By afternoon he had passed through Bremen, and the Norddeutsche Lloyd steamship Europa was moored dockside in Bremerhaven, ready to carry him home.
CHAPTER THREE
Klaus Pabst was pleased with his long day’s work. It had been well worth rising early and enduring the hours of travel from Berlin, crossing the Polish Corridor in a train sealed to prevent boarding or detraining on Polish soil. He had enlisted Dieter Sprenger, a Gestapo associate from the Königsberg office, to drive him out to the country village of Praddau. Sprenger had done the local research and legwork that made this final step so simple and satisfying.
The parish church was easy to find, as was the aging pastor who greeted them in his office. The frail man sat uneasily behind a cluttered desk, his pale skin almost translucent and stretched tightly across sharp cheekbones. Blue veins and age spots stained arthritic hands. His eyes however were soft and fluid. Despite the civilian dress the old man knew immediately that his visitors were on official business, policeman, undoubtedly Gestapo. The look and demeanor was easily recognized and feared. He rose from his chair with difficulty.
“How may I be of service, gentlemen?”
Pabst drew a warrant badge from his vest pocket. The oval metal disc bore embossed lettering—GEHEIME STAATSPOLIZEI —and a four-digit identification number stamped below. The mere sight of the badge intimidated most citizens into immediate cooperation with its bearer. It had that desired effect here.
“Yes, of course, officers, what may I do for you?” the pastor said. One gnarled hand held fast to the other, both trembling in a dance of nerves. The pastor found his chair and waited expectantly.
“You have a quiet little parish here, well out of the mainstream of church politics, we presume?”
The minister hesitated, knowing that every spoken word had consequences. The last few years had been especially trying for the Protestant church as well as the Catholics. Untold hundreds of his fellow pastors had been arrested for refusing to adopt the precepts of “Positive Christianity,” the Party creed shifting focus from belief in Christ as Son of God to faith in National Socialism as the one true expression of God’s will. “You must already know that the other diocesan pastors and I have sworn our personal oath of obedience and allegiance to the Führer.” He willed his unsteady hands still.
“Indeed you have, and I’m confident your parishioners are pleased that you now direct your prayers to the Reich and its Führer. So much more sensible than revering an insignificant Jewish carpenter, don’t you agree?” Pabst gave the old man a smug look, challenging him to respond.
The pastor stared at the officers. “Is my loyalty in question?”
“We’re here on a different matter, a question of certain birth logs. The local civil records aren’t all that helpful. In fact, they raise more questions than they answer. Perhaps you can help us fill in some blanks using your family records here in the parish office?” Pabst and Sprenger took seats before the pastor’s desk without being invited.
“Yes, forgive me, please be seated. And of course, I’m happy to help in any way I can.” The minister appeared anything but happy. “Which family is of interest?”
Klaus smiled at his colleague before responding to the cleric. “Why yours, of course. As I just said, it’s your family that interests us.”
The pastor’s translucent skin appeared to grow paler still, had such a thing been possible.
CHAPTER FOUR
The locomotive rolled at high speed, a trail of gray smoke whipping behind. From time to time excess steam vented from the boiler in white bursts, and the shrill whistle alerted the countryside to the priority of the express over less important rail traffic. Fallow fields and farmsteads gradually gave way to tiny plots of garden land with summer cottages, where city dwellers raised crops and bonded with nature. Steel girders flicked past, the bridge trembling beneath the speeding train, while heavily-laden barges on the waterways below moved at a far slower pace toward the city’s markets.
Ryan barely noticed the landscape passing before his eyes. He felt a pervasive lethargy as his thoughts drifted back to Kansas, recalling the events which had led to his imminent arrival in Berlin.
