She took a sip of her coffee. It was good and strong. “You make it better than I do,” she admitted with a reluctant smile.
“You’re not much of a cook, really, Fräulein, I am sorry to say.”
Audrey barked a laugh, then pinched her lips shut. Everything felt too serious for amusement right now. “I’m not, no, Herr Müller. Difficult to bluff that one, I’m afraid. But I did my best.”
“I think you can call me Friedrich now,” he said, finishing his coffee. “I would be far more comfortable if we dispensed with the formalities at this juncture.”
“All right.” She nibbled her toast. “I know we haven’t much time, but I wonder if I could ask you something.”
He watched her, but said nothing, which she took as an invitation.
“Last night, did you say Aldous is a forger?”
Müller nodded. “His father owns a print shop, so he has easy access to the required materials.”
“Do you think he could forge a passport for Ilse? So I could get her back to London?”
Müller sat back in his chair. “I could approach him about it.”
“Even for a Jew? He’d have to know, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes. I do not think he would care, but I will need to consider this. However, it seemed clear to me last night that Fräulein Kaplan will not leave until she knows for certain what has become of her family.”
Audrey sighed. “But you said you would try to find them.”
“And I will. You have my word. Though it may take some time, and I told you both, I suspect the outcome will not be what she hopes for.”
“Thank you.” In the meantime, she would continue to chip away at Ilse’s resolve to stay, even if her efforts proved futile. Audrey paused, surveyed Müller. His hair was speckled grey at the temples, one ear slightly higher than the other. “What’s it like for you?” she ventured. “Doing what you do. Your double life?”
He chewed his cheek, his moustache twisting to the side. “It’s…” He shook his head. “It is impossible. I betray myself every day. Do you know what that’s like?”
Audrey held his gaze and thought of Ilse. She knew that her feelings were more than friendship. Every day she tamped them down, fought them. Sometimes it felt as though she were wearing someone else’s skin.
“In a way, yes,” she said.
They sat for a while, and the kitchen was silent but for the tick of the clock near the door until a loud knock sounded from the foyer.
After the police left, Audrey went back upstairs to check on Ilse. She’d slept late, and Audrey was glad of it. Ilse hadn’t had anything resembling a decent night’s sleep in weeks, up in the chilly attic with no proper mattress.
“Ilse?” she murmured, opening the curtains with a swish. Weak winter sunlight filled the cool room.
Ilse rolled over. “Hi.”
Despite the chaos of last night, she looked more rested than she had in a long time. She was such a beautiful person, though she never thought so herself.
When Audrey perched on the end of the bed, Ilse sat up, adjusted the neck of her ivory nightgown. “What is it?” she asked.
Audrey told her about the police interview, which was short and to the point. As Müller had instructed, she’d kept it straightforward, and after they’d taken her statement, the police spoke with him for several more minutes, cutting Audrey out of the conversation entirely. She was only the help, after all.
“Müller thinks they bought it,” she said. “Vogt had a reputation, and a bar fight gone sour is entirely in line with his normal behaviour.” Audrey’s thoughts were full of Vogt, and she wondered how long it would take to shake the unpleasant images that flashed in her mind every time she closed her eyes. “Hopefully that’s it. I’m so sorry, again, that you had to do that. And thank you. It never should have happened.”
“No,” Ilse agreed. “But it did get us here, didn’t it? I don’t have to hide anymore. When Mama and Ephraim come back, Müller will move out, and…” Her lip began to tremble. “And that wouldn’t have been possible if the situation hadn’t pushed Müller to reveal himself. I’m grateful for that, at least.”
“Ilse…” Audrey met Ilse’s eyes, imploring. “Müller says one of the men in the resistance cell—Aldous—is a forger. He can falsify passports.”
“No. Audrey, I told you, I can’t. I need to know they’re okay. I need to stay. And now it’s more feasible for me to do so. I needn’t freeze and hide.”
Audrey took a deep breath. It was the answer she expected. She was restless to know what had become of Ruth and Ephraim, too, but her primary concern was Ilse’s safety, and remaining in Berlin under Hitler’s rule when there was a chance to get her to England felt like a gamble against a house that was holding all the cards.
“Müller says he’s going to try to find out where they were taken,” she said. “He gave me his word.”
Ilse brightened. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“And then maybe they can come home? He could have them released?”
Audrey thought of Müller’s warnings as she looked down at the bedcovers—an old quilt sewn by Ruth’s mother. It was a mercy, perhaps, that she had died a few years ago. She never had to witness the destruction of her family tree. “I don’t know, Ilse. You could ask him.”
“I will,” she said. “So, what do we do today, then? Or tomorrow, or the next day.” Ilse choked out a sarcastic laugh. “I could take over some of the domestic tasks, if you like. I know you hate all of it, and it would give me something to do.”
Audrey was glad to see any vestige of humour in her. “I won’t say no to that. You’re a better cook than I am, anyway.”
“I let Matya teach me. You never listened when Sophie tried.”
Audrey smiled, but the thought of Sophie clenched at her heart. “I miss her. I wonder often how her family is faring. I hope they’ll be safe from this madness in Belgium.”
Ilse nodded sadly. “And you? You could finish your studies at the konservatorium,” she said.
