are made in silence. I can sense he wants to talk to me but I’m too angry with him, too confused. I don’t want to hear more sad tales from his past.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious. I wonder who the woman was, the one who died at Auschwitz. Did he know she was Jewish when he met her? Surely not, or he would have tried to get her out of the country, if he really loved her. So why did she keep being Jewish a secret? Was she afraid of him? Maybe he felt about her the way he feels about me—a dark possessiveness that’s more like ownership than love. Or maybe she just didn’t trust a Nazi officer with the truth.

I wonder too about his time as a prisoner of war and when it was he decided that communism was the way forward. I wonder about his love for Germany. I even envy it. What must it be like to feel so strongly about your country—about anything—that you would devote your life to it, to the exclusion of almost everything else?

But I keep my questions to myself and turn my face away when he offers his arm to help me out of his car, when he offers me a cup of coffee, or when he removes his uniform jacket the second we’re inside the apartment. One evening he even offers me a cigarette, a sardonic glint in his eyes, which makes me angry as he’s reminding me of what happened in his office with the silk stockings.

Things seem like they will go on like this indefinitely until Thursday, when a very strange thing happens.

I’m in the filing room putting away some correspondence when a boy from the mail room walks past the door, stops when he sees me, and comes in with his wire box on wheels. I’ve seen him around the office. He’s nineteen or so and is always whistling or chatting to the secretaries. “Oh good, you’ll save me a trip. I’ve got some post for your Oberstleutnant.”

I clench my teeth. Volker is not my anything, but I bite down on my temper because it was meant as an innocent turn of phrase. I’m about to point out that I’m hardly saving him a trip as Lenore’s desk, where the mail is usually delivered, is only thirty feet down the corridor, when I hear him mutter something under his breath so quietly I’m not sure if I heard him right.

“Are you looking for friends?” He’s still flipping through the envelopes in the basket and I can’t see his face through the fringe of auburn hair that’s fallen over his forehead.

I stare at him. Friends? What does he mean by friends?

When he glances up his green eyes fasten on my lip and the faded bruises on my neck. He’s got lots of freckles on his face, like cocoa powder scattered over cold milk. Still speaking softly, he says, “He did that to you, didn’t he?”

He means Volker. I don’t say anything, letting him draw his own conclusions. There’s a tight, angry look on his face as he holds out a bundle of letters to me, and I take them. “I’ve always thought Volker was a nasty son of a bitch.” In a normal tone of voice he adds, “Hang on, I think there’s some more in here somewhere.”

I flip through the letters, trying to look nonchalant, but my heart is racing. What do you mean, friends? Do you mean people who can get me out? How do you know it’s safe to ask me this? Do you know who I am?

My companion murmurs into the correspondence, “I’m part of a group. We’re all over East Berlin. In offices, factories, the border guards. We can get you out, if you want. Away from him.”