Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Ryan switched on his flashlight. The dark stone stairwell was treacherous enough in daylight, impossible in the enveloping blackness. He held put a protective arm around her as they descended the curving staircase to the grassy yard. Only a small lawn area and a fence of rough-hewn rails separated them from the valley below. To their right loomed the old inn, its terrace now desolate and uninviting. Just weeks before this beer garden had been alive with families taking in the last sunny days of the year. Small children had played tag beneath the massive beeches, as waiters scurried in and out of the Gasthaus with mugs of beer and heavily-laden plates. Now a damp shroud lay over the inn, its terrace abandoned, the chairs removed, the tables left to face the winter months untended.

  Leaves crunched underfoot. As their eyes adjusted to the feeble moonlight Ryan switched off the flashlight. The couple moved quietly arm-in-arm along the broad woodland path that he now knew well, having walked it almost daily since taking his new room on this side of the valley. His European years coming to an end, he had chosen a last nighttime walk with Erika to mark this turning point in his life. He pulled her closer. The groomed trail circled round to parallel the valley below, and the woods opened up from time to time to reveal the distant, veiled town. Here the fog drifted in spectral wisps through the barren trees.

  For all Ryan’s cosmopolitan charm, Erika had known very quickly that this romance could not last. He was the shining movie star of films, all dark hair and flashing teeth, bronze tan and witty banter. But her “American boy” would not be the type to settle down anytime soon, and she knew it. At first she imagined their falling in love and being whisked away to tall skyscrapers and a vibrant, open society. Although she wasn't sure Kansas fit that bill, she was certainly done with living in her parents’ Marburg home. She longed for social interaction and challenges beyond the dull university gatherings and the tedium of the clinic. She imagined lavish parties with exciting new friends, urban adventures in metropolitan centers like Berlin or New York where her future could be far more enriching and far less predictable.

  Horst was the far better gamble. She had first seen him the year before, striding boldly into the main market place where table upon table had been set out to celebrate a festival day. He wore his fraternity regalia as if born to it, ancient nobility reflected in his carriage and demeanor. He reminded her of the old carved images of knights, as handsome as Ryan perhaps, but taller. Here was refinement with strength, the all-conquering Germanic hero.

  Over their first beer together he told her he would be a leader in the new Germany and she believed him, for he had already presided over his fraternity for one semester and had a powerful position in student affairs. He had an unsettling drive and dark mystery, but she found his aggressive self-confidence irresistible, his public manners impeccable.

  She had surrendered willingly to his advances. He was not her first—she had learned from a few fumbling encounters with a school boy and later a medical student or two—but Erika was ready for a serious relationship, a prospect. As the propaganda made abundantly clear, she should marry and bear solid, obedient German children. Horst treated her more roughly in bed than she had expected, but his fire was contagious. He awakened a surprising response in her, and left her drained.

  Her parents were wary of Horst on first meeting, and encouraged her to keep her options open. We know this type, he can be trouble. Erika demanded details, but her mother's face darkened and she returned to her book. Yet Erika enjoyed the excitement, and she saw great possibilities in Horst's connections and drive. She knew he was destined for greatness. She saw herself on his arm, her couture expensive to complement his dashing uniform, dazzling their admirers over cocktails in Berlin or Leipzig.

  He was ardent in his support of the new government and institutions, and tutored her constantly in the values of National Socialism. He recommended Mein Kampf and Rosenberg's Myth of the 20th Century. She begged off—too much going on in the clinic—but he kept pressing, and she finally thumbed her way through a few chapters of the volumes he brought her. So much propaganda, but she kept any doubts to herself.

  Horst had taken her to a memorable civic reception to welcome Göring. With Hitler's ascent to Chancellor, Göring had become Interior Minister of Prussia, and the great flying ace cut a fine if somewhat portly figure in the enthusiastic crowd. The street leading up to the castle was lined with uniformed Storm Troopers holding aloft flaming torches. Banners were draped from lampposts and buildings, and huge flags decorated the archway leading to the Schloss. In the castle courtyard an orchestra played rousing anthems as the arriving guests saluted all around.

