Midnight Hunter

He gets out of bed and I watch his broad, naked torso retreating. He pulls a dressing gown from the hook on the door and leaves the bedroom without looking back.

8 8 8

I wake just after seven and he’s there, smiling as if nothing happened, wearing a white shirt and his hair damp from the shower and neatly combed. He trails kisses down my naked body, his eyes warm with pleasure that I’ve stayed the whole night. When he reaches my sex he hooks my legs over his shoulders and licks me with aching tenderness. I push out every thought but this; his warmth, his love, his tongue on me. I bury my hands in his short hair, trying to indelibly print this moment on my heart.

At breakfast he resumes last night’s train of thought once Frau Fischer is out of the room. “They don’t know, Liebling. That’s the most important thing. Heydrich and your little friend think they’re one step ahead of us but really we’re one step ahead of them.” He takes an appreciative sip of his coffee, clearly in his element. Subterfuge. Schemes. He thrives on this stuff. The fact that we may both end up in prison doesn’t seem to faze him.

I look up at him, my breakfast before me forgotten because my stomach’s churning too much to eat. “When should I turn in my first report, Herr Oberstleutnant?”

He ignores my sardonic tone and leans down and kisses me. “No need, my little double-agent. You relay everything directly to me.”

He’s so confident that I can’t resist goading him. “What if they sweeten the deal? What if I tell my contact that I know that they know who I am. Then they’ll know that I know that they know, but you won’t know. I could become a triple agent.”

But Reinhardt just shakes out his newspaper and peruses the print. “Ah, well, you know how I enjoy a challenge, meine Liebe.”

Over the next few days Reinhardt is calm and focused while I quietly go to pieces. I want to avoid Peter but Reinhardt insists that we do nothing different, and surely I’ll be curious to know if he’s learned anything about my “friend” Heinrich Daumler. Next time I hear Peter’s whistling I go to the filing room and he tells me that he hasn’t managed to trace my father. I pretend to be disappointed and hint that I may have discovered something of interest to the group and I will keep him informed.

Then I go and report to Reinhardt. He smiles broadly as he listens, clearly loving every moment of our deception together. He comes round his desk and tries to kiss me, but I put a finger to his lips.

“This isn’t amusing, or fun. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t humiliated Heydrich.”

“But Liebling, how I enjoyed it so.”

Later when I’m taking some papers to another floor I find myself walking past Heydrich’s office and I slow down, thinking about the bakery raid. What if he never gave Reinhardt and his Oberst a complete report about what happened that night? What if it was too embarrassing for him to reveal to his superior officers just how many dissidents escaped and where they fled to? He might have handed in an altered report that didn’t make him look quite so incompetent.

If I’ve learned anything from Reinhardt it’s that the Stasi are overly fond of record-keeping. Perhaps Heydrich has kept the real report to himself in case it has intel that might come in use later on.

There’s no secretary sitting outside his office. A frosted glass window shows no movement behind it. I knock on his door, just to be sure no one’s in there, and when I try the handle it’s unlocked and go inside, heart pounding. If Reinhardt knew what I was doing he’d be furious, but no matter what we feel for each other I need to keep doing everything I can to get out of East Berlin.

I love you. My eyes close briefly as I remember last night. He loves me because I’ll never stop fighting, and that knowledge gives me the strength to do what I need to do.

With my back against the door I scan the room. It’s not as large as Reinhardt’s office and doesn’t have as many windows, but it’s furnished in the same minimalist way, with buttery pine furniture and a studio portrait of the Chairman on the wall.

If Heydrich is keeping documents about the raid then they might be in his desk. I hurry over and try the drawers, but it seems Heydrich is a cautious man as they’re locked. I crouch down and fish a bobby pin out of my hair and stick it into the lock. I used to practice this on an old bureau in our apartment for fun and could open all the locks within minutes. There’s something different about this lock, though, or I’m wound too tightly to concentrate as the minutes tick by and I’ve made no progress. Every time someone passes along the corridor outside the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Do I have any legitimate reason for being in here if I get caught? Is there anything that I can say to excuse this?

While I’m worrying over this, the lock clicks and the drawer slides open. I scrabble hastily through the contents hoping to find something resembling an intelligence report like the one Reinhardt showed me in the Stasi archives. But all the documents seem to be reports, filled with codenames and words that mean nothing to me, and I start to despair that this is a waste of

time.

Then a date at the top of a page catches my eyes, a week before the raid, and I pull out the document and start to read.

Apprehended man in late forties as he was exiting abandoned bakery on Pieterstrasse at approx. 0415hr. While he was in custody, inspection of the building revealed a tunnel that had been dug under the Wall as a means of escape to the West. Man, codename CARSTON, at first denied that anyone else was involved. Threats against his family were successful and he agreed to provide information about the group who intend to use this tunnel as a means of escape in exchange for allowing him to defect with his daughter. Have secured time and date of group’s intended use. Will apprehend CARSTON and his daughter on the night along with the other attempted escapees.

The report continues, dated several days after the raid.

Raid unsuccessfully executed. CARSTON is in W. Berlin with a number of other defectors who evaded border guards. A young woman killed by Obstlt. Volker has been erroneously reported to CARSTON as his daughter by one of his fellow defectors. This error is to remain uncorrected lest it prove useful in the future. The true whereabouts of CARSTON’s daughter are unknown, though she is suspected of being at large in E. Berlin.

When I finish reading I stare at the pages without moving. My father was the one to betray everyone in our group in exchange for allowing the two of us escape to the West. It can’t be true. How could he have done such a thing to all those people? To Ana, to his best friend Ulrich? I remember how agitated he was that night, how he changed our plans at the last moment, wanting me to go with him to the bakery instead of with Ana. I’m not losing you at the eleventh hour. You’re my daughter and I want you with me. Is that so hard to understand?

He must have suspected that Heydrich would go back on his word and try to take us prisoner. Who told Dad that Reinhardt had shot me rather than Ana? How could they have confused us? But then, we were always spoken of in the same breath at meetings. Ana and Evony are digging tonight. Ana and Evony are leaving next, go quickly girls, get home safe. Maybe whoever it was who saw Ana die always assumed that I was Ana and she was me.

Dad thinks I’m dead. He’s in West Berlin right now and he thinks I’m dead. A fat tear plops onto the typewritten page and ripples the paper. All this time I’ve spent puzzling over who sold us out while losing sleep over worrying about my father, and it was him all along. I fold the report into a square, shove it in my pocket and slam the desk closed, not bothering to try and relock it. Forgetting that I should take care not to be seen or heard I go out into the hall on shaking legs—

And run straight into Peter.

He’s got his hand on the mail cart. I stare into his eyes, my mind frozen with grief and surprise. I’m close enough to count every freckle on his face. He stares at me and then at Heydrich’s door like he doesn’t comprehend what he’s seeing. Then understanding blazes in his eyes. Before he can ask any questions I push past him and go straight to Reinhardt’s office, bursting in without knocking.

Reinhardt looks up, startled, and when he sees the look on my face he gets up from his desk and comes toward me. “Liebling, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”