The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  “That was too close,” Denise said, bringing her arm up from the space between her seat and the door. Her hand clutched one of the MP89s.

  Jack blanched. “You would really have used that?”

  “Rather than be caught?”

  Jack nodded.

  “In a heartbeat.”

  The farther they got from the checkpoint, the less the SS presence loomed. Stopping for gas and some stale candy bars and soda at a lonely rest stop, they pulled into Cincinnati fifteen hours later, exhausted, hungry, and apprehensive. A scan of the local radio stations told them the search for them had widened and intensified.

  They slept overnight with a kindly old couple who fed them homemade blueberry muffins for breakfast and sent them on their way at dawn. Aside from another dicey border crossing from Pennsylvania to New York, their trip was uneventful. They reached downtown Buffalo about four p.m. that afternoon and cruised the waterfront. From their vantage point on the 190, they could look across the Peace Bridge into Fort Erie, Ontario.

  Canada.

  In Jack’s other life, people thought of Canada almost as an extension of the United States, so similar were the cultures and languages. Only French-speaking Quebec, always the rebel, felt like a foreign country. Here and now, it was a very real and coveted haven.

  “Is that where we cross?” Jack asked, his eyes on the bridge.

  Denise glanced up from the map and studied the view. She nodded and looked at her watch. “The Redsons said we should make the crossing right at oh-six hundred.”

  Jack smiled. Besides making great blueberry muffins, Tom and Betty Redson were experienced travelers. They knew the border guards changed shifts at 0630. Tired and harried, the guards were eager to go home and would pass anyone through who happened along at the right moment. Timing was everything.

  “Let’s go get a cup of coffee,” Jack said.

  They took the first exit they saw, sped down the ramp, and took a right. A Burger Meister came into view, its brightly lit sign like a beacon to the weary. He pulled into the parking lot and turned off the motor. Leaning back in the seat, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could hardly believe they’d made it. But the hardest part remained. Would their passports hold up if scrutinized by the border guards? Tired or not, the guards might be on extra alert, looking for a man and a woman traveling together. Though they looked different and drove a different car, something could still go wrong. Jack opened his eyes and touched the false moustache, making sure the spirit gum was holding.

  “Wanna go in?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Gotta pee.”

  The inside of the Burger Meister looked little different than the ones Jack remembered from his other life. The main differences were the statue of a fat, droll-looking man in lederhosen and a waxed mustache—the Burger Meister—and a large, flat-screen TV hanging from the walls. Instead of the insipid background music one always heard in these places, the sound from a sporting event blasted over the PA. Jack watched Denise head for the ladies’ room and then got into the long line waiting to order food. Fortunately, it moved quickly, and he soon stood in front of a pretty, teenaged girl with long blonde hair and shiny braces.

  “Guten Tag and welcome to Burger Meister. May I help you? Sir... may I help you?”

  Jack didn’t hear her because his gaze was riveted to the flat-screen TV, which now displayed photos of him and Denise.

  Jack turned to the girl. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  A look of annoyance flashed across the girl’s features and was immediately gone. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. Two coffees, black.”

  The girl nodded and left the counter, returning moments later with the coffee.

  “Six Reichdollars, please.”

  Jack fished the money out of his pocket, paid her, and took the tray of coffee over to a semi-secluded booth that allowed an unrestricted view of both the screen and the parking lot. Denise joined him moments later. She gasped as her eyes found the TV. Their pictures remained on the screen but were now reduced to a smaller window behind the anchorperson. The anchor, an icy blond with plastic hair, had that mock serious expression they all affected. The picture switched to a bruised and battered man being led through a hallway choked with SS and reporters. Jack felt his throat go dry as he realized the man was Art. The anchorwoman narrated over the scene.

  “After twenty-four hours of interrogation, suspected terrorist Arthur Heinz confessed to running a station on what is known as the ‘Underground Railroad.’ Used for funneling fugitives and enemies of the state to Canada, the Underground Railroad is an arm of the hated American Resistance Movement. Through patient questioning and persuasion, Arthur Heinz revealed that he aided and abetted current fugitives, Jack Dunham and Denise Malloy. Before his execution, Arthur Heinz renounced his actions and declared his undying love for our glorious Führer.”

