Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

Unrecognisable

Chapter 4

They walk to a park and sit at a bench to regain their calm. In front of them is pond with ducks. They sit quietly, staring at the water.

—What now? he asks. She rubs her temples.

—I don't know, she says.

—There must be another way.

She thought for a bit.

—There is another avenue we can explore, she says. I have a friend at the Reich Ministry of Finance. Franz Bruckmann. We were at university together. His apartment is just on the other side of the river. Let's wait till nightfall to pay him a visit. That way, we can move about more easily, and less likely to be recognised.

—Sounds like a plan, he says.

She sees his fist is bloody and raw.

-You're hurt, she says and takes her scarf and wraps his hand with it.

He protests, but finds her touch oddly comforting.

—There now, better, I hope? she asks. He nods.

—How did you know about the chairman having his own lift?

—Oh, the usual office gossip. One of our friends had an affair with the chairman. He gave her access to this lift when he worked late. He ended it, though. His wife and her fortune in steel manufacturing were at stake.

—Lucky for us you're not above gossiping, he said. She grinned and turned red.

Later that evening…

They stand across from Franz' apartment complex. Rena spies Franz walking away from the train station and thru the long walkway to his apartment.

—That's him, she says. The one in the dark grey coat, blue scarf.

Arthur recognises him straight away, a typical nondescript civil servant. One of thousands working for the Reich. They wait till he enters his home so as not to alert him to their presence. Standing outside his door, she knocks.

—Who is it? they hear from inside. The man opens the door, and is momentarily struck dumb.

—Verena? My god, what a surprise. Come in, he says. His eye falls on Arthur and the colonels uniform is not lost on him. And you are?

—Hans. he says simply. By the look in his eye, Verena and Arthur can see he's jumped to some conclusion that they must be together.

—What brings you here? he asks.

—I need your help, Franz. I'm in danger. The govt thinks I've embezzled funds from the treasury. Which is a lie. I need your help to call up the deposits the treasury made to Gen Kieber's false project accounts. It's my only hope.

—Is that so? Let me go to my study and check if I have access to those files. First let me make you both a coffee, he says.

He disappears into the kitchen.

—So, how are our old friends from Uni?

While she carries on speaking to Franz, Arthur follows him into the kitchen, and finds Franz dialing the telephone. Franz looks up at him, with a cold icy stare.

—Rena, he's called the police, he says. They run out of the apartment and into the corridor out, where a policeman recognises them.

—Halt! screams the man. They take descend the stairwell and out of sight. He pursues them, and before they can reach the bottom, the policeman throws down a Stielhandgrenate at them. To evade it, Arthur opens a side door to another corridor. They barely make it. The sound momentarily defeans them both, but they are unhurt.

They make their way out, when police cars come to the scene of the apartment. By then, Arthur and Rena have rejoined the crowd across the street. They keep walking away, not too fast to be of notice. But as they turn the corner, they are greeted by a gruesome sight. A gallows holds a hanged man. On his chest is a sign that reads Traitor. The sight of it sends a chill right through Rena.

A policeman stands ahead of them, observing passersby. They walk on, avoiding his gaze. She sees a pub.

—Let's hide in there for a bit, she says.

The sight of the bottles of scotch and whiskey unnerve him.

—No, not in there, he says more firmly than he intends. His harsh tone surprises her.

— Alright, she says.

A flyer flies past them, he picks one up. It is the reward announcement for the wanted traitors. Her picture is there. The words "To be shot on sight" figures prominently at the bottom.

—What is it, she asks.

—Nothing, just an ad, he says and throws it away.

They go to the train station and find that its crawling with policemen.

—We can't take the train home, he declares. We'll have to walk.

At his home, he sees a red streak down her ankle.

—What is that? he asks.

She finds her lower leg caked in blood.

—Shrapnel wound. Lie down. he says.

Quickly, he goes into the kitchen and fetches a bottle of Alcohol antiseptic, tweezers, cloth towels, and his first aid kit. He sanitizes the tweezers and cleans her wound with antiseptic. She winces when the alcohol makes contact with her open wound.

—The shrapnel didn't go all the way through. It 's still inside. I have to get the piece out, he tells her. He goes to his liquor cabinet and sees a half consumed bottle of scotch and gives it to her.

—Drink it all. he says and hands her the towel, scream into this, bite into it if you need to. We can't afford to be overheard.

He brings a lamp closer to her leg for more light.

—I'm sorry. You know i don't want to hurt you.

Holding down her leg firmly by the ankle, he takes a deep breath and searches for the shrapnel, sending her into heartrending agony. Beneath the towel, a muffled, blood curdling shriek escapes from her lips. Hearing her wince nearly makes him almost lose his nerve. He pulls out an inch long mangled piece of metal, its edges serrated.

With a cloth he disinfects the wound again. He sews up the shrapnel wound. Each stitch, sending fresh tears to her eyes. When its over, she feels like an empty shell, raw and ragged. He covers her wound with a long stout strip of gauze. After he covers her with a warm blanket, he can hear her sniffing.

—Are you hungry? he asks.

—No. Just stay with me for awhile.

—Sure.

More tears well up in her eyes.

—I never thought Franz would give me up like that.

—The SS probably got to him first. It is part of the procedure. Interrogate close friends and family. Not to mention harbouring a fugitive is a crime. They're frightened, is all. They don't know who to believe, you or the government. They'll always use the patriotism angle and if that doesn't work, threaten them with imprisonment. If the situation were reversed and he was wanted for embezzlement and came to you in the dead of night, who would you believe?

—Franz.

—You're willing to go prison for your friend, if you're wrong?

—I…don't know.

—The confusion you're feeling right now, is probably what he went through.

she bowed her head low looking sad and pensive.

He tries to comfort her by caressing her back. She finds it soothing, her eyelids grow heavy.

—My grandmother used to do that to lull me to sleep, she says.

—My mother too.

—Where is your mother now?

—She's up north, she has a small dairy. Profits are small, but enough for her to live comfortably.

— Sounds idyllic.

—May I ask you something? he asks

—Ask away.

—I saw the scars on your arms. Why do you cut yourself?

she doesn't reply.

—I .. I didn't mean to probe, he stammered. Just concerned, is all.

—No one's ever noticed, nor asked me before.

—If you let it out, maybe you wouldn't need to cut yourself. Have you tried that, just talking about it?

—No.

—Maybe you could start.

—It makes me feel good, for a short time anyway. Does that sound strange?

—It does, he says. It's a terrible habit. Maybe you ought to stop.

—Your trash bin is filled with nothing but whisky bottles. Maybe you ought to stop as well?

He sighs deeply and looks her dead in the eye. — I'll stop drinking if you stop cutting yourself, deal? he asks.

—It's a deal, Hans.

The strange name grates against his ears. He wants to tell her the truth, but the shame of his deception stops him.

—Get some rest, he says, it's past midnight.