Starting his new duties at Baker in the spring of 1935, he had quickly fallen into the routine of academic life. His classes had been well-attended, the students interested in the volatile state of European politics and the first-hand experiences of the young German professor. Their curiosity appealed to him, a sharp contrast with the unquestioning single-mindedness of fellow students in his own final years in Marburg. Standing before the blackboard with chalk in hand, Ryan took satisfaction in sharing what he had learned in the streets and lecture halls of Germany.
He had rented a one-bedroom bungalow not far from campus. Arising daily at six, Ryan rolled his newly-acquired Indian Sport Scout out of the garage in back. Storing his briefcase in one saddlebag and suit coat in the other, he donned a fleece-lined leather jacket and took to the country roads. He would stop at a café in some small town near Baldwin City for fried eggs over-easy, bacon and hash browns, toast and coffee, then head back to campus to trade leather for wool and prepare for his classes. It was a satisfactory—though boring—routine.
The letter in his mailbox in the Admin Building had come as a surprise. In clear, feminine script covering three thin sheets of airmail paper Erika wrote of her short courtship and recent marriage to Horst von Kredow. She expressed her deep affection, her desire for change and challenge evoked by Ryan’s international adventures, and her recognition that she and the American were of different worlds and could never be together. He stared at the pages in his hand.
Horst offers a real future in the new Germany, for he is strong
and well-connected, and I see in this marriage an opportunity
to move beyond the narrow confines of Marburg.
She hoped Ryan would wish her well. He noted the postmark and return address: Berlin. With love, Erika. He read through the pages again, this time more slowly.
Several weeks passed before he felt he could reply. His one-page letter acknowledged her motivation, recalled the wonderful times they had shared in the previous autumn, and sent best wishes for a happy life in her new home and marriage. With lasting affection, Ryan.
He had taken the motorcycle out that endless evening on unmarked country roads, carving a path of light through the spring night, deep in thought on the unpredictable nature of life, and of relationships.
CHAPTER FIVE
Pedestrians quickened their pace as they passed Gestapo headquarters in Königsberg, the capital of East Prussia. Muffled cries or an occasional scream rising from the shielded basement windows resonated in the mind of any hapless passer-by. Mothers with small children in tow crossed the street a block before reaching the former hotel. Why bother with implausible explanations for frightened little ones?
Klaus Pabst found the basement interrogation facilities to his liking. A common aisle gave access to a row of narrow cells, revamped storage closets once used for supplies. Small shuttered openings in the compartment doors allowed a visual check on occupants, but each of the six cubicles, when unoccupied, held nothing but a distasteful bucket pushed into one corner. Small grills in the back walls allowed eavesdropping on detainee conversations. A metal basket over the ceiling light prevented unauthorized access to the glaring bulb, or to the electrical wires. Little was left to chance. Vents drew oppressive heat into the cells in summer, and when winter arrived the brutal Baltic winds turned the basement rooms into cold storage lockers.
Across the corridor stood two interrogation rooms and a solitary toilet facility, exclusively for staff use. The situation of the rooms forced cell occupants to hear the sounds, if not the specifics, of interrogations in progress. Painted a clinical white with pale green doors, the rooms had sparse furnishings. Two metal chairs faced either side of a small table. Above one chair hung a shaded lamp, and at its feet iron shackles were attached to the floor. In the center of e
ach room sat a tall bench fitted with leg and arm restraints. Another metal table displayed implements of interrogation in neat order: an automobile battery with cables, an electric drill, a soldering iron, and a selection of hand tools, both sharp-edged and blunt. Cudgels and whips with metal-tipped leather cords hung on a wall rack. To the side of the table sat a mop bucket.
A white hospital cabinet occupied one corner, vials and hypodermic needles clearly visible through the glass door. In the opposite corner stood a wash basin with towel rack and small metal wall mirror. Near the ceiling a thick iron rod traversed the room, fitted with a pulley system of ropes, shackles and wires, and a meat hook. The concrete floor, painted gray, sloped slightly toward a center drain. Additional heat when required came from a coal stove, also useful for bringing iron implements to a steady glow.
