Hans grunted. “I did. I was reluctant. But Emilee strongly encouraged me to follow your advice. So I called Joseph Goebbels and offered my services. He seemed pleased and had me come up to Berlin on two different occasions to plan strategy.”
“Did he pass it up the line to Hitler for his approval?”
“Probably, but I don’t know that for sure. But the one thing that they did decide in Berlin was that I wouldn’t be just a volunteer. They put me on as a consultant to the staff.” Hans laughed aloud. “And here’s a rich one. Goebbels called me personally this afternoon to express the thanks of the government for my assistance and said there would be a five-thousand-mark check in the mail to cover my consulting fees and serve as a generous bonus for the overwhelming victory.”
“You jest?” Alemann hooted. “Five thousand marks? Really?”
“Yes. Really. And that’s not all.”
“What?” Then Alemann drew in a sharp breath. “Something with Dean Eberhardt?”
“Ja. Evidently, someone in Goebbels’s office called him and told him about the role I had played in the vote and suggested that such a contribution to the Fatherland should be worth some additional college credits.” Hans was jubilant. “And you know our beloved dean, ever wetting his finger and testing the political winds. So he called me this evening to tell me that the board of governors unanimously accepted his recommendation that additional credit be given and that the rest of the requirements for my bachelor’s degree be considered fulfilled.”
“Really!” It was a cry of amazement and joy.
“Ja, ja. So, starting in September, I will be an assistant professor, teaching full time, and with full university benefits, including free tuition for my Lisa when she starts university next year.”
Alemann slapped his leg so hard that Hans heard it through the phone. “I knew it! I knew it. When it comes to being in tune with the political winds, Eberhardt is a bloodhound.”
“All thanks to you, Alemann,” Hans said softly.
August 25, 1934—East China Sea
It’s been a while since I wrote. Not much to write about. I am in awe of the vastness of our oceans. Day after day with nothing but water as far as you can see in any direction. We are about one day out of Shanghai. I can’t wait to be off the confines of the ship. The crew is very excited. Most have been here before. They talk about three things—drink, gambling, and women—incessantly. Disgusting, but I hold my tongue. Skipper is keeping my pay in his safe. That is another benefit of a Mormon life. Most of the crew will blow through their pay and be broke again when we leave. How stupid is that?
Aug. 27. In Shanghai. Unloading cargo in steaming heat. Shore leave has been fascinating for me, debauchery for most others. Crowds thicker than ants in an anthill. Lots of lovely buildings. Many more teeming slums. Smells of a thousand kinds. Rickshaws by the thousands. Taxi ladies (professional “escorts,” many from Russia), trapped in a horrible life.
At first I went with the other men so they could show me around. They tried to force me to go with them to the bars and to the red light district. When I refused, a deckhand named Cracker found a prostitute and paid her to pull a trick on me. When he and I came around a corner, she was lying on the ground with what looked like blood on her face. When I ran forward and bent down to help her, she threw her arms around my neck and started kissing me. Said my first time would be free. I was so angry, I punched Cracker in the jaw and went back to the ship. Later Skipper came to my bunk just to talk. He said he had secured a load of rice and other cargo headed for Hong Kong, leaving in two days. He asked me to help him round up the crew. It was a humbling and horrible experience. The men were so drunk and out of control. One was crying like a baby. Others had puked on themselves. And they think this is fun? Skipper and I went into the houses of ill repute to find some of them. This was humanity at its lowest. But when they sober up, they’ll brag about it and talk about their “conquests” for weeks.
The next morning, I told the Skipper I would help them stay on and go to Hong Kong, but if the Oriental Star wasn’t headed back to America, then I was done with it. He nodded and said okay. Said he was sorry to lose me but understood. That was a huge relief.
Early September. Somewhere in the South China Sea, about a hundred or so miles south of Hong Kong. Well, here I am in jail again, though on a ship it’s called the brig. Same difference though. It’s a single cell with steel bars, a bunk, and a toilet in one corner. I’ve been in here five days. So far!
