Page 34 of Beehive
That’s when I saw him.
A man in a dark coat, leaning against a wall near the tram stop. He was reading a newspaper, or pretending to, his eyes flicking up just as I passed. My chest tightened.
He wasn’t alone.
A second man loitered near the fountain, his posturetoorelaxed.
They were watching me.
I turned down a side street, my pace quickening.
The air felt heavier now, harder to breathe. The sunlight felt oppressive instead of warm.
My mind raced as I tried to piece together how they had found me. Had they followed me from the alley? Or had they been waiting here all along, knowing I had no other route to the museum?
I ducked down another alley, the narrow space offering a brief reprieve.
The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves from a tree growing wild behind a collapsed wall. I pressed my back against the bricks, listening for footsteps.
Nothing.
I waited a moment longer, then stepped back out onto the street, careful to blend into the flow of people.
Everything moved so quickly. There were so many people. Everyone looked, everyone stared. I had no friends. Was everyone an enemy?
“There was a fine line between caution and paranoia.” Shiller’s words rang in my ears.
I had to reach the museum. The museum was all that mattered.
The Kulturhistorisches Museum Viktoria loomed ahead, its facade a mixture of neoclassical grandeur and wartime damage. The columns at the entrance were pockmarked with shrapnel scars. A section of the roof of the eastern wing had been patched with mismatched tiles.
I slowed as I approached the square.
Soviet soldiers were everywhere.
Two stood guard at the main entrance, their rifles held loosely but their eyes sharp. Another pair patrolled the perimeter, their boots crunching against the gravel path.
I spotted a truck parked near the side entrance, crates stacked high in its open bed. A delivery, perhaps, or some other mundane errand. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it offered a chance.
I forcing myself to appear calm as I walked toward the truck.
A man in overalls was unloading the crates, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t spare me a second glance as I slipped past him and through the building’s service entrance.
The air in the museum was heavy with the scent of old wood and dust, so I was surprised how clean everything looked. So many of the surrounding buildings lay in dust-covered rubble, but this one appeared show-ready. The Soviets had worked a minor miracle.
My footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor as I slipped through a side door, keeping to the shadows. Majestic marble columns, unmarred by bullets or bombs, rose to meet the ceiling that towered above. On that ceiling, visions of the distant past, mostly in the form of cherubs and sprites, smiled down at me from their heavenly height.
A woman with a clipboard crossed the hallway ahead of me, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She glanced in my direction but didn’t stop.
I ducked into a side gallery, the dimly lit space filled with glass cases and faded portraits. The weight of the statue tucked beneath my arm felt heavier now, as if it knew how close we were to our destination.
“May I help you?”
I startled so badly I nearly hurled the rabbi across the polished floors.
A deep, rumbling bass filled with amusement and warmth flowed toward me as I turned.
“Please, be at ease, my friend. I did not mean to startle.”
