Abruptly, he felt the wall veer inward. Stumbling over the uneven ground, Ryan ignored the first tunnel mouth and moved on to enter the hollow of the second entrance. He was thankful for the flashlight he had brought to guide them up the Kaiser Wilhelm Tower. Now his cupped hand shielded the beam of the Ever-Ready as he surveyed the heavy door before him. Bolt heads secured solid metal braces binding the thick planks. The age-encrusted iron lockset was wider than his hand. The ends of the planks had rotted from exposure and occasional high water, creating narrow openings for rodents and small birds to pass. Barely his height, the door appeared solid and secure. A thick metal stanchion ran from the rock threshold up through the lockset to seat in a cavity in the upper stone facing.
Ryan returned the light to his pocket. He set his shoulder to the door and pushed upward, straining at the task. According to the professor, the years had not been kind to this particular door. The rot had weakened its alignment, and the rusting of the hardware had loosened the stanchion. A hefty lift upward should shift the lower pin from its mooring and allow the door to swing inward. It did not.
Ryan’s mind raced. If the professor had readily managed this door over forty years before, it should be even weaker now. He slammed a fist-sized stone against the thick iron hinge pins, then against the lockset itself. The thumping was muffled by the damp air, but he still heard a clamor of voices in response coming from south along the riverbank. Three of them now, moving closer.
“Here, he’s here!” A gruff voice from near the first tunnel entrance.
“No! The next one!” A whoop of pleasure at fixing upon their prey.
Ryan pounded again and again to jar the metal loose, then dropped the stone and heaved upward with all his might. The door edged partially open on the rusty hinges. Once through the tight opening, he shouldered the door back into place. There was a reassuring click as the stanchion rod found its way home.
A sweep of the flashlight and a quick survey of his surroundings. The landing was littered with fallen stone, collapsed barrels, iron rings, wooden and metal staves. Wrought-iron torch holders had decayed to skeletal remains. Stalactites of moss and cobwebs reached for his head, and a sharp metallic odor lay heavy in the air. Stone steps rising into darkness were hewn directly into bedrock below a low-arched ceiling. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The door rocked as his pursuers tried to bully the barrier into submission. Their voices were audible, their words garbled. Ryan grabbed an iron bar and wedged it against the door and set out up the stairway. Orienting himself to the river, he knew he was climbing toward the market square. The treads were steep and slick, treacherous where the stone walls had surrendered in falls of rubble. Exhaustion was taking its toll, his breath coming in gasps. The air was close and dank, laden with mold and decay.
A loud crash reached him in the darkness as the door below was forced open, and enthusiastic shouts echoed up the passage. Ryan now bounded up two steps at a time, the beam of his flashlight playing against the uneven stone and fooling his eye with shifting shadows. Off to his left a blind alcove suggested a former refuge for those descending empty-handed to give passage to workers hauling up heavy loads.
He discovered a wooden pallet at the rear of the recess, an upright grid of decaying planks cobbled together with iron strips. Setting down the light, he put his shoulder to the barrier, and it moved a fraction. He tugged until it gave way with a moan, revealing a low door barely waist-high. He tested the iron handle and the hinges shrieked in protest as the door opened. Grabbing his light, he crawled through the opening and pushed the door shut behind him.
The stone floor was littered with rock debris, and even on his knees he barely cleared the damp ceiling. He lodged several larger stones against the door to slow his pursuers. Now began a tedious crawl along the narrow shaft, as broken stone forced a snail’s pace. This cramped tunnel was clearly designed only for escape. His faltering flashlight picked out observant red eyes along the tunnel above. Faint chirping cries echoed down to him as the rats scurried into the darkness. At the end of the passage Ryan reached another small door. The rodents had disappeared. He hesitated a moment, holding his breath and listening intently. The dank air was suffocating, the silence a relief. No sounds came from below.
The handle would not budge. Ryan pushed with all his remaining strength. No give. He sat back, braced his arms on the uneven stones, and using both feet, kicked with all his might. The door surrendered with a moan, and he dragged himself into a narrow storeroom. His flashlight braced on a derelict cabinet, he used crates to build a makeshift barrier as thick and high as the low ceiling and cramped space would permit.
Satisfied at last, he collapsed against the wall, drenched in sweat, flashlight back in hand, his trousers filthy and torn. He slid off the switch to preserve the dying batteries and relaxed, letting his eyes adjust to the total darkness which enveloped him.
A rat approached, its whiskers quivering, and paused to sniff his fingers, but Ryan didn’t notice. He slept.
ERNTEZEIT
Harvest Time
1938
CHAPTER ONE
Horst crept into consciousness with eyes tightly shut. He steeled himself for the physical trial ahead. By dawn the morphine had usually released its pain-dulling hold and his neck ached in penance for a night on his back. He fought the urge to rub his face, to force aside the drowsiness. Any pressure on the scarred cheek could trigger a convulsive spasm of pain lasting excruciating minutes. And always he suffered the throbbing headache, payback for the drug and alcohol of the previous evening.
