Our tufts of breath come rapidly as we continue down the street. The factories and sparse shops face us like headstones—flat gray, pocked here and there with premature decay and the occasional Democratic Republic of Germany flag that hangs listlessly over the door. The boulevard is more crowded than yesterday evening. Perhaps it’s the magical afternoon hour when all the factories close and everyone rushes home to barricade themselves against the East German secret police—whatever the case, they are the perfect cover for our escape. They’re shouting, exclaiming. It’s beautiful noise. Thoughts shoot around us, frantic, animated, terrified—
We reach the end of the block, ablaze with wonderful orange light. I weave through the crowd toward Café Mozart, another Baroque relic in the sea of modern cement buildings. Cherubs pucker their lips over the doorframe, and wrought-iron patio furniture lies in wait for warmer weather. It’s perfect—just what I’d expect from Papa as a Western gateway to our new life. I’m so transfixed that it’s a moment before I finally realize what’s happening.
Café Mozart is on fire.
CHAPTER 41
I CHARGE FOR THE FRONT DOOR, but a gout of flame sputters in my path. Valentin and Larissa seize me by either arm. “Yulia, stop! It’s too late!”
“I have to get inside.” I wrestle against them, reaching for the doors. Never mind the glass panes already smashed out, or the wide display cases inside wreathed in fire. “I have to read the walls—find out where they’ve gone.”
“Give it up, Yul! We’re too late!” Larissa cries. Smoke spews around us as they drag me backward through the congealed snowdrifts on the sidewalk. “They’re already gone.”
I shove off of Larissa, but Valentin manages to tackle me to the sidewalk. Black snow slides down the neck of my sweater. Everything is happening as if underwater. People are pointing and shouting, their thoughts bristling all around us, but it’s so slow. Valya and Larissa are screaming at me wordlessly. Why can’t they understand? It’s our last chance—we can’t let it get incinerated. I just need a scrap of paper, a fork, anything that was in the café when this all took place.
A plaster column crashes through the front door in a cloud of ember and ash. I prop myself on my elbows, watching fresh flames swallow up the entryway. My throat is tight, and not just from the smoke. Foolish Yulia. Daring to think she could escape. Didn’t she learn her lesson in Natalya Gruzova’s palatial apartment?
I press my hands against the sidewalk, pushing myself to my feet, when three notes surge through me. I glance down and spot the crushed butt of an unfiltered cigarette.
“We have to go now.” Larissa tugs at my arm. The crowd is concealing us, but it won’t last.
“I need one second.” I scoop up the cigarette butt.
Papa is standing on the sidewalk corner, checking his pocket watch as he smokes. Half an hour to go, but never too soon to start a sweep. He watches the ration line across the street; he listens to the tailor next door pedaling her sewing machine. He isn’t nearly so fuzzy as he usually is. He must be keeping a low psychic profile.
A car screeches up to the curb and the other man jumps out. “Change of plans.” He’s speaking German, though his accent is all rounded corners and blunted rs.
“What’s the matter?” Papa takes another unhurried drag on the cigarette.
“Rostov left the base right after Khruschev—had your girl with him. I came as soon as I could. I don’t know if she’ll make it—”
“Then it’s too dangerous.” Papa reaches into his front coat pocket and pulls out a half-drank bottle of vodka. “I’ll have to trust the thoughts I put in her head.”
The man hands him a scrap of fabric, which Papa stuffs into the bottle’s neck. He holds his cigarette to the rag until it sparks, then catches, leaping up the rag.
“Get ready to run,” Papa says.
And he pitches the flaming bottle straight into the café’s window.
“Yulia.” Larissa shakes me back into the present. “If we circle back to the hotel now, we can go straight to Kruzenko, tell her what Rostov’s done. She’ll protect us. It’s not too late. The secret police aren’t here yet—the Stasi—”
The fire is too hot on my face. I look at her pleading eyes, at Valya’s dour expression. But I can’t give up now. Papa is counting on me.
“The Americans know this place is compromised but they haven’t given up on us.” I straighten my shoulders. “We have to run.”
We push out of the crowd just as a fire truck whines in the distance. I run my fingers along the building wall, seeking that three-note melody. “They turned down here.” I beckon Valya and Larissa around the corner, past the flaming café. The cold air is thick with smoke; the fire’s smell mingles with factory waste as we plunge deep into the industrial district along the Berlin Wall’s edge. There are no cars parked along the street to hide behind. No thick drifts of snow. Smoke scrapes through our lungs with a rusty spoon. But the melody in my head is bewitching, calming. I know we’re on the right path.
“The Stasi will be coming soon,” Larissa warns. “If not for us, then for the fire.”
Valentin glances at me, his face hardened. “Yulia—your nose is bleeding again.”
I reach up to dab it, but stumble forward as a chunk of rubble catches my foot. “Damn it.” Then pebbles spray across my face. “Okay, what the hell—”
“It’s Masha,” Larissa says. “I guess she isn’t completely terrible at telekinesis anymore…”