Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Listen, Marita. Fools are one thing, these Hitlerites another. One reason I’m here now is to find people America can trust should things go sideways.”

  “Doesn’t sound exactly like newspaper reporting to me.” She smiled. “But America won’t fight this time; it’ll be up to just us Europeans. It’s no secret how your countrymen feel about getting involved over here again.”

  “Many of us think it’s unavoidable, and I’m one of them. And right now we’re preparing for the worst, so we need people we can rely on for help. It seems you’re in a unique situation to help me, if you’re willing.”

  “What could I do here in our little cabaret?”

  “Just keep eyes and ears open for reliable people for me to meet. Maybe your girls could pick up useful information—” he reached for his own chest and rocked back and forth, “from those ‘oompah-pah Boches’ you’re talking about.” Marita didn’t respond, so he dropped his hands. “Nothing loosens tongues like that cheap champagne,” he said.

  She glanced away, took another cigarette from the pack, put it back.

  “And meanwhile, I’m going to look for a way to help you and your family, if it comes to that. Even if you’re not concerned, I’m worried for your sake. I know what’s happening to Jews across the border.” He squeezed her hand. “Does any of this make sense?”

  She had watched him intently, the sadness in her eyes more evident than ever. Now tears surfaced. She drew a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed them away, and when she spoke he heard the fragility. “Our local Nazis attacked my father in the street, left him lying in the gutter, all because he loves a Jewish woman. Mon Dieu, she’s his wife for over thirty years. Now he fears leaving the building, and Marie and I can do little for him. He just sits and stares out the window. So you see, I don’t have to wait for the Boches; we already have our own fascists to do their filthy work for them.”

  The tears welled again, this time coursing down her cheeks. He knelt beside her chair and took her in his arms, and her head dropped to his shoulder. A few moments passed before she composed herself again, turning to the mirror above her desk and dabbing at her eyes.

  “My mascara’s a mess.” She gave a feeble half-smile. “Now tell me how I can help.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Ryan, how good it is to see you again!” René was burlier than ever and full of warmth. His powerful hug almost took Ryan’s breath away. “I thought our paths had parted forever.”

  They descended the steps from the imposing Gesslinger home to an iron table and chairs set out on the flagstone terrace. A green bottle of pinot blanc and two glasses awaited them. The promenade above the river was bordered by balusters and urn-capped pedestals, an expansive setting overlooking broad lawns which descended gently to the bank of the Rhine. The gardens were park-like, the foliage just reaching fall color. Ryan noted that his friend favored his right leg. They sat and talked.

  René’s shipping concern still found business despite the challenges of both the unsettled economy and political reality. The Nazis had brought tremendous pressure on the dockworkers and boatmen, shutting down the unions and forcing out the few remaining former SPD members. They had arrested his father Heinrich briefly in 1935 for investigation of “seditious thought,” the denunciation coming surely from an envious competitor. He was released again when his French shipping customers refused to deal with the Nazi “temporarily” placed in charge of the Gesslinger contracts and threatened to boycott the other shipping firms in the Kehl region. Heinrich had returned from two weeks’ interrogation a weaker man, intimidated by the police power of the government and unwilling to continue his political struggle. Then in the previous winter he had returned exhausted and coughing from a trip downriver meant for his relaxation. The official cause of death was pneumonia.

  “He just couldn’t face living in our Third Reich,” René said with a sigh. As for his mother Jeanne, her health was still good, but her bouts with depression disturbing. “Fear forms the backdrop to all we think and do. You never know who’s listening, who’s informing,” René said. “Don’t expect to hear anyone voice democratic sympathies now. No one even jokes about it.”

  “Even among friends?”

  “We seldom get together anymore, no festivals or parties. Too dangerous, even a few inebriated words can land you in a concentration camp. The only social clubs are those approved by the state, and they’re controlled by Party members. Our homes are searched and we’re hauled off in ‘protective custody’ at no provocation whatsoever. And then our businesses end up in the hands of local Party group leaders. Some surprise, no? Heil Hitler.” The bitterness in his friend’s voice was new.