This daily trial had initially been an agonizing insult to a man for whom self-control was everything. As the wound had knitted, the sensitivity worsened. Now, four years later, he accepted it as a rite of inner strength. He consciously willed himself forward. Once the pain was in his control no challenge of the coming day would be too great, for he was once again his own master. He would not touch the drug again until evening.
He cleared the fogged mirror with a hand towel, and then drew the straight razor skillfully and methodically across his face in even, measured strokes. A safety razor had proved less precise at shielding the scar tissue from any inadvertent touch. Horst always saved the area near the scar for last. That stubble was spare but required careful attention. The process was measured in long minutes as he avoided any facial movement, an artist applying careful final strokes to his living canvas.
Horst admired his reflection, the epitome of racial purity, the Germanic ideal. The bold mark of honor and the shortened left ear were enhancements, and faded scars from earlier duels paled beside these bold statements of courage. Whether standing naked before the mirror, later in his daily civilian attire, or in black SS uniform at Party functions, his bearing was always self-assured, for Horst von Kredow dominated his world. Once free of the residual morphine, his mental and emotional states were equally well-honed. Co-workers and subordinates wondered at his unfailing composure.
No one suspected that Horst had mastered an inner discipline even more demanding than that suggested by his aloof persona, for any strong emotion could also play havoc with his appearance. A mere frown might trigger a searing jolt of pain. A full smile could turn one side of his face clown-like in contrast to the other, the classic guises of comedy and tragedy in grotesque juxtaposition. Horst’s placid demeanor was a defensive shield for his one area of weakness, and he would tolerate no curiosity or pity. And it was this handsome mask, never betraying emotion, which unnerved subordinates and terrified detainees.
In the early days he had vowed to destroy both the man whose saber transformed his life and the American who dared vie for Erika’s affections. Vengeance had seemed the ultimate response, and he had set in motion plans to fulfill that commitment. Yet as time passed he also found redeeming value in his own suffering, for it taught him unyielding strength in the face of adversity, and it goaded him into avoiding any show of weakness. Now, to be worthy of his interest, an opponent had to s
how strength equal to his own, and if his challenger did not have that same steel, he deserved no consideration, an unworthy animal.
Even in his childhood, pain had been his close companion. Raised without siblings, his father fallen in the Great War and his mother a devotee of self-reliance, he often spent hours alone in the woods and fields. He was adept with hunting knife and rifle, weapons inherited from the father he had hardly known. He took down game or the occasional dog or cat, hoping to injure rather than kill so that he could observe the slow deaths. Control and domination always at his fingertips, he inflicted agony with impunity. His excitement grew in the animal’s slow struggle, and he regretted the moment when it surrendered to his manipulations and died.
In his youth a peasant girl had caught his eye. She lived outside Gerbach near his family’s estate, and he observed her from a distance for days. He guessed her to be about fifteen. When he found the moment right, the anticipation no longer bearable, he surprised her as she gathered windfall beneath an ancient apple tree, its heavily-laden branches supported by crude wooden posts. She bent to her task as he approached, her purple apron rapidly filling with fruit. A toddler sat on a blanket spread out in the shade, a brother entrusted to her care while the parents tended the fields. She was pretty, her innocence appealing, yet what attracted him most was her vulnerability.
He teased her relentlessly until fear rose in her eyes, then threw her to the ground, one hand held roughly over her mouth, the other forced between her legs. He took her violently, drawing out his moment of absolute power. His found his pleasure less in the act than in the pain and terror he caused. He left her there on the trampled grass, skirt high at her waist, the apples once again scattered beneath the tree. She sobbed softly as the untended child wailed the cry of an injured animal.
Later that day the girl's father made his way up to the family villa and requested an audience with Horst's mother. He was a bent man, prematurely aged by a hard life in difficult times. A worn felt hat turned in his nervous hands as he entered the library, and his words came haltingly, the fury difficult to express in terms suitable for addressing his landlord. He related his daughter's shame.
“How dare you suggest my Horst would do such a thing?”
“My daughter doesn’t tell lies, gnädige Frau. We all know your son.”
“He has no need to resort to such nonsense. I can think of several local girls of superior station and breeding who would be delighted should he wish to indulge his natural urges. Might your daughter just be looking for a little extra spending money?”
“In God’s name no, gnädige Frau, all we seek is justice. My wife and daughter are devastated, and no girl is safe if such an act goes unpunished.”
“I’m truly sorry for your girl’s troubles, though she may well have brought them on herself. However, should you feel obliged to press this matter with the constabulary, consider carefully the long-standing working relationship between our families. I would hate to have you compromise the situation to your detriment.”
“My daughter has been shamed, and your son is responsible for this vile business. What would you expect of me?”
“Here, take this,” she handed him a few banknotes from the desk drawer, “and see that she gets medical attention, should any actually be required. Or, for that matter, use it to supplement your harvest income. It’s all the same to me. But no further nonsense regarding my son or the repercussions will be unpleasant for all. And no one wants your girl’s shame bandied about the countryside. Understood?”
Horst had eavesdropped from behind the library door. He moved to the window to watch the defeated man leave the grounds. As the farmer descended the drive he appeared even more stooped than before.
