The Bavarian Gate (the lion of farside)

by John Dalmas

  "Foot," Macurdy corrected.

  "Foot, leg, whatever. He even cussed the rock he thought he'd tripped on. And in Oran, how did you get out of the hospital without being seen? And get Sergeant Keith out the next night? With him holding on to your shirttail, for chrissake." Von Lutzow paused. "Invisibility's one talent I didn't mention at headquarters."

  Macurdy grinned. "They'd think you'd gone over the edge." Von Lutzow shook his head. "Most of them would, but that's not the reason; not a decisive reason. Because turning invisible is strange enough, weird enough, it might get talked about. We're supposed to be smart enough to keep our mouths shut, but it might get talked about, and word could get to the Germans that we have someone like you. So it's between you and me. In our work, a talent like that, especially unsuspected, could make the difference between success and failure."

  The path they'd been walking had come full circle. Now Von Lutzow changed the subject. "Let me take you out to supper again. I can charge it to my expense account, and it gets me away from army chow."

  This time they ate Chinese. Macurdy didn't talk much, and guessing his thoughts, Von Lutzow didn't either. When they'd finished eating and were sipping their tea, Macurdy made his decision. "Captain," he said, "I hate to see someone go to so much trouble for nothing. Get me out of the hospital, and you've got a volunteer."

  It wasn't at all like volunteering for the airborne; even as he said it, he felt serious misgivings.

  That night he had a long disjointed dream, which after he woke up, remained with him in the form of impressions. There were Germans in black SS uniforms, and 50-foot monsters that strode through a battlefield crushing GIs under their feet; it seemed to him he'd dreamed about them before. And Varia was in it, not in the usual gazebo, but riding on Vulkan, with Blue Wing perched on her shoulder. That seemed strange to Macurdy; Melody had been the spear maiden, and Blue Wing had been her buddy, not Varia's.

  After breakfast, waiting for Von Lutzow, he found his misgivings had faltened. Why not? he asked himself. It'll be interesting, and if Von Lutzow is any kind of sample, Ill like the OSS.

  He wasn't sent to an ordinary rehab company. His new bosses wanted him trained as quickly as possible, and sent him to an OSS school on a rural estate in the Midlands. There, while going through rehab, he worked intensively on his German.

  OSS headquarters in London had sent an ex-professor to tutor him, a refugee from Konigsberg, in East Prussia. From listening to Macurdy, the man actually pinpointed the rural district from which Klara and Fritzi had come. But while Macurdy might at first pass as a native Baltic German, the tutor explained, in Germany people would soon realize he was foreign. He had usages distinctively German-American-artifacts of a foreign environment. In the States, they were used even by Germans who spoke no English, and were common in German-language newspapers there. Meanwhile in Germany, particularly under the Nazis, new uses had developed that few German-Americans had ever heard.

  The tutor's job was to have Macurdy sounding like an East Prussian who'd never been out of Germany, and writing German cursive as it might be written and spelled by a poorly educated East Prussian peasant.

  "That will also help in the development of a personal history for you, with documents," he explained. "To a German from Munchen or Frankfurt or Berlin or Hamburg, all Baltic Germans sound alike. Like your southerners sound to someone from New York. But we need to do better than that, you and I. When I've finished with you, you can pass even in Konigsberg as a rural East Prussian, and pass very well. And it will not take so long; your wife's grandmother was a good teacher."

  After two weeks, his therapist reported him fit enough that he could complete his rehab by exercising with the other students. Meanwhile Macurdy began training in covert operations: Among other things he learned the use and maintenance of various communications devices, and more refined techniques in demolitions than had been needed in the airborne. He drilled Morse code intensively, learned to pick locks of various kinds, practiced finding his way crosscountry by the stars and sun, and became thoroughly familiar with German geography. He learned how to conduct himself in German homes, restaurants, railroad depots… and how to deal with German government bureaus, especially at local levels.

  Then he was sent to the therapist again. The man grinned at him. "Macurdy, your recovery's been too damned complete. Headquarters says you need a limp, a good consistent limp, and I'm supposed to coach you on it. Along with your scars, it'll help explain why you're not in the German army." He laughed, then spoke in a burlesque German accent: "You vill be a gout, patriotic Cherman poy vhat hass sacrificed his body for his Fuhrer, but can still vork on de docks."

  Along with his demolitions training, this led Macurdy to suspect he'd be sent to Germany as a saboteur, instead of training partisans.

  He was wrong about that, too.

  In late autumn he was sent to London, to OSS headquarters in Grosvenor Square. There he was promoted to warrant officer-a W-2-which paid much better than staff sergeant.

  Then he was briefed. He'd been told that Von Lutzow would be his briefing officer, but Vonnie was in the south of France, in the maquis, working with French partisans. Besides, this was only a preliminary briefing, sketching out his mission.

