“I don’t think so,” Tommy replied.
The voices bursting from the shower room launched into a song called “Fuck All of It.”
“The commandant,” Fritz Number One said softly, “I do not think he enjoys the British singing. He no longer permits his wife and their little daughters to come visit him in his office when the British officers are going to the showers.”
“War is hell,” Tommy said.
Fritz Number One quickly raised his hand to cover his mouth, as if blocking a cough, but in reality to stifle a laugh.
“We must all do our duty,” he said with a hidden cackle, “however we see it.”
The two men walked past a gray cinder-block building. This was the cooler—the punishment barracks—with a dozen windowless and bare cement cells hidden inside. “Empty now,” Fritz Number One said.
They approached the gate to the British compound. “Three hours, Lieutenant Hart. This is adequate?”
“Three hours. Meet you in the front.”
The ferret swung his arm toward a guard, gesturing for the man to push the gate open. Tommy could see Flying Officer Hugh Renaday waiting just beyond the gate and he hurried forward to meet his friend.
“How’s the wing commander?” Tommy asked, as the two men walked swiftly through the British compound.
“Phillip? Well, physically, he seems more run down than ever. He can’t seem to shake this cold or whatever the bloody hell it is, and the last few nights he’s been coughing, a wet, nasty cough, all night long. But in the morning he shrugs it all off and he won’t let me take him to the surgeon’s. Stubborn old bastard. If he dies here, it’ll serve him right.”
Renaday spoke with a brusque, flat Canadian accent, words that were as dry and windswept as the vast prairie regions that he called home, but contradictorily tinged with the frequent Anglicism that reflected his years in the RAF. The flying officer walked with a lengthy, impatient stride, as if he found the travel between locations to be inconvenient, that what was important to him was where one came from and where one ended up and the distance between really just an irritation. He was wide-shouldered and thickset, muscled even though the camp had stripped pounds from his frame. He wore his hair longer than most of the men in the camp, as if daring lice and fleas to infest him. None had been so foolhardy as of yet.
“Anyway,” Renaday continued, as they turned a corner, passing two British officers diligently raking soil in a small garden, “he’s damn glad today’s Friday, and that you’re visiting. Can’t tell you how much he looks forward to these sessions. As if by using his brain he defeats how lousy the rest of him feels.”
Renaday shook his head and added: “Other men like to talk of home, but Phillip likes to analyze these cases. I think it reminds him of what he was once and what he’s likely to be when he gets back to jolly old England. He ought to be sitting in front of a warm fireplace, lecturing a few acolytes in the intricacies of some obscure legal point, wearing silk slippers and a green velvet smoking jacket, sipping from a cup of the finest. Every time I look at the old bastard, I can’t imagine what the hell he was thinking when he climbed on board that damnable Blenheim.”
Tommy smiled. “Probably thinking the same thing we all thought.”
“And what, my learned American friend, might that have been?”
“That despite the large and near constant volume of incredibly persuasive evidence to the contrary, nothing much bad was going to happen to us.”
Renaday burst into a deep, resonant laugh that made some of the gardening officers pick up their heads and pay a brief spot of attention before returning to their well-raked plots of yellow-brown earth.
“God’s bitter truth there, Yank.”
He shook his head, still smiling, then gestured. “There’s Phillip now.”
Wing Commander Phillip Pryce was sitting on the steps to a hut, a book in one hand. He wore a threadbare olive blanket draped across his shoulders despite the warmth, and had his cap pushed back on his head. His eyeglasses were dropped down on his nose, like a caricature of a teacher, and he chewed on the end of a pencil. He waved like a child at a parade when he spotted the two men striding in his direction.
“Ah, Thomas, Thomas, delighted as always. Have you come prepared?”
“Always prepared, Your Honor,” Tommy Hart replied.
“Still smarting you know,” Pryce continued, “from that hiding you gave Hugh and me over the elusive Jack and his unfortunate crimes. But now we’re ready to do battle with one of your more sensational cases, what. I would think it was our turn, what do you say, with the bats?”
“At bat,” Renaday said, as Hart and Pryce warmly shook hands. Tommy thought the wing commander’s firm handshake was perhaps a little less so than usual. “You say at bat, Phillip. Not with the bats. The umpire says ‘Batter up!’ and so on and that’s what gets it all started.”
