Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller

by Chuck Driskell

  Gabi lurched when she saw the briefcase.

  It was the briefcase full of money from Gregor Faust and his organization. Millions. And yesterday, Neil had placed it in the hotel safe. But now it was here, and perched on top was an envelope of the hotel’s stationary.

  Gabi stood, sensing something was wrong.

  Her name, in Neil’s distinctly masculine handwriting, was written on the front envelope. And next to the envelope was a freshly cut flower.

  ~~~

  Fern’s Diary

  I am on a big ship on a beautiful blue sea. This morning, the sun came up right in front of the ship and I stood there watching it with a huge smile on my face. As the sun rose, I ate a fruit called a tangerine. It was so good and tasty, just like all the other food I’ve eaten since we left the cave.

  A few of the children are still weak but no one is very sick now. We have medicine and food and nice soft beds even though we have to share. My best friend Julia and I don’t care. We wake up smiling because we know we’re away from the cave.

  I’ve been a little sad because I found out that the man named Jacob died in an accident after he hid us. But his friends came and rescued us and now we are on our way to Zion. The headmistress warned us that Zion is not perfect and our families might not ever come for us. I’m trying not to think of that too much.

  But she said in Zion we will be around others who love us. I believe her. And I also take back what I said so many times about there being no love in that cave. There was lots of love in that cave. And I think love is what rescued us.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  1976 - Manhasset, NY, USA

  The gathering took place every year, on the Saturday closest to September 19th. The year was 1976, the United States’ Bicentennial. The family had just finished a feast of a German dinner, prepared in a manner taught by Hildie Heinz many years before. Gabrielle Lightsey, still eye-catching despite her age, walked from the dining room to the kitchen. Her husband Frank was loading a cigar case.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay?” she asked.

  It was the same scene every year and Frank played his part perfectly. He glanced up at her and smiled. “Please, don’t worry about me. I’m going to try to get in on the Saturday card game at the club and I need to get there early.”

  Gabrielle touched his arm, rubbing it, a kind look on her face. “You’re welcome to stay. In fact, I wish you would.”

  He pinched his lips together, a look of gratitude. It only took a moment before he shook his head, giving her a peck on the forehead. “I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.” She watched out the window as he wended down the curved drive, past the brick columns, negotiating his sedan into the early evening Long Island traffic.

  Back in the dining room, Peter passed photos and mementos around the table, removing them one at a time from a painted curio box. Many of the pictures were courtesy of the German government. In 1954, while Germany was still in the midst of reconstruction, Gabrielle and Peter had traveled back for a meeting arranged by their New York congressman. The Federal Republic of Germany, while not anxious for their account to become public, had been incredibly accommodating, recording their entire story in the private German archives. After Peter and Gabrielle declined a quiet offer of a settlement for their mother’s land, the government happily provided pictures of every person they requested.

  For everyone else’s benefit, Peter and Gabrielle recalled snippets of what they remembered about the people in the photos. Gabrielle talked about Madeline’s fierce spirit. Peter recalled Thomas Lundren’s kindness and his dogged determination to get to the root of the case. They told stories about Neil, about their mother, and even about the crooked Nazi veterinarian Hörst Baldinger.

  “In case you don’t remember, this is Doctor Kraabe,” Gabrielle said, pointing to the picture of the doctor in his earlier days. “He lived until 1952, though I didn’t know he had passed away until we went back. He was extremely kind to all people.”

  Neil Jr., now thirty-seven years old and still a bachelor, had remained quiet up until this point. He considered the picture of the distinguished doctor for a moment before he lifted a close-up photo of the angular, unsmiling man with dark hair.

  “This was my father,” he said, showing the picture to his latest girlfriend.

  “His eyes look different,” she remarked, pointing at the light and dark shade of each one in the sepia photo.

  “They were different in color,” Gabrielle said, nervously fingering the locket around her neck. “His father was German, his mother Shoshone. He joked that his eyes split the difference.”

  A silence came over the room as the younger Neil continued to study the photo. His girlfriend lifted another photo. “Why is there a picture of a dog in here?”

  Peter and Gabrielle laughed together. “Schatze,” Peter said. “She was already quite old when Neil found her, and then she lived on until 1948. The vet estimated she was at least seventeen when she died—a miracle for a large dog.”

  Neil Jr. opened both falsified passports, smiling at the American names his mother and Peter had used to flee. “Who made these?” he asked.

  “A talented Austrian forger,” Peter answered. “A Jewish forger.”

  Gabrielle and Peter told the story which, even condensed, took several hours to tell. Everyone present, other than Neil’s girlfriend, had heard it before. But no one cared. They were captivated. Every time the tale was told, new details emerged. And as fantastic as it was, no one doubted a word.

