What was their purpose?

He asked the guard.

“I couldn’t tell you, sir,” the man replied in a brittle voice. “I have not been informed.”

From inside the room the woman in white looked out. Her hands paused and she spoke to someone. Kohl couldn’t hear what was said, nor see the person she was speaking to. The door slowly swung shut as if by magic.

The guard with the vertical face stepped past Kohl and opened the door that led back up the stairs. “Again, Inspector, as I said, there is no exit here. You will find another door up one flight and-”

“I’m familiar with the building,” Kohl said testily and returned to the stairs.

“I brought you something,” he said.

Standing in Paul’s living room in the Magdeburger Alley boardinghouse, Käthe Richter took the small package with a curious look: cautious awe, as if it had been years since anyone had given her a present. She rubbed her thumbs on the brown paper covering what Otto Webber had located for him.

“Oh.” She uttered a faint exhalation as she looked at the leather-bound book on whose jacket was stamped Collected Poems of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

“My friend said it’s not illegal but it’s not legal either. That means it will soon be illegal.”

“Limbo,” she said, nodding. “It was the same with American jazz here for a time, which is now forbidden.” Continuing to smile, Käthe turned the volume over and over in her hands.

He said, “I didn’t know his names run in my family.”

She glanced up with a quizzical look on her face.

“My grandfather was Wolfgang. My father was Johann.”

Käthe smiled at the coincidence and flipped through the book.

“I was wondering,” he said. “If you’re not busy, perhaps some dinner.”

Her face went still. “As I told you, I am able to serve only breakfast, not-”

He laughed. “No, no. I want to take you out to dinner. Perhaps see some sights in Berlin.”

“You want to…”

“I would like to take you out.”

“I… No, no, I couldn’t.”

“Oh, you have a friend, a husband…” He’d glanced at her hand and seen no rings but he wasn’t sure how one declared commitment in Germany. “Please, ask him to come too.”

Käthe was at a loss for words. Finally she said, “No, no, there is no one. But-”

Paul said firmly, “No ‘but’s. I’m not in Berlin for very long. I could use somebody to show me around town.” He gave her a smile. In English: “I’ll tell you, miss, I ain’t taking no for an answer.”

“I don’t understand ‘ain’t,’” she said. “But I have not been to a restaurant for a long time. Perhaps such an evening could be enjoyable.”

Paul frowned. “You’ve got the English wrong.”

“Oh, what should it be?” she asked.

“The proper word is ‘ will ’ be enjoyable, not ‘could.’”

She gave a faint laugh and agreed to meet him in a half hour. She returned to her room, while Paul showered and changed.

Thirty minutes later, a knock on the door. When he opened it he blinked. She was an entirely different person.

Käthe was wearing a black dress that would have satisfied even fashion goddess Marion in Manhattan. Close fitting, made from a shimmery material, a daring slit up the side and tiny sleeves that barely covered her shoulders. The garment smelled faintly of mothballs. She seemed slightly ill at ease, embarrassed almost to be wearing such a stylish gown, as if all she’d worn recently were housedresses. But her eyes shone and he had the same thought as earlier: how a subdued beauty and passion radiated from within her, wholly negating the matte skin and the bony knuckles and pale complexion, the furrowed brow.

As for Paul, his hair was still dark with lotion but was now combed differently. (And when they went out, it would be hidden by a hat very different from his brown Stetson: a dark, broad-brimmed trilby he’d purchased that afternoon after leaving Morgan.) He was wearing a navy blue linen double-breasted suit and a silver tie over his white Arrow shirt. At the department store where he’d bought the hat he’d also picked up more makeup to cover the bruise and cut. He’d discarded the sticking plaster.

Käthe picked up the book of poems, which she’d left in his room to go change, and flipped through the pages. “This is one of my favorites. It’s called ‘Proximity of the Beloved One.’” She read it aloud.

I think of you when upon the sea the sun flings her beams.

I think of you when the moonlight shines in silvery streams.

I see you when upon the distant hills the dust awakes;

At night when on a fragile bridge the traveler quakes.

I hear you when the billows rise on high,

With murmur deep.

To tread the silent grove where wander I,

When all’s asleep.

She read in a low voice and Paul could picture her up in front of a classroom, her students spellbound by her obvious love of the words.

Käthe laughed and looked up with bright eyes. “This is very kind of you.” She then took the book in both strong hands and ripped the leather binding off. This part she threw into the trash bin.

He stared at her, frowning.

She smiled sadly. “I will keep the poems but should dispose of the portion that shows most obviously the title and the poet’s name. That way a visitor or guest will not accidentally see who wrote it and won’t be tempted to turn me in. What a time we live in! And I will leave it in your room for now. Best not to carry some things with you on the streets, even a naked book. Now, let’s go out!” she said with girlish excitement. She switched to English as she said, “I want to do the town. That is what you say, is it not?”

“Yep. Do the town. Where do you want to go?… But I’ve got two requirements.”

“Please?”

“First, I’m hungry and I eat a lot. And, second, I’d like to see your famous Wilhelm Street.”

Her face again went still for a moment. “Ach, the seat of our government.”

He supposed that, being someone persecuted by the National Socialists, she would not enjoy that particular sight. Yet he needed to find the best location for touching off Ernst, and he knew that a man by himself was always far more suspicious than one with a woman on his arm. This had been Reggie Morgan’s second mission today – not only had he looked into Otto Webber’s past but he’d gotten the wire on Käthe Richter too. She had indeed been fired from a teaching job and had been marked down as an intellectual and a pacifist. There was no evidence that she’d ever informed for the National Socialists.

Now, watching her gaze at the poetry book, he felt pangs of guilt about employing her in this way, but he consoled himself with the thought that she was no fan of the Nazis, and by helping him in this unwitting way she’d be doing her part to stop the war Hitler was planning.

She said, “Yes, of course. I will show you. And for your first requirement I have just the restaurant in mind. You will like it.” She added with a mysterious smile, “It’s just the place for people like you and me.”

You and me…

He wondered what she meant.

They walked out into the warm evening. He was amused to note that as they took the first step toward the sidewalk both their heads swiveled from side to side, looking to see if anyone was watching.

As they walked, they spoke about the neighborhood, the weather, the shortages, the Inflation. About her family: Her parents had passed away and she had one sister, who lived in nearby Spandau with her husband and four children. She asked him about his life too, but the cautious button man gave vague answers and continually steered the conversation back to her.

Wilhelm Street was too far to walk to, she explained. Paul knew this, recalling the map. He was still cautious about taxis but, as it turned out, none was available; this was the weekend before the Olympics began and people were pouring into town. Käthe suggested a double-decker bus. They climbed aboard the vehicle and walked up to the top deck, where they sat close together on the spotless leather seat. Paul looked around carefully but could see no one paying particular attention to them (though he half-expected to see the two policemen who’d been tracking him all day, the heavy cop in the off-white suit, the lean one in green).