  The camera cut away to a scene in the courtyard of SS headquarters in Jacksonville. Art stood tied to a post, looking defiant. He stoically refused a blindfold. The firing squad raised its rifles and the officer in command shouted for them to aim. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. Arthur raised his eyes and said, “Long live the Führer!” The shots rang out and the screen cut back to the anchorwoman, who began reporting a related story.

  Jack turned from the screen and saw a tear rolling out of Denise’s eye. “I can’t believe he would say that.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “What do you mean, he didn’t?” she said, her face flushed with anger. “I saw it. I heard him, damnit!”

  “Keep your voice down,” he whispered.

  Denise blanched, remembering where they were. She leaned forward.

  “You heard it, Dunham. They broke him. He told them everything.”

  Jack shook his head and smiled. “No, he didn’t.”

  His smile only served to anger her more.

  “Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Suppose you tell me how you know that.”

  “I don’t have to. They’re showing it again.”

  Denise turned and looked at the screen. Sure enough, the network was running the tape of the execution a second time, no doubt on orders from the government. A frightened populace was a cooperative populace.

  When the camera zoomed in on Art again, Jack tapped Denise on the hand. “Watch his mouth.”

  Denise’s eyes narrowed and then widened.

  “Oh my God! He said ‘Long live—’”

  “‘The ARM.’ That’s right. He robbed them even of their propaganda until some network hack got the bright idea of finding someone to imitate his voice. Hell, no one would notice except a few deaf people or someone who’d worked for the Propaganda Ministry like us. Don’t you see? He told them nothing, he beat them.”

  “But how? What about the drugs?”

  “He’s one of the rare ones the drugs couldn’t get to. Probably knew it from the start.”

  Denise beamed, though her joy was tinged with sadness. “We’re still safe.”

  “For now,” Jack said, taking a sip of coffee.

  Denise began to laugh, stifling it with her hand.

  “What?” Jack said. And suddenly he knew. He felt the moustache slip as the spirit gum gave way. The steam from the coffee had loosened it.

  “I think we’d better go,” Denise said, chuckling.

  Feeling like an idiot, Jack put his hand up to his mouth and pretended to cough as they walked from the restaurant.

  Back in the car, he reapplied the moustache and held it in place until the glue dried.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Like Clark Gable.”

  Jack gave her a lopsided smile and said, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Let’s get going.”

  He started the car and they headed back toward the Peace Bridge. Turning onto Porter Avenue, they saw Prospect Park, the Avalon Customs building, the SS garrison adjoining it, and beyond it, the bridge. True to Tom Redson’s word, the traffic stoo
d backed up about half a mile. Jack grabbed Denise’s hand.

  “This is it,” he said.

  Denise said nothing, bit her lip and nodded.

  The traffic moved in fits and starts, and about thirty minutes later they were four cars from the gate. A Customs agent stood with a clipboard and questioned the driver of the lead car. He smiled and nodded. The gate lifted and the car drove on. The next car, a VW Vanagon, pulled up and the customs agent stepped forward, taking possession of the driver’s papers. He frowned, turned to someone inside the building, and said something. A moment later a black uniformed SS-Sturmbannführer stepped out flanked by three troopers with MP89s. The Customs agent waved the van over to a nearby holding area. Jack could see the man’s wife shaking her head and gesticulating wildly. The next car went through almost immediately. Jack noted the car had Canadian plates. He pulled up to the gate.

  “Good evening, sir. Your passport and travel permits?”

  Jack smiled at the agent and handed them over. He tried to appear calm and cool, but his stomach was twisted in knots. Resisting the urge to stare at the customs agent, Jack looked over at the van. The man and his wife stood off to one side, looking glum. One of the troopers held an MP89 on them while the other two methodically ripped their vehicle apart. When the troopers pulled out the cache of Reichsdollars from under the rear seat, their demeanor became combative. The man hung his head as they cuffed him; the woman screamed obscenities at him. Jack swallowed, remembering the MP89s under their seats. All it would take was a cursory search and they would be dead. All it would take was for Roberto’s papers to have one tiny flaw and...

