James Frey - Project Berlin

“Here you are,” she says.

A moment later Lydia returns to the living room—but she’s not alone. There’s a man behind her. He has one arm around her neck and is pointing a gun at me. A second man appears, holding an old woman I assume is Dagmar. She’s whimpering softly, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shut her up,” the man holding Lydia says.

The man holding Dagmar places a knife at her throat and slices it, as if she’s nothing more than a chicken being readied for the stewpot. The old woman’s eyes widen, and her hands flutter to her neck. The man lets go, and she crumples to the floor. He looks down at her, grinning, her blood on the blade of the knife in his hand. I consider shooting him, but I can feel the other man watching me.

“Put your gun down,” that one says now. “Or she’s next.” He tightens his grip on Lydia’s neck.

“Don’t. Kill him,” Lydia says to me in Greek.

“Quiet,” the man orders.

I look into Lydia’s eyes and try to telegraph a message to her as I hold my hands up and gently place my gun on a nearby end table.

“Good girl,” the man says. He looks at Lottie, who throughout all of this has remained in her chair, watching everything. Then he says to the other man, “Go find the engineer.”

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