Codename Vengeance

by APC APC

Chapter 14: Dora-Mittelbau

  ________________

  “There’s no one here by that name. You’ve made a mistake.”

  Henrik reached out his window and boxed the private in the ear with the back of his hand. “No, private. You are the one who has made a mistake, a very grave mistake. This order comes directly from the Fuhrer himself. Do you know what that means?”

  The private rubbed his sore ear, his eyes suddenly fearful. Nevertheless, he still had a job to do. “Yes, but . . .” he began tentatively and Henrik boxed his other ear with equal ferocity. The young soldier cowered against the back of his guard booth, its yard-wide dimensions suddenly too small to hide him.

  The army was never kind to privates. They got the lowest pay, the worst food and the cruelest treatment. And it went without saying that they were the first to die in any war. Henrik might have felt sorry for the young man if he’d never been to Auschwitz.

  “This is a warrant for Sarah Jacobs, but you have no Sarah Jacobs because you sent her to Poland to be gassed. Check her number—612780.”

  The private flipped frantically through the camp register, the size of a phone book, while Henrik coolly lit up a cigarette.

  “Yes, it’s here. The number is right.”

  “Of course the number is right. It comes straight from the Chancellery. But you imbeciles have switched the names.”

  The private flinched, expecting another blow. Henrik saw a drop of blood trickle form his left ear, but he felt no guilt.

  “Now bring me to prisoner 612780 before I have you all court marshaled.” The private hesitated. “On second thought, maybe I’ll just shoot you now and find her myself.” Henrik reached under his jacket and the private ducked out of the guard booth with surprising speed.

  “This way, lieutenant,” he said, looking over his shoulder with wild eyes. “I’ll take you right to her.” He began jogging down the gravel road and Henrik followed along slowly in the Mercedes coup. The private was a good runner, averaging about 15 miles per hour for the whole quarter mile to the prisoner pens. Any slower and Henrik would have run him down for spite.

  “Barracks number 23,” he said between puffs, grabbing his stomach. “Would you like me to—” He broke off speaking long enough to vomit in the grass. There were half a dozen guards about, big men with red faces and cruel looks in their eyes. They said nothing to Henrik but looked on with interest.

  “Of course,” Henrik snapped, jumping out of the car. He didn’t want this scared little private to run away until he’d done his job. “Now go in there and get her. And be careful. The Fuhrer wants his prize intact.”

  One of the red-faced guards stepped forward. “What do you want here?”

  Henrik had hoped to avoid this. The private was young and inexperienced. Henrik could bully him into doing almost anything. But these guards were another matter. They were wary, like hungry wolves on the prowl.

  “I have a death warrant for prisoner number 612780.”

  “Does it have a name?” the guard sneered. He spoke with an inordinate amount of belligerence. He was big, maybe three hundred pounds, and apparently used to getting his way despite his low rank. Such a man could cause trouble for Henrik unless he put him in his place fast.

  Henrik took a step closer. “Private, get on with it.”

  “Stop!” The guard turned to the private, and when he did, Henrik took another step forward and pulled the guard’s own club from his belt. The guard reached for it, but Henrik was too quick. He brought the heavy piece of wood down hard on the guard’s big hand, breaking his little finger. The guard snatched his hand back, but before he could retaliate, Henrik delivered two more heavy blows, one to the back of his knee and the other to his neck. The big man dropped to his hands and knees with a loud yell. The other guards were frozen with surprise.

  “Is this not still Germany? Do you not salute a superior officer?” Henrik wrapped the club around the guard’s arm and levered it forward until he howled with pain. Henrik put his lips right next to the guard’s ear. “And tell me, in what part of hell does a lowlife prison sergeant say no to a lieutenant of the SS?”

  “She’s not there,” the guard grunted. “The doctor took her.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Henrik dropped the stick and took a step back. The guard picked up his club off the ground and stood up. His face had gone from rosy red to blood scarlet. Henrik pulled out his Colt 32. “Now that we have finished the polite introductions, perhaps you wouldn’t mind leading me to this doctor of yours.”

