The Crossing

“They are going to pick us up earlier. We have to go now,” she said.

“Why? You sure?” he questioned her.

“They dropped the milk crate earlier than usual. There was a message inside. One of their Mercedeses broke down. Another was stopped at the border in the Pyrenees. They’ll get us a horse cart, which will take an extra hour.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I wanted to, but you were out in the woods, and when you came back you went straight ahead to the Couberts and played cards with them.”

“You should have come in and asked for me.”

“For what? So that the peasants would see that you had a faithful servant that was also Frau Würdiger?”

“No. Just that if it’s on such short notice, I need to know.”

“That’s not what I signed up for.”

“Then what did you sign up for?”

“To win. Or at least not to lose. I don’t know why they wanted to exfiltrate you so badly. You smell like one of them. You even use the same type of soap.”

“Soap? What are you talking about?” he raised his voice.

“Are you going or not?”

“I’ll need to write a report when all the dust is settled.”

“Not on a coffin or in a communal grave, I hope.”

“Why all this now?”

“Herr Doktor Würdiger—or should I say, Kommissar Mironov,” she took a long pause, “do I need to say more? Do you want to go or not?”

“Just get me out. I will say no more.”