A surprise greets me when I return to 6H. Anton is fully dressed and leaning against the wall. He has found a fresh towel and is wiping at his hair.
“Am I leaking?” he asks.
“A little.” I take the towel and remove the blood from his ears. I give him another kiss. “If we’re stopped, let me do the talking.”
He’s offended. “My German is as good as yours.”
“Not to another German.”
“Bastards.” He takes a breath and kicks the unconscious man on the floor. “I’ll remember this one,” he says.
“Let’s go.” Taking him by the arm I pull him toward the door. Before opening it, I listen for passing boots. It’s always boots with the Nazis, never shoes. There’s a rare lull outside and I hurry Anton into the hallway, and from there into the stairway.
Anton can stand, he can walk, but he can’t climb. Three steps from the bottom and he collapses in my arms. He’s still awake but his legs aren’t working. I don’t have time for a pep talk. Throwing him over my shoulder, I begin the long climb to ground level.
The pressure is intense. Rika’s dead body in the restroom . . . the unconscious Gestapo in room 6H . . . the combination of the two has set a clock ticking inside my head. Anton is right—it’s foolish of me to try to rescue him.
Before the advent of modern weapons it wouldn’t have mattered. I could storm any fortress without fear. Swords, spears, arrows—none of them could harm me. But bullets fired into my head or heart, grenade shrapnel sprayed in my face, bazooka shells exploding in my back—all these new toys can end my life. And the reality is, I’m not used to having to worry about dying. I’m not used to fear. It’s a novel sensation but that does not make it a pleasant one.
“You make an excellent mule,” Anton says as we wind up the stairs.
“You calling me a jackass?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”
“That’s sweet. Now, we’re almost to ground level. Tell me you can stand.”
“I can stand,” he says.
Once again I smell the fresh air, even hear the birds chirping outside. I have been inside longer than I planned—it must be near dawn. Propping Anton against a wall, I peer out the first-floor door and search for the main entrance. I see it only fifty feet away, but between us and freedom are eight armed guards. Unfortunately, they are spread out, and I estimate I can only take out five or six before the remaining two or three will start shooting.
I quietly close the door and explain the situation to Anton.
“We’re screwed,” he says.
“Shh! You just told me how great your German is.”
“I lied.”
“Stay upright, please, act normal,” I say, straightening his collar and coat. “I outrank anyone in our path. If they stop and question us, no matter what I say, just keep walking toward the door. All we have to do is get to the street and we’ll be safe.”
“What if someone sounds the alarm?”
“No one is going to sound the alarm,” I say.
Synchronicity sure can be a bitch.
The alarm suddenly goes off.
On the other side of the door, I hear the guards leap to attention and cock their rifles. The front door slams shut and a thick steel bolt is thrown. Throughout the building the alarm brays like a wounded animal. Below us I hear a stampede of boots—more guards preparing to shoot. What the hell, the guards are only half our problem. Every Gestapo officer in the building has a sidearm.
Anton looks at me and shrugs. “I’m not going to tell you I told you so,” he says.
“Shut up.”
“Do you have a backup plan?”
“Quiet! I’m thinking!” Obviously Anton’s interrogator or Rika has been found. Yet the Nazis do not appear to know where we are. People are running left and right but they lack direction. Also, the Gestapo have not sent anyone to reinforce the main entrance. That seems to be a blunder on their part until I remember the three soldiers, and their machine gun, on the roof of the building. Clearly the Germans have faith no one is going to get past them.
However, I see the boys on top as a possible boon.
I grab Anton and throw him back over my shoulder.
“Hey!” he cries as we continue up the stairs. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“We have friends upstairs. Maybe,” I say, taking five steps at a time.
“Why maybe? Are they on our side or not?”
“They’re not Gestapo,” I say.
Anton is quick. “Interesting.”
We run into a single guard on our way to the roof. I knock him out with a stiff blow to the face and take his sidearm and rifle. We pass through an attic loaded with small arms and ammunition. Before we exit into the fresh air, I set Anton down. He insists I give him the rifle.
“I don’t have your hands and feet,” he says.
“Don’t shoot them.”
“What if they shoot at us?”
“Shh.” I crouch beside the door, open it a crack, peer outside. The three young men have prepped their machine guns and are peering down at the wired yard and brick wall that surround the school. Yet they don’t appear to give a damn about the alarm that shakes the rest of the building. They continue to talk about their girls back home.
Anton gives me a look and shrugs. It’s up to me, he’s saying.
I push the door open and in a single leap I’m standing behind the nearest soldier with my gun pressed to the back of his skull. Bent over the machine gun, the other two have to turn and look up to see me. Their eyes swell in fear and one reaches for his sidearm.
“Easy, boys,” I say in German. “No one has to get hurt here. My friend and I—this is my lover, Anton—just want to get out of here alive. But we need your help.”
They take time to digest my words. The guy with my gun to his head trembles, and I pat him on the back and tell him to relax. But I do not take the gun away. His buddies stare at me as if I’m some kind of supernatural creature, which is actually pretty perceptive on their part. The one with his finger on the machine gun, which is pointed toward the gate, finally speaks.
“Are you the reason the alarm has sounded?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you German?” he asks.
“I’m neither French nor German. But to be honest, I am working with the Allies.”