Unlike his friend and mentor Horst, who was ever ingenious in developing interrogation techniques but always stoic in their use, Klaus took obvious pleasure in their application, even when little of immediate value was learned. As Himmler himself had said, everyone has something to hide. Even should you interrogate the wrong suspect for a particular crime, be confident you have gained information in the process which will lead to an enemy of the Fatherland.
But this time, Klaus already had what he wanted.
Strapped naked across the bench, the pastor made a sorry spectacle. His once colorless back and buttocks were flayed raw from the metal whip, his flesh torn in ragged strips. The early cries of pain and denial were now barely audible moans. Sprays of fresh blood streaked table and floor, and urine and excrement ran down his legs.
His prayers had gone unanswered, for the torment had not stopped; in fact, the pleas had been mocked by his interrogators. It was only a matter of time before he confessed all he knew. Perhaps he already had. Judging by the shallow breathing, Klaus doubted the fragile old man could take much more, so he suggested a brief break in the proceedings. Klaus already had what he needed, even if the pastor gave up the ghost before they were finished.
“Best light a match to clear the air,” he suggested to Dieter Sprenger as he left the room, the interrogation record in hand. “The stench in here is barbaric.”
CHAPTER SIX
Utility poles ticked past in rapid succession, and suburban rail stations recalled once-familiar names for the outlying towns. A uniformed stationmaster on each passing platform waved his flag to clear the passing express. Commuters in shades of gray and brown lined the tracks, shielded from the cold by heavy coats and scarves. Viewed from Ryan’s compartment it was a surging sea of hats and umbrellas. Raindrops tracked across the carriage window in horizontal rivulets. He watched the droplets race along, choosing from moment to moment seemingly-random course corrections which would ultimately determine their destination. How often one misses a destiny-changing choice.
A few months earlier the clamor of the phone had startled him awake, and a pile of student papers flew from his lap as he stumbled toward the phone in the hall. A late call meant illness, accident, a death in the family.
“Ryan, did I wake you?” Edward sounded calm enough.
“Of course you woke me. What’s wrong? Are you and Grace okay?” Ryan hadn’t heard from his brother in months.
“All’s good at this end, but something came up at work you need to know about.”
“Listen, Ed, always happy to hear your voice, but have you checked your watch?” He checked his. “It’s past midnight, my time. What on earth keeps you up so late in Virginia?” Ryan thought of his comfortable bed waiting in the next room.
“Plenty of excitement coming over the wires tonight. The Czechs ordered partial mobilization over this Sudeten thing.”
“And this couldn’t wait till the morning papers, Ed?”
“Interesting as it is, I’ve got something even better for you personally, and it couldn’t wait. How’d you like to fly to Europe this summer at government expense?
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, giving it to you straight, brother.”
The prospect of travel shoved all thought of sleep aside. Ryan’s annual salary from Baker barely carried him through the academic year, and summers he was on his own. A birthday gift each June from his parents helped out financially, but after nine years of depression the economy was only marginally improved, and international travel was expensive, especially by Clipper.
“You did say ‘fly,’ right?”
“Plus an assignment right up your alley.”
“So whom do I have to kill? Come on, spill it!”
A throaty chuckle. “No one, and nothing we can discuss over the phone. You’ll still need to sell yourself in person, but it’s for real, and urgent. Can you be here before the weekend?”
He looked again at his watch. “My God, Ed, I’ve a class to teach in a couple of hours—too late to cancel that one. But I can clear my schedule for the rest of today through the weekend. Listen, I’ll aim for tonight’s overnight from Chicago, that’ll put me in D.C. by Friday noon at the latest. You’d better be serious about this, because if not, you’re the one I’m gunning for.”
“Dead serious.” Again the deep chuckle. “The job should be yours for the asking; just come impress my guys in Washington tomorrow. And give a call with your arrival time, so I can have a car waiting. Union Station, main concourse, front entrance. I’ll keep an eye out for that smile of yours, baby brother.”
