Cloud and Wallfish by Anne Nesbet

Island, Noah and his father walked down some other grand streets, and then they turned right and went up a set of steps into a building where an American flag was waving. That was the embassy.
    They had to go through a metal detector to get in, and then his father talked to someone about mail, and a couple of letters actually ended up in his father’s hands, somewhat to Noah’s surprise. Then his father said to him, “This next bit is the important part, so pay attention.”
    But the next bit was just that they went back out onto the big Berlin streets and headed back the way they had come.
    “What’s the important thing?” said Noah. “Knowing how to get home? Is that it?”
    “You’ll see,” said his dad. “Let’s find the supermarket marked on your map, how about that? We need all the basic provisions. Plus possible party food.”
    “Okay,” said Noah. He was hungry; there was no doubt about that.
    Back they went down the wide streets and past those rows of large buildings, and Noah was just about to complain that there hadn’t been anything worth paying much attention to that
he
could see, when suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, a soldier popped up and raised his stern hands to stop them.
    “Papers, please,” he said, and Noah’s dad gave Noah a comforting squeeze on the arm and then handed over their passports. The soldier opened them up and stared at the pictures in the passports, comparing them with the actual flesh-and-blood people in front of him — the same frowning stare that Noah had had to suffer through the day before. It made him want to hide somewhere very far away.
    The soldier did more than merely stare. He carried on a kind of conversation with himself as he read over their papers:
    “American citizens? Passport number
blablabla,
is that right? Visa seems to be in order. How long are they here for? Visa says six months.”
    That was strange, wasn’t it? A policeman who talked to himself! But a second later, Noah realized there must have been a teeny-tiny little microphone hidden in his collar somewhere. The policeman wasn’t speaking aloud for their benefit but for some other policemen, somewhere else. Maybe in that green police booth Noah had just spotted, farther down the sidewalk.
    “And what is the business of your visit to the German Democratic Republic?”
    “My wife is researching classes in schools for children with speech delays.”
    The soldier repeated something to that effect, using long German words Noah half recognized from the border guards the day before, and then seemed, finally, satisfied. He handed the passports back to Noah’s father and backed away so they could keep walking.
    Twenty steps later — because of Rule #1 — Noah said, “Was that the important thing?”
    And his father said, “Yep. You know why that just happened?”
    “No, why?”
    “Because we came out of the American embassy,” his father said. “And they keep very close tabs on everyone who visits the American embassy.”
    “But that was like ages ago!”
    “Not quite that long,” said his dad. “But you’re right: they’re clever that way. They don’t jump on you immediately; they give you just about seven minutes, and then they jump. But they’re always, always there. Always watching, always listening. That’s the reason for all our Rules. Is that clearer now?”
    Noah nodded. Always watching. Always listening. All right. He wouldn’t forget that now. Also: it was amazing, the sorts of things his parents just seemed to know.
    They walked out in the rain into a field of gray stone surrounded by city buildings all making an effort to be modern. Noah felt as small as a pigeon in all that stone. He couldn’t help looking around for places to hide.
    “Okay, this is the Alexanderplatz,” said his father. “So where’s the supermarket?”
    They turned around and around, looking. Everything was huge and square. Even the decorations were gigantic: massive mosaics of children