CapturedbytheSS (2 page)

“My name is Sarah Yoven,” I reply in German. I’m careful to
slip a slight Irish accent to my words. I’ve never actually practiced speaking
German with an Irish accent. But I’ve always been good at improvising and
thinking on my feet. Besides, I don’t have anything to lose at this point.

He frowns at my greeting. I can tell he wasn’t expecting to
hear the Irish.

If my plan works, the worst scenario is that I’ll receive a
citation because Nazi laws specify that only
native
citizens are allowed
in Berlin. A native citizen is someone who was not only born in Germany but can
also trace German ancestry to each parent
and
grandparent.

With my Irish accent, I’m basically trying to say,
Hi,
I’m from a German territory, and I sneaked into Berlin illegally,
which is
a steep fine, yes. But it’s not a death sentence. Being positively identified
as an American
is
a death sentence…and not a pretty one.

If he hasn’t already figured it out, which he probably has,
he’ll soon conclude my ID is fake since it states I’m a native citizen.
Possession of forged identification can be a sticky charge, depending on how
the document was used, but I’ll take my chances with it.

He’s staring at me as if he already knows I’m American…or I
could just be imagining it.

Frowning, he turns and retrieves a simple wooden chair
that’s against the wall. He places it dead center in the stark white room.

“Please sit down.” He gestures toward it.

Trying to feign confusion, I force myself to walk across the
room and then sit down. My satin dress tugs against my sweaty skin as I seat
myself. I’ve read SS officers make even native citizens nervous, so I’m hoping
he doesn’t read too much into my body’s reactions.

After I sit down, he nonchalantly pulls a second wooden
chair beside me but turns it toward the opposite wall. He folds his eloquent
frame into the seat.

I angle my legs slightly away from him so we’re not touching
each other. But he murmurs disapprovingly. “Please slide closer to me.”

I reluctantly shift about, but I manage to avoid touching
him.

Again, he murmurs disapprovingly. “I’m sorry,” he declares.
“I need you to be a bit closer.”

I don’t think he’s going to be happy until I’m in his
freakin’ lap. Trying to remain aloof, I shift about until our outer thighs are
pressed together. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his heavy stare as I
study the floor.

Because of the way we’re sitting, I could easily place my
hand on his thigh or even his crotch. And I have a sneaking suspicion that’s
exactly why we’re sitting the way we are.

He’s not making any sexual advances toward me, but I have
the impression he’s silently inviting me to make a move on him. He leans back a
bit in his chair. His body language seems to suggest,
I know who you are,
but if you fuck me, I might let you go.

I’ve always been told that sex is a valuable tool in my
arsenal, one of the few things I might be able to actually barter with. I even
have a teacher in the art of seduction. I can practically hear my sex
instructor whispering, “Put your hand on his thigh. He’s an SS officer, yes,
but he’s still a man. If you’re nice to him, he might be nice to you.”

Even though it goes against my training, I fold my hands
together and rest them in my lap instead.

To me, it makes more sense to remain aloof. Since I’m pretending
to be a citizen of the Third Reich, I think I should act confused and slightly
nervous, as if I have no idea why I’m being questioned by an SS officer. If I
grab his thigh, then that seems too obvious that I’m trying to hide something.

His body language changes slightly. He seems frustrated and
annoyed, letting out a this-is-a-waste-of-time sigh. I may have just messed up.
Maybe I should act a little nicer.

“I apologize for the closeness,” he states evenly. “It’s a
necessary step in questioning.” He sounds sincere. I think he really believes
I’m a citizen, albeit a non-native.

Holy crap, there may be some hope here. I think I just
failed one of his tests for spotting an American spy.

Now if he buys my accent, I might actually get out of this.
Of course, I guess I’m hitchhiking to Hannover, but I’ll figure out
transportation later.

“This won’t take very long,” he states, obviously irritated.

I only smile feebly and nod once. He turns his head briefly
away from me and mutters something about the Reich’s rewards.

“What business did you have in Berlin?” he asks simply. He’s
barely paying me any attention.