Ryan had only revisited the Continent once since his return home to Kansas. A shared third-class berth to Bordeaux, a couple of weeks in Nice—sunbathing and swimming in the azure waters and practicing French while avoiding his bedbug-infested room—then two weeks in his beloved Burgundy village near Dijon before crossing the Rhine to see René.
His old friend had recovered remarkably, although some motor skills still gave him difficulty. The family shipping business was doing adequately well, but René freely expressed to Ryan his rage over the changes in Germany.
The final few days with the von Haldheim family in Berlin were saddened by the Old Major’s pessimism. These bastards have us coming and going, and we don’t dare say a word to anyone anymore. Some of their closest friends had fled the country, or simply disappeared overnight. The weekly teas no longer took place.
Back in Kansas, Ryan had sought satisfaction in his daily teaching and back-road excursions on the Indian, but he found himself living in the vivid memories of his European life. The routine of daily preparation and endless classroom hours had dampened his initial enthusiasm for teaching. The concerns of colleagues seemed so trivial: inter-departmental bickering, meetings over minor issues with never a resolution, complaints about students and administration. And his brief romances had been equally shallow and unfulfilling. He had missed the liberated women of Berlin and Marburg.
The night of his brother’s surprise call, Ryan slept in fits and starts, parsing Edward’s words for hidden clues, and by morning he headed straight for campus on foot, carrying a small valise along with his briefcase. He muddled through the morning class, a review of verb tenses he could teach by rote, and then posted a cancellation of his Friday classes on the office door and classroom bulletin board. The departmental secretary was asked to explain his absence to the dean: a family emergency.
By one that afternoon he sat on the train for Chicago. As he smoked his beloved Berlin briar and watched the fields of Illinois race by, he tapped fingers nervously at his knee. He’d be in Washington by morning to learn more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Horst cautiously blotted his face and combed back his pomaded hair, slicking down the closely-cropped sides. The dark-gray suit hung on the rack, carefully brushed for lint and dandruff. He straightened his tie before the metal-framed mirror on the dressing room wall and was pleased as always by his appearance. He knew the car would be waiting in twenty minutes. His valet and driver Schimmelbach suited him: taciturn, attentive, and obedient. Oskar was both a solid SS man and a reliable chauffeur.
In
the dining room the maid had set out fresh bread rolls, jam and cheeses, and a porcelain pot of coffee. He split a poppy seed roll with his knife and smeared it with butter and elderberry preserves. Taking a cautious bite, he chewed slowly. The coffee, served on his demand more warm than hot, energized him, and the caffeine helped relieve the headache.
He hoped to delegate any regular office duties this morning in order to complete a final point-by-point review of the protocol. The master plan was due in two days for presentation to Heydrich, who now headed the Gestapo as well as the SS counter-espionage service, the Sicherheitsdienst or SD, and stood second only to Himmler himself.
For four years now Heydrich had held Horst under his wing as one of his protégés. He brought him to Berlin and encouraged Horst’s special passion for dealing with Jews and foreigners who undermined the Reich. Horst felt it was his breeding and education that established a kinship with Heydrich and set him apart from so many of his fellow secret police officers. It was a good match, and they made an intimidating pair. As tall as Horst, Heydrich had closely-spaced, pale-blue eyes and blond hair. His education was as polished as his manners. Only that inordinately high-pitched voice and almost feminine hips were discordant in an otherwise harmonious picture of the Germanic masculine ideal.
Heydrich had masterminded the wide-spread network of plain-clothes agents and administrative personnel that made the Gestapo so powerful. Most important to the success of the organization was a vast web of informants and spies, everyday citizens who made the system efficient by keeping eyes open and ears alert. Every citizen had the duty to report any suspicious thought or activity, and an anonymous phone call would bring the now notorious nighttime knock at the door.
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