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25
The police station was cold and smelled of stale smoke and cleaning fluid. The floor was scratched, its linoleum patchily worn. Elena was taken into a small side room and left standing. When the doors shut behind her, she felt as if deep water were closing over her head. She was so frightened, it was like drowning, except that she was still alive, still breathing, overbreathing, feeling her throat tighten.
Two men entered the room. They faced her, both of them fair-skinned, light-haired. No different on the outside from dozens of men she knew at home. Inside, she imagined them as unreachable to her as those students who had capered around the fires.
Neither of them spoke, they just stared at her. She felt as if she were suffocating. Was this the day she would die?
“I did not take anything from a woman,” she said again. “Anything at all.” Her jaw was so tight, so aching with tension that it was hard to frame the words.
“We know that, miss. What’s your name?” One of the men stepped closer to her, too close. His voice was soft, almost purring, but she could feel his breath on her face. She forced herself to look at him, at his eyes. This was it, the moment she had feared. She must not give away Jacob, Eli, and Zillah. She thought of Ian, lying bleeding on the floor of the railway carriage. Then Mike, the last time she had seen him, in uniform, going back to the battle line. Had he any idea he would never come home? Perhaps she would never go home either.
And then it struck her: They already knew the answers!
“Name?” the policeman repeated.
There was no point in lying. Her passport was in her bag and they had confiscated it. “Elena Standish.”
“Is that English?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing in Berlin?”
“It’s a beautiful city.” She took a breath. Any mistake at all and she would end up doing the one thing she dreaded. It was always at the front of her mind. She had already failed Ian. His death was not her fault, but in a way, Scharnhorst’s was. Not that his death mattered, only that Britain must not be blamed for it. “I lived here when I was younger. My family lived here because of my father’s work.”
“So, you know the city.” There was triumph in his voice. He was still standing too close to her, crowding her. She refused to step back.
“Yes, some of it.”
He looked her up and down. “You must have been a child.”
“It was about ten years ago. I was seventeen when I came, twenty when I left.” So far, this was the exact truth. Always stick to the truth if you can. Easier to remember. Perhaps this was going to be all right.
“What did he do, this father of yours that came to Berlin?”
“He was a diplomat.” No need to tell them how high he was in the service.
“You mean a spy!” The man’s eyes gleamed as if he had made her give up valuable information.
“No, a diplomat. Trying to make things better between our two countries.”
He nodded, as if he agreed with her. He even smiled. Then he slapped her across the face, hard. It stung and knocked her off balance, making her fall back a couple of steps. The pain of it made her eyes water. Fury boiled up inside her. She wanted to shout at him, demand he explain himself. She wished to retaliate, but she did not dare to. The humiliation choked her. What was the best reaction? If she showed how afraid she was, he would know his tactics worked. If she didn’t, it would look like defiance. Next time, he would hit her harder. She moved her tongue around her mouth, tasting blood.
Was there any point in trying to reason with him? Was he beyond reach, too, like the book-burners?
“Is your father here with you?” the other policeman asked.
“No.” Keep it short. Give the bastards nothing else to contradict.
“You’re alone?”
“I’m twenty-eight!”
Another slap. This time she was less startled and it seemed to hurt a little less. What had angered him about that? It was only her age. Perhaps he did not need a reason? Was this what madness was like, the pain, the violence out of nowhere? It stung until she felt dizzy with it, and she wanted to strike him back. It was only the conviction that she would lose, and be hurt even more, that stopped her.
“Are you alone?” he said again, the words slow and careful, pushed between his teeth.
To acknowledge being alone meant that there was no one to help her. It made her even more vulnerable. But this was where they would catch her out. She must not betray Jacob, or the Hubermanns.
