by Warren Court
“I was told this farm was yours.”
“I’ve never owned a farm. I’m a scientist. I grew up in Cologne. I live in Berlin.”
Aubrey gripped the wheel, then reached under the seat and pulled out the pistol. Lazarus showed no signs of alarm; he just averted his eyes to the car’s floor.
“Stay here.” Aubrey got out of the car, the pistol by her side. Suddenly, she heard the cocking of weapons in the tall grass that surrounded the farmhouse. Lydia stepped from the shadow of the falling-down barn, a Sten gun slung around her neck.
“You wont need that,” Lydia said.
“I brought Lazarus, your father. Funny, though, he doesn’t even recognize his own farm. Place needs a bit of a clean-up, don’t you think?”
Other members of Lydia’s group now came out of the grass. They were armed with rifles, pistols, submachine guns. There were half a dozen of them, including Ernst, the driver who’d picked her up that morning. And there was one more person with them. Richard Fuchs.
28
“Richard?” Aubrey said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Aubrey, it’s good to see you. I thought you were—"
“Dead?”
Another car—a Volkswagen, the people’s car—pulled in behind the one loaned to Aubrey. A young man in a suit with no tie got out. He went to Lydia and spoke quietly to her, then took his place with his comrades. One of them handed him a pistol.
“What’s the report?” Fuchs asked him.
“Luther says she wasn’t followed.”
They meant Hewitt, Aubrey realized. She certainly hadn’t seen him. “You’re part of all this?” she asked Richard.
“Our comrades and I want to thank you,” Lydia said.
“Comrades?”
Two of them went and retrieved Lazarus from the car. He came with them quietly; he still looked defeated, broken. He gave not a shred of acknowledgement to his minders.
“You lied to me,” Aubrey said. “He’s not your father.”
“No, he’s not. My father is dead, stomped to death by the brownshirts. Most of us have had a relative killed by those Nazi thugs. We fought them in the streets in Munich, in Hanover, in Cologne and finally in Berlin. But he is somebody’s father. We’re members of the KPD, the communist party of Germany. Or what’s left of it. Hitler has rounded most of us up, put us away in camps like Lichtenburg and Dachau.”
“Like Lazarus here,” Aubrey said. “So, if he isn’t your father, then who is he? Is he even a scientist?”
“Yes, he is. A very intelligent and important one. His specialty is atomic physics. We’re going to deliver our comrade, with Richard’s help, to the Russians. They will have great use for him.”
Aubrey had read in scientific and engineering journals about physicists like Enrico Fermi and the brilliant Albert Einstein, who had only just fled the Reich. She read those journals regularly, looking for articles on flying and aircraft development. The article about Einstein especially had caught her eye; the physics of it all were staggering. She would stick with airfoils, lift rates and fuel consumption ratios.
“Does he want to go to Russia?”
“He does,” Lydia said.
“Why don’t you let him answer?”
Lydia ignored her question. “Thank you, Miss Endeavours. Ernst will drive you back into Berlin.”
There was the groan of a truck’s engine from the hill that looked down on the dilapidated farm. All heads turned toward it, and then Lydia and her group froze. There was the squeal of brakes from the unseen vehicle. The group of communists started to spread out and were quickly enveloped by the overgrown grass and hay of the disused farm. Richard led Lazarus into the barn, while Lydia covered them with her submachine gun.
Aubrey saw the plane now: it was high up, and banking in a circle. It was a biplane, high enough that the engine could not be heard. It started to descend and the engine’s sound drifted down to her.
“They did follow you,” Lydia hissed.
“From the air, it looks like.” Aubrey shielded her eyes.
“It must be in radio contact with them on the ground.”
There were more sounds of approaching vehicles now, and they could see a cloud of dust rise over the side of the hill.
“We don’t have much time,” Lydia said, and she hurried into the barn after Richard and Lazarus.
Aubrey had to make a decision; in her mind she’d done nothing wrong. She had only gone to a camp and help drive a prisoner away, one who was being released anyway. She had no idea what this band of resistance fighters were up to.
Then again, she was colluding with anarchists, enemies of the state. Would the authorities make the distinction? They certainly hadn’t in the cellars of the Gestapo headquarters, that was for sure. Aubrey ran after Lydia. Richard was helping Lazarus through the barn’s dark interior.
“He’s in no shape to run,” Aubrey said.
“He’ll have to, if he wants to live,” Richard said.
When they emerged from the other side, the first shots rang out. They could see them now: a line of grey-uniformed troopers coming down the slope towards the farm, alternating between crouching and firing, covering their comrades as they descended. There was return fire from Lydia’s comrades in the field.
Then an armoured car crested the hill. Its machine gun started up, and a steady thud of rounds started hitting the house and the barn. Lydia’s comrades returned fire, checking the soldiers’ advance. Not the armoured car, though. It came on slowly, the water-cooled Maxim gun clattering away. Rounds hit the barn, and splinters of wood flew everywhere. Then the gunner trained the weapon on the group as they moved farther into the field.
