‘No. That route is burned. Someone is talking or listening. Either way it’s not an option now.’
‘What then?’
‘Here,’ said Max. ‘Here is the new drop.’ He gestured towards the row of pews they were sitting in, before reaching under his seat and pulling out a blue prayer book, the spine worn from use. ‘Next week, you’ll leave the list inside, page thirty-five. Close it and put it back under the pew. This pew here. There’s a special shelf, hidden underneath.’
‘But what if they search the church?’
‘They won’t. Some places are still sacred. For now, anyway.’ Max went to rise, but Clara caught his arm.
‘What if I need to contact you?’
‘Why would you need to do that?’
‘I don’t know. In an emergency. I might need to contact you quickly.’
Max appeared to consider this for a moment. ‘Come here. Light a candle in the Lady Chapel. With the burned end of the match, leave one single strike on the wall behind the stand. It will be noted and someone will contact me.’
‘Who? The priest?’
‘That you don’t need to worry about. Just meet me here,’ said Max. He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Go home now.’ Then he was up and shuffling out of the pew, vanishing into a side aisle, before quietly disappearing.
Clara sat for a moment longer, before rising and leaving via the main entrance.
What a strange evening. One of friendship and laughter, followed by whispers and shadows. Two lives that didn’t seem to belong to the same person.
Chapter 17
Clara had a few days off work now and was delighted that it tied in with Friedrich’s rest day. They spent a lazy morning, having breakfast at home and for a few hours just milling about the apartment, shutting themselves off from the world outside.
They sat by the window, a rare moment of peace between them. She was mending one of his shirts. Friedrich had theBerlin Morgenpostfolded on his lap, open to an article about ‘orderly relocation of unsuitable residents’. Clara’s needle paused, as her moment of false normality was broken. She looked across at Friedrich and his gaze moved to meet her own, before he looked down at the newspaper. Then, silently, he turned it over and slid it down the side of the chair out of sight.
He cleared his throat softly. ‘Would you like some fresh coffee?’
Clara nodded, grateful for the change of subject, the small domestic ritual. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
Friedrich rose and went to the kitchen. Clara heard the familiar sounds of the tap running and the clink of cups. She focused on her needle, pulling the thread through the fabric with deliberate care. In. Out. In. Out. A rhythm she could control.
A truck engine rumbled in the street below as Friedrich set her fresh coffee down on the table. He paused and she could sense the tension filling the room. He walked over to the window. Clara put her sewing down and followed him, standing at his shoulder.
Across the street, the street door of the Levins’ apartment stood open. Two uniformed policemen dressed in their unmistakable green uniforms, stood either side of the doorway. Another man, in a dark suit, carrying a clipboard, entered the building.
Clara’s gaze travelled up the building to the open windows of the first floor, directly opposite her. She could see Frau Levin moving slowly, methodically, packing a small suitcase. Herr Levin was holding their baby – the baby Clara had cooed over in the street just a few weeks ago and tried to warn them about the relocations of new mothers. But Frau Levin hadn’t acknowledged the possible danger. Clara had looked out for their name on the lists she’d passed onto Max but had never seen them and yet here they were, being moved. Had she missed their name? Were there other lists? She felt the panic rise inside her and her breathing quickened.
A few moments later, the family emerged onto the street. No shouting. No violence. Just quiet, bureaucratic efficiency. The man with the clipboard followed them out, making a note on his paper, while another policeman, who had been waiting by the truck, loaded the two suitcases into the back.
Frau Levin climbed into the truck, her movements wooden, her face blank. Herr Levin handed up the baby.
The baby.
Clara’s breath stopped. Those tiny fingers. That perfect face. So innocent and oblivious to the horrors of the world it had been born into just a few months ago.
The baby made no sound. Too young to understand. Too unaware to be scared.
Herr Levin pulled himself into the truck after them, and the canvas flap dropped, swallowing them whole.
Neighbours stood at their windows, watching the scene below them. No one protested. No one called out. For a brief moment, her gaze met with a neighbour’s across the road, whose child was the same age as the Levins’ baby, before the mother jerked the curtains closed.
The truck’s engine started.
