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“Only room down here, friend, is this one you’re standing in. Unless you want to use the WC over there.” He smirked. The bathroom could not fit more than a single person by design.

Bauer had few options. At the end of the hallway was a metal door, an emergency exit per Munich regulations. But the SA had disabled it, same as they’d done in the Bogenhausen station. They’d broken off the push bar and nailed wooden planks across the doorway in a criss-cross fashion. There was no way through that door from inside the cellar.

“Well, can I at least get her out of the cell?” Bauer tried. “So I’m not questioning her in front of a group? Give me that much.”

The guard thought about it. “Fine.” He pushed himself out of his seat with a moan and waddled down the long hall of cells. “Amalie Bauer!” he called out. He stopped at cell three. Amalie walked up to the front of the cell. Bauer’s heart pounded.

“Kriminalpolizei wants to talk to you,” said the guard, as he opened the cell door.

Bauer looked down at some papers, not wanting to make eye contact with her, hoping she would understand that he was in role. Without looking up, he said, “Are you Frau Amalie Bauer?” He intentionally mispronounced her name, emphasizing the second syllable, not the first, to drive the ruse home.

“I am,” she answered, stoic, emotionless.

He glanced at her. She was disheveled—her hair a mess, her dress ripped at the neck, bruises on her forearm, smears of dirt on her face—but still wore the clothes from her workday, though barefoot.

“All right.” He looked at the guard while switching the papers to his left hand. “Where should I take her to talk?”

“If it were me…” The guard raised his arm, gesturing toward the area by the bathroom. Bauer took that moment, with the guard’s arm extended, to land the hardest punch he could muster to the guard’s stomach, knocking the breath from him and forcing him to double over silently to the floor. Bauer removed his sidearm and brought the butt crashing down on the guard’s head, knocking him out cold.

He grabbed the cell key from the man’s hand. Then he found a pen on the desk, scribbled a signature on the transfer order, and took Amalie by the arm. “Are you okay?” he whispered, shoving the key into his pocket.

“I’m fine, but one of the women in custody is four months pregnant. None of these people committed any crimes except speaking out against the Nazis—”

“I know. We don’t have much time.” They started up the stairs, still speaking in whispers. “Your parents and the kids are in a car down the alley. I’m getting you out of here and you’re going straight to them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but what about you?”

“Let’s see how everything goes. If I say run, then run and don’t look back.”

They reached the top of the stairs. She turned, grabbed his face, and kissed him urgently. Then she nodded.

“Argue with me,” said Bauer. “That should come naturally to you.”

Now back upstairs, they walked through the inspectors’ area. “Let go of me!” Amalie said. “You have no right! I didn’t do anything!”

They reached the receipt sergeant. The stooped man with the gray hair was no longer in the station.

“Here you go.” Bauer held up the transfer order, now with a signature approval.

“They approved it, eh? That’s a first.” The receipt sergeant looked around his desk. “I need to stamp this.”

Bauer, impatient, kept his mouth shut. He glanced around the room to see if anyone was taking any notice. He heard the thump of a stamp.

“Great,” said Bauer, not wanting to seem anxious, ready to whisk his wife away.

“Oh, would you look at that? Stamp’s out of ink.”

Shit.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Bauer.

“No, no. Just give me a minute. I’ll need to refill the ink.”

“It’s fine,” Bauer repeated, forcing himself to remain otherwise still.

“Gotta have a legible stamp.” The sergeant opened drawers, looking for the ink.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bauer saw one of the brownshirts set down his coffee mug and head for the stairs to the cellar. Bauer had no way to stop him.