His mother summoned him to the spacious salon lined with polished oaken shelves and leather-bound volumes of classical works. Here he received his lessons in the arts and sciences as well as in demeanor suitable to his station. He anticipated her anger, some strict punishment, but her rebuke struck him as tacit approval.
“I understand that young men have needs, but you must always be discreet. Find your pleasures in town, not on our lands.”
He nodded understanding but kept his silence.
“Always remember, noblesse oblige. Your station in life demands certain obligations to these people under our care. And you will respect the memory of your father.”
He carried away two valuable lessons: first, honor your own needs, but always with discretion. And second, stay close to the powerful, for they protect you until you have no further need of their power.
Now himself a man of influence, Horst found it fitting that infliction of pain found such a satisfying role in his professional life, even though he took care to hide from his colleagues the personal gratification it brought him. And he did indeed enjoy the support of a very powerful mentor, Reinhard Heydrich.
On this morning he took pleasure in his mastery of the razor, and imagined creative uses for the blade in the basement cells of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, Gestapo headquarters, Berlin.
CHAPTER TWO
“Fahrkarten, bitte. Fahrkarten.” A drowsy Ryan came instantly alert as the railroad official asked for his ticket. The trainman held military posture, his jacket keeping an expansive paunch in check. The odor of mothballs now pervaded the compartment, but the conductor wore the aged blue uniform with obvious pride. A brush mustache sprouted below his broad nose, wire-framed eyeglasses resting near its bulbous tip.
“Schönen guten Morgen,” The trainman’s greeting acknowledged both Ryan and the elderly woman seated across from him.
Ryan drew his ticket from his vest pocket, and the conductor took the narrow card in hand, tilted his head back to squint through the glasses, then punched and returned it with a quick nod of satisfaction. He turned to the neatly-dressed woman seated at the window, her ticket out of her handbag, ready for its authorized blessing. He was gone as quickly as he had arrived, the door shutting with authority and once again dampening the steady rumble from the passageway. His fellow traveler returned to her needlepoint.
Before long the cadence of the wheels, the metallic rub of the carriage bumpers, and the occasional far-off screech of the locomotive joined forces to lull Ryan back into memories, recalling his final train ride out of Marburg four long years earlier.
He had awakened that morning in the pre-dawn hours, slumped against the wall of a dank storage room deep below the university church. His shirt was still clammy from the exertions of his frantic escape, his trousers torn at the knees, his coat filthy from the scramble along the river bank and up the tunnels. He shivered with cold and ached from hours on the hard stone surface, and he was hungry.
His pursuers had somehow lost his trail. Ryan reviewed the chase but could make little sense of it all. Yet there in the darkness, surrounded by musty crates and abandoned furniture, he knew that the attack had not been random. They had been too determined, the pursuit too calculated. It was no coincidence that René had suffered a brutal assault under similar circumstances, and the only suspects were von Kredow and his Wachonian comrades. The commonality was the duel. So much for honor.
He had used the dimming beam of his flashlight to find a narrow stairwell leading up into the church apse. At that hour no one stirred. The massive front doors remained locked. He circled around the center rank of pews seeking access to the university building next door. The towering gothic windows glowed faintly with the first light of dawn. The latch at the side exit was unsecured, and Ryan entered a long hallway. A door opened somewhere distant, then a light flared, but his passageway remained in shadow. He hid in a deep alcove alongside a cabinet, listening as footsteps on the stone floor grew closer. He was not prepared for a new chase. The night guard ambled past, humming to himself and leaving a trail of pipe smoke in his wake.
Ryan waited for him to disappear at the far end of the corridor before moving cautiously toward the front of the building. The door to the street was unlocked. He spotted no on
e on the square and slipped out onto the street. Nearby a bakery readied wares for the morning deliveries and early clientele. Ryan’s stomach rumbled, but he chose to ignore the enticing aroma, traversing instead the damp square and moving down the stairway, past the site of his drop from the bridge just a few hours before, and swiftly crossing the river through the fog. He did not stop to look for his hat.
Back at his room Ryan changed clothes, brushed the caked mud from his coat, and hastily threw the rest of his belongings into the valise. He left a scribbled note of thanks to the police chief and his wife along with the room key, happy his account had been settled and personal farewells exchanged the morning before. The landlord’s tabby, patiently waiting on the stoop, received a last scratch between the ears. Ryan scoped out the lane for any unusual activity before closing the door on his Marburg years.
Holding to the far side of the valley he strode northward until he could cross the tracks to the station. There he scanned the scattered crowd and found the waiting room free of fraternity men. Two policemen at the newsstand exchanged gossip with the vendor. A janitor mopped the floor. Satisfied at last that all was clear, Ryan grabbed a roll and coffee in the station canteen. While waiting for his train, he bought a postcard and a stamp at the newsstand, and jotted down a quick good-bye.
Thank you for the wonderful times we shared.
Affectionately,
Your “American boy” Ryan.
He paid for a second-class ticket and stepped out onto the covered platform. His express north was due to arrive at 7:35, depart at 7:40. There was no delay.
Corridor of Darkness Page 10
