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“Are you still coming with me…all the way?” she asked. She wanted him to, too much to dare show it. After the terrible night, she was still more afraid than she wished him to know, or even to acknowledge to herself. There was a search under way for the guard. Word would come soon enough that they had found his body on the tracks. She had no idea where they had been, but definitely in France. It was after they had crossed the border.
“Of course I am!” Walter said, pushing her forward and then walking beside her toward the exit.
She caught his urgency. Once they were out in the street, no one would know they had come in on that particular train. Unintentionally, she increased speed.
“Hold on!” Walter said, a momentary sharpness in his tone. “Don’t go so fast. We look as if we are running away!” His hand tightened on her arm and reluctantly she slowed.
They were nearly there. She must not look back. Head high, she walked out of the station. She had no idea if anyone was watching her. The street was already crowded with the early rush-hour traffic. They would be invisible in moments.
Elena tried not to think of the people she had left behind. She could not feel guilty. She was no use to anyone in Berlin, especially dead. But she was aware with a grinding pain deep inside her that Jacob was still there, in Berlin, with Eli and Zillah, helping where they could, a terrible risk. There were people like the man in the camera shop, prepared to lie to save a stranger whose pictures scorched the mind. And God knew how many more would give their lives to fight the darkness she now knew was coming.
They found a little bistro and took a table near the back. There was nothing to say that had not been said already. Their silence continued as they drank dark, aromatic French coffee and ate croissants…hot, flaky, delicious.
Elena and Walter returned to the Gare du Nord and went to the platform for the Calais train. They bought tickets and stood waiting, Elena too tired, too emotionally exhausted, for conversation. They still had three more legs of the journey: the train to Calais, the cross-Channel ferry, and then the journey from Dover to London.
Walter did not speak either, but when she glanced at him she saw the concern in his expression. She forced herself to smile. “We’re free,” she said quietly. “It’s just traveling from now on.”
He hesitated a moment, and she saw a flicker of doubt in his expression.
“Probably,” he agreed. “But we must still be careful. I’m not leaving you until I hand you over to someone who will take care of you. From what you’ve said, that’s your grandfather. Safer than your father. It would be easy enough for them to find out who he is and where he lives. In fact, they will certainly know already. For my safety, as well as yours…”
“Yes. I’ll go to my grandfather’s, please. He’s anonymous, as far as they’re concerned. There are lots of Standishes in London. Probably most of them in the telephone directory. Thank you.”
“Did you think I was going to leave you on a railway platform in London?” He raised his eyebrows. “In that red dress? I’ve seen enough of what can happen to you.”
She meant not to let her fear show, but she knew it did—in her face, the clenched hands, the shivering she could not control, no matter how hard she tried.
He reached over as if to touch her hand, and then pulled back again.
* * *
—
The journey from Paris to Calais was easy, and they had a while to wait for the next
ferry, but they would still be in Dover before dark. Once or twice Elena thought she recognized a face in the crowd, gestures, attitudes she had seen before, but she said nothing, even when she caught a look on Walter’s face, as if he, too, had noticed.
She was tense going through Customs and Immigration, and apologized to the officer when she dropped her passport out of nervous fingers. “Not much sleep,” she added.
He made no comment, and she passed through the barrier drenched in sweat and shivering with relief.
“Is that all your luggage?” the Customs officer asked her incredulously.
Her mind raced. “It was mislaid,” she said quickly. “I’m sure they’ll find it, and then send it on after me. I’m going home, so I shall be all right.”
He opened her bag and searched it. “Nice camera,” was all he said. He closed the bag and handed it back to her, shaking his head.
She had no idea whether he believed her or not. It did not matter anymore.
Walter had arranged to hire a car. He told Elena he had wired from the Paris railway station. It was waiting for them, and they took charge of it and set out on the road inland. The last leg home.
There was traffic out of Dover, but soon they were clear of it, and the wide, pale evening sky was fading, shadows lengthening across the road. The air through the open window smelled sweet.
Neither of them spoke. Perhaps Walter was as emotionally drained as she was and, like her, might find it hard to believe that the adventure was nearly over…at least for them. Germany was behind them.
She directed him when he asked, but most of the road was plainly signed, and she had told him the general area. It was comfortable to be silent. The night darkened, but outside the air was still warm.
She was wondering how much she could tell Lucas. Had the photographs arrived yet? What did he think of them? Would he know how they could best be used? In fact, were they as good as she thought? Would he berate her for being stupid? Not if he knew what the stakes really were. Not if he had seen the violence, the fear, the hatred. Sitting at home, safe in England, he couldn’t even imagine it, though everyone knew the loss of war, the carnage, the crippling of mind and body that went on and on…all life long, for some.