  The grand hall, once host to Luther and Zwingli, was festooned in red and black bunting, and each table flew a tiny swastika flag. Here a smaller band played Party favorites and dance tunes, and a banquet table displayed a whole roast pig as centerpiece, its crackled skin curling back to reveal the juicy flesh beneath. Uniformed servers cut thick slices for the guests, rich gravy flowed from silver boats, graceful swan-shaped pastry shells held mayonnaise and other condiments, and heavy chargers offered a feast of delicacies.

  Horst, as leader of the National Socialist German Student Bund at the university, shared the honor of welcoming the prestigious guest. The slit in Erika’s crimson gown revealed just enough leg to draw admiring glances from the handsome men in attendance. She had fashioned it herself, and that flirtatious attention confirmed that she was a fitting social companion for Horst. “Such a stunning couple” was a constant refrain. Göring himself had complimented her beauty with a knowing wink. Toward the end of the evening the guest of honor left the hall with his entourage, and shortly thereafter Horst disappeared for half an hour, only to join her afterwards filled with unbridled enthusiasm.

  “Well? Come on, tell me, out with it,” she demanded, not used to seeing him so obviously upbeat.

  “My time is finally coming, and soon. Watch for even greater things from me, just wait and see.” It felt good to exit on his arm under a canopy of fascist salutes.

  She knew he was hers if she wished. Back in his room there had been no foreplay, her new dress never again fit for wear. She was shaken by his forcefulness, but excited all the same. That night he had seemed so powerful, but somehow distant, perhaps deep in thoughts of his own future.

  And now, in the darkness of the woods with Ryan, she drew herself closer and forced all else from her mind, focusing instead on the few remaining hours before she would send her American home. They followed the fog-laced path in silence.

  Ryan wondered if he would ever see Erika again after this last evening together. They had so much in common—a love of nature, of children, of wry humor and uninhibited sex. Studying had been so demanding that he had relished the rare moments when they could be together, but it disturbed him to hear her voice more and more the platitudes of intolerance and obedience.

  This adopted homeland had once won him over with the richness of its culture, the celebration of life found in every village festival and city beer hall. Now, as the German people embraced the Nazi dogma and moved forward in goosestep, he was leaving disillusioned. Neatly-painted signs at the entry to villages proudly proclaimed Jew-free Town or Jews Unwelcome, places which hadn't seen an actual Jew in centuries. Hitler Youth marched through the streets of Marburg, singing of Jewish blood spraying from their knives, and by-standers raised arms to salute both crimson flag and bloody sentiment. Friends were evicted from the university for nothing more than their heritage. What became of the high ideals of great German thinkers, where was the tolerance?

  He had been so naive. Where once he might have encouraged an animated discussion, he now held his tongue, and he was equally disillusioned with himself for not speaking up. He knew full well that any critique of the government—even with exams successfully passed and his doctorate earned—could still cost him the diploma, which needed official issuance by the university to follow him home by mail.

  But what he wished to pursue on this las
t night together was neither politics nor social change. He would soon take Erika to bed and feel her warmth, and he pushed aside other concerns in anticipation. Now in the blackness of the forest, with only a glimmer of starlight directly overhead, they stopped and he pulled her close. His top coat once again engulfed her.

  Without warning, havoc surrounded them. Suddenly alerted to human presence on the path, a herd of deer pummeled the couple as it thundered past in panicked flight. Just as quickly, it was gone, leaving the couple breathless in the re-found stillness. Ryan and Erika held each other tightly before separating in the laughter of relief.

  “Were those red deer?” He peered into the dark woods. “They were amazing!”

  “Come on, quit wasting time, get me to bed and I’ll show you my amazing animal side.” She pulled him off the path and toward the valley below.