  None of the guards inside the camp were carrying side arms. It was too dangerous. If a prisoner got hold of it, he could cause some serious damage. Tower guards had guns as did the officers, but camp guards had to rely on brute force and cruelty to keep the half-starved Jews in line, whips and black clubs being the weapons of choice. The big guard looked at the small gun, perhaps weighing his odds, and then he saluted.

  “Heil Hitler.”

  Henrik left the private by the barracks and followed the bull-like guard down the gravel road to a small hospital building.

  “She’s in there,” he said, rubbing his bruised neck.

  “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” Henrik pointed at the door with his gun. “You first.” The guard opened the door reluctantly and stepped inside. Henrik followed close behind.

  “So Fritz, back so soon?” A white-coated doctor was washing his hands with his back to the door. “Have you brought me another princess from your Jewish harem?”

  “Not exactly, doc,” Henrik answered. The doctor turned around with a gun in his hand and fired. Henrik dropped to one knee just in time to hear the bullet whisper over his shoulder. The doctor was a sneaky old bat but he was no crack shot. Henrik, on the other hand, was. Before the doctor could get off another round, Henrik fired back, wounding the doctor in the shoulder. The white-haired old man fell back against the sink, groaning. His Luger clattered loudly on the ceramic floor.

  The guard reacted quickly, smashing a heavy arm down on Henrik’s wrist, nearly breaking it. The man was frightfully strong. He grabbed Henrik with one hand and threw him clear over the rolling instrument counter, quite a feet considering Henrik was six-two and roughly two hundred pounds himself.

  Before Henrik could get to his feet, the guard’s whip was out. It cracked against Henrik’s face, digging a bloody trench in his cheek an inch below his right eye. The whip cracked again, but this time Henrik threw up his right arm to catch it. The woven leather wrapped around his forearm like a snake. Henrik braced himself against a hospital bunk and yanked with all his might, wrenching the whip out of the guard’s meaty hands.

  The big guard was caught off guard. Although violence was a way of life for him, he wasn’t used to fighting men of Henrik’s skill and experience. He was already thinking of escape when he spotted Henrik’s Colt 32 on the floor by the door and dived for it. He would have got it too if Henrik hadn’t kicked the stainless steel counter into him, knocking him once again to his hands and knees. Before he could get up, Henrik was on him, wrapping the whip around his neck and squeezing like a python. The guard’s fingers were only inches from the gun.

  “Don’t do it!” Henrik warned. The guard lunged and Henrik snapped his thick neck like a tree branch. His three-hundred-pound body went limp in Henrik’s arms and Henrik dropped him like a sack of potatoes. The entire struggle lasted no more than a few seconds. The doctor was still leaning up against the sink, holding his shoulder, his gun still at his feet.

  “Don’t move, doc, unless you want me to brand your other shoulder.”

  “I will not move. What do you want?”

  “Kick the gun over here.”

  The doctor complied. Henrik dropped the whip and picked up both guns, stowing the smaller Colt in his jacket pocket and keeping the heavy Luger trained on the compliant doctor. With his free hand, he tipped over the rolling stainl
ess steel counter and braced it under the door handle. The guards outside would have heard the shot. They’d be coming for him, perhaps with guns of their own this time. Henrik felt his muscles cramping from the strain of breaking the big guard’s neck.

  “Prisoner 612780.”

  “Esther,” the doctor said with a look of cool recognition.

  “Where is she?”

  The doctor shrugged, pressing gauze against his shoulder to stop the bleeding. Henrik cocked his gun.

  “Yes, yes. She’s in the third bed on the right. I’ve been treating her for a rare form of dysentery.”

  Henrik looked down the row of beds, noticing them now for the first time. There were about a dozen patients in the little hospital, all of them female. Some of them were watching him now with great interest, but most were oblivious, perhaps too sick to lift their heads. Esther was one of the sicker ones. Henrik felt his heart sink.

  “Esther,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. He ran to her bed and knelt down beside it. Touching her forehead, he said her name again, but she did not respond. Her skin was cold and clammy. Her eyes were closed and sunken in her sockets. Deep shadows were around them.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Henrik snapped back at the doctor.

  “As I told you, she has a rare form of dysentery. I’ve been treating her with a vaccine but I fear she is too far gone.”

  Henrik pointed the Luger at the doctor’s head. “Do something.”

  “What can I do?”