Skipper Jack wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t be sailing on with him after Hong Kong, but he said he understood and said that if I would help him round up the crew from the bars and brothels and get them back on board again, then he would release me from my contract. Maybe even put in a good word for me with a captain he knew who was headed back to America. And I was fool enough to believe him.
By the way, Shanghai and Hong Kong are as different as night and day. I loved Hong Kong and went for long walks in the city. Bought a bunch of souvenirs for my family. The crew managed to find the bars and brothels again, but they were in another part of town.
We stayed in Hong Kong for three days, unloading our cargo then loading several tons of scrap metal headed for Singapore. On our last night there, once again, I helped the captain round up the drunks and get them back to the ship in exchange for him finding me a position with a South American freighter headed back to San Francisco.
The next morning, before we set sail, he called me to his cabin to give me the money he had been holding for me. The first mate were there too. The captain reminded me that I had agreed to stay on with him until we returned to the U.S. He asked me to reconsider. I apologized but said I needed to get back to my family. As he shrugged that off, I heard a noise behind me. I whirled around just in time to see the first officer coming at me with a marlinspike, the wooden spike used to pry knots loose or splice ropes together.
It happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to ward off the blow. I woke up a few hours later here in the brig, my head throbbing and a huge goose egg just behind my ear. And I’ve been here ever since. They bring me food three times a day, but evidently no one is allowed to talk to me because they won’t answer any of my questions. This puzzles me a little. Why no talking? And for that matter, why keep me in the brig? Does the captain think I’m going to jump overboard and swim to shore when we’re a hundred miles or more out to sea? Or is he just letting me know that he’s not a man to be trifled with? I’ve now read every novel in the ship’s small library and am starting through them a second time. The boredom is unbearable.
For a couple of days I could see the coastline off in the distance, but nothing since. So I’m guessing that we’re on our way to Singapore. To my surprise, when I awoke this morning, my journal and a pen had been slid under the door along with my scriptures. A peace offering? I can only hope.
There are all kinds of lessons to be learned from this experience, but I don’t feel like laying them out right now. Maybe later.
September 6, 1934, 1:15 p.m.—Oriental Star, South China Sea
Benji was lying on his bunk in the small cell, hands behind his head, with his eyes closed. He had lay down after finishing his journal entry. He hadn’t planned to sleep, but the gentle rocking of the ship and the soft thrum-thrum of the engines was lulling him away. He jerked up as something clanked against the bars of his cell.
He turned and sat up quickly. Skipper Jack was standing just outside his cell, silhouetted against the afternoon sun flooding through the open bulkhead door behind him. “Got a minute?” he asked with a sardonic smile.
As Benji just stared at him, the smile quickly vanished. “Sorry. Not funny?”
Benji got to his feet. “Not really, no.”
Skipper Jack took a ring of keys, found a large silver one, and inserted it in the lock. The steel bars swung open. The captain waved for Benji to sit down again. “I�
�ve got a few things to say. Then you’re out of here.”
“Why now?”
He shrugged, then stepped inside and leaned against the wall facing Benji. “Figure you’re a bright kid. Stubborn, though. So I gave you a few days to think about things.” There was a fleeting smile. “Also, ain’t many places you can run to now. You ready to talk?”
Benji nodded. “I wasn’t running. I told you what I was going to do.”
“Yes, you did. You also told me you were signed on until we got back to the States.” His eyes narrowed. “You broke your word to me, Reverend. I didn’t figure you for that. I overlook a lot of things in my men, but lying isn’t one of them.”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
“That day back in Long Beach, you asked me how long we’d be gone. I told you at least six months. You agreed to that and we shook hands on it.”
“I. . . . You made it sound like it would be no longer than six months.”
“That was my hope, but I also said that this was an iffy business. And you still bought into it. Yet here you are, barely over a month later, trying to bail on me. In my world, a handshake is as good as a signed contract.”
