Midnight Hunter

Reinhardt’s gone a long time, and I feel my belly rumble despite the anxiety of the afternoon. It’s been a long day already. There’s a can of orange soda in my bag and I drink half of the warm, sickly sweet beverage, hoping the sugar will even out my nerves.

Eventually I hear a car engine, and I stiffen. It’s a black car, and I breathe with relief when I see Reinhardt behind the wheel. I jump up and put our bags into the trunk, but he doesn’t let me close it. Instead, he opens his case and I watch as he changes into his Stasi uniform. “You brought it with you,” I say as he fits the cap over his head. It’s him, I think with a shiver. It’s der Mitternachtsjäger.

“Ja, Liebling. I thought it might come in useful.” He takes a length of rope from his case and holds it up. “I think you ought to be tied up for this.”

My eyes go wide. “Tied up for what?”

He smiles his sinister hunter’s smile. “Tied up for our little ruse. Hold out your hands?” He binds my wrists and then stands back and examines me. “You certainly look the part of a little fugitive.”

I don’t know what he means until I glance into one of the car’s side mirrors. There are scratches on my face and arms from the bushes, a leaf in my hair and dirt smudges on my white blouse. Yes, I have the look of being hunted down by a Stasi officer, and I realize what his ruse might be.

We drive in silence. When I glance at Reinhardt I see his face has taken on that hard, determined expression I remember from the night of the bakery raid, and from the night that Ulrich nearly killed me. He’s willing to commit murder to get us out of this but I pray that it won’t come to that, for his sake and for the sake of whomever we encounter.

Except Heydrich. Maybe I won’t feel too bad if he shoots Heydrich.

We approach the roadblock and a guard holds up a white gloved hand, signaling for us to stop. Reinhardt puts the car into neutral and gets out, slamming the door. He points to one of the guards, and then to me. “You. Watch her.” The guard, a boy of about nineteen with a rifle in his hands looks curiously in through the window at me. I pull a little on the ropes binding my wrists and scowl at him.

Reinhardt addresses the soldier with two stripes on his arm. “I am Oberstleutnant Maier of the Staatssicherheit. There is a border crossing up ahead, ja? I need to radio East Berlin immediately.” He doesn’t take out any ID but I guess that he’s hoping his authority and uniform will do the work. There’s some frowning among the guards, so Reinhardt repeats what he said in Russian and points to me. “Prisoner. Plennyy.”

The guards seem to understand this and salute him, and Reinhardt gets back into the car. As we’re waved through the checkpoint I risk at glance at Reinhardt’s face and it’s stiff and closed. The face of a Stasi officer on important business, unwilling for anyone or anything to stand in his way. Once we’re several hundred meters away from the checkpoint his face clears and he puts a hand on my leg. “First hurdle down. Good, Liebling, you did well. But the next will be more complicated.”

I don’t feel as confident as he is and I wonder if I’m going to throw up again. “What if Heydrich himself is at the checkpoint? What if they have our description?”

“It’s a risk, but remember what I said—Heydrich is expecting us to defect. That roadblock might have had nothing to do with us, or it could be that we’ve been followed despite my precautions. My Russian isn’t good enough to find out the answers we need, but my Bulgarian is. There’ll be Bulgarian guards at the next checkpoint.”

We drive in silence for several minutes, and then Reinhardt clears his throat and says, “I’ll need to bring you with me when I get out of the car this time. There’ll be a radio inside the checkpoint and I need you to cause a distraction—don’t run, don’t give the guards a reason to shoot you. Shout at them, try to kick them perhaps. But don’t try too hard or they’ll hurt you. Just do enough so that their attention is diverted from what I’m doing with the radio.”

I nod, my mouth too dry to reply.

“I don’t want to ask you to do this but it’s the only way.”

“It’s fine. I want to help.”

“Wishing you were safely in West Berlin?” he asks with a tight smile.

Am I? Away from all this tension and fear, all this risk? “No. I’d rather be fleeing with you than be safe in West Berlin without you.”

He reaches out a hand to caress my cheek, his eyes on the road ahead. “That’s my brave girl.”

The border crossing looms and he pulls the car to a stop. Once he’s helped me out of the car he holds me tightly around the upper arm and the barrel of the gun digs between my ribs. I try not to think about the fact that the safety’s off and his finger is on the trigger.

With the air of a man who’s had a very trying day he marches me up to the checkpoint office and pushes me inside. He locates the highest ranked officer and waits to be saluted. The young man’s eyes go wide at the sight of Reinhardt’s uniform and decoration, and he snaps to attention with a smart salute. Reinhardt returns it and begins speaking rapidly in Bulgarian. After a moment I’m thrust into a chair and two guards stand over me while Reinhardt is directed toward the radio. He puts the earpiece to his ear and his broad back conceals what he’s doing. I hear him talking in German and I look up at the two guards.

“Don’t point your guns at me,” I say to their uncomprehending faces. I doubt they understand what I’m saying but that doesn’t matter. An angry prisoner is obvious in any language. I stand up, shouting, and the two guard put heavy hands on my shoulders and force me down again. The guard that saluted Reinhardt was watching him, but he turns toward the commotion I’m making. Good. But my exultation is short-lived as I’m back-handed across the face. I lean forward, gasping, waiting for the blazing pain to subside.

“Would you keep her silent,” Reinhardt growls over his shoulder, but I catch his eye and I know he’s had time to do whatever he wanted to do with the radio. I sit quietly as he finishes the last of his call, certain that he’s speaking to dead air and not Stasi HQ.

A thrill goes through me. None of these guards seem to know who we are. With the radio disabled, even if one of Heydrich’s men saw us in the town they won’t be able to communicate with the checkpoint. This is going to work. We’re going to make it.

There’s movement out of the corner of my eye and I glance over, expecting to see another guard drawn by my shouting. But it’s not a man in a Bulgarian or Soviet uniform. It’s the olive green and smart tailoring of a Stasi officer. Ice water floods my veins as I realize who it is.

Heydrich. There’s a gun in his hand and it’s pointed at Reinhardt’s back.

I open my mouth to scream but Heydrich steps forward and hits me up the side of my head with the barrel of his gun. I reel back and the world slides out of focus. There’s shouting, I see a gun raised. Two shots ring out. Blood sprays in the air and someone calls out in pain. Reinhardt slumps to the ground just a few feet from me, his hand pressed against his neck, blood gouting from between his fingers. His eyes are wide with shock.

It’s like a nightmare. I open my mouth to shout his name but black spots rush up. I fight for consciousness. Reinhardt needs me. But I feel myself slipping away.

We were so close to finally being free. So close, but we didn’t make it.