  As the steady river traffic passed below them they spoke at length of René’s recovery, which appeared complete despite the dire warnings of the doctors. He mentioned occasional forgetfulness, but boasted he could still physically assist his stevedores and boatmen as well as before the assault. Ryan shared his own close call with von Kredow and the Wachonians, his narrow escape through the old tunnels of Marburg. And then Ryan told him that Erika Breitling had married the Nazi.

  “What a loss.” René shook his head in disgust. “A fine-looking girl, I thought the two of you made quite a pair, and she seemed a bit more clear-thinking than many, but weren’t we all at one time?” René’s right hand trembled as he lifted the wine glass, and he made light of it by switching to his left. “Good thing I don’t lift sabers anymore.”

  “I’m afraid at day’s end I got away much better than you, my friend, under the circumstances,” Ryan said.

  “You also weren’t the one soused to the gills. I only wish I’d been at your side when they came after you,” said René. “Together we would have given them something to think about, assuming those bastards knew how to think.”

  “Oh, they think all right, they just don’t allow others to think differently.” Ryan acknowledged a perverse admiration for the skill involved in the Nazi takeover. “After all, they engineered a brilliant legal coup through intimidation and manipulation, and the Republic didn’t stand a chance.”

  René nodded. “They appealed to our basest fears of economic ruin, and played to our love of social gatherings, spectacle and music. A winning combination, I have to admit.”

  “Don’t forget violence, the ultimate political tool.”

  “We thought our Reichsbanner would crush a military coup head-on, but there was never a Putsch to put down. Instead they picked us off one-by-one with political maneuverings, and by the time we realized it, they already controlled the government and the people.” Rene’s stared down at his clenched fists. “Mein Gott, what cowards we became.”

  “So, are all the fighters gone?”

  “Not all. For most of us, apathy is all we have left. But luckily, there are still a few willing to even the score where we can.”

  “Are you closely monitored, I mean personally?”

  “Oh, we have our block wardens, of course. Mine’s a sniveling bureaucrat, an office Nazi appointed to his post, and as long as I make my regular financial contributions to the cause he marks me ‘politically reliable’ on his monthly report and moves along. But thank God he doesn’t know what we’re really up to.”

  “Up to?”

  René winked and suggested a tour of his home. “Come along, my mother’s so anxious to see you again.”

  Jeanne welcomed Ryan graciously in the salon, but with an air of distraction. Still an eye-catching woman, so very French. Her raven-black hair was now silver, her brow lined with ill-disguised worries. “Of course you’ll stay and dine with us.” She suggested an aperitif on the terrace before dinner and then excused herself to give direction to the cook.

  René led Ryan into his study and pulled a book from the shelf. Ryan looked quizzically at the illustration on the dust jacket of a cowboy on horseback. “The Lone Ranger?”

  “A gift from America, sent by a former dock supervisor. We couldn’t keep him on, of course, a Jew. H
e’s now in New York with his family.” René pointed to the rider rearing up on his stallion. “That’s me these days, do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard a few radio episodes,” Ryan said.

  “Certainly no Siegfried when it comes to slaying dragons, but this cowboy avenger is a man after my own heart. Our dear Führer insists our children play ‘Aryans and Jews’ rather than ‘Cowboys and Indians,’ but I think we’re living in the Wild West now with bad guys and robber barons fully in charge. So I’ve taken up the fight with some trusted companions who’ll come to the rescue when needed.”

  Bottles of Cointreau and Courvoisier were waiting on the terrace table when they returned. They turned their chairs to face the Rhine. A parade of river boats and low-slung barges floated through the warm autumn afternoon. René related how he and a loyal circle of former Reichsbanner militia men and river workers had squirreled away weapons and gone underground. No gathering in public, only occasional exchanges of ideas and information in private homes and at the docks, and a communication network to call for aid when needed. They watched for loyal republicans who shared their hatred of the regime, and kept eyes and ears open for persecution of the weak and enemies of the state.