  Henrik stood up, looking at the glass cabinet filled with opaque medicine bottles and syringes all marked and labeled. Henrik had a general knowledge of biology, but he was no doctor. He could not begin to fathom what kind of medicine was being practiced in this little field hospital or which serum was which.

  “Give her something,” he said vaguely, gabbing a random bottle off the shelf.

  “Put that back!” the doctor ordered, shuffling over to the cabinet with one hand still pressed to his shoulder. “Yes, yes, I will help her, but don’t touch my supplies. They are carefully ordered. You are looking at years of research and thousands of precise and painstaking experiments. One day my studies will contribute to a new and perfect world.” For a man in danger of being shot, he seemed a little over-protective of his medical stores, more like a professor at a major scientific institute than a prison camp doctor. He released his wounded shoulder to take a vial and syringe off the shelf.

  “Here we are,” he said and then gritted his teeth. The shock of being shot was beginning to wear off, and now the bullet in his shoulder was starting to ache. “I need medical attention myself,” he said.

  There was a noise outside, the sound of yelling, and then the door shook. The metal cabinet was holding, but it wouldn’t hold for long.

  “Come on. Get on with it.” Henrik poked the warm barrel of the Luger in the doctor’s bony side.

  The doctor looked impatient but not particularly fearful. He was a little man, about five-three and not much over a hundred pounds. Henrik could have snapped his neck like a twig. He tested the syringe in the air and then bent over his patient, searching her limp white arm for a suitable blood vessel. He tapped one to life and was about to puncture it when Esther’s eyes opened.

  “She’s awake,” Henrik said. “Esther, can you hear me? It’s Henrik.”

  “Henrik.” She closed her eyes. “I knew you’d come.” When she opened them again they were filled with tears.

  The door shuddered from the force of someone’s shoulder, but it still would not open. The doctor hesitated.

  “Come on. Give her the shot,” Henrik yelled.

  “No!” Esther said. Her voice was hoarse but there was no mistaking her meaning. She pulled her arm away. “Give him the shot.”

  Henrik was bewildered. “It will be all right,” he said softly, bending down to touch her hand. “The doctor’s going to give you a shot that will make you well again, and then we can get out of here together.”

  “No!” she said again with much more force, her anger rousing her, giving her the strength she needed for one last battle. “He’s no doctor. He’s a madman. He’s been poisoning us, even the children. He gave Sarah that horrible rash. He killed her.” She sat up in the bed and the doctor fell back with the needle in his hand. “Give it to him, Henrik. Give him his own medicine. Don’t let him leave here alive!” Esther fell back onto the pillow-less bunk, the last of her energy spent.

  The door rattled. Henrik stood up, his eyes following the retreating doctor.

  “It is just medicine, I assure you.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind injecting yourself,” Henrik said coolly, but there was menace in his voice. He saw the sick and dying prisoners at Peenemunde and Auschwitz in his mind’s eye. He saw Esther’s father, just a skeleton of a man. He saw Sarah, her bleeding corpse beneath the ironic iron sign. Work will set you free.

  “But I’m not sick. I don’t know what will happen.”

  “Let’s find out.” Henrik pounced like a lion, grabbing the doctor’s thin wrists and bending him over backwards. The doctor screamed in panic.

  “There’s nothing to fear, doc. It’s only medicine.” Henrik closed his large hand over the doctor’s and forced the needle into his neck. The doctor stiffened like a board and his eyes widened in terror. He began to shake, and drool ran down the side of his mouth.

  There was another loud bang and the door splintered. Henrik scanned the small hospital looking for another exit. The place had descended into pandemonium. Women were screaming, children crying. At the far end of the room was another door. Henrik picked up Esther and carried her past the row of beds. He tried the door, but it was locked. Without putting Esther down, he kicked it in. It led to small room, perhaps an office.

  “Stop,” Esther said, and pointed at the doctor who was sitting on the floor laughing hysterically.

  “It won’t hurt me. I’m not a Jew,” he said incomprehensibly, looking at the needle in his hand.

  Esther looked at Henrik. “You can’t let him live,” she said softly. “He has done such evil, you don’t know.”

  “I won’t,” Henrik responded, putting Esther down next to the door.

