Spandau Phoenix

“Say no more, Sergeant. Come inside. Did I not tell you? Ben Ochs knows how to return a favor. And what a favor! Bernice!”

An even tinier gray-haired woman appeared behind Ochs. She stared at the uniforms with trepidation. “What is it, Benjamin?”

“It’s young Hans Apfel! He needs our help. Get your slippers, Bernice. We’ll need some tea and …” Ochs trailed off, noticing the large bruise at the base of Hans’s skull, a souvenir of Rolf’s lead pipe. “Something stronger, I think.”

“Please,” said Hans, following the old man inside, “all we need is a telephone.”

“Nonsense, you look terrible. You need food, and something to calm your nerves. Bernice?”

Frau Ochs bustled into the kitchen, talking all the way. “There’s chicken in the refrigerator, boys, and cabbage too. It’s no feast, but this is very short notice.”

The old tailor pulled two chairs from beneath the kitchen table; Hans immediately collapsed into one. The Ochses’ kindness seemed otherworldly after the events of the past four hours. Hans felt as if he’d been running for days.

Hauer had been too amazed by the warm reception to say anything. Summoning a smile, he extended his hand to Ochs. “Guten Abend, Herr Ochs. I’m Captain Dieter Hauer.”

Ochs nodded respectfully.

“I’m afraid Hans is right. A rather special situation has arisen. I myself believe it’s just another of the endless exercises they put us through, but of course we never know for sure. If we could just use your telephone for a few minutes, we would be gone before you know it.”

Ochs nodded again, slower this time. “You are a poor liar, Captain. But I count that in your favor. Most honest men make poor liars. If you’re anything like your young friend, you are always welcome in my house. This boy”—Ochs grinned and patted Hans on the shoulder—“this boy saved my life. Three years ago I was trapped in a burning car, and Hans was the only man who had the nerve to get me out.”

The light of realization dawned on Hauer’s face. Only now did he notice the old man’s left hand; it was withered and covered with scar tissue from a deep burn.

Ochs shook his head in wonder. “I thought he was trying to kill me! He blasted out the window right over my head!” The old man laughed and stepped over to the counter. “Here is the chicken,” he said. Then he held up a dark bottle his wife had pulled from a high cabinet. “And here is some bromfn—brandy—for the nerves. We’ll leave you to your business now. Come along, Bernice.” Taking his wife under his silk-covered arm, Benjamin Ochs left the kitchen without looking back.