The intimidation was palpable as they passed. Then, after it had rounded a corner, the citizens quietly resumed what they had been doing. Up ahead, Aubrey saw a tram that was just pulling away from a station. She broke into a jog and caught the rear door. A man held out his hand and helped her up. She could come back to the bakery later, maybe spot Lydia and catch up with her on her way home from work. Right now, though, she had to lose this tail.
The attendant was in the front section of the articulated tram and she fumbled for the ten-Reichsmark coin to put into his can. She glanced back at the road; the young man who had been following her was nowhere to be seen.
A kind gentleman offered her a seat, and she was able to watch the shops, buildings and cathedrals roll by. She spotted more brownshirts on foot or in trucks. Several of them got on board the tram and talked excitedly amongst themselves while the other passengers kept quiet and avoided eye contact.
Aubrey realized she was heading away from her hotel, out of the city, so after five stops she got off with the intention of getting a taxicab back to the Jewish quarter. There were none in sight; they usually had stands out in front of hotels, and she could see some taller buildings in the distance. One of them might be a hotel.
She turned a corner and came face to face with the man who had first saved her from the brownshirt marching squad and then tailed her around the quarter. How the devil? He came at her fast. She turned. There was a car pulling up alongside of her, exhaust puffing out of the tailpipe. Its door opened, and a second man got out and came up behind her; she’d spotted him getting on the tram earlier. They were together, the two of them.
She tightened her grip on her purse. She could swing it at the lead one, maybe punch the other. She’d thrown a punch or two in her time. Suddenly she realized how quiet the street was, how secluded.
“What do you want?” she asked the first man.
“Get in the car.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You want to see Lydia? We’ll take you to her.”
Aubrey looked at both men. At least they didn’t look like Nazis. The one behind her was definitely Jewish; he reminded her somehow of a girl she’d gone to school with in Rockingham. Dorothy Bass. He had the same features.
She dropped her shoulders and got into the rear seat of the car. The two men got in up front; the first man drove now. If only she’d had her father’s gun with her, she thought unhappily, she would show them a thing or two. It would be worth it just to see the looks on their faces when she pressed the tip of the barrel to the driver’s ear.
The car smelled of mould, and a spring in the seat poked her in the thigh. The young man drove fast, swerving in and out of the tram lines and around corners at a blistering clip. The other one looked out the back window continuously. Aubrey did not sense danger from these men but knew if they were caught together by the German authorities, it would go badly for her. For all of them.
Eventually, with a hard turn they drove up to a workshop in an industrial area of East Berlin. The car roared into a disused warehouse, the metal door was closed behind them and the car was engulfed in darkness.
Aubrey and the two men got out of the car. Someone switched on the overhead lights, revealing a grimy workshop of lathes and drill presses. The floor was covered in sawdust, and the air was thick with the smell of industrial lubricants. A half dozen people appeared at the edges of the darkness, afraid to reveal themselves.
“Nice place,” Aubrey said to the man who’d tailed her. “Why have I been kidnapped?”
“You haven’t been kidnaped. You’ve merely accompanied us. Why are you making enquiries about a girl you clearly don’t know?”
“How do you know I don’t know her?”
“Because I don’t know you,” a female voice called from the darkness. One of the shapes on the periphery emerged. It was Lydia from the photograph. Aubrey didn’t need to look at it to confirm it.
“I’ve never met you in my life,” Lydia said.
“Nor I you. I was given this.” Aubrey held up the picture. The girl came closer and took it. Like the driver of the car, she was both young and old at the same time. It fascinated Aubrey, and saddened her. Before all this, she’d thought of herself as worldly, having seen more of life and death than all the pupils of Rockingham Girls’ Collegiate put together.
Lydia studied the photo, then turned it over and read the back.
“How did you get this?”
“A man I met in Belgium gave it to me. He said to tell you, Lydia, that he died a free man.”
Lydia looked at her in surprise. “Leave us,” she said to the others.
“But Lydia...” The driver spoke in German to her, and they had a lightning-fast exchange; Aubrey could not follow it. She caught only two words: “Gestapo” and “traitor.”
Finally, the two men who’d brought Aubrey to the warehouse went reluctantly off into the darkness with the others. Aubrey and Lydia stood there in the cone of light from the weak bulb hanging overhead.
The young German girl tucked the photo into her own pocket. Aubrey did not mind; it had served its purpose.
“Tell me about him,” Lydia said.
“Not much I can say. He died.”
There was a sigh from the girl. She looked at the floor and then back at Aubrey.
“But he made it out. At least that’s something.”
“I