“Incomprehensible sport, Hugh. Not unlike your foolish but beloved hockey in that regard. Racing hell-bent around on the ice in the freezing cold, trying to whack some defenseless rubber disk into a net and at the same time avoid being clubbed nearly to death by your opponents.”
“Grace and beauty, Phillip. Strength and perseverance.”
“Ahh, British qualities.”
The men laughed together.
“Let’s sit outside,” Pryce said. He had a soft, generous voice, filled with reflection and enthusiasm. “The sun feels fine. And, after all, it’s not something we English are all that accustomed to seeing, so, even here, amid all the horrors of war, we should take advantage of Mother Nature’s temporary beneficence, no?”
Again the men smiled.
“Gifts from the ex-colonies, Phillip,” Tommy said. “A little of our bounty, just a small repayment for your managing to send every bungling idiot general across the seas in seventy-six, to be taken advantage of by our New World brilliance.”
“I shall ignore that most unfortunate, childish, and mistaken interpretation of a decidedly minor moment in the illustrious history of our great empire. What have you brought us?”
“Cigarettes. American, minus the half-dozen it took to bribe Fritz Number One . . .”
“His price, I think, has oddly gone up,” Pryce muttered. “Ah, American tobacco! Virginia’s best, I’ll warrant. Excellent.”
“Some chocolate . . .”
“Delightful. From the famous Hershey’s of Pennsylvania . . .”
“And this . . .” Tommy Hart handed the older man the tin of Earl Grey tea. He had had to trade with a fighter pilot, who chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, to get it, but he thought the price cheap when he saw the older man’s face crease into a wide grin. Pryce immediately burst into song.
“Hallelujah! In excelsis gloria! And us doomed to reusing over and over that poor tired tin of foul alleged darjeeling. Hugh, Hugh, treasures from the colonies! Riches beyond our wildest imagination. The makings of a proper brew up! A sweet to cut the appetite, a real, honest-to-goodness cup of tea to be followed by a leisurely smoke! Thomas, we are in your debt!”
“It’s the parcels,” Tommy replied. “Ours are so much better than yours.”
“True, alas. Not that we prisoners don’t appreciate the sacrifices being made by our beleaguered countrymen, but—”
“The damn U.S. parcels are far better,” Hugh Renaday interrupted. “The British parcels are simply pathetic. Foul tins of kippers and ersatz jams. Something they call coffee, but which clearly isn’t. Awful. Canadian parcels aren’t all that bad, they’re just a little shy of the sorts of stuff Phillip is looking for.”
“Too much tinned meat. Not enough tea,” Pryce said with mock sadness. “Tinned meat that looks like it was carved from the backside of Hugh’s old horse.”
“Probably was.”
The men laughed again, and Hugh Renaday took the chocolate and tin of tea inside the hut to brew up cups for the three men. In the interim, Pryce lit a cigarette, leaned back, and, closing his eyes, let the smoke slowly
slide from his nostrils.
“Phillip, how are you feeling?” Tommy asked.
“Nasty as always, dear boy,” Pryce replied without opening his eyes. “I take some satisfaction in the consistency of my physical state. Always bugger-all bad.”
He blinked his eyes open, and leaned forward. “But at least this still works fine.” He tapped his forehead. “Have you prepared a defense for your accused carpenter?”
Tommy nodded. “I have indeed.”
The older man smiled again. “You have some ideas? Fresh ideas, eh?”
“Argue for a change of venue. Vociferously. Then plan on bringing in some fancy-Dan wood experts or scientists to tear away at Hugh’s man, the so-called forensic timber expert. Why, I suspect there’s really no such thing, and I damn well ought to be able to find some Harvard or Yale type to testify that way! Because it’s the ladder testimony that kills us. I can explain away the gold notes, explain away the other stuff. But the man testifying that the ladder could only have been made from the wood in Hauptmann’s garage—so much of the case rests on that testimony.”
Pryce moved his head slowly up and down. “Continue. There is much truth to what you say.”
“You see, the wooden ladder—that’s what forces me to put Hauptmann on the stand in his own defense. And when he gets up there, in front of all the cameras and newsmen in the midst of that circus . . .”