  What it oiled down to was that Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler was very interested in the occult. And Himmler, who now ranked second only to der Fuhrer himself, commanded not only the Gestapo-the German secret police-but the Schutzstaffel-the elite guard. Within the SS he'd established a small de facto office called the Occult Bureau. At one point, the Gestapo had been ordered to investigate all reputed Aryan psychics, some of whom were then conscripted into the Bureau.. This was not a roundup of astrologers, as in Aktion Hess. It was on a much smaller scale, and not punitive.

  The Occult Bureau had lost credibility with the Reichs Chancellery over the past several years, had even been reported cancelled. But what seemed to be an Occult Bureau project was housed in rural southern Bavaria, near a lake known as der Kiefersee. Not a lot was known about the project except its name: das Weutische Prajekt, and even that was mysterious, because in German there was no such name or word as Weut (phonetically, Voit). The OSS wanted to know what that project was-its mission and its methods-and Macurdy's job was to find out.

  In the neighborhood of the Kiefersee, local tradition held that in early centuries, on the night of the full moon, witches gathered on the crest of dem Hexenkamm-"The Witches' Ridge"-to sacrifice, and hold orgies with demons. Among the local peasants, some still took those stories at least semi-seriously. Some said that even today, in the vicinity of the ridge, dogs howled and cats refused to go out when the moon was full. The Occult Bureau project was housed in what was called locally Schloss Tannenberg-Tannenberg Castle-after the most prominent local hill. It wasn't actually a castle, but a 19th century baronial manor, built on the site of an old ruin. And Schloss Tannenberg stood at the foot of derv Hexenkamm.

  It occurred to Macurdy that the briefing officer might be pulling his leg, but the man kept talking. Supposedly a number of psychics were held at the schloss in some sort of training, and the rumor was that the trainers were foreigners, whic might be the source of the word Weutische. It was definite that an SS guard platoon was quartered there. It was from a local "party girl" agent, who'd drank and slept with some of the SS, that they'd learned most of what was known about the project. Which wasn't much, if one allowed for the inevitable exaggerations of troops sporting with girls.

  The project commander and his executive officer were subject matter specialists. Lt. Col. Karl Gustaf Richard Landgraf was a Prussian aristocrat, a decorated veteran of horse cavalry on the Eastern Front during World War One. During the 1920s and early '30s, he'd published a journal of occult studies. His managing editor, a Wilhelm Kupfer, was now his XO.

  Macurdy would be provided an identity, suitable papers, and a German wife; it hadn't been determined yet who she'd be. And no, he wasn't expected to actually marry her. He and his "wife"
would then travel to Bavaria, where they were to get him recruited by the Weutische Project.

  He was to find out the nature and goals of the project, and as many of the details as he could.

  At one point, Macurdy had interrupted to clarify what "occult" meant. The question had startled the briefing officer. Macurdy had been recruited, the man told him, because supposedly he had occult powers, yet he didn't even know what occult meant!

  Before they left the briefing room, Macurdy set the man's mind at rest: he lit his cigarette with a finger.

  Among other things, for the next four weeks he worked with a drama coach on his role as an East Prussian peasant. He was to seem marginally retarded, providing an apparency of harmlessness. That would also help explain why, limp and all, he had not been drafted by the military. And of course, he was familiarized with the S S table of organization, including the SS titles of rank, which differed from those of the German army.

  He was also given some old Swiss parapsychology journals to read, to get a sense of the field.

  He proved a quick study; by the fourth week, the role was second nature to him.

  During those four weeks, he was also put through intensive, personalized short courses in Bavarian geography, and the advantages and disadvantages of possible escape routes to Switzerland. He studied contour maps of those routes, even made rough clay table models of the likelier.

  His limp had been well perfected: Repetition had programmed it thoroughly into his motor system. It was not severe, but worsened when he was tired.

  Meanwhile he was given a further briefing. He'd been provided an identity: He would be Kurt Montag. And a landing site: He'd be taken to the Baltic on a British submarine, and landed by rubber boat on the Mecklenburg coast. There he'd be met by an agent who would take him to Lubeck, to his wife, a woman named Gerda Montag, nee Schwabe. She in turn would take him to Bavaria, her home state.

  When he'd finished his training, he was commissioned a 2nd lieutenant.

  Meanwhile he'd written to Mary several times, and again to his parents, telling them nothing meaningful; if he had, the censors would have deleted it. He was, he wrote, on staff in London. Let them think the dangers were over.

  21

  Kurt Montag

  For the Bavarian town of Kempten, it was a lovely January day, sunny, with a mid-morning temperature of 5 degrees C41 degrees F. A young couple, the woman seeming older than the man, walked across the square to the Rathaus-the town hall-the man limping slightly, more so on the stairs.

  A guard stopped them in the foyer. "What is your business here?" he asked.

  It was the young woman who answered. "We are newly arrived from Lubeck. We have come to register."

  The guard looked them over thoroughly, then pointed. "At the top of those stairs, turn right. You will see a door with Polizei on it. Go inside. They will tell you what to do."