  Erika reached for matches next to the ashtray and lit a small candle. “Much nicer, don’t you think?” Ryan switched off the floor lamp. He had left the coal banked in the heater, and the room was warm. The space, devoid of clutter and character, suggested hotel lodgings rather than a student's chamber. Gone were his books, the writing implements and pipe rack. No scatter of magazines and newspapers at the foot of the easy chair. His unframed etchings and other souvenirs of five years abroad lay in the steamer trunk already waiting dockside at Bremerhaven. A brown leather valise stood near the door, open for final packing in the morning.

  “You really are leaving,” she said.

  He tossed his hat on the desk and removed overcoat and jacket. “D-Zug for Bremen at 7:35.”

  Erika dialed past radio static and strident voices to find soft music. She draped her coat and scarf over the chair and slowly rolled down her silk stockings. Ryan imprinted every gesture, every moment in his memory. She moved to the window overlooking the valley and he came over to massage her neck and shoulders.

  “Your place seems so different, so lonely, as if you've already left.”

  “I’m still here with you now.” He caressed her neck with his lips before drawing the sweater over her head. She turned to face him, opening his shirt to run her hands down his chest. He revealed her pale breasts to the flickering candlelight.

  “You will miss me,” she whispered. “And I you, my American boy.”

  What little clothing remained gathered quickly on the floor. She led him by the hand to the bed. Urgency now, kisses of longing and growing heat and a deep embrace as her legs encircled his hips and drew him in, and they moved feverishly as one until all became still. Then she lay for long minutes in the crook of his arm while he traced the gentle curve of her breast and the rise of her nipple. Her hips rose to meet his searching fingers and a low moan escaped her lips. She reached for him, and this time they moved slowly, drawing out these last shared moments together until neither could wait longer. With the release, the reality of parting flooded back.

  Ryan drifted toward sleep in her embrace, but Erika bit him lightly on the neck, then kissed him deeply and rolled aside. She took her time gathering fallen clothing, providing him one last, lingering appreciation in the flickering candlelight.

  “My father knows where you live, you know,” she teased, and began at last to dress. “And now you must get me home before he comes looking for me.”

  Hands arched behind his head, he leaned back in the pillows and watched her re-apply her makeup at the mirror over the wash basin. The candle was extinguished, the floor lamp burning once again. “You predicted I’ll miss you.” His eyes followed the lipstick as it traced its path. “I do already.” She glanced his way, and he saw sadness in her eyes.

  The narrow lane at the upper reach of Spiegelslustweg inclined steeply to the valley floor. Once across the railroad line they ascended toward the heart of the old town. Haloed streetlamps guided their way in the dense fog. The Altstadt had tucked itself in, leaving the narrow streets hauntingly still except for an occasional drunken shout from a student heading home. Ryan and Erika stood together on her parents’ landing as he sought the words for that final good-bye.

  “I’ll write from Kansas,” he said, only half believing. Such a promise came easily, but life and new romances always seemed to interfere with its fulfillment. A clean break might be preferable to any hollow expectation of a future relationship. Both their lives and their countries were on such diverging paths.

  “And I’ll share all the exciting news from Marburg.” Tears brimmed as she spoke. “And might you come back soon?” She slipped the key into the lock.

  “Who knows? Perhaps next summer, maybe between semesters.” He drew her back into his arms and held her close, breathing her scent, denying the coming separation.

  “You will see me again.”

  And she broke away and was gone, the latch falling into place.

  Ryan waited several moments on the street below, looking up at the apartment. Light still framed the windows, so she had not left the living room, but no drapes parted to reveal a wave of the hand, a final smile. He turned back into the fog, a lump in his throat. Ryan knew this was not love, but he genuinely liked this girl. And he was taken by the sensual freedom she embodied, so at ease with herself, so different from most he had known. In fact, until then Isabel had been the one great exception. In some ways Erika reminded him of Isabel, and he knew he would miss her, too.

  Perhaps he would find a way to make her final prediction come true.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The clock on the main square tolled midnight. The narrow streets remained densely shrouded. Only a tomcat on nocturnal rounds disturbed the silence of the Old Town. The upper stories of the half-timbered buildings disappeared into the thick fog, and every surface glistened in the muted glow of the streetlamps. Ryan crossed the medieval Haymarket and descended Butcher’s Lane toward the towering gothic university building.