  “Just take a look over there,” he pointed to the far bank of the Rhine, his eyes squinting into the long rays of the afternoon sun. “France, of course, but for anyone who wants out of the Reich, practically an impossible goal. Can’t swim it with your family, and river traffic is watched like a hawk.”

  “So how do you help?”

  “They can’t find us, so we find them. We have eyes on the border checkpoint. It’s mostly Jews now who run into trouble, even though their departure is officially encouraged. Those few with sufficient valuables to grease a Nazi palm or two get across the rail bridge to Strasburg. The others are sent back packing, or picked up by the Gestapo and shipped off to the camps. It’s heart-breaking.”

  René described whole Jewish families—grandparents, parents, little children—scattering across the train station in abject fear while hounded by Gestapo, with helpful citizens directing the police to the fugitives’ hiding spots.

  “So how do you intervene?”

  “We slip them across by boat at night. Easier to mask what we’re doing, of course. We may dent a few Nazi heads in the process, but who’s counting?” René laughed. “We’ve learned quite a bit about head-denting from those bastards, and we confiscate a few good weapons in the process.” He took a sip of the Cointreau.

  “Frei Heil,” toasted Ryan with his snifter. Hail freedom, the old Reichsbanner salute.

  “Frei Heil, indeed,” responded René. “There’s one we don’t dare use anymore.”

  Ryan knew he had struck gold. He explained his assignment in detail, and René was on board before Ryan could finish. “Tell us what to do, and we’re there for you,” he said. “I already have an escape network on both sides of the river.” He gestured to the water traffic below. “Just watch for the orange and black of Gesslinger Shipping.”

  Ryan scanned the river and within moments spotted one of René’s boats. “Those are Princeton colors, mein Freund—you must remember I’m a Harvard man.”

  “Please do overlook that. I assure you they’re friendly colors, and it’s a bit late to make a change.” He refilled Ryan’s glass.

  “Always happy to fight under your colors.” Ryan was thrilled to discover this network.

  Before dinner they drove down to the Gesslinger docks. The facility was enclosed by high chain-link, an access road separating it from woodland beyond. A long loading platform paralleled the boat basin, which lay obliquely off the river. Several smaller buildings squatted dockside at even intervals, and four large warehouses bordered the landward side of the rail tracks servicing the docks. A barge was being loaded by a crane operator and a crew of stevedores bent to the task.

  The friends climbed the external staircase to an office above the main warehouse. Gesslinger Rhein-Fracht stood proudly in orange and black high on the corrugated metal siding. René wanted Ryan to meet his closest associate and long-time chief of operations, Hugo Gerson. “You won’t find a more loyal man than Hugo. He’s my Tonto. Should something happen to me, rely on him as my alter-ego.”

  “Are they on to you?” Ryan wouldn’t risk making his friend’s life any more dangerous than it already was. “Have you been threatened?”

  “Threats only make me mad, so we don’t wait for a second threat.” He did not smile. “But we stay as covert as possible. A fact of life in the glorious Reich is that even our school kids denounce family and neighbors, so I only trust those I’ve known forever, who’ve proven I can trust them. That’s Hugo, through and through.”

  They entered the office. Banks of tall windows overlooked operations up and down the docks. Gerson rose from behind a crowded partners’ desk to shake Ryan’s hand. A stout balding man, perhaps fifty years old, Hugo was still fit from years on the waterfront. His skin showed the aging that comes with a lifetime spent outdoors, and he squinted even in the subdued light of the office, as if constantly peering across reflective waters. The shy smile under a bristly mustache appealed to Ryan.

  “I inherited Hugo from my father; best gift he ever gave me when it comes to business.” René smiled appreciatively at Gerson, who seemed genuinely touched by the praise.