There were trees, the edge of a forest, at the other side, and they headed towards it. Aubrey and Richard helped Lazarus. He was wheezing heavily and missing every other step.
“He’s never going to make it,” Aubrey said.
“We can’t stop. They’ll kill him, as surely as they’ll kill all of us.”
“Are you a spy, Richard?”
“I serve the cause. The cause that’s just.” He nodded back at the soldiers. “I fight that. I oppose all tyranny.”
“I’m not going to get into a political debate with you in the middle of a firefight, but I read the papers. I can spot a tyrant as well as the next gal.”
“You’re right. This is no time for an argument. Maybe we can have one over coffee some day.”
“Agreed. Let’s just get this man out of here.”
They made it to the trees. The soldiers were at the farm now and taking up firing positions. The armoured car had stopped, and the machine gun was silent. Maybe they had a jam. The squad pursuing them moved past the farm and on towards them relentlessly.
“We can’t go on like this,” Lydia said. As they reached the shelter of the trees, the men took up positions and fired at them, slowly, conserving ammo. Lydia spat off a couple of three-round bursts from her submachine gun, but the enemy was well out of range.
“It’s hopeless,” Aubrey said. “We should give ourselves up.”
Lydia laughed. “And go to that camp Lazarus was just in, if we made it that far? No, we make our stand here. For the revolution.”
“There has to be a way out.”
One of the men produced a classic German potato-masher stick grenade. He pulled the pin and chucked it as far as he could at the advancing soldiers. It exploded with a whump, throwing up a cloud of dirt, and the Nazis stopped and hugged the ground.
“That will give them pause,” Lydia said. “We’re better armed than they thought.”
But how long of a pause? she wondered. Aubrey looked through the trees; she could see buildings on the other side. They looked industrial.
“There’s something over there,” she told the little group. “We should get to those buildings. Maybe we can disperse. Seize a vehicle, get out of here.”
Lydia came to the same conclusion. “Viktor, Ernst, stay here and give us cove
ring fire until we’re clear of the trees. Then follow us.”
The two men looked at Lydia but said nothing, just nodded. Aubrey saw the look in their eyes. Their nods of agreement were brave, but their eyes betrayed their fear.
“Let’s go,” Lydia said. Lazarus had collapsed on the ground and was gasping for air.
“I’ll stay with him. You go,” Aubrey said.
“Not acceptable. Bring him along.”
“He can’t go on; you’re going to kill him.”
“He’s dead anyway,” Lydia said.
Richard and Aubrey lifted the man up. Luckily, he had lost so much weight he was hardly any burden at all. Together, the group moved through the trees: Lydia with two of her men, and Richard and Aubrey carrying Lazarus. They didn’t get to the edge of them before the firing started up again.
“We don’t have much time,” Lydia said.
“They’ll be killed,” Aubrey said, meaning the two left behind.
“They’ll die for the revolution. We all will,” Lydia said.
Aubrey had to admire the young woman’s fortitude, determination. In another time, another place, they might be friends. She had seen these same qualities in the other flyers she knew.
They crossed the field to the buildings. There was a strong odour of meat coming from the place, and Aubrey recognized it for what it was: a slaughterhouse. “Great,” she muttered.
In front of it were trucks with the snouts of pigs jutting out of slots cut in the sides of them. There were no workers, though; they must have fled at the sound of the approaching battle. The firing from the woods reached a crescendo, and Aubrey looked back once to see.
Lydia grabbed her. “They’re gone. We have to move.”
They entered the slaughterhouse complex. Aubrey took Lazarus to a bench and sat him down. Lydia and Richard Fuchs and the others went to a window and scanned the field they’d just crossed.
Lydia said, “They might be searching the woods. Maybe they didn’t see us come this way. We can take one of those trucks.”
There was suddenly the roar of an airplane’s engine, and Aubrey saw the plane approaching again. Its guns started up and tongues of tracer fire came at them. The cab of one of the trucks exploded, sending everybody to the ground.
Aubrey recognized the plane; it was one of those Heinkels. If only she had a plane now, she would gladly take it and Lazarus and get out of here. If Lydia and Richard wanted to die for the revolution, let them. Lydia’s group of renegades, as a futile gesture, fired up at the plane as it passed overhead. The sound of the engine dropped as the warplane disappeared out of sight.
There was firing again, and rounds started plinking off the metal siding of the abattoir. Aubrey heard animal moans and screams from inside. The truck that had exploded sent belches of thick black smoke into the air, marking their location. Aubrey belly-crawled to Richard, who was lying on top of Lazarus. He’d thrown him to the ground when the plane attacked.
“We have to get him out of here,” Aubrey said.