  Despite the wool coat a chill ran through him and his senses heightened. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. There was nothing he could clearly put his finger on, no obvious sight or sound to disturb the quiet envelope of fog. He glanced back to see the cat disappear between buildings, tracking a rodent or a female in heat. A second look revealed nothing, but he knew that in those labyrinthine streets something lurked unseen.

  The attack on René weighed heavily on his mind. Ryan had accepted the official explanation—a random act of thuggery, his friend's inebriation and lack of discretion making him a victim. There had been no witnesses, and such violence was rare in a university town like Marburg. His visits to René’s hospital bed had left him shaken. His previously vibrant young friend lay half-comatose, unable to speak, his prospects shattered.

  A dull thump caught Ryan’s attention, and his pace quickened. The prickling sensation intensified. Damn cat. The explanation fell short. Projecting his homeward path, Ryan sorted out the possible twists and turns ahead, exploring options. He approached the small square where René had been attacked.

  Ryan felt himself the prey and did not like it. He was a competitor, an achiever, an athlete used to the win. He quickened his pace and sensed immediately that his pursuer had moved off to the right, perhaps looking for advantage in the shadows of a side alley. Now a jarring thump on his left, metallic and discordant in the still of the night. A garbage pail knocked over by a quickly-passing hunter, intent on his quarry? Two hunters?

  Once the decision was made, reflexes took over. He veered abruptly to the left, turning down the cross street and lengthening his stride to a run. A sharp cry of alarm, its origin distorted by the dampening fog, erased any lingering hope of an overwrought imagination. Heavy, pounding steps descended from above and behind. He knew what he would find on his right, a precipitous passage of narrow steps dropping to the lower town, easily overlooked by non-locals. He had climbed its worn path numerous times, knew the uneven stone risers and treads, the twists in its narrow course, but now he would negotiate the stairway in the dark of the night.

  He took the abrupt turn on the run and leapt dow
n two and three steps in a bound, grabbing at iron railings and the slick stone walls, hoping to retard his speed and prevent a disastrous slip and fall. He heard excited voices behind him, but knew better than to take his eyes from the treads below. He put himself in the race, his focus solely on the finish line he had set in his mind. But only with a good head start would he make it. His lungs began to rebel and his heart to pound and he regretted the long woolen overcoat. At the landing he veered right into the empty street without a backward glance wasted on his pursuers.

  The Lahn Bridge was now in sight. Through the enveloping fog the lampposts glowed dimly, the guardian lions barely visible atop their columns at the head of the crossing. The bridge was bounded by stone parapets and iron railings which disappeared into the mist. Ryan had gained distance on the pursuers, but could hear their dampened footfalls behind him. The fog on the river was his shield. Taking the sharp turn onto the bridge at full speed, he immediately vaulted left, bracing on the iron rail and swinging himself over toward the darkness below. He slid down on the iron palings and prepared himself. It’s never the fall that kills, it’s the landing.

  He released his grip and dropped, sensing the ground rise up to meet him, and tucked his shoulder and rolled onto the sloped bank fronting the river. His hat flew off into darkness. He checked for injuries, but the thick coat— cursed moments before—had blunted his impact as he rolled riverward over sharp-edged field stones. He found his footing and loped several yards northward along the river bed, feeling for solid footholds on the slanting rocks and grass. From above on the bridge he heard cries of anger from his frustrated pursuers. Now he moved stealthily, hugging the rock wall for stability in the deep fog.

  A short distance ahead lay his hope for escape. Centuries-old tunnels reached up into the bowels of the mountain, long-abandoned passageways for goods from riverside to market square and castle. Recessed indentations in the old stone walls hid heavy doors barring access. His doctoral advisor had told of exploring the sealed passageways in student days, and since his safety now depended on it, Ryan only hoped that nothing had changed in the intervening years.