Lenore is eager to hear what happened. “So? What did he say?”
That it’s hopeless. That I’ll never get away from him unless he allows it. “He said thank you for the letter.”
“Is that all? He didn’t say how pretty you look or how the new clothes suit you? And after all the effort we went to.” She scowls down at her typewriter and raps out her indignation on the keys.
At a quarter to six she leaves, telling me how well I’ve done today and giving my shoulder a squeeze. She seems to think my silence and pale face are because of first-day nerves.
I don’t know what to do once she’s gone, so I keep copying out the pages, conscious that Volker is just a dozen or so feet away behind his closed office door. My eyes flick around the alcove, the corridor that runs alongside it. I’m alone. I could run now if I chose. But will Volker have thought of that and given the people who guard the exits my description?
I’m going to do it. I’m going to get up and walk out of HQ—
And then Volker’s door opens and I see him reach for his cap and coat and flick off the light.
Little idiot, you should have run while you had the chance, I tell myself, fitting the cover over my typewriter like Lenore showed me how. The whole evening stretches ahead of me, hours alone with Volker in his apartment.
I collect my paper bag full of clothing and string bags of shopping and follow Volker to the elevator. He seems to be in a very good mood, glancing down at me with that small smile of his. “Did you have a good first day?”
As the elevator doors slide closed I think of something bland to say. “I’m not a good typis
t. The keys are in a funny order.”
He laughs, a delighted, full-throated laugh. “I’ve always thought so, too.”
Are we sharing a moment, me and my captor? I don’t want friendship from him, or shared confidences. I feel him tug on the string bags in my hand and nearly swing them at him, thinking he’s attacking me, before I realize he just wants to carry them for me. He tries to take the paper bag, too, but I shake my head, my heart pounding. He doesn’t get to touch these. They’re all I have left of the person I used to be.
When we arrive back at the apartment I’m relieved to hear Frau Fischer in the kitchen and I wonder how long she stays in the evenings. I hope it’s hours and hours.
Volker heads for my room with the bags of lotions and nylons, and I dump my paper bag on the hall table and cry out, “I’ll take those!” The last thing I want is him thinking he can waltz into my room whenever he likes.
Amused, he watches me prize the bags from his fingers and hurry away from him. I take my time in the bathroom and bedroom, putting away my new things. There’s plenty of space. There’s no evidence, either, that anyone else has stayed in my bedroom recently. No telltale long hairs in the corners. No half-empty tubes of lipstick or discarded bobby pins. Has he done this before? Is this how he always recruits a new secretary, by stealing a traitor, or am I the first?
When I come out into the lounge I can see Frau Fischer in the kitchen but no other movement in the apartment. Maybe Volker’s gone out. Standing in the kitchen doorway I watch the housekeeper for a moment and then say, “Can I help with anything?”
She looks up with a friendly smile. “No, dear, I’m all right. Well, don’t you look lovely. Did you have a good first day?”
I shrug. “It was all right.” I hear the front door open and close behind me and jump. Volker did go out then, but he’s back. I can’t bear to be near him so I push past him as he comes toward the kitchen, fleeing for my room. I sit on my bed and hear him talking on the telephone, the sound of Frau Fischer washing the dishes. An hour must tick by this way and I don’t move. I’m frozen and scared in a way I wasn’t at HQ. This is his home and I have no purpose here. I don’t know what he wants from me.
I jump at the sound of a knock on my door. It’s Volker. “Dinner, Evony.”
It’s been a long time since the tuna on rye at Lenore’s and my belly’s rumbling, and whatever Frau Fischer was cooking smells delicious. But eating means being close to him. “I’m not hungry.”
Volker’s voice turns cold. “It wasn’t a request. Come out, now.”
My hands clench on the bedclothes. I don’t want to do anything he says. Giving into these little things could eventually mean giving in entirely. But I look down at my clothes and realize I’ve given in a lot already. Finding a way to escape may take some time. It will be exhausting and possibly suicidal to fight Volker every minute of every day. As much as I hate the idea, I’ll have to concede to do as he asks sometimes. I take a deep breath and open the door. Volker’s smile is his sarcastic, obsequious smile, the parody of a good host.
He holds out his arm. “After you, Fräulein.”
A set of sliding doors has been pulled back on the other side of the lounge revealing a dining room. The table is set for two and laid with linen placemats and silver. There’s a decanter of ruby wine and candles in sticks and the food is in covered casseroles. Frau Fischer has gone, then. It’s so disgustingly civilized that I want to sweep it all to the floor.
Choose your battles, Evony.
On the way to the table I remember my things—I left them on the hall table. But when I go to collect them and put them safely in my room I see that the table is empty.
I turn to Volker, a chill prickling down my neck. “Where are my clothes?”
He pretends to look puzzled but he knows exactly what I’m talking about. “That paper bag? I took it down to the incinerator.”
For a moment I can only stare at him, certain he must be lying. My clothes can’t be gone. It’s impossible because I put them by the hall table and they were right there, waiting for me. But I see from his face that he’s not lying. He did burn them, and without asking me first.