“Deplorable, I agree . . .”
“And he talks in that accent . . . and everyone hates him. From the moment he opens his mouth. I believe they hated him when he was accused, of course. But when that foreign accent tumbles out . . .”
“The case turns so much on that hatred, does it not, Thomas?”
“Yes. An immigrant. A rigid, brutish man. Much to instantly dislike. Put him in front of that jury and it’s like taunting them to convict him.”
“A solitary rodent of a man. A difficult client.”
“Yes. But I must find a way to turn his weaknesses into strengths.”
“Not quite so easy.”
“But crucial.”
“Ah, you are astute. And what of the famed aviator’s odd identification? When he claims to recognize Hauptmann’s voice as the voice he heard in the darkened cemetery?”
“Well, his testimony is preposterous on its face, Phillip. That he could recognize a man’s half-dozen, no more, words years later . . . I think I would have prepared a surprise for Colonel Lindbergh on cross-examination.”
“A surprise? How so?”
“I would plant three or four men with heavy accents in different locations in the courtroom. And in quick succession have each rise, and say ‘Leave the money and go!’ just as he claimed Hauptmann did. The state will object, of course, and the judge will find it contemptuous. . . .”
Pryce was grinning. “Ahh, but a little theater, no? Playing a bit to that huge crowd of horrid reporters. Underscoring a lie. I can see it quite clearly. Courtroom packed, all eyes on Thomas Hart, hypnotized as he wheels and produces these other men, and turns to the famous aviator and says, ‘Are you sure it was not him? Or him? Or him?’ and the judge’s gavel ringing, and men of the press racing for the telephones. Creating a little circus of your own to counteract the circus arrayed against you, correct?”
“Precisely.”
“Ahh, Thomas, you have the makings of a fine lawyer. Or perhaps the devil’s own assistant if we all die here and end up in Hell. But remember caution. To many of the folk in that audience, in that jury, and the judge, as well, Lindbergh was a saint. A hero. A perfect knight. One must use great caution when showing a man with the glow of public perfection about him to be a liar. Keep that in mind! Here comes Hugh with the tea. Speaking of perfection!”
The older man reached for the cup of steaming liquid, and held it close to his nose, drinking in the vapors. “Now,” he said, slowly, “if only we had . . .”
Tommy reached into his jacket pocket for the can of condensed milk, simultaneously finishing the older man’s sentence. “. . . some fresh milk?”
Phillip Pryce laughed. “Thomas, my son, you will go far in life.”
He poured a generous dollop into his white ceramic cup, then took a long pull at the lip, his pleasure obvious. Then he looked across the cup at Renaday. “Now that I’ve been properly bribed by the Yank, Hugh, I hope you’ve prepared as well?”
Renaday poured a more conservative touch of milk into his own tea and nodded vigorously.
“Of course, Phillip. Although I have been placed at a significant disadvantage by the unseemly bribery by our friend from the States, I have. The evidence I have at hand is overwhelming. The ransom money—those distinctive gold certificates—found hidden in Hauptmann’s home. The ladder—which I can prove was carved from the boards of his own garage. His lack of a credible alibi—”
“And lack of confession,” Tommy Hart briskly interrupted. “Even after he’s been subjected to hours and hours of your harshest questioning.”
“That confession. Or lack thereof,” Pryce interjected, “that is most troubling, Hugh, is it not? It is most surprising, also, that it could not be obtained. You would think the man would crumble under the efforts of the state police. You would think, too, that he would be filled with remorse at taking the poor child’s life. You would imagine that these pressures, from within and without, would be well-nigh insurmountable, especially to a rough man of limited education. And that, in due time, this confession, which would answer so much and free us from so many dogged questions, would arrive. But instead, this dull workingman steadfastly maintains his innocence. . . .”
The Canadian nodded. “It surprises me that they could not break him. I damn well could have, and without resorting to what you folks in the lower forty-eight call the third degree. Now, I do concede a confession would be helpful, perhaps even important, but . . .”
Hugh Renaday paused, then smiled at Tommy. “But I don’t need it. Not really. The man comes to the courtroom draped in guilt. Cloaked in guilt. Fully dressed out and equipped with guilt. Pregnant with guilt . . .” Renaday puffed out his stomach and patted it with a thump. The three men laughed at the image. “There’s little for me to do, save help the hangman tie his noose.”