  There was another loud crash at the door and this time a board splintered off leaving a gaping hole. Henrik pulled out the Luger and fired two rounds through the hole. There was loud yell on the other side of the door and more angry voices, but the pounding stopped momentarily. Henrik walked calmly up to the fallen doctor who now had his hands raised over his head in obvious fear.

  “Don’t shoot me!” he pleaded.

  “I’m not going to shoot you,” Henrik said. “Shooting is too good for you.” Henrik reached into his pocket and pulled out the green cyanide pill. “I was saving this for myself, just in case. But it looks like I’ve found a better use for it.”

  “No!” And with that word, the doctor sealed his own death. Henrik shoved the pill between the doctor’s teeth and clamped his big hand over the doctor’s nose and mouth to keep him from spitting it out or breathing. The doctor, surprise and choking, swallowed reflexively and then his body began to twitch. Henrik let go and watched the evil man begin to die.

  Henrik heard the whistle of escaping gas and looked up just in time to see the three-inch barrel of a flamethrower appear in the hole in the door. They were going to burn them out—the women, the children, all of them. Henrik fired at the door, but it was too late. A ball of flame burst out of the barrel like the breath of a dragon and consumed the doctor who was still writhing from the cyanide. Henrik dived out of the path of the fire, rolled to his feet and scooped up Esther in one swift motion. Another ball of flame set the beds on fire with the screaming girls still in them.

  The rest of what happened was too horrible to contemplate and Henrik had to shut it out of his mind if he wanted to save Esther. He ran into the doctor’s study, desperate to fin
d a way out. There was no other exit, but there was a window. He shifted Esther to his shoulder and threw a chair through the window. The glass shattered like a fountain. With the flames licking at his leather boots, he jumped through the window and landed hard on the tall grass behind the hospital.

  He coughed, the smoke thick in his lungs. He turned Esther over. She was out cold, but still breathing, a small cut in her forehead from the fall. Two guards came running around the corner of the hospital, their guns drawn. Henrik fired at them, catching the first right between the eyes before he had a chance to fire back. The second guard’s bullet hit the grass a few inches from Henrik’s head, but Henrik caught him with two rounds in the chest and the guard dropped without a scream.

  The doctor’s Luger was out of ammo. He dropped it in the grass and pulled out the Colt 32. He hoped the remaining guards were unarmed. A ball of flame singed his ears and ignited the brown grass behind him. Henrik swore. The guard with the flamethrower must have doubled back around the other side of the hospital and now he had Henrik dead to rights. Fortunately for Henrik, he didn’t catch him with his first blast. German flamethrowers were notoriously difficult to aim. Now Henrik was obscured behind a wall of flame and smoke.

  Henrik didn’t return fire for fear he would give away his location. Scooping up Esther with his free hand, he ran full out for the corner of the hospital. If he could make it there without being seen, he might still have a chance. It didn’t work out quite that way. At the last second, the guard spotted him and let loose another horrific blast. Henrik screamed in pain. He was on fire, but he didn’t stop running until he reached cover behind the hospital wall. Then he collapsed to his knees, dropping Esther heavily on the gravel road. The back of his SS uniform was ablaze. He ripped off the jacket and rolled in the dirt. After a few seconds, the flames were out but his bare back burned painfully.

  There were two more guards still at the font of the hospital. They were unarmed and scattered when Henrik fired a warning round in their general direction. He wasn’t out of trouble yet. In fact, he hardly had time to load Esther in the back seat of the Mercedes coupe before the flamethrower guard came bounding heavily around the corner of the hospital. He fired a long stream of red, but this time Henrik wasn’t going to take it lying down.

  He steadied his arm on the fender and fired two rounds directly into the red plume. The second one caught something, perhaps the gas valve, and the flame circled back on the guard. In seconds he was fully engulfed in fire and screaming horribly. Henrik considered putting a bullet in his head just to shut him up, but he couldn’t spare the ammo. By his count, the small Colt only had two rounds left and who knew how many more guards he would have to kill just to get out of here.

  As it turned out, he didn’t need those last two bullets. The guards in the tower were more than a little surprised to see the black Mercedes coupe blast through the front gate at full speed and barely had time to fire their MP40s before he was out of range. A dented grill and a broken taillight were the full extent of the damages and Henrik and Esther were on their way—but to where? Whatever cover he’d had was completely blown. The SS would be after him, and they wouldn’t stop. They’d never stop.