Richard pushed himself up and looked at the scientist. His mouth was open, his eyes half shut. He checked his pulse.
“Was he hit?” Aubrey asked. She couldn’t see any blood.
“No, but he’s dead. Must have been his heart.” He scrambled to his feet.
“We have to make a run for it,” Aubrey told him. “They’re going to be on top of us any second.”
“Lydia!” Richard screamed across the sound of firing. “We have to go.”
“You go if you want,” she yelled back. “We’re staying. We’re going to take as many of the bastards with us we can.”
“You’ll all be killed,” Aubrey cried helplessly, knowing it was falling on deaf ears.
“We all have a cause worth fighting for. Worth dying for,” the young communist replied. “Maybe one day, you’ll find yours. Go!”
“Come on, I’m getting you out of here before they encircle us,” Richard said.
He grabbed Aubrey’s arm, and they ran for the far end of the abattoir. There was a large pile of bones, and mangy dogs were chewing on the remains of a cow. Aubrey felt a wave of nausea wash over her. The dogs bared their teeth at her as she and Richard slipped on the bloody ground and staggered across the refuse pile. The firing behind them was growing in intensity, peppered with explosions from hand grenades as the German soldiers prepared for their final assault.
Outside, a dusty track led to another stand of trees. Her lungs and legs burning like fire, Aubrey poured everything she had left in the run to the tree line. She could see tall aluminum cylinders, silos of some kind. Aubrey cast one last look back at the slaughterhouse. She saw Lydia and one of her group reach the refuse pile. They were hit; she could see blotches of red blooming on Lydia’s blouse. Lydia and her companion stopped and turned now, as the final assault came at them. There was a final burst from her submachine gun as the Nazis cut her down.
Aubrey let out a scream, and Richard held her head to his chest.
“We have to keep moving.”
They reached the silos. There were no vehicles to steal, but Aubrey spotted two bicycles. “We can get away on those.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richard said.
“You have a better suggestion? We need to put some distance between us and them.”
They hopped onto the bikes and pedalled furiously out of the compound. There were one or two stray shots at them, but they fell short. Richard and Aubrey paused only when they reached the top of the hill. The troopers had stopped their pursuit, waiting as the trucks approached. It was only a matter of minutes, Aubrey knew, before their pursuers were following once again.
“Come on—we have to try,” she said.
They began pedalling again and flew down the other side of the hill. In the distance was a small village.
“We can get a car there,” Richard said.
They glided into the centre of the town, trying to keep their expressions as casual as they could. The streets were deserted. Much like the slaughterhouse workers, the townsfolk must have heard the battle and locked themselves inside their homes. Their normal curiosity had been supressed under the brutal Nazi regime.
There were only a few motorized vehicles, mostly tractors and a large truck filled with hay bales. Not exactly the discreet getaway car Aubrey had been hoping for.
She heard the roar of an engine overhead and looked up. The warplane was back. It flew over the town at a thousand feet, tilting its wings back and forth, but not in a friendly wave gesture. Aubrey knew what the pilot was doing: he was scanning the fields and roads for people fleeing. The trucks full of troops would be here any minute.
“They’ll expect us to leave,” she said to Richard. “Keep moving. We can hide here.”
“No one here will help us, Aubrey. We’re enemies of the state; they’ll smell it on us. We’ll find no refuge here.”
Just then, a gleaming black car came roaring into the village. Aubrey recognized it immediately. It was the Count von Villiez’s Mercedes. Her heart leapt at the sight. The rear door opened and the count stepped out.
“Helmut,” she cried, and ran into his arms. They embraced.
“Aubrey, my dear.”
“You have to help us. They’re after us.”
“Who is us, Aubrey?”
“My friend.”
“Ahh, yes. The journalist.” He looked over at Fuchs, who stood his ground, watching the two of them uneasily. “Who are you running from?” Helmut asked Aubrey.
“Soldiers. The SS,” Aubrey said. “They attacked us. I got Lazarus out of prison, drove him to a farm and delivered him to his friends.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Helmut said, shaking his head. “Aubrey, why are you getting involved in matters that don’t concern you?”
“There’s no time to explain—they’re going to kill us. You helped us once. Please help us again.” She didn’t pause to wonder how Helmut had just miraculously appeared in this small town.
“I helped you,
” Helmut agreed. “He, however, is another matter.” He turned to Fuchs. “Are you going to tell her, or should I?”
“Tell me what?” Aubrey said.
“Richard Fuchs, alias, Richard Zorenko, alias Rudolf Zorenkosko.” The count pulled a pistol from his jacket. “Go on. Tell her, comrade.”
“He’s a communist,” Aubrey said. “I already know that.”
“He’s much more.”
There were the sounds of trucks now. The pursuing troops were entering the village. It was only a matter of minutes before they were upon them.