“You tell me you’ll have me back in six months and I’m good with that.”
“I told you before. We go where the cargo is.”
Benji, stung by the accusation of being dishonest, started to protest further, but the captain cut him off with a chop of his hand. “Let’s get straight to it, okay? You got a marlinspike because you broke your word. If it had been even six months, I would have let you go. So why not leave you to rot in a cell in Hong Kong? I’ve done that before.”
That took Benji aback, and he eyed the captain warily. “You tell me.”
“Because you’re a good man, Rev. I want you on my crew. You’re a hard worker. Dependable. Don’t go off whoring and gambling. Did you know I lost two other crew members in Hong Kong? Link and Joey. Too drunk to make it back by midnight before departure. I could have gone and found them, but I didn’t want them.”
“I appreciate that, but there are some compelling reasons I need to get home.”
“More compelling than your word?”
Benji took a deep breath and finally shook his head. “No. You’re right. I owe you another five months.” He stuck out his hand. “And this time, a handshake will be my bond too.”
Skipper Jack didn’t move. “Let’s renegotiate your deal.” He came over and sat down on the bunk beside him. “You willing to listen?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Next stop is Singapore. We’ll lay over there for probably a week. Get some repairs done. Give the crew some time off. Then we have two options. Keep heading south to Australia. Plenty of cargo there. Australian wool is always in demand. From there, the logical thing is to head east to the coast of South America. That’s a long haul with nothing much in between, so we would have to do some island hopping. But we’re talking another eight to nine months after Singapore, depending on our luck in getting cargo.”
“Then I’ll commit to Singapore, but nothing further until we get there.”
He went on as if Benji hadn’t spoken. “There’s another alternative. Singapore does a lot of trading with India and Europe. So, if we left there and went west, we could make a run up to a port or two in India. Then we could angle straight across the Arabian Sea to the Suez Canal, which cuts across Egypt and Palestine to the Mediterranean Sea. I think we can pick up more cargo in Egypt. Then we’d head north across the Mediterranean, making Marseilles our first stop. Then we—”
“Wait. Sorry, I don’t know my geography that well. Where’s Marseilles?” Benji asked.
“On the south coast of France. Then we hit Bordeaux, also in France. Maybe jump across the English Channel to Southampton in England, then head for New York. At New York your commitment to me is over. You jump on a train and go home to Utah to your family. That’s no more than another six months at most.”
Benji didn’t hear any of the last of that. He was staring at his captain. “You know that world map you have in your cabin? Can I look at that? Then you can show me both routes.”
Pleased, the captain stood. “Let’s go. Your time in the brig is over, if I have your word you’re with me until whatever it is we agree to, okay?”
Benji was moving for the door as he nodded emphatically.
1:52 p.m.
Benji studied the map carefully, asking questions from time to time. It became clear why Skipper Jack couldn’t give him specific times, only estimates. They were going halfway around the world. Finally, he stepped back. “Give me your best estimate of how long it would take us to get from Singapore to Marseilles”
“Hard to say for sure. But let’s assume one or two stops in India, one in Alexandria, then two or three days to Marseilles. And weather is always a factor. But I’d say four months if we’re lucky. Five if we’re not.”
“And if I commit to stay with you until Marseilles? Would that satisfy you?”
“It would. In fact, if you do that, I’m going to make you an assistant second mate, which gives you another twenty dollars a month.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“So you’re telling the captain how to run his ship now?” Skipper Jack growled.
“Sorry. Thank you. The extra money would be appreciated.” Benji stuck out his hand. “I’ll shake on that.”
The captain’s grip was firm and his smile broad. “So what’s in Marseilles that’s got you so interested? You got a girl there?”
“I don’t know anyone in the whole of France.”
“Then what?”
Benji leaned in, peering carefully at the map. Then he lifted a finger and touched a dot several inches to the northeast of Marseilles. It was labeled “Munich.” He grinned. “Actually, this is where she lives.”