  Henrik waited until night before attempting to cross the Dutch border. His clothes were in tatters, but only on the back, and the skin on his back was badly burned. He gritted his teeth in pain, handing the singed death warrant out the window. The guard took it and turned on his electric torch. Henrik pressed the Colt up against door. There were three guards at the checkpoint—three guards but only two bullets in Henrik’s gun. His only chance was that no one had predicted his next move. If they had, if they knew who he was and where he was going, it was all over.

  The guard handed the warrant back to Henrik. “Aren’t you going the wrong way?” he asked.

  “The Fuhrer has ordered the execution to take place in Amsterdam,” Henrik grunted. “A warning to the others.” The pain made him sound especially menacing. It had just the right effect. The guard passed his torch over Esther’s inert body. She had not awoken since escaping from Dora-Mittelbau, but Henrik resisted the urge to clean the cut on her forehead. She would look more convincing that way.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “I hope so. I wouldn’t want to rob the hangman.”

  The guard lifted the gate and Henrik drove on through. In another hour, he was at his father’s country home just outside Amsterdam. It was past 10:00 and the servants had all gone home. Kessler Sr. opened his own door and stared at Henrik with his mouth agape. It was the second time in a month that his wayward son had returned from the dead. He looked at the woman in Henrik’s hands and a sobering look of recognition came over him.

  “Bring her into the living room,” he said, holding open the door. Henrik took two steps and heard his father gasp. “What in heavens? What did they do to you?”

  “Flamethrower,” Henrik said simply. “But there’s no time for that. Esther’s sick. You have to help her.” Henrik put Esther on the sofa carefully. She groaned but did not wake up.

  “She can’t stay here. They’ll be coming. My son, what have you done?”

  Henrik turned on his father angrily. “What have we done, we Germans? Look at her, father. It’s Esther. You knew her. She came to our home. She ate with us. Did she deserve this?”

  Kessler took a step back, shaking his head. “I didn’t . . .”

  “Her father was a descent man. You knew him. And now he’s dead.” Henrik stepped towards his father, a dangerous rage welling up inside him. “Remember the old Rabbi, Zelman Jacobs? Gassed to death at Auschwitz and burned like kindling in an oven.” He took another step closer to his father. “Esther’s sister, Sarah, only fourteen years old? Shot in the head at point blank range.”

  Kessler Sr. tried to take another step back from his son’s assault, but his back was up against the wall. He had no place to go.

  “I didn’t do that!” he reasoned.

  “But we didn’t stop it, either. And now we will pay for it. We will all pay.” For a tense moment, Henrik teetered on the edge of violence, the pain in his back egging him on like a demon on his shoulder. But then he heard Esther’s sad voice behind him.

  “Stop, Henrik,” she pleaded. She groaned painfully and then fell silent once again. Henrik left his father with his back against the wall and fell to Esther’s side. He caressed her forehead. It was on fire.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Kessler asked from behind his son.

  “I don’t know. I think she’s been poisoned.” Henrik loosened the top few buttons of her tattered blue dress to reveal a white rash across her neck and chest.

  “Poison doesn’t do that,” Kessler said. “I’ve seen this before.”

  “The doctor called it Semitic Dysentery. He said only Jews got it.”

  “What? Nonsense. It’s an infection very common with infantry soldiers, especially in the trenches.”

  “How do you cure it? What do we do?”

  Kessler looked worried. “It’s too late. The fever has already started.”

  “Don’t tell me that. I’ve crossed Germany and Poland to save her. I’ve killed men, watched innocent women and children die. She can’t die now. She can’t. What kind of God would do that?” Henrik’s eyes filled with tears. Kessler looked at his son and his face seemed to grow old with pain.

  “We will try son,” he said, putting his hand on Henrik’s arm forearm just as Canaris had done eight hours ago. “We have to get her temperature down. We will bathe her in ice. Bring her to the bathtub. I will get the ice from the cellar.”

