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But could she brazen it out, with that rifle in the wardrobe?
There was a firm, loud knock. Her first instinct was to back away. Then she realized she would learn nothing that way. She stepped forward, took the key out of the lock, careful not to make a sound, then bent down to look through the keyhole. She could see nothing.
Sweat gathered on her skin, clammy one minute, ice the next.
She heard footsteps. What if the person outside also thought to look through the keyhole? And saw her staring back? She straightened up and silently replaced the key. Her whole body was shaking. She must think clearly!
What if she went up, not down? Where would she end up? On the roof? Hardly. It was not flat. An attic fire escape? There must be one. Would it be from a room? No, one fire escape would serve several rooms, therefore was available through a window everyone could reach. Her heart was pounding. She could be caught, trapped, executed. No time to say goodbye to her family, to Lucas. Was there an afterlife, as the Bible said? Would Mike be waiting for her, or Ian? Or were those fairy tales to comfort frightened children facing the unknown, when really there was only darkness, eternal solitude?
As soon as it was quiet outside she would have to go. She could hardly bring a case with clothes. Her handbag with her papers, money, and camera would be about all she could carry down a possibly rickety and seldom-used stair. If it was some kind of retracting ladder, perhaps it had never been used? It could even be eaten by rust! How far could she jump without breaking a leg?
She gathered her things and went to the door, listening for any steps. She must compose herself. Stand upright. Smile. Walk as if she were going about some perfectly innocent activity. What, for heaven’s sake? Going up to the attic with her handbag in her hands!
There was no sound in the corridor. Were they there, just waiting?
She opened the door. She could see no one. She went out quickly and closed the door behind her. She stood up very straight and, carrying the bag as if it weighed nothing, walked quickly and silently along the corridor, toward the stairs that led up to the next floor.
She met no one. The people on the ground floor would use the elevator.
She went quickly up to the top floor. No one was there. Perhaps they were all in the dining room, or out. Which way would the fire escape be? Toward the back? Think clearly! No one puts a metal fire escape at the front of a building. They were always rather ugly, strictly utilitarian. But she had turned with the bend in the stairs. Or were there two bends? Which way was back now?
She walked along one corridor, and ended up at a blank wall.
She heard footsteps.
What possible explanation could she give for being up here? She should have thought of that before she left her room. How stupid!
She had had nightmares like this: running to escape something terrible, always getting higher, farther, completely lost, the thing chasing her always coming a little closer.
Only this was real. She had seen the Brownshirts: They were no fairy-tale monsters. She had looked into their faces and seen real people, frightened and angry, people who had the power of death in their hands, and an endless hunger for revenge on anyone they could find an excuse to hurt. They had to fight back at something. Prove they were alive.
She turned around and faced the other way, just as a man came out of the elevator and started toward her. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, ordinary.
She smiled at him and murmured in German, “Good morning, sir.” He said something in return. Please heaven, he thought she occupied one of the rooms just behind her. He must occupy one of them. Thank goodness there were two more.
She turned the corner and increased her pace. This corridor was lighter. Was there a window at the end, around the slight elbow ahead? More important, did it have a fire escape? Once she was on it, it would be obvious that she was trying to get away. What woman wearing a dress would be on the fire escape, with a case, in the early afternoon? She should have just gone down to the lobby and gone out through the front door, like any sane person.
She must stop dithering. There was no “good” choice. There was getting caught, or escaping.
She turned the quasi-corner and saw the window ahead. It was about two and a half feet above the floor, easy enough to climb out of. If it did not open, she was prepared to smash it.
She walked forward quickly, took hold of the ring-shaped handles, and heaved. After an instant’s hesitation, it opened upward and seemed to wedge there. The fire escape beyond was rusted, but looked firm enough. Anyway, there was no alternative now.
What if they were waiting for her one floor down? Or two floors? Or at the bottom? She leaned out and looked, but she could see nobody. Far below, there was a shed with a slightly sloping roof, several cans for rubbish, some bins of coal and coke, and a concrete yard perhaps fifteen feet square.
Then she heard heavy footsteps behind her. A man shouted.
There was no time. She climbed through the window onto the fire escape, scratching her leg, slammed the window shut, and set off downward, clinging with one hand to the rusty railing.
She was down one floor. She dared not look at the window to see if there was anyone waiting for her. She had nowhere else to go, even if there were.
Third floor. Down again.
Second floor. On down.
Next floor and the shed roof. Was that all there was? From there you were supposed to jump? Perhaps if the building was on fire, you would be happy enough to do that?
She heard a shout of anger from above her. The next moment there was a shot and a bullet whined past her and ricocheted off the tin roof only a few feet away. She scrambled across the corner of the roof onto the top of a trash can, and then onto the ground between the rubbish and the coke bins, sliding through as rapidly as she could.