  Finished, Peter reached into the curio box and carefully handed a yellowed envelope to his sister.

  Gabrielle, a wan smile on her face, accepted it, smoothing it with both hands.

  “Read the letter,” Peter said to her.

  She shook her head, her eyes glistening.

  Peter and Neil Jr. looked at one another. Peter’s wife gripped his arm but he shooed her away. “Look, Gabi, someday one of us is going to die, and if you kick the bucket first, I’ll just read it then. So why not read it now? It’s been nearly forty years. You’ve told us everything. I’ve told all I remember. Now, all that’s left is the letter.”

  “It was a letter meant for only me,” she whispered, her moist hazel eyes staring into some faraway place.

  “Mom,” Neil Jr. said, touching her hand. “If you don’t want to do it, we’ll all understand. But I’ve never heard my father’s voice. All I know are the limited things you’ve told me. Hearing his words might tell me a little something about myself.”

  She dipped her head, pressing the locket to her lips. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. She took sharp breaths through her nose, exhaling through her mouth. Then, doing something she’d never before done, Gabrielle removed the paper and carefully unfolded the brittle letter. Inside were the pressed remains of what was once a pink flower, which she gently placed on the table. She sniffled several times, looking at all eyes to make sure everyone was listening. As she read the letter, she unintentionally allowed a hint of her accent to come forward.

  My sweet Gabi,

  Forgive me for not telling you this face-to-face. I can do a number of things, but breaking bad news to you is not one of them. I’m leaving, Gabi, and I will not be back. Don’t hold out hope for my return. Hope can be a good thing, as well as a bad thing. This time there is no hope, for me at least. If you think long and hard about all I’ve said, you’ll know where I’m going. It’s a place from which I will never return, but that’s fine. This is the way it should end. My Shoshone ancestors sometimes practiced something called self-immolation—death by fire. While it sounds gruesome, I now have an understanding of their motivation. It’s an end on their terms, on my terms.

  As much as I would like to, there is no way I could have made a life with you. My country will not be at all happy with what I’ve done, but more important than that, I’m damaged goods. I simply cannot forward on with the weight of all I’ve done, and the pain of Emilee’s death. But something happened to me I never
thought possible: I fell in love, Gabi. I fell in love with you. You showed me more in a matter of weeks than any person ever before. You’re a special lady, Gabi, and I hope you will someday find a man deserving of your special, powerful brand of love.

  Even though I lost my wife and unborn son, and even though I am now losing you, my life feels complete. I wish I could have left a child on this earth, but that just wasn’t in the cards. Perhaps my memory will live on with you.

  Take this money and get away, Gabi. Tell no one about it. You told me you wanted to live a bold life before you died, and that you were fully capable of anything. Well, now’s your chance. Use that brain of yours and get the hell away from the Nazis. They’re bad news and something horrible is staring your country right in the face. That’s a promise. So, please, if you ever listened to me, listen now. Forget about the farm; forget about your things. Take Peter and run like hell.

  I love you, Gabi. I love you so very much. I wish there were a stronger way to demonstrate this to you. I’d scream it to the world if it would do any good. Life is terribly unfair at times and I’ve questioned why I met you when I did. Why did fate bring me the perfect woman when I couldn’t have her? I know, had things been different, we could have spent our lives together in happiness. But for the brief time we had together, you mended the hole in my heart. And your gift to me, the ability to love again, is the greatest gift I have ever received.

  Go on now. Go boldly.

  Much Love,

  Neil

  P.S. I am so very proud of you. You certainly “lived” while I knew you.

  Gabrielle placed the letter flat on the table, two streams of tears steadily running down her face. Neil’s girlfriend stood, walking behind and hugging Gabrielle. “Mrs. Lightsey, you should feel good that you did as he wished.” She pointed to Neil Jr. “And look at the gift he left you, and me.”

  Gabrielle patted the young woman’s hand, feeling as if, for just a moment, Madeline Seelbach had entered the room. She looked to her son, her voice hitching as she smiled through her tears. “You’re too old to be single, Neil. Will you please marry this girl and give me some grandchildren?” It was just the levity the room of people needed.

  Neil Jr. stood and walked to his mother, putting his arm around her. He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Tell us the last part, mom. Tell us the part that always leaves you feeling a little better.”

  She wiped the tears from her face, blinking rapidly. Once she had gathered herself, she again made brief eye contact with every person individually. “The children, every one of them, made it safely to Palestine.” She smiled. “As far as I know, they’re all in Israel today.”

  “And the other part,” Peter said. “What we learned.”

  “Well, when we went back to Germany, we did ask about whatever became of Anton Aying.”

  “Did they tell you?” Neil’s girlfriend asked, moving back to her chair.

  “Not officially.”

  “C’mon Gabi…tell them what they told us, unofficially,” Peter said.

  The wisp of a smile creased Gabrielle’s face as she began to tell the tale…