“Actually, Hugh,” Tommy said quietly, “in New Jersey they favored the electric chair.”
“Well,” the flying officer said, as he broke off a square of chocolate and popped it into his mouth before handing the bar to Pryce, “then they damn well ought to have it warmed up and ready to fly.”
“Probably have difficulty finding volunteers for that job, Hugh,” Pryce burst out. “Even with a war on.”
The wing commander’s laugh disintegrated into a series of wracking coughs, which settled when he took a long sip of tea, once again bringing a wide grin to his wrinkled face.
The argument went well, Tommy thought, as he and Fritz Number One retraced their steps through the zone between the two compounds. He had made some points, conceded some, battled hard on every procedural question, losing most, but not without a fight. On the whole, he was pleased. Phillip Pryce had decided to put off on issuing any ruling and allow further discussion the following week, much to Hugh Renaday’s theatrical dismay and mock-bitter claims that Tommy’s unfair bribery was clouding their friend’s usually perceptive vision. This was a complaint none of the three men took particularly seriously.
After walking side by side for a moment or two, Tommy noticed that the ferret seemed oddly quiet. Fritz Number One enjoyed using his language skills, often privately suggesting that after the war he would be able to turn them to good use and financial reward. Of course, it was difficult to tell whether Fritz Number One meant after they had won the war, or lost it. It was always difficult, Tommy thought, to tell precisely how fanatic most of the ordinary Germans were. The occasional Gestapo man who visited the camp—especially in the wake of failed escape attempts—wore his politics openly. A ferret such as Fritz Number One—or the commandant, for that matter—was a much har
der read.
He turned to the German. Fritz Number One was tall, as he was, and thin, like a kriegie. The main difference was that his skin had a healthier glow to it, not like the sallow, pasty appearance all the prisoners gained within their first few weeks inside Stalag Luft Thirteen.
“What’s the matter, Fritz? Cat got your tongue?”
The ferret looked up quizzically. “Cat? What does this mean?”
“It means: Why are you so silent?”
Fritz Number One nodded. “Cat holding your tongue. This is clever. I will remember.”
“So? What’s the problem?”
The ferret frowned and shrugged. “Russians. Today,” he said softly. “They are clearing space for another camp for more Allied prisoners. We take the Russians and use them for the labor. They live in tents barely a mile away. Other side of the woods.”
“And?”
Fritz Number One lowered his voice, swiveling his head around quickly to make certain no one could overhear him.
“We work the Russians to their deaths, lieutenant. There are no Red Cross parcels with tinned beef and cigarettes for them. Just work. Very hard. They die by the dozens. By the hundreds. I worry that if the Red Army ever finds out how we have treated these prisoners, their revenge will be harsh.”
“You’re worried that when the Russians show up . . .”
“They will not show charity.”
Tommy nodded, thinking: Serves you right.
But before he could say anything, Fritz Number One held out his hand, stopping him. They were perhaps thirty yards from the gate to the southern compound, but Fritz Number One was unwilling to cross the short distance. To his left, Tommy suddenly saw why: A long, sinewy column of men was marching toward them, and he could see that they would pass directly in front of the entrance to the American compound. He paused, watching with a mingling of curiosity and despair, thinking: These men are no different. They have lives and homes and families and hopes. But they are dead men, marching past.
The German soldiers guarding the column wore battle dress. Their machine pistols swept over the shuffling line of men. Occasionally one would shout “Schnell! Schnell!” urging them to hurry, but the Russians moved at their own deliberate and painstaking pace. Marching with utter exhaustion. Tommy could see sickness and hurt behind their thick beards, in their recessed, haunted eyes. Their heads were bent, each step forward seemingly agonizing. Occasionally he could see one man, or two, gazing at the German guards, muttering in their own tongue, and then he could spot anger and defiance, mingled with resignation. What he saw was the most unusual of conflicts: Men covered with the tattered clothing of harshness and deprivation, yet undefeated by their condition, even knowing they had no hope. The Russians slowly shuffled forward, marching to the next minute, which was nothing but sixty seconds closer to their inevitable deaths.
Hart's War Page 6