  Henrik picked Esther up and brought her upstairs to the bathroom. Her skin was hot against his arms. He could feel the last of his strength going from him as he placed her in the tub. He ran the cold water over her body, but still she burned. Kessler arrived with two blocks of ice and an ice pick.
Henrik wanted to help, but he was too exhausted. He watched helplessly as his father chipped methodically away at the big blocks of ice and slowly filled the tub.

  “What now?” Henrik asked.

  “Now we wait.”

  Henrik sat down on the wet ceramic floor, and in moments, he was asleep. When he awoke, Esther’s eyes were open.

  “I knew you’d come for me,” she said softly.

  “Esther!” Henrik sat up, reaching out to hold her in his arms. “Esther! Esther, you’re alive. Thank God.” Her skin was cold to his touch and she was shaking.

  “Get her out of the water,” Kessler commanded.

  Henrik carried her into his father’s bedroom and placed her on the bed. His father handed him a towel and averted his eyes. Henrik removed her blue dress and rubbed her dry. Only as an afterthought, he threw the blankets over her naked body.

  “What will you do now?” Kessler asked over Henrik’s shoulder. Henrik turned to look at his father.

  “Just give us a few minutes. We’ll be gone before anybody thinks to check here.”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.” The old colonel looked strangely hurt. “Henrik, I was wrong about . . .” He left the words unspoken. Whatever he had to say was very difficult for him. “You can stay in my house as long as you need to. I just want you to know that I’m sorry, Henrik.”

  Henrik was dumbfounded. He had never heard his father apologize before, not in his whole life, not to his mother, not to anyone. It was like a bucket of cold water on Henrik’s anger.

  “I’m sorry too, dad. I’m sorry I got you into this. They will come here, maybe not right away, but sooner or later they will come.”

  Kessler rubbed the gray stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Where did you get the car? Never mind. I don’t want to know. You can take mine. They’ll probably be looking for yours. The bent grill and broken taillight will send up a few flags at any rate. Do you have a way out?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  Henrik remembered his radio message to Ober, the double-dealing U-boat commander. Return after the millennium. If he had figured out the Biblical code from the book of Peter, he would have returned the next day. But Henrik was a month late for that rendezvous. He would go to Amsterdam anyways. What else was there to do? He still had the gold stashed in the old shack at the docks. Maybe he could buy passage on a merchant vessel making port. His father nodded and averted his eyes as Henrik helped Esther into one of his mother’s dresses. His father had kept them all in her old closet, heaven knew why.

  “My uniform is ruined,” Henrik said suddenly.

  “I suppose you can borrow mine, but I’d like it back in good condition.” Kessler smirked.

  Henrik dressed quickly and put Esther in the back seat of his father’s old Mercedes. She was still weak, but a sense of almost child-like calm had come over her. It warmed Henrik’s soul. He would do anything for her.

  “I’ve packed you a lunch. It’s in the trunk.” Kessler said, opening the driver’s door for his son. “There’s ointment there too for Esther’s rash. Don’t let her eat too much or too fast. It will be a long recovery, but she should make it. I’ll pray for her. It’s all I can do now.”

  Henrik stopped in front of his father and reached out his hand. “Thank you,” he said. Kessler looked at the hand for a moment and then pushed it aside.

  “I think I can spare a hug for my only son.” He wrapped his arms around Henrik and squeezed. It was an awkward moment for both men, another first, at least in Henrik’s memory. Henrik wondered if it would also be the last hug he would ever receive from the old man.

  Amsterdam was an hour drive from the Kessler cottage. Henrik was stopped only once along the way. The colonel’s old Mercedes and Luftwaffe uniform, as well as the signed death warrant, did much to dissuade any serious investigation in occupied Holland. That wouldn’t be the case once the general alarm had sounded. But until they figured out where he was headed, he was relatively safe.

  Henrik parked two blocks from the docks. He wanted to park closer, but he couldn’t risk it. A well-kept, older model Mercedes would have attracted too much attention in such a run-down neighborhood. But then again, so would a man carrying a woman over his shoulder.

  “Esther,” he said softly as soon as he’d turned off the engine. She opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Are we there already? I was just starting to get used to this fancy car.”

  “Yes. Do you think you can walk?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Henrik ran around to the passenger door and helped Esther out. Her legs were thin and bony with hardly any strength in them. She took a step and nearly fell. Henrik rushed to help her.

  “No, I can do it.”