I steady my nerves before answering. “We had tickets for
Madama
Butterfly
at the Hoheit opera house.” Again, my German is slightly colored
with an Irish accent.

“I see.” He sounds mildly interested. “The Hoheit is a
beautiful opera house.”

His tone is conversational, relaxed. I think he really likes
the Hoheit.

Without rushing at all, he peels off his black leather
gloves. He’s not even looking at me. Clutching the gloves in one hand, he slips
off his hat. Almost angrily, he places his upturned hat on his lap before
tossing his gloves inside.

His blond hair is a little longer than I thought it would
be. He appears to be in his mid-thirties. If he weren’t wearing an SS uniform,
I suppose he could be considered attractive.

Without the low-rim hat, I notice that his eyes are pale
blue. He also looks tired…
really
tired. I have the impression he’s been
waiting for quite a while, which might explain his sour mood. In all honesty,
we are late. A broken water main closed a major street, and we were stuck in
traffic for hours. I’m so behind schedule that my contact in Hannover is
probably worried.

“Your hand, please.”

He’s reaching for my left hand. I will myself to stare back
into his blue eyes as I offer him my left hand. His warm fingers press against
my wrist, obviously locating my pulse.

“You seem nervous,” he declares after several seconds. He
doesn’t sound surprised.

Steadying my nerves, I force myself to answer. “I’m being
questioned by an SS officer. That’s not exactly a common event. Why wouldn’t I
be nervous?” Much to my relief, everything comes out sounding right. I say the
words perfectly, and I color the pronunciation with a subtle Irish accent.

“Your ID states you are a native citizen, but you sound
Irish. Surely you know that only native Germans are allowed in Berlin.” He
looks and sounds bored, like a member of the US Secret Service busting a
teenager for loitering. Catching a nonnative in Berlin is hardly a case severe
enough to bring down the SS.

I’m relieved he bought my accent. Maybe I really can get
myself out of this.

Recognizing the opportunity, I feign defeat. I also make
myself look nervous, which doesn’t require too much effort. “I only wanted to
see
Madama Butterfly
at the Hoheit opera house.” Again, my German is
slightly tinged with an Irish accent. “I meant no disrespect, sir, and I’ll
promptly pay the fine.” Though…I have
no
idea how I’m going to pay a
fine, but that’s not important right now.

I’m not certain, but he seems to furrow his eyebrows a bit.

“Your fake ID is good. It’s one of the best I’ve ever seen.
It seems like a lot of trouble just to see an opera.” His fingers never once
leave my wrist.

“Perhaps, but the Hoheit opera house is legendary,” I reply,
which is actually the truth. It’s common knowledge that only the best of the
best performers appear onstage at the Hoheit. “I know it was foolish to sneak
into Berlin, but I wanted an experience I could remember forever.”

“Where did you get that ID?”

“I made it.” Fortunately, most citizens in the empire do
have easy access to computers, scanners, printers and even sophisticated
laminators. Lucky for me, the empire is actually currently struggling with fake
IDs.

From what I’ve read, quite a few nonnatives like to sneak
into Berlin to catch a performance at the Hoheit. There’s also a museum and an
art gallery in Berlin that’s home to some very rare and exquisite pieces.
Personally, I think most nonnatives just like the thrill of sneaking in. It’s a
citation if caught, yes, but it’s only a fine, albeit a steep one.

There’s talk of switching to fingerprint technology, but it
hasn’t been implemented yet. Many doubt it ever will be. The logistics of such
a project are just too great, especially for such a minor offense. I think the
empire relies more on rewards to bring them the spies.

He’s silent for a
long
moment.

A shadow of confusion crosses his face. But in an instant,
it’s gone. His body language abruptly changes. Only seconds ago, he looked
tired, bored and annoyed. But now…well, he’s more alert and eager. His eyes
narrow slightly at me.

I don’t like his new demeanor.

His fingers dig into my flesh, and I will my heart to not
race. I desperately try to picture a serene and peaceful beach, hoping the
image will keep my pulse in check.

“It’s very strange,” he declares. “When I said earlier that
you sounded Irish, your pulse slowed slightly, as if you were relieved. It
should have quickened, since it’s illegal for nonnative Germans to be in Berlin.”

