None of it's mine

Chapter Six: The Prince's Kiss?

Rachel walked down the street of Berlin to her apartment complex. She held a bag of groceries in one hand and her purse was strapped across her chest. Night was about to fall, she didn't want to be out on the street when night actually fell. The chances of an Allied air attack was pretty high tonight. All the codes and clues they'd radioed back and forth suggested it. Another air raid.

It had been three, almost four months since she'd been at Stalag 13. There wasn't a chance to pass on private messages but every now and then in one of the packages she received at the grocer's, was a note from Newkirk. She sent one every two weeks. When she was on the radio with Kinch once, LeBeau grabbed the set and told her that Newkirk was a bit of a flirt and that he found it his duty to tell her this.

Another resident saw her coming and opened the door for her. "Danke," Rachel thanked him and went upstairs to her apartment. Once inside she locked the doors and went into the bathroom with the grocery bag. She placed the bag on the floor next to the scale and took out a spare toothbrush. Inside the grocery bag was a collection of vegetables and a bag of sugar. The sugar was her main interest at the moment. Using the handle of the toothbrush, she sifted through the sugar until she found the scraps of paper. There were three.

Once she was satisfied that all were out, she closed the bag of sugar, put the spare toothbrush away, and then took the groceries to the kitchen to put them away. Then she grabbed her codebook from the living room – a copy of the Bible. It was the best cover for a codebook she could think of. It was readily available and few people asked questions about why anyone had it. In the bathroom she cracked the messages to find the Underground needed her to doctor some files and keep her eyes out for a list of agents that the Gestapo boasted they had. The last was from Newkirk.

Things go well, all send their love.

Rachel put Peter's note aside and sighed.

She'd gone and gotten herself into the biggest trouble a spy could get herself into. Unmarried, fake documents so no way to have a legal wedding anyway, and pregnant with another agent's child was an absolute catastrophe. Did she get rid of it or not?

Her heart said "keep the baby" but her mind and all the arguments she could concoct said "get rid of it."

Somehow she had to get to Stalag 13. This wasn't just her decision, it had to be Peter's as well.

And yet, he was not a Jew. Her mother would scream in horror that she marry outside of their religion, if Peter proposed. Not that it mattered, the last thing she wanted was a man marrying her because he had to. She wanted him to marry her because he loved her.

But how could she find an excuse to get to Stalag 13?

The next morning she went to work and pulled the files the Underground wanted her to change. Even though she had the work, her mind wasn't on it and by midday, Erich called her into his office and asked what was distracting her.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'm sorry, Herr Steiner. Things seem to be getting…well…I'm worried, sir. None of these papers look like good news."

Steiner smiled and took her hand. "My dear, everything will be fine. The Fuhrer knows what he's doing. I promise it will all be well." He thought for a moment. "I have business in Hammelburg, do you feel up to the trip?"

"Hammelburg?" the perfect chance! "Of course! I think out of Berlin – out where things are quieter. It'll remind me that things are all right, that outside of this city, people aren't obsessed with war and its parts. What do you need me to do to prepare for the trip, sir?"

"Rachel, it's all taken care of. We'll be staying at a hotel, you have your own room if you wish, I can arrange it," he reached for the phone.

"I'm your secretary," she told him, putting her hand over his. "I'll make the arrangements."

Newkirk pulled on the stockings and found the pair had a run in them. "Andrew, how many bleedin' times am I gonna have to tell you to hang the stockings carefully? You've gone and ruined another pair!"

"Well, I don't know nothing about stockings!" Carter protested. "Before the war, I didn't even know how to wash my socks! I liked it better before the war," he added as an afterthought. "Besides, what difference does it make? Your legs look terrible in or out of the stockings."

Newkirk balled the stockings in his hand and threw them at the American sergeant. Carter shifted and the garment fell useless to the floor. "Don't forget your glasses so you can see," Carter said innocently.

"For a bright eyed Yank who's probably a bleedin' firebug, you're getting a bit of a mouth on you. Didn't I tell you to stay away from bad influences?"

"Rather hard to tell him to stay away from you," Hogan commented, coming into the room. "You're going out in that? Disgraceful."

Newkirk tugged the shawl tighter around his shoulders and spoke in a high pitched tone of voice, "I do declare, young man! No manners at all!"

"My apologies, madame," LeBeau grinned, happy that he had gotten out of this mission. When Newkirk heard that it was Snow White, he'd volunteered before Colonel Hogan had asked if anyone wanted the job. As much as Newkirk hated to dress in women's clothing, the rest of the team got a laugh out of it and LeBeau enjoyed seeing his friend go to ridiculous steps. "Perhaps these stockings would be better?" he held out another pair, which Newkirk plucked from his hand.

Hogan eyed the English RAF officer with a bit of caution. "You know this isn't just pleasure, Newkirk, so make sure you're back on time –"

"Don't worry, dad, I'll be sure not to let anyone get fresh," Newkirk laughed. Hogan shot him a disapproving look and Newkirk checked his watch to affirm the time he was supposed to return. Soon Newkirk was out of the tunnel and on his way to the hotel. Since there weren't any people around, Newkirk walked normally. As soon as he made it to the road, he began to walk like an elderly woman. Strangely enough, it didn't matter too much how feminine you looked so long as you acted like a woman. Never a man to turn down a chance to look at a beautiful woman, Peter had always known there was a way women walked, but until the war, he'd never tried to imitate it. Then again, before the war he hadn't been as avid of a smoker, hadn't spoken German, and hadn't fooled around with government papers. Not these government papers anyway.