  Henrik put his arm around her waist, taking some of her wait. This seemed to help. Together they walked slowly down the street looking not unlike two lovers on a mid-morning stroll. Only a careful observer would notice the strain on Esther’s face and the concerned look in Henrik’s eyes. Fortunately there were no careful observers at the docks at this time of the day, at least none that they could see.

  It took them twenty minutes at this careful, ponderous pace to reach the small shack by the IJ waterfront where Henrik had hidden his radio and gold. He was relieved to find everything still intact but he held out little hope that the radio would do him much good now. Surely Ober was long gone. He was about to take his gold and go without even trying the radio when he remembered Canaris’ final, cryptic words of encouragement.

  “Keep the faith. I’ve postponed judgment, at least for a few days.”

  According to St. John’s Revelation, the final judgment will take place after the millennium. Was Canaris telling him that Ober was still waiting for him? At the time, Henrik had assumed the admiral was waxing poetic, not speaking in code. But Canaris was still Canaris. He might not have completely trusted his driver or Henrik for that matter. But if there was anyone that could pressure Ober into keeping his U-boat in port for a whole month, it was the admiral.

  “You can sit for a moment, and eat something,” Henrik told Esther softly, and then remembered his father’s warning, “but not too much and not too fast. I’m going to try something before we go.”

  Esther nodded, but she didn’t say anything. The short walk from the car had worn her out. She sat down on the dusty crate and pulled out one of Kessler’s cold chicken sandwiches. Henrik remembered the taste of them—always too much horseradish. It would be hard to eat them too quickly. Henrik cranked up the generator on the radio and adjusted the tuner to the right channel.

  “Little Fox to Sea Serpent.” He waited a few seconds and repeated the message. He tried again, and again, and every time his hope faded a bit more. He’d been a fool to hope.

  “Sea Serpent to Little Fox,” Ober’s voice came in clearly over the receiver. “You better have my amber paper weights.”

  Henrik laughed with joy. So the serpent did have a spine after all. “Come and get them.”

  It took Ober and his men ten minutes to navigate their way through the narrow, hundred-yard tunnel to the old shack. By then, Esther was rested enough to travel again. Despite her hunger, she’d only eaten half the chicken sandwich.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t . . .”

  “Just leave it,” Henrik said.

  Esther looked horrified. “I can’t leave it. What if we run out?”

  She was worried about wasting half a chicken sandwich with too much horseradish on it. Henrik felt a pang of sadness and regret. He couldn’t imagine what she must have been through.

  “Don’t worry. The boat has a galley packed with food. Isn’t that right, commander?”

  “Canned food,” Ober complained, unable to take his eyes off his prize. The gold was part of the original Abwehr operation that had inserted Henrik into the American military three years ago. Henrik wondered why Canaris had n
ever asked about it, but now he knew. He was waiting to put it to good use. Henrik also knew why he had nothing to fear from the greedy, double-dealing U-boat commander. Ober might cross Henrik, but he would never cross the admiral.

  “Ober, tell your men to get your boat ready. We’ll need to leave immediately.”

  “What? Yes, of course.” He barked a few orders to his crew. They began carrying off the gold bars one at a time.

  “And commander,” Henrik interrupted, grabbing Ober’s wiry shoulder, “this pays for the whole trip, not just Sweden.”

  Ober looked up at Henrik as if he was just seeing him now for the first time. “All the way to America? That is impossible. They will sink us. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Put the gold back. I’ll tell Admiral Canaris that you were unable to comply with our arrangement.”

  The crew stopped what they were doing at the mention of the admiral’s name. Ober’s face shriveled like a dry prune. Ober was a short man, barely over five feet, with thin wiry arms and grease oozing from his every poor. He wore a filthy undershirt and mechanics trousers that reeked of engine oil. The only part of his uniform that he deigned to wear while at sea was his oversized hat. But he even took that off now to wipe the sweat from is forehead.

  “Look, I can take you as far as Iceland. I know a port there that’s friendly. There you can arrange passage on a merchant vessel or a fishing boat.”

  “You will arrange the boat for us.”

  “Yes. I will arrange everything.”

  “Of course, you will, because if you don’t, the admiral will hear of it.”

