Thank God, you think, quickly pacing back to your cabin in the cramped hallway of the train. It’s hidden— the gun. Underneath the sink in the lavatory.
Of course all feelings of relief, to some extent, are short-lived. This is proved in the exact moment you reach the cabin door, which is already hanging ajar. There’s an SS officer rummaging through the belongings once stowed neatly above your bunk. All papers and random articles of clothing thrown about the room; scattered haphazardly in the almost innately unfeeling manner of the SS.
Herr Sauer ceases abruptly upon beholding your bewilderment. And he recognizes you almost as soon as yourself: an old friend from Oxford. Your mouth feels dry. Nervous.
“Ah, entschuldigung.”
His smile is tight, almost haughty. There’s an errant blouse still held taut in the firm cincture-like grip of his leather glove. The grasp relaxes considerably once he takes in your inconvenient appearance. What’ve you gotten yourself into?