The Diplomat's Wife(87)

He nods. “Be careful.”

I cross the street hurriedly. At the door of the police station, I pause and turn back. Paul has disappeared from the alleyway. I take a deep breath, then open the door. Inside, there are two desks, set about a meter apart. A heavyset policeman sits behind the desk to my right, reading a newspaper. “Ja?” he says, not looking up.

“G-guten abend,” I stammer.

At the sound of my voice, he lifts his head. Taking me in from bottom to top, his expression changes. “Guten abend, fr?ulein. How can I help?”

I summon my most distressed expression. “I was on my way to visit my aunt when I realized my passport was gone.”

“Lost or stolen?”

I hesitate. “Stolen, I think. My money is gone, too.”

“You’ll need to fill out a report,” the officer says. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a form.

I approach the desk slowly, stalling for time. “I’m Lola,” I say softly as I sit down. “What’s your name?”

He gestures to the name on the breast pocket of his uniform. “Sergeant Schobel.”

“No, I mean your first name,” I press.

Schobel hesitates, and for a moment I wonder if I have gone too far. “Joseph,” he replies.

“Joseph, it’s nice to meet you. Do you have a pen I can use?” As he hands me the pen, I brush my fingers against his, lingering for just a second. He pulls his hand back and quickly begins shuffling the papers on the desk.

I look down at the form, feeling queasy from the effort of flirting with Schobel. Is this what it felt like for Emma, I wonder, having to be close to the Kommandant? Concentrate, I tell myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I look up. Schobel has picked up his newspaper and begun to read once more, but I can see him taking small furtive peeks at the top of my blouse. On the rear wall, I notice the outline of a wall hanging that has been removed. A swastika, I realize, suddenly nauseous.

Forcing myself to breathe, I turn back to the form. A minute later I look up again. Behind the desks, there is a doorway leading to a corridor. That must be the way to the basement stairs. But I do not see any sign of Paul. I look down at the form again, pretending to write. Suddenly, there are footsteps in the corridor and another officer, older than the first and also heavyset, appears in the doorway. “What’s going on, Schobel?” he asks.

I freeze, pen suspended midair. I was not prepared for a second policeman. “Young lady was on her way to visit her aunt and had her passport stolen,” Schobel replies.

“You’re having her fill out a report?” asks the older man, whose name tag reads Hart. Schobel nods. “Good. I’m going to check on things downstairs.” He turns and begins walking toward the staircase.

Oh God. If Hart goes downstairs now, he will surely catch Paul. I jump to my feet. “Excuse me…” I call after him.

He turns back, clearly annoyed. “Yes?”

I take a step toward him, pretending to read his name tag. “Officer…Hart, is it?” He nods impatiently. “Well, I wanted to ask you and Officer Schobel what I should do now that I have lost my passport and money.” I speak as slowly as I can, stalling for time.

“Officer Schobel will be able to provide any assistance you need. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“But I wanted to ask both of you. I mean…” I stop as something moves behind Hart in the corridor. I recognize the flash of Paul’s brown coat before it disappears again. I have to keep Hart talking. “I mean, that is…” I falter. Noticing my distraction, Hart spins around. But the hallway is empty.

“Fr?ulein, I really must ask you to sit down and let Officer Schobel assist you.”

If I sit down, Hart will go downstairs and discover Paul. “But surely with your experience…” I press, stalling for time.

Hart draws his eyebrows so closely together they look like a single knot of hair. “What street does your aunt live on?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your aunt, the one you came to visit in Berlin. What is her street address?”

I hesitate, trying desperately to come up with an answer. “Number seven, Ringlerstrasse,” I reply, coming up with the name of the only street I remember passing on our way over to the police station, then adding a house number.

Watching Hart’s eyes go wide with recognition, I know that I have made some kind of a mistake. “That’s quite impossible, fr?ulein. The houses on Ringlerstrasse have been completely uninhabitable since the last bombing raids during the war.” He grabs me roughly by the wrist. “Now, what are you doing here?”

Panic shoots through me. “I—I don’t understand,” I stammer. “I already told you I lost my passport and…”

“A likely story,” Hart says, cutting me off. “Why are you really here?”

Schobel stands up. “Perhaps she is here because of the visitor.”

“We’re not supposed to talk about that,” Hart replies quickly.

“I—I don’t know anything about a visitor,” I offer.

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t, but you do now. We can’t let you go.” He turns to Schobel. “Arrest her.”

“You’re arresting me? But I’ve done nothing wrong!”