The cop aimed his submachine gun at Bernd, but hesitated. He could not fire into West Germany. He might well hit people other than the escapers. It was the kind of incident that could start a war.

The man turned and looked at the rope around the chimney. He might have untied it, but Bernd would reach the ground first.

Did the cop have a knife?

Apparently not.

Then he was inspired. He put the barrel of his gun against the taut rope and fired a single round.

Rebecca screamed.

The rope split, its end flying into the air over Bernauer Strasse.

Bernd fell like a stone.

The crowd scattered.

Bernd hit the sidewalk with a sickening thump.

Then he lay still.

• • •

Three days later Bernd opened his eyes, looked at Rebecca, and said: “Hello.”

Rebecca said: “Oh, thank God.”

She had been out of her mind with worry. The doctors had told her that he would recover consciousness, but she had not been able to believe it until she saw it. He had undergone several operations, and in between he had been heavily drugged. This was the first time she had seen the light of intelligence in his face.

Trying not to cry, she leaned over the hospital bed and kissed his lips. “You’re back,” she said. “I’m so glad.”

He said: “What happened?”

“You fell.”

He nodded. “The roof. I remember. But . . .”

“The policeman broke your rope.”

He looked along the length of his body. “Am I in plaster?”

She had been longing for him to come round, but she had also been dreading this moment. “From the waist down,” she said.

“I . . . I can’t move my legs. I can’t feel them.” He looked panicky. “Have my legs been amputated?”

“No.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “You’ve broken most of the bones in your legs, but you can’t feel them because your spinal cord is partially severed.”

He was thoughtful for a long moment. Then he said: “Will it heal?”

“The doctors say that nerves may heal, albeit slowly.”

“So . . .”

“So you may get some below-the-waist functions back, eventually. But you will be in a wheelchair when you leave this hospital.”

“Do they say how long?”

“They say . . .” She had to make an effort not to cry. “You must prepare for the possibility that it may be permanent.”

He looked away. “I’m a cripple.”

“But we’re free. You’re in West Berlin. We’ve escaped.”

“Escaped to a wheelchair.”

“Don’t think of it that way.”

“What the hell am I going to do?”

“I’ve thought about this.” She made her voice firm and confident, more so than she felt. “You’re going to marry me and return to teaching.”

“That’s not likely.”

“I’ve already phoned Anselm Weber. You’ll remember that he’s now head of a school in Hamburg. He has jobs for both of us, starting in September.”

“A teacher in a wheelchair?”

“What difference will that make? You’ll still be able to explain physics so that the dullest child in the class understands. You don’t need legs for that.”