  They climbed the stairs and went into the police office. A middle-aged desk sergeant looked at them with his one eye, squinting as if near-sighted, although he wore no glasses. "What is your business here?" he asked.

  The woman gave him the papers, and frowning, he looked them over, muttering to himself in places, then looked up at her. "Why have you come here from Lubeck?"

  "My grandparents live here. My grandfather was a farmer, but has severe arthritis and can no longer work My grandmother is partly blind. I am the only one of the family who was able to move here and care for them."

  He glanced at the young man, then returned his frown to the woman. "It says your husband is `brain damaged."

  "In what way?"

  "It is not severe. He is not crazy, but he thinks slowly. His head was injured in a logging accident in Ost-Preussen, when he was still a boy. His other injuries are from an air raid on Lubeck." She gestured at the papers. "He has been working as a longshoreman there. He is no longer agile, but he is very strong. And-" she paused "-he can do other things."

  The sergeant's eyebrows rose slightly. "Other things?" He turned back to the husband. "What other things, Herr Montag?" Montag looked uncertainly at his wife, who put a cigarette between her lips. "Light it for me please, Kurt," she said. He raised his finger, and at its tip a small light appeared, round and bright; he moved it to the cigarette. She drew on the cigarette, and smoke appeared; its tip grew red.

  Briefly the squinting eye widened. "One moment," said the desk sergeant, and spoke to someone through the door behind him, then left the room. Another policeman came in and sat down behind the desk. Gerda Montag reached over and patted her husband's knee. "It will be all right, Kurt. Do not worry."

  In a few minutes the sergeant returned. "Come with me," he said, and led them to a wing on the third floor. On its entry door was written Geheime Staatspolizei. Inside he left them with a uniformed female receptionist, who told them to sit, then pressed an intercom button: "Herr and Frau Montag are here, sir," she said.

  A moment later a man appeared, a lieutenant's insignia on his black uniform, and took them into his office. Before seating them, he put a cigarette between his lips and spoke to the man: "Herr Montag, light my cigarette."

  Montag repeated his earlier performance.

  "Sit down." When the Montags were seated, he also sat. "Do you do anything else unusual?" he asked.

  Montag answered proudly. "Jawohl, Herr Kapitan. I can carry four bags of cement in my arms!"

  The lieutenant frowned slightly. "I meant anything else as unusual as lighting cigarettes with your finger."

  Montag nodded emphatically. "Yes, captain. I can keep warm in the coldest weather, without any coat or cap or gloves. I even go barefoot in the snow sometimes." Without being asked, he got up, stepped to the lieutenant's desk, and held out his hand. "Feel it," he said. "I can make it warm whenever I want." The lieutenant touched Montag's palm. It felt distinctly hot. For just a moment he peered up at the man as if trying to see how he did it, then called in a young aide, who took them to reception and left them under the suspicious eye of a sergeant. Some minutes later he returned, to take them back to the lieutenant.

  "Frau Montag," the lieutenant said affably, "I have arranged very good employment for your husband. As it happens, he must live on the estate where he will be employed. You do not need to know where it is, but I can tell you that, despite his injuries, he will be serving his Fuhrer. A part of his wages will be mailed to you, and it may be that he will be permitted to visit you from time to time."

  "Meanwhile he will remain here until transportation arrives for him." He gestured at the young aide. "Corporal Hochdorf will conduct you to the lunchroom, here in the building, where you can eat. No doubt you will want to talk before you are separated. Afterward you can bring some of his clothing and other necessaries. They will be forwarded to him."

  While they ate, Corporal Hochdorf sat watchfully nearby. The meal was adequate. The sausage was probably eighty percent oatmeal, Macurdy thought, and there was something peculiar about the bread, but the cheese was good. The so-called "coffee" was wretched, even compared to what they served in England these days, but he supposed he'd get used to it. He'd be glad to leave Gerda; she'd propositioned him in Lubeck, and several times had stroked his thigh on the train. He wasn't sure he could keep refusing, and to give in would be disloyal to Mary.

  22

  Schloss Tannenberg

  The country road had not been graded for months-fuel, equipment, and drivers were all in short supply-so the staff car's driver kept the speed below 50 kph, 31 mph, on the washboard surface. Beside him in the front seat sat a young SS 2nd lieutenant an Untersturmfuhrer in the SS terminology. "Lipanov," the Gestapo officer had called him. In back, wearing civilian clothes, rode Kurt Montag, with an SS lance corporal beside him. The rear side-windows had plush curtains, and Montag's big fingers spread them slightly. He turned to the corporal.

  "Is it all right that I look out?"

  "If you wish," the corporal replied, then said more quietly, "what do you think you will see?"

&nbs
p; "Bavaria," Montag answered. "I have never seen Bavaria before."

  "Where do you think you were this morning? Where we picked you up?"

  "In Kempten," Montag answered.

  "And where do you think Kempten is? In what state?" Montag shook his head.

  "Kempten is in Bavaria!" Montag looked puzzled.

  The lieