Cold War

The pounding at the door penetrated Charlotte’s sleep, turning her dream into a nightmare. Screaming, she broke free of the ghostly assailants only to realise that the knocking at the door was real. Terrified, she registered it was pitch black, still the middle of the night.

“Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’ll handle it!” Christian called to calm her as he padded down the hall in pyjama bottoms and bare feet. Charlotte tried to stay put, but she could not cower in her bedroom while Christian faced whoever it was. She grabbed her dressing gown and followed him. When he opened the apartment door, she caught sight of Herr Liebherr, also still in his dressing gown and beside him Herr Sperl, fully dressed but looking dishevelled and agitated. Something dark and wet smeared the front of his jacket and soiled his chin. Coming closer, a chill ran down Charlotte’s spine; it was blood.

Liebherr looked purposeful and determined as he explained, “…our friend Sperl returned fire while his friends got the injured man into a car.”

“Were you hit?” Christian asked Sperl.

“No. The blood is not mine. It is from my former second engineer. He took a bullet in the head, and I held him in the car on the way to the hospital,” Sperl explained.

Liebherr re-entered the conversation, “Trude believes he must be flown out to a hospital that can handle brain surgery. That’s why I need to talk to Charlotte—”

“I’m here,” Charlotte spoke over Christian’s shoulder.

“Excellent,” Liebherr found a wan smile of relief before continuing earnestly, “Can it be done? I know we’ve barely set up the procedures and the hospitals have not yet sent us their lists, but Trude claims this is an acute emergency. She says Berlin has no facilities to perform the operation needed. She thinks he should be transferred to Munich.”

“Yes, the best hospital for brain surgery is in Munich,” Charlotte confirmed.

“Do you think your ambulance can transport him there today?”

“I don’t know for certain, Herr Liebherr. The ambulance is parked at Fuhlsbuettel with one of our pilots standing by. I’ll call Mr Goldman right away and see what he thinks.” Because the only phone was in the foyer, she added, “I’ll just go and put on my shoes.”

As she returned to her room, the men continued talking in low voices. She caught fragments of what was being said. Sperl’s agitated voice carried farthest. “They had no warrant! If he hadn’t resisted, he would have just disappeared into a gulag like all the others.”

“You shot at the police?” Liebherr wanted confirmation.

“They aren’t police! Damn it! They’re Soviet thugs!” Sperl countered hotly.