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With a flood of horror, she realized how obvious she must look, standing here in the street, like a rabbit paralyzed in the headlights of a car. She must be drawing other people’s attention, too, not just this young man’s.
“Where do you come from?” she asked. It was abrupt, almost rude, but she had to know if he was German, or if he was here at the embassy because perhaps he was a foreigner, too.
“Chicago,” he replied with a bleak smile. “Or fairly near there. Why?”
She breathed out with a sigh. He was American. “I need to get to the embassy,” she explained. “I tried the British, but it’s even more tightly surrounded than this. I thought of here, because my mother is American, but this looks hopeless, too…”
“You could try, if you have business,” he said doubtfully. “They’re looking for the woman they think shot Scharnhorst. You must have heard about it.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I know. I must look like her…” Was that a stupid thing to say? Or would it be even more obvious if she pretended she did not know? She had fallen straight into the very hole she was trying to avoid.
“You do,” he agreed, looking at her more intently. “They might stop you if you go any closer. I think you should leave, rather quietly.”
“I’ve nowhere to go!” she said more sharply than she had intended. She could hear the edge in her voice. “I can’t go back to the hotel. I only just managed to get away. They were actually shooting at me.” She steadied her voice. She sounded almost hysterical.
“I don’t suppose you did shoot him?” he asked with a twisted half smile. “I’d quite like to meet a hero of that order.”
“Well, you’re out of luck now, because I didn’t. But when I got back to my hotel room there was a rifle in my wardrobe, with those special sights they have for shooting at long distances. I left…”
He took her arm and she jumped at his grip, trying to pull away.
“Stop it,” he said quietly. “They’re looking for someone alone. Whether you actually shot him or not, you’ll do just as well, for their purposes, to make them look good. We’ve got to get away from here. Don’t make a scene.” He moved so that she had to turn to go with him, slowly, casually, like a couple coming from the embassy. Who was he? Why would he help her? Or was he taking her captive to hand her over, and take the credit himself? He was holding her arm very tightly. His fingers pinched.
“Who are you?” she said sharply, trying to pull her arm away, and failing. “Let go of me!” She wanted to be angry; it was so much easier than being frightened.
“Or what?” he asked, this time speaking in English, his smile rich with amusement. “You’ll scream? Don’t be so damn silly! I’m going to get you out of here, away from the Brownshirts. I’ll take you to friends of mine that you can stay with. They’ll look after you.”
“Why should they?” she demanded. “I’m a danger…” Again, she tried to pull away.
“My name is Jacob,” he told her. “Jacob Ritter. I’m from Chicago, but actually I’m working out of New York at the moment. I’m a journalist. And you’re English. Anyone can tell that from your speech. Although your German’s pretty good.”
“It’s very good. My father was with the British Embassy here for a few years,” she snapped.
“Keep walking. What’s your name?”
“Elena Standish. And I didn’t shoot Friedrich Scharnhorst. I don’t know who did, but I do know why.”
“Really? Do you also know why the rifle was in your bedroom wardrobe?” He kept the firm grip on her arm as they crossed the street, walking a little stiffly because his natural stride was longer than hers.
“I think so, but it doesn’t matter now. Where are we going?” She ran a couple of steps to keep up with him, then tried pulling her arm free and again failed.
“We’re going into a predominantly Jewish quarter,” he replied. “I’ve got friends there we can stay with. At least, you can. I have my own rooms. They’ll look after you. And they won’t turn you in, even if you did shoot Scharnhorst.”
“I didn’t! I don’t know one end of a gun from the other!”
“You don’t look half-witted,” he said with a smile and a laugh.
If she laughed now, she would too easily lose control. She tried again to pull away.
“I said you don’t look like it, so don’t act like it. Walk as if you are an adult, going wherever you want.”
She straightened up and walked close beside him.
“Thank you,” he said drily.
“I didn’t shoot Scharnhorst,” she said again. “In fact, I was trying to prevent it!”
“Do you think that will bother them, if they decide to blame you?” There was considerable bitterness in his voice. “How long have you been here in Germany—this time?”
