Page 70 of Beehive
She then crouched, picking up a small piece of shattered mirror from the ground and angling it around the corner.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“Two soldiers,” she said.
“Do we wait?” Thomas asked.
“No. We move. Quietly.”
We slipped into an alley that ran parallel. At the end of the alley, we emerged onto another quieter street. A single soldier stood at the far end. He repeatedly flicked a lighter beneath a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Keep to the shadows,” Visla whispered.
The soldier didn’t even glance in our direction, too absorbed in his attempted smoke to bother looking up.
By the time we reached the neighborhood near Visla’s safe house, utter darkness had enveloped the city. Thick clouds hid even a hint of the moon and her stars.
“That is our destination,” Visla whispered and pointed across the street.
The building that contained our safe house looked as though it might collapse if someone sneezed too hard. Half the windows were boarded up, and the door sagged on its hinges. It was perfect for our purposes—nondescript, forgotten, and unlikely to draw attention. What it lacked in charm or comfort, it more than made up for in anonymity.
We crossed the road, and Visla rapped on the door in a quick, deliberate rhythm: twice, pause, then once.
We waited.
Seconds dragged painfully.
Finally, the door creaked open just wide enough to reveal the pale face of a man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. Themoment he saw Visla, his eyes widened to almost comical proportions.
“Visla? What are you—?”
She shoved the man aside and said, “We barely made it. Stop talking and let us in.”
The man glared, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out at night? Every minute out there increases your chances of being exposed.”
Visla shrugged out of her jacket. “Thank you for your hospitality. Now, I would like a drink, a very stiff one. I assume our guests would like one, too.”
I nodded. Thomas forced a grin and said, “You know us well.”
The man’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t argue. “I assume you are staying the night?”
Visla nodded. “Yes, but only tonight.”
Looking from Thomas to me, the man said, “The room upstairs is prepared. Do not light any lamps near the windows. Assume the Soviets are listening. Despite our efforts, they likely are. You will have to share the bed. Allied bombs were bad for business.”
Had the angry little German just cracked a joke?
“Thank you,” Thomas said, his voice betraying the exhaustion I knew we both felt.
The man turned to Visla. “Your room is always ready. I will make your drinks. Come to the kitchen when you have settled in.”
I set the satchel on the bed, my shoulders sagging with relief. Thomas leaned against the door and stared blankly across the room.
He turned to close the door, but Visla held it open with a hand, surprising us both.
“Well,” she said, stepping inside. “That was exciting.”
I looked up. “Exciting? We were almost shot!”
