Fatherland

and pimps around the docks of Hamburg, he and Klara had taken a holiday. They had started in Freiburg, in the foothills of the Black Forest, had driven south to the Rhine, then eastward in his battered KdF-wagen toward the Bodensee, and in one of the little riverside hotels, during a showery afternoon with a rainbow cast across the sky, they had planted the seed that had grown into Pili.
    He could see the place still: the wrought-iron balcony, the Rhine valley beyond, the barges moving lazily in the wide water, the stone walls of the old town, the cool church; Klara's skirt, waist to ankle, sunflower yellow.
    And there was something else he could still see: a kilometer downriver, spanning the gulf between Germany and Switzerland—the glint of a steel bridge.
    Forget about trying to escape by way of the main air or sea ports: they were watched and guarded as tightly as the Reich Chancellery. Forget about crossing the border to France, Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Croatia, Yugoslavia,
    Italy—that was to scale the wall of one prison merely to drop into the exercise yard of another. Forget about mailing the documents out of the Reich: too many packages were routinely opened by the postal service for that to be safe. Forget about giving the material to any of the other correspondents in Berlin: they would only face the same obstacles and were, in any case, according to Charlie, as trustworthy as rattlesnakes.
    The Swiss border offered the best hope; the bridge beckoned.
    Now hide it. Hide it all.
    He knelt on the threadbare carpet and spread out a single sheet of brown paper. He made a neat stack of the documents, squaring off the edges. From his wallet he took the photograph of the Weiss family. He stared at it for a moment, then added it to the pile. He wrapped the entire collection tightly in the paper, binding cellophane tape around and around it until the package felt as solid as a block of wood.
    He was left with an oblong parcel, ten centimeters thick, unyielding to the touch, anonymous to the eye.
    He let out a breath. That was better.
    He added another layer, this time of gift paper. Golden letters spelled GOOD LUCK! and HAPPINESS! , the words curling like streamers amid balloons and champagne corks behind a smiling bride and groom.
    By autobahn from Berlin to Nuremberg: 500 kilometers. By autobahn from Nuremberg to Stuttgart: 150 kilometers. From Stuttgart the road then wound through the valleys and forests of Württemberg to Waldshut on the Rhine: 150 kilometers again. Eight hundred kilometers in all.
    "What's that in miles?"
    "Five hundred. Do you think you can manage it?"
    "Of course. Twelve hours, maybe less." She was perched on the edge of the bed, leaning forward attentively. She wore two towels—one wrapped around her body, the other in a turban around her head.
    "No need to rush it—you've got twenty-four. When you calculate you've put a safe distance between yourself and Berlin, telephone the Hotel Bellevue in Waldshut and reserve a room—it's out of season, there should be no difficulty."
    "Hotel Bellevue. Waldshut." She nodded slowly as she memorized it. "And you?"
    "I'll be following a couple of hours behind. I'll aim to join you at the hotel around midnight."
    He could see she did not believe him. He hurried on, "If you're willing to take the risk, I think you should carry the papers, and also this..." From his pocket he drew out the other stolen passport. Paul Hahn, SS-Sturmbannführer, born Cologne, August 16, 1925. Three years younger than March, and looked it.
    She said, "Why don't you keep it?"
    "If I'm arrested and searched, they'll find it. Then they'll know whose identity you're using."
    "You have no intention of coming."
    "I have every intention of coming."
    "You think you're finished."
    "Not true. But my chances of traveling eight hundred kilometers without being stopped are less than yours. You must see that. That's why we go separately."
    She was shaking her head. He came and sat beside her, stroked her cheek, turned her face to his, her eyes to his. "Listen. You're to wait for me—listen!—wait for me at the hotel until eight-thirty tomorrow morning. If I haven't arrived, you drive across without me. Don't wait any longer, because it won't be safe."
    "Why eight-thirty?"
    "You should aim to cross the border as close to nine as you can." Her cheeks were wet. He kissed them. He kept on talking. She had to understand. "Nine is the hour when the beloved Father of the German People