Wunderland(36)

A sudden sprinkle of cold water jolted her back to the moment. Turning, she saw the police had brought in Wasserkanone: black, boxy tanks topped with gunlike hoses were advancing on the crowd, forcing back water-battered bodies. A few meters behind her a white van had pulled up; the Polizei were already herding protesters inside.

Dropping to her knees, she scrabbled for the plywood handle Fiete had dropped, awkwardly lofting the painted sheet back up on her own: she’d worked too hard on the image to simply leave it in the street. A pole on each shoulder, she began gingerly moving toward the beckoning green of the Tiergarten: If she could make it to the park she could follow its outer rim south until she reached the Berlin Zoologischer Garten station.

She’d barely made it three steps, however, before a hand clamped down on her shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Staggering, Ava turned to see a bull in his tall black hat and long black coat.

“To the park.”

He snorted. “Why? Planning a picnic?” He looked to Ava to be in his forties; roughly Ilse’s age, or perhaps older. His jaw had the blunt squareness of her mother’s garden hoe.

“I just want to go home,” said Ava truthfully.

Ava watched the man’s gaze trace its way to the ruined painting that now sagged between them. As he studied the latter she found herself searching his face, an artist’s greedy, reflexive need for even a faint indication that her work might have moved its viewer. But he just held out his gloved hands.

“Hand it over,” he said.

“What?” Blinking, Ava took a step back. “I made this. It’s mine.”

“It belongs to the city now,” he said. “Hand it over.”

As he reached brusquely for one of the poles, Ava tried to sidestep. But her foot slipped on something slick and soapy that had spilled on the ground. As she fought for her balance the banner poles swung wildly, the left one striking the Polizei on the side of his helmeted head.

“Oh,” she gasped, horrified. “I’m—”

Before she could apologize he was lunging straight at her, his truncheon whipped from its leather holster. Then somehow she was on the ground, her arms covering her head while blows rained down on her ribs and bare thighs. The pain was searing, breathtaking; it numbed with the force of electric shock. A burst exploded in her knee, and for one fleeting, red-veiled moment she thought she’d felt the bone snap in half. Then there were hard hands beneath her armpits, dragging her away from where the banner lay crumpled on the street, now stained with smears of her own blood.

“Stupid cow,” the bull was shouting. “I warned you!” They’d reached the van now. Pushing her face-first against it, he patted her down before spinning her to face him again. His blunt face was beet red.

“What do you have to say now, you commie bitch,” he said.

Ava registered that she was shaking: huge, harsh spasms. It wasn’t until she tried to speak that she realized she wasn’t crying but laughing: juddering, gasping peals that felt like another attack on her bruised ribs. But they elicited such a comically baffled look from the cop that she found herself laughing harder despite the pain.

“Tell me a fairy tale,” she gasped.



* * *





Four hours later she was curled up on Ulrich’s couch, an ice pack on her knee and a mug of whiskey in her hand.

“How’s it looking?” he asked.

“Empty,” she said, extending the mug.

“I meant your knee, you lush.”

Grimacing, she set the cup down and peeled the pack from the scraped, swollen flesh, eyeing it dispassionately before shrugging. “Still disgusting. But the swelling’s gone down.” She grinned grimly. “I should be back in my miniskirts in a week or two.”

“I’m sure Bank Boy will be thrilled to hear it. Oh, wait—he’s probably in France by now.”

“Ass.” Ava groaned. “Don’t rub it in.”

Smirking, Ulrich picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’d set between them on the coffee table. He poured them both another finger-full. Ava downed half of hers in a single gulp.

“Careful, sailor,” he chided.

“What?”

“You’re putting those away quickly.”

“I was beaten up by fucking Nazis.”

“They weren’t Nazis,” he said quietly.

Ava felt herself flush. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just…it was hell.” And it had been. The seats in the police van had been crowded and unpadded; every jostle and bump had hurt Ava’s beaten body. Ten minutes into the ride, the woman crammed in next to her had leaned forward and vomited on Ava’s boots. And that was before even reaching the Tiergarten’s Precinct E, where her repeated requests for water, paracetamol, and a phone call had been ignored for hours. As awful as it had been, though, she knew she—of all people—had no business flinging around that particular term. Especially not with him.

“Verzeihung,” she said again, swirling her whiskey in its mug. He was right; she was drinking too much again. And making the same foolish romantic mistakes. And getting herself needlessly into trouble and injury. And speaking thoughtlessly to the man she cared most for in the world.

She’d start over in New York. She’d start everything over in New York.