  “Welcome to our humble office, Herr Lemmon. May I offer you a beer?” Gerson gestured to a white-enameled icebox in the corner.

  “Thank you, but no. I believe we’re expected for dinner soon, and we’ve already had a bit to drink. What a pleasure to meet you in person, after René has sung your praises so loudly.”

  “Ryan’s one of us, Hugo,” René said. “He’s bringing in some outside help for our struggle, so be as open with him as we are with each other.”

  “Then welcome a second time, this time to our fight.” Hugo’s smile widened to a large grin. “As we say to reassure each other, we may never bring them down, but at least they’ll feel our bite.”

  René and Ryan spent several weeks traversing the Upper Rhine countryside in an Opel sedan, stopping at farms, villages and small towns. Ryan was pleased to see his friend’s slight limp didn’t cause any serious problems getting around. René introduced him to members of his resistance group, and together they set up means of covert contact and a list of assignments for the men and women involved. Ryan memorized their code names and passwords, all inspired by the Wild West novel. René wanted to be certain that Ryan would have direct access to his “sidekicks” without him, should the need ever arise. The American sensed a deep-seated melancholy in his friend, a ragged fatalism in the face of overwhelming odds.

  Everywhere stood hateful anti-Semitic signage, contrasting boldly with the colorful posters promoting Party rallies with marching bands, guest speakers, gymnastics, and food. The Hitler Youth and League of German Girls paraded through the narrow streets, flags flying to the accompaniment of singing, fife and drums. In every town blood-red swastika flags flew from public buildings, and many private residences also bore banners. Movies promoting the achievements of the Reich and Nazi values played in cinemas throughout the region.

  A plain-clothes policeman stopped them as they entered a country inn near Rastatt for lunch and called for their papers. Ryan handed over his press identification along with his passport bearing a swastika-stamped entry visa. He explained that he was reporting for an American newspaper on the wonders of National Socialism. René offered his own identity card. The policeman grunted his satisfaction and returned the documents, and they all exchanged perfunctory Hitler salutes before the man stepped back outside.

  “I think we need a glass of Weissburgunder after that,” René said. They split a bottle on the terrace of the Gasthaus, folk tunes drifting down to them from an unseen flute-player in a farmhouse up the lane.

  Ryan felt his first three months in Europe were proving a success, and he relayed back to Edward his sense of real progress. Much as he had wished
to use the aid of Marita and her sister, so similar in looks and manner to be almost twins, he had opted to leave them out of the contact chain, and he told Ed to strike them from the report. Their family’s distress was too immediate, the emotional weakness a potential liability. But they did provide him with links to the Parisian Jewish community and a coterie of French republicans, regulars at La Chatte bottée. His old friends in Burgundy had also gathered commitments from sympathetic anti-fascists fearful of German aggression. They remembered all too well the killing fields of the Great War, the miles of deadly trenches at their doorstep. And now he had enlisted a covert network of anti-Nazi patriots on German soil with the means and the know-how to intervene, albeit on a limited scale.

  Finally, on a crisp early morning in the first week of November, René had driven him in his Opel to the train station in Kehl. “Just remember this, my dear friend, the Reich conceals very few whom you can truly trust. Assume the worst—it’s truly all around you.” He shook Ryan’s hand, smothered him with a great bear hug, and watched his friend board the train.

  René waved as the express pulled from the station, headed for Karlsruhe and on to Berlin. He was still standing there when Ryan lost sight of the platform.

  He used several hours of the journey to organize his thoughts for a report back to State and The Group. In Berlin he would put it to code and deliver it to the U.S. consulate for the diplomatic pouch. The balance of the trip was filled with memories of that early, uncritical love he had found in this beautiful country and its people. Arriving once again in Berlin after an absence of years, planning to operate covertly in the heart of a police state, Ryan began to sense the challenges which awaited him in the very heart of the Reich.