  “Excuse me, sir?” the Customs agent said. “Would you please pull the car over and come inside?”

  Jack stared at Denise. Her eyes betrayed her fear. She nodded as if to say, I love you no matter what happens. Jack nodded back and turned, half expecting to see a dozen guns trained on them. He edged the car over behind the Vanagon and left the engine running.

  “If I’m not out in five minutes, go without me.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Denise, it’s not negotiable. Stay here!”

  She glared at him, her eyes revealing a flash of mixed emotions. He resisted the urge to kiss her and climbed out of the car. His knees were like rubber as he strode across the two-lane road in the wake of the Customs agent. The agent held open the door of the office for Jack and then stepped in after him, taking a position near the door.

  The room resembled every government office he’d ever been in: puke-green walls hung with a picture of der Führer and the current head of the Reich Immigration Service, as well as a bulletin board with the latest fugitives. Jack’s eyes riveted onto the photos of himself and Denise, given prominent place among the murderers, counterfeiters, and other undesirables. The rest of the room was occupied by several battered file cabinets and a metal desk with one leg badly bent and propped up with several matchbooks. Behind the desk sat the SS-Sturmbannführer he’d glimpsed before. The SS man wore a pleasant smile. An incongruity at best. The cracked nameplate on the desk identified him as SS-Sturmbannführer Dieter Kreinhorst.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Manning. Where is your lovely wife?” he asked, his voice soft and high-pitched.

  The voice stood in marked contrast to the man’s rugged features.

  Jack stammered out a reply. “She is not feeling too good, something she ate, I think.”

  The Sturmbannführer nodded. “I can well understand. These roadside pommesbuden are atrocious, ja? Still, what can we do? Shoot them?”

  The SS man laughed heartily at his own joke, prompting Jack to join in.

  Prompted by some unknown cue, the Customs agent moved to a position behind Kreinhorst and stared at Jack. The mood shifted abruptly.

  “I am sorry to say we have a problem here, Mr. Manning,” Kreinhorst said.

  Jack’s eyes flicked to the window. Outside, he could see the car. It stood empty. He began to sweat again.

  “What is it, Sturmbannführer?”

  Kreinhorst picked up the IDs and travel permits. “We instituted a new stamp yesterday. It is not on your permits. We have two very dangerous fugitives on the run. Did you not read of this?”

  The man’s stare intensified and the water cooler in the corner gurgled. Jack shrugged, smiled, and started to rise.

  “Well, a stamp is easy enough to get. My wife and I’ll come back with it tomorrow.”

  Kreinhorst raised his hand, his Cheshire grin widening. “There is another problem, Herr Manning...”

  The room suddenly felt hot and closed in.

  “Oh?” Jack said, oozing into his seat again.

  “Yes, you see, these passports are fake.”

  Jack wanted to run, almost did, until he heard the trooper behind him pull back the bolt of his MP89. It slammed home with a deafening crack. Kreinhorst started to say something then stopped, his eyes widening as he spied something out the window.

  “Nein!” he cried.

  The window shattered, a burst of machine gun fire ripping into the room. The slugs, some of them glowing tracers, caught both Kreinhorst and the customs agent square in the chest. They appeared to dance as the bullets tore through their bodies and slammed into the walls, making a sharp, popping sound. In the brief silence that followed, Jack heard Denise.

  “JACK! Get out here! NOW!”

  A siren began to wail. Jack scrambled from his seat and dashed out the door. Denise threw him his MP89 just as a contingent of SS Troopers piled out of their guardhouse fifty yards away. It looked as if providence had smiled on them after all. Denise had begun shooting just as the guards were changing shifts.