  Ober put his hat back on. “I liked you better when you were a spy,” he said sourly. “We leave in five minutes.” He turned around and scolded his motley crew for stalling.

  Henrik took Esther by the arm. “Come on, Esther. It’s time to go.”

  “Go where?” she asked, the sandwich still clenched in her fingers. Henrik pried it loose and placed it on the wooden crate beside her.

  “We’re going to America?”

  Her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “But where’s papa?”

  Henrik felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “He’s not here, Esther. He didn’t make it.”

  “No,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “No. You saved him, didn’t you?”

  Henrik shook his head slowly. “Esther, we must go.”

  “No, I won’t. What about Sarah? What about grandpa? I won’t leave without them.”

  Henrik heard a siren outside. It might be nothing, just another random raid. But it was coming closer.

  “We better get going,” Ober said nervously.

  “Come on Esther, please.” Henrik tried to lift Esther to her feet, but she resisted him.

  “No, I won’t go. Where’s Sarah and grandpa and father? Where are they?”

  “They’re dead!” Henrik said in frustration. “Do you want to die with them? Is that it? Is that what you want?”

  Esther’s face fell into her hands, and she began to cry uncontrollably.

  The sirens were getting louder.

  “We leave now,” Ober screeched in a panic, “with or without you, and I don’t give a whit about the admiral. I won’t fall into the hands of the SS. I’d rather sink to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Shut up!” Henrik ventured a quick look out through a crack in the shriveled door. Ober was right. The alley was thick with SS, kicking down doors one at a time. And they had dogs. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

  “What if he wins?” Esther asked, her voice suddenly calm.

  “What?”

  “What if Hitler wins?” She wiped the tears from her eyes, steeling herself for what she had to say. “What if he kills all us Jews, and Poles, and Russians, and Englanders? What then? Will America be safe? Will it be far enough away from him that he can’t reach us? Don’t you see, Henrik? It doesn’t matter how far we run if we let him do this. We have to stop him.”

  Henrik shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do.” But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. In a few short months, maybe a year, Hitler would have a weapon that could destroy civilization, and Henrik had helped give it to him. No, America would not be safe. No place on Earth would be safe.

  Henrik heard yelling just outside the door. There were dogs barking, sniffing under the door. They knew they were there. It was too late. Even if they headed down the tunnel now, the SS would know where they’d gone. They’d find the tunnel entrance and follow them. They’d close down the harbor, sink their own U-boat if they had to.

  Henrik turned to Ober. “Take her,” he said, and pulled out his Colt 32. He had two bullets left. Why didn’t he reload at the cottage? Surely the old colonel had spare ammo around. But they’d been in such a hurry.

  “Here, take this.” Ober tossed Henrik a grenade. “You can blow the tunnel entrance when you run out of ammo.

  “That won’t be long. You’ll have to hurry.”

  Esther suddenly realized what was happening. “No, Henrik. You can’t.”

  “I can’t? A moment ago you wanted me to stay and fight Hitler.”

  “Not you. The Jews. We need to fight him. I need to fight him.” She put out her hand. “Give me the grenade. I can blow up the entrance just as easily as you can. You have a much better chance of escape. You must escape.” Her voice was weak but full of passion. Henrik looked into her eyes and his heart melted. He had never loved anyone more in his entire life.

  “Esther,” he began, but his voice faltered. There was no time to say what he wanted to say, no time to tell her how much he loved her. He would have to say it all with a kiss. He wrapped his big hands gently around her delicate neck. She gasped as their lips met. There were no more words. A loud bang at the cellar door snapped them out off their blissful reverie. Henrik looked up at Ober.

  “Take her!” he yelled.

  “No,” she gasped again, but this time the U-boat commander didn’t wait for her consent. Ober may have been short, but he was wiry strong. He lifted her by her thin thighs and threw her over his shoulder. “No,” Henrik heard her say again as the two bodies disappeared into the tunnel and then he shut the trap door.

  He was alone for only a few seconds before the cellar door burst into splinters and an SS Wolf Corps appeared at the door with an assault rifle in his hands and a German Shepard at his feet.

  “Heil Hitler!” Henrik saluted. The trooper looked momentarily perplexed and then the grenade went off, knocking both Henrik and the trooper out cold.