Again, my training kicks in, saving me from saying anything
foolish…such as blurting out that I’m an American spy, for example. “I was only
relieved that I now understand why I’m being questioned, that’s all.”

“You think an SS officer would be at a checkpoint at two in
the morning to track down an Irish woman who only wanted to see
Madama
Butterfly
?”

Unfortunately, I can’t think of a response to that question.

“Your German is quite good. I’m impressed. And you fake an
Irish accent very well. But there’s something else about your German. I can
tell it’s not your first language.”

Despite my best efforts to stay calm, my heart starts
racing. His fingers press even harder into my wrist. A subtle smile tugs at the
corners of his mouth.

“Since Ireland became a German nation in 1952, a young woman
like you should have grown up speaking the language, but I can tell you didn’t.
I can tell you grew up speaking English.”

I know I’m losing control of the situation, but I’m not
without some pushback. English is still spoken in pockets of rural Ireland,
which is precisely why I chose to use an Irish accent. The empire hasn’t
completely eradicated the language. Trying not to panic, I scramble for a lie.
“My family was very poor and lived in the country. I didn’t go to any imperial
schools. I was homeschooled. My parents spoke English. I learned German later
at the university.”

His head tilts slightly. “You’re very clever. Whenever I
think I have you cornered, you manage to tell me another lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

His fingers squeeze my wrist. “Your pulse tells me
otherwise.”

“I’m nervous. I’m a nonnative citizen from Ireland caught
within Berlin city limits.” I pour as much conviction in that statement as
possible. I want him to believe it. Oh God, please, just let him believe it.
“I’m nervous about receiving a citation for breaking the law.”

“No, you’re not from Ireland. Your pronunciation isn’t quite
right, though it’s very close.”

His conviction shatters any lingering confidence I have. SS
officers are notorious for being expert linguists. I try to look annoyed, but I
think my expression more closely resembles fear. I can feel my façade slipping.

“There’s a distinct slant to your words that’s unique to
America. You hide it well, but it’s slipped out more and more as we’ve talked.
Whoever taught you German did a superb job, and your Irish accent was
brilliant. You knew your pronunciation would never slide by an SS officer, so
you tried to hide your true country of origin.”

“I told you… I didn’t go to any imperial schools. I learned
German later. I’m just a nonnative, that’s all.” My words are more of a plea, I
know. Hell, I think I even forgot to muddy my statements with the Irish accent.
I might as well have just said it in English because we’re way past deceit at
this point.

“No.
You,
my dear,
are an American,” he
declares in English. “I heard it in your words when we first started talking.
And your pulse quickened and slowed in all the wrong places, which meant you
were lying to me.”

Though heavy with a German accent, his English is perfect.
It surprises me that he knows English, though I guess it shouldn’t. He is a
linguist after all. He’s probably even fluent in the phased-out languages as
well.

I know I’m losing this battle, but I absolutely refuse to
give up. At this point, he’ll assume I’m working for American intelligence,
which I am, but maybe I can convince him I’m just a foolish civilian.

I have no idea why, but sometimes, civilians do
really
stupid things…such as sneak across borders and travel to known German territories.
As a result, they usually get themselves in all kinds of trouble…like getting
shipped in several bloody boxes to the US embassy in Canada.

If he thinks I’m a tourist, he might just kill me instead of
bothering with an interrogation. “I just wanted to see Germany,” I state in
English. “I was only sight-seeing.”

His eyes narrow coldly at me. “You are far too clever under
questioning to be a civilian. Now stop lying to me. You’re working for American
intelligence.”

Not certain what else to say, I glance away from him. I
don’t like defeat.

“I’ve never had an American spy use another accent like
that. Choosing Irish was smart too since English is still spoken in parts of
the country.” Again, he says it in English, but he sounds as if he’s talking
more to himself than to me. “There’s something different about you.”

He finally releases my wrist before retrieving his gloves
and then slowly pulling them back on. A bit victoriously, he slips his hat back
on as well. I study the floor and instead watch him out the corner of my eye.