In Hammelburg, Germans walked about but the majority of those out walking were dressed in Gestapo or soldiers' uniforms. The average person had gone to bed or didn't have the money to go out for a night on the town. Newkirk walked up the street and into the hotel. The man working the desk eyed him strangely, "Excuse me, young man," Newkirk tried his best to flutter his eyelashes at the clerk, "I'm here to visit a friend of mine, Fraulein Rachel Weiss, could you direct me to her room please?"

The clerk checked his registry and told Newkirk the room number.

"Thank you so much, nice to see that people still have manners," and he walked over to the elevator. A few soldiers were in the elevator with him and both eyed Newkirk. "Where have you young men been?" Newkirk asked.

"Eastern front, ma'am," one said politely. "Excuse me for saying this, but you look just like my grandmother before she died."

"Oh, well…" Newkirk fiddled with his hair, feigning shyness. "How old are you, sonny?"

"Twenty-four, ma'am."

"Twenty-four, why my grandson's your age. Haven't seen him though, I believe he was sent to the Russian front. Oh, excuse me, this is my stop." Newkirk left the elevator and continued to Rachel's room. It was hard to remain in character when he knocked on her door.

She opened it, a frown on her face. "I'm sorry, I think you must have the wrong room. Could I direct you to a diff –"

"Care for an apple, my dear?" Newkirk asked.

Rachel paused, narrowed her eyes, and then realized who it was. "Oh! Granny Schmidt! Come in, I'm so pleased to see you!"

Newkirk stepped inside and Rachel shut the door and locked it behind her. Then she took another look at Peter and laughed. "Great disguise," she told him. Newkirk took off his glasses and wig. "But what are you using to – oh, never mind. I'm happy to see you," she hugged him and then gestured around the room for him to have a seat wherever he wanted. Almost predictably, he sat on the bed but unexpectedly, he crossed his ankles and sat like a lady.

"Um," Rachel handed him the papers she'd copied for him, copies of receipts for a new rocket construction. "They've been working on this for a while, but now they're hiring men to work. Looking into these scientists," she pointed to another sheet of paper. "And…um…they've been tracking the movements – um, what I mean is they've been –" she went over and got herself a glass of water and offered him something to eat or drink. Newkirk politely declined. "They've been watching the movements of the papers so this was the first time I've been able to pass it on without arousing suspicion. This receipt doesn't show anything too dangerous. But it gives us a lot of information."

"Mmmhmmm," Newkirk looked them over, committing most of it to memory.

"I, um…Peter, there's another reason I contacted you." Peter put the papers aside and looked at her. "I need to be exfiltrated and soon."

"What? Has something happened?" he stood up and hurried over to her, nearly tripping as he underestimated the constraints of his skirt by an inch or so. "Are you in trouble?" he looked around as if a hidden microphone would reveal itself in surrender. "I do have a gun with me, but it's kind of difficult to get out, so mind letting me know if I need it?"

"Where's your gun?" she asked, looking at his outfit.

"Um, under me skirt."

She laughed again and laughed until she started crying. Newkirk hitched up his skirt to get the gun out and she laughed even harder, tears streaming down her face. She laughed so hard, she couldn't even make a sound, her body shook but no noise came out.

"Stop laughing at me bloomers!" he protested.

"I'm – this whole thing is stupid," she managed and then wiped her eyes. "No, I'm not in trouble." Talking about why she needed exfiltration sobered her up almost instantly. "Except that I made the stupidest mistake an agent could do. I wasn't careful enough, didn't think about my actions enough to know the repercussions, and yet…well, here we are. It doesn't make that much difference. Remember those nights together?"

"How could I forget?" Peter smiled wickedly. "Wait – are you saying that was a mistake?"

He looked hurt, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open, a sadness and confusion in his eyes. "No," Rachel reached for his hand. "I don't regret what we did – I regret not being more careful." She swallowed. "Peter, I'm pregnant. And its yours. Soon I'll begin to show and I'll have to leave the Gestapo. I'll no longer be of use to the Underground. It's time to get me out of Germany."

Peter stood up and walked over to the window to look out for a good couple minutes.

"Say something," Rachel ordered. "Anything. Recite 'God Save the Queen' or whatever."

"We have a king," he reminded her. "And a Prime Minister. Prime Minister's a bit more important politically and in this war. But yes, God save the Queen. You got a cigarette?"

She went over to one of the bags she had and opened it up. From it she found a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. "Here."

He took the package, opened it up, fumbled with getting a cigarette out and then lit it. The smell of burning nicotine and tobacco filled the air between them. After about six puffs on the cigarette, Peter spoke. "You sure it's mine?"

"Absolutely." Between the sleep medication and work, she hadn't slept with the general in a while. He knew she was pregnant, she'd told him shortly after making the reservation at the hotel for her – three rooms down from him so that there wouldn't be a chance he'd find one of Hogan's men without her knowing he was on his way. "I wouldn't lie about this."

"You could be mistaken. I wouldn't be the first man to find out a baby wasn't his."

"I'm not. Look, it's ok if you don't want the baby, it really is. But I thought you should know and London will want my reason for exfiltration. Just get me out. You won't hear from me again if you don't want to."

"Don't want to?" he almost cried. "It ain't that, love! But there's a war on!" They looked at each other and then he shrugged in dismissal. It was a really stupid thing to say considering what they both did. "Are the Krauts so unemotional that you think I – I meant every word I wrote to you and then some! Why I haven't been this attached to a woman since I was in me mother's womb." She smiled. "Ah, there's that smile!" He moved to her and put an arm around her. "I'll talk to Hogan about it, we'll get you out."