  ~~~

  Several Days After the Children Reached Jesenice

  Standartenführer Anton Aying sat at his desk, reading the fourth draft of the report from his attaché. Aying was due in Berlin on Monday, and knew he’d better make damn well sure his powder was dry before he arrived at the swastika-adorned Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse to deliver his report. With a red pen, he made copious notes in the margin, threatening to jail his attaché if he didn’t get it right on the next draft. Disgusted, Aying tossed the paper onto his desk and lit a cigarette with Jacob Herman’s gold lighter.

  Aying spun his chair around to stare at the Nordkette Mountains to the north of Innsbruck. The snow on the caps was growing and, before long, would stretch all the way down into the valley. Aying rubbed his bandaged arm, wondering if he would be in Innsbruck to see the snow, or if he’d find himself in the bowels of the Spandau Prison in Berlin.

  “Sir,” the voice crackled on his intercom.

  “What?” Aying snapped, irritated at the interruption of his first tranquil moment of the day.

  “Sir, I have a Sturmbannführer Fahlpferd here to see you?”

  “Fahlpferd?” Aying said with a frown at the unusual name. “I don’t know him, nor does he have an appointment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Aying breathed deeply and resumed his fatalistic ruminations about next week. He propped his boots on the painted windowsill, visualizing the exchanges that would take place, shaping them to paint himself in a flattering light.

  “Sir,” the intercom buzzed again.

  “Damn it!” Aying bellowed. “What is it? I’m very busy.”

  “Sir, he says he has information…” there was a pause and Aying could hear someone speaking to his assistant. “Sir, he says he has a solution, excuse me, a resolution for you regarding some events last week near Yugoslavia. He said one of the troops of his storm unit apprehended a man you’re looking for.”

  Aying spun around, his eyes wide. He stared at the intercom for ten seconds, finally lifting the phone. “Send him in.”

  The door opened and shut. In strode a man in an SS major’s uniform, an eye-patch over one eye. His gloved hand held a cigarette to his face, puffing as he walked. He stopped squarely in front of Aying’s desk and lowered the cigarette. With his free hand he reached into his pants pocket, producing and tossing a gold lighter, almost identical to Aying’s own, onto the black leather blotter. The lighter was adorned with an engraving of the Arc de Triomphe, done in the same style as the engraved Eiffel Tower on Jacob Herman’s lighter.

  Aying stared at the lighter, knowing exactly who this man was and why he was here. When he raised his eyes, he saw a Walther pistol pointing directly at him from the man’s waist level. He watched as the man dropped his cigarette on the floor, removed the SS officer’s hat and the eye patch, tossing them aside, revealing one blue eye, one green. The man, of course, was none other than Neil Reuter, though Aying still could only think of him as Dieter Dremel.

  “So you couldn’t leave well enough alone?” Aying asked, his cutting tone belying the thudding in his chest.

  “One of my missions has been accomplished, Aying,” Neil said in unaccented American English. “And now I intend to complete the second one.”

  “And that would be what?” Aying countered in what sounded like a Welsh-tinted accent.

  “Your lighter, the fraternal twin to mine…it belonged to my best friend, Jakey Herman.”

  “Ah, yes, Mister Herman.” Aying could feel his temper coming up. “Well, he’s gone now, Dremel, or Fahlpferd, or whatever you’d like me to call you.” Aying grinned. “And your Jewish friend squealed like a panicky little pig when I killed him.” Aying watched with satisfaction as Dremel flinched. “So what is this so-called second portion of your mission, Herr Dremel?”

  “As you no doubt know, my name’s Neil Reuter, of San Francisco, California. I’m an agent with the United States Department of War, and I’ve come back to avenge the death of my friend.”

  Aying calmly placed his palms on the desk. “How did you get here? There are many safeguards beyond simply wearing that uniform…if I have a traitor working here who helped you, perhaps that can be your first bargaining chip.”

  “I lived a portion of my life with the Shoshone…American Indians—wonderful, peaceful people. They taught me how to mimic the traits of my quarry. Trust me, Aying, getting to you was the easiest thing I’ve done in some time.”

  “Well, Mister Reuter of San Francisco, agent of the United States Department of War, he of unclean savage blood…you may have had an easy time getting to me, but there is a serious flaw in your plan.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “You may have gotten to me, but you’ve made a grave miscalculation of your escape. It’s impossible. This is not the United States, where criminals roam the land without fear of r
etribution.” Aying smiled thinly. “If you harm me, you will die. That I can promise.”

  Neil stared back at Aying, holding the Walther as steadily as if it were on a mount.

  “Well?” Aying asked.

  Neil said nothing.

  The German flicked his eyes down to the Walther—the American’s finger was on the trigger. Suppressing a spate of panic, Aying swallowed thickly. “You obviously have information, Herr Reuter, that I can use. And I can aid you through the power of this office. We can help one another. You help me out of the mess you created, and I will provide you safe passage from the Reich. We can pin everything on that cretin Falkenberg. Now, let’s stop with unprofitable talk of vengeance, let’s put the gun away, and let’s work out an exchange like the civilized, cultured men we are.”

  “Thought I was a savage?”

  Aying shrugged. “My temper. You’ll pardon me. Now, put the gun away. Let’s trade information and I will make way for your escape.”

  Neil continued to hold the pistol on Aying.

  “What is your problem? Are you deaf? Put the gun away and I will help you escape, free of any charges of wrongdoing. It’s your only choice.”

  Neil Reuter, of San Francisco, began to laugh. Low at first, rising to throaty, and ending quite malevolent.

  “What’s so funny?” Aying demanded, gripping the armrests of his chair as he felt sweat under his tight collar.