January 15, 1935, 3:20 p.m.—The Bogenhausen Preparatory Academy and Primary School, Munich
Jolanda Eckhardt gasped a little as she stepped through the doors onto the steps of the Johannes Groberg Building. It was snowing lightly and there was enough of a breeze that the flakes were coming in almost horizontally. She moaned and pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck. She hated the cold.
Leyna Zeidner followed right behind her, buttoning her coat as she came. “Oooh! That’s nippy. I didn’t know it was supposed to snow today.”
Jo turned. “Where are Lisa and Erika?” she grumbled. “I thought they were right behind us.”
“Didn’t you see? Philipp Moeller stopped Erika to ask her something.”
Jo’s head came up with a snap. “Philipp.” She pretended to swoon. “Let’s go back inside. I’ll answer any question he wants to ask me.”
Leyna snorted. “Erika can’t stand him. He’s such a prig. Thinks he knows more than anyone else in the school.”
“Who cares what he knows or doesn’t know,” Jo said dreamily. “With those blue eyes and dimpled cheeks he could be an imbecile and I wouldn’t care.” She turned. “Let’s go back inside. It’s too cold to stand out here waiting for them.”
Leyna rolled her eyes but said nothing. A moment later, the door opened and Lisa and Erika came out. Philipp Moeller was not with them. “Come on,” Jo said, starting down the stairs. “It’s cold. No dawdling today.”
“It’s not that cold,” Lisa said, putting her arm through Erika’s.
The four of them moved across the quad at a brisk walk and approached the gate. The guard stepped out of his small guardhouse, smiling at them, and opened the heavy wrought-iron gate. “Have a nice evening, ladies,” he said as they passed. They waved as he shut the gate behind them.
They turned left, going toward the bridge that led across the Isar River into the English Garden, and beyond that, into the neighborhood of Schwabing. There was a skiff of snow on the grass, but the walkway was just wet. W
ith Lisa and Erika in the lead and Jo and Leyna close behind them, they set out at a brisk pace, their breath making small puffs of mist that were instantly whipped away in the wind.
But they hadn’t gone half a block when suddenly a man stepped out from between two buildings onto the sidewalk directly in front of them. He looked around as though he were confused. When he saw the four of them coming, he brightened. “Excuse me, ladies. I seem to be lost.” His voice was deep and gruff.
The four of them had immediately stopped. Jo and Leyna moved up beside Lisa and Erika as they warily eyed the man. He took a couple of steps toward them and then stopped as he saw them move closer together. He was wearing a dark grey overcoat and French-style cap that was pulled down low over his eyes. His hair and eyes were dark, as was his heavy but neatly trimmed beard. His coat was buttoned up to his neck, so they couldn’t tell exactly what he was wearing, but the trouser legs beneath his coat were clearly not pants that went with a nice suit.
He was staring at them with open curiosity now, head thrust forward a little, eyes narrowing as he peered at them. And that gave Lisa a touch of the creeps. His German had a northern accent—Berlin or Hamburg, probably—but it was not the accent of the working classes. Lisa kept her voice pleasant but cool as she spoke to him. “Sir, what address are you looking for?”
“The Bogenhausen Preparatory Academy and Primary School. It says it is here on this street but—”
Jo stepped up. “But we have just come from there.” She turned and pointed. “See the walled enclosure about half a block up? That’s the academy. There’s a gate there.”
“Gut, gut,” he grunted, and then he reached inside his coat and withdrew a slip of paper. “I am hoping to find a student there. Her name is . . .” He consulted the paper. “Fraulein Erika Zeidner.”
Erika gasped. “I am Erika Zeidner. Who are you? Who gave you my name?”
“Ah, wunderbar!” he said, ignoring her question. “And let me guess,” he said, looking at Leyna. “You have to be Leyna, Erika’s sister, right?”
Fire and Steel, Volume 6 Page 21
