‘You understood incorrectly.’ Friedrich’s words cut through the air like a blade. ‘This is my home and the English-woman you are referring to is my wife.’
‘Apologies, Herr Captain. It’s just foreign nationals require regular monitoring.’
‘My wife reports to your station every Thursday morning, as mandated. Her documentation is current and properly stamped.’ If it was possible, Friedrich’s voice grew even colder. ‘Are you suggesting there’s been some irregularity in your department’s record-keeping?’
‘No, sir, but—’
‘Then perhaps you could explain why you feel it necessary to conduct additional surveillance on the wife of a German officer?’ The menace in Friedrich’s voice was unmistakable now. ‘Surveillance that, I should note, has not been authorised through proper military channels.’
Clara could hear the policeman clearing his throat nervously. ‘I was simply being thorough, Herr Captain. Ensuring all foreign nationals are properly, er, supervised.’
‘How conscientious of you, Wachtmeister.’ Friedrich’s tone dripped with sarcasm. ‘I trust you will be equally thorough in documenting your visit in your official reports. Including the date, time and specific reason for the unscheduled inspection.’
‘I will, that is, if everything appears in order.’
‘Everything is in perfect order. My wife is in full compliance with all regulations. Should you have any future concerns regarding her conduct or documentation, I trust you will direct them through the appropriate military liaison officer at the Bendlerblock.’ Friedrich’s voice carried the unmistakable finality of a dismissed subordinate. ‘I assume you are familiar with proper protocol?’
‘Of course, Herr Captain.’
‘Excellent. Then I believe your business here is concluded.’
‘Yes, Herr Captain.’
Friedrich spoke again, this time his voice softer but no less threatening. ‘Oh, and Wachtmeister? I’ll be sure to mention to Wachtmeister Arnold how dedicated you are to your duties. I’m certain he will be interested to hear about your initiative.’
The door closed with a firm click.
Clara remained frozen in the kitchen as Friedrich’s footsteps approached. When he appeared, his face was a careful mask, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set.
Friedrich moved to the window, looking out at the street below, before turning to face her, his expression grave. ‘I don’t like this. You are being targeted specifically. Not just as a foreign national, but personally. I don’t trust him not to return when I’m not here.’
Clara nodded, her throat tight. ‘I know.’
Friedrich looked out of the window once more. ‘He’s gone now.’ Then he turned back to her, his expression hardening with resolve. ‘I’m going to have a conversation with an old school friend of mine. It’s time Wachtmeister Fuchs learned about the proper chain of command.’
Chapter 23
When Friedrich left for work the following morning, he kissed her cheek. ‘Take extra care now.’
‘Please don’t worry,’ she told him.
‘It’s my job to worry about you.’ His tone was light, but the way his arms lingered around her waist told a different story. He kissed her again, more softly this time. ‘And I take my job very seriously because it’s the most important job I’ve ever had.’
Clara watched Friedrich from the window, following their familiar morning ritual as he walked down the street to work. Today felt different, though. Lighter somehow. They had arranged to meet for lunch, a rare luxury with Friedrich managing to carve out a precious hour from his increasingly demanding schedule. The prospect of a stolen moment with her husband brought a smile to Clara’s face as she turned away from the window to tackle the housework that had been neglected during the recent whirlwind of clandestine activities.
Her improved mood was short-lived. Frau Lange had asked her to switch to night duties for the next four shifts. It was her first time working evenings at the clinic. While Clara didn’t mind the change in routine, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Night shifts began at six in the evening, which meant she wouldn’t be able to make her usual afternoon visits to Ursula. More crucially, she wouldn’t have access to Hans Müller’s briefcase when he returned from work each day.
The weight of the realisation settled heavily on her shoulders. Max would be expecting the weekly relocation list, but she had no way to contact him, no way to explain the delay. The thought of those pregnant women whose names might appear on next week’s list, women she couldn’t help to save if only she could access the documents, made her stomach churn with anxiety.
Clara sank into Friedrich’s chair by the window, her mind racing through possible solutions. Even if she managed to visit Ursula during the day, due to her night shift, she wouldn’t be there when Hans returned from work.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling a headache building. Each week that passed without intelligence meant more women disappearing into facilities like the one in Neuruppin.
While she tried to come up with a solution to her dilemma, Clara changed the sheets on the bed. She had only just started when there was a knock on the door. Her heart pounded wildly as for a moment she feared it was Fuchs returning but then she realised it was the familiar pattern she’d become used to from Paul.
Clara opened the door and, sure enough, the young lad was on her doorstep. ‘Come in,’ she said quietly. He stepped across the threshold and into the hallway. ‘What is it?’ Clara was already reaching for her coat.
‘It’s an emergency,’ said Paul. ‘Max has asked me to get you.’