  Denise whirled and fired off a long burst, cutting down the troopers when they brought their own weapons to bear. Two of the SS Troopers were still alive and returned fire. Crouching low, Jack and Denise dashed for the car, putting the Vanagon between them and the troopers. Denise fired a burst, tore open the driver’s side door, jumped inside, and slid over. Jack followed. Bullets thudded into the side of the car, missing them by scant inches. The blood rushed through Jack’s head and he fumbled with the gearshift like a clumsy idiot.

  “Move it, Jack!” Denise said, firing out the window.

  Stomping on the clutch, he ground the gears, trying desperately to get it into first gear. The engine seized and died.

  “JACK!”

  More bullets whacked into the car doors and starred the driver’s-side window. Jack ducked involuntarily and twisted the ignition key, nearly breaking it. The engine caught instantly, and he punched the gas and popped the clutch. The tires squealed, leaving a year’s worth of rubber on the road. Fishtailing wildly, they raced across the tarmac, slammed through the wooden barrier, and leapt onto the bridge.

  Another contingent of troopers called in from a nearby station sped around a corner in a VW Kübelwagen, taking no notice of the carnage at the customs office. The Kübelwagen hurtled onto the bridge, closing the gap between them and the fleeing Chrysler/Heinkel almost immediately.

  Denise pulled out her spent magazine, rammed in another, then released the bolt.

  “Stand on it!” she screamed.

  “I am, goddammit!”

  Trying to keep one eye on the road, Jack scanned the dashboard until he found the “Valet Switch.” He reached forward and stabbed it with his finger. Instantly the car drew on an extra 100 horsepower, spinning the wheels. It shot forward, putting fifty feet between them and the onrushing Kübelwagen. The engine sounded like a roaring demon as it streaked toward the Canadian side.

  In front of them, halfway across the bridge, lay the actual border with Canada. He could see another small contingent of troopers standing shoulder to shoulder, their MP89s raised and ready.

  Denise leaned out the window and fired a burst, hitting the tires of the pursuing Kübelwagen. In a puff of dusty air, the right front tire exploded, throwing the vehicle into an uncontrollable spin and propelling it through the guardrail. It hung sus
pended for a split second then plunged the hundred feet to the slate-gray water below.

  The troopers in front of them began firing en masse. Both Jack and Denise ducked as bullets punched through the windshield, peppering it. Jack kept the gas pedal to the floor, praying they wouldn’t hit a tire or ignite the fuel with a tracer round. Holding his breath, he peered over the dash just as the car raced across the border. The troopers scattered, trying to fire after the speeding car and missing them entirely.

  Up ahead, he could see a banner hanging between two of the bridge’s overhead supports. On it were the crossed flags of Canada and Avalon, plus the message: Welcome to the Commonwealth of Canada. Never had words sounded so sweet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Toronto, Canada

  26 April 1994

  Hugging the coast, they took the QEW Highway all the way into Toronto, arriving about 2030 that evening.

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it, Jack?”

  He nodded, noting the graceful CN tower, its spire reaching toward the sky. To Jack it was a symbol of their quest, a desire to reach the unreachable.

  “Yes, it is,” he said.

  Breaking from his reverie, he steered the car through downtown and straight to Knox College at the University of Toronto. They left the car in one of the lots, deserted but for their own, and headed into the building. The architecture, with its hexagonal columns and flying buttresses, reminded Jack of pictures of Oxford before the Germans razed it. Although not as old as that venerable institution, the university had a sense of tradition, something all but lost in America. Anything that had outlived its function, or did not glorify those pigs in the government, fell before the wrecking ball in the name of progress.

  “Are you sure he’ll be here at this hour?” Denise asked.

  “I didn’t know the man except by reputation. In the other world, Chessman was renowned as a night owl. Claimed he did his best work in the wee hours.”

  They took a massive stone staircase to the second floor and strode down a dark corridor lined with the pictures of countless graduating classes. Jack scanned the frosted glass panels on the heavy wooden doors, looking for Chessman’s name. He shook his head, feeling like an idiot. Of course. It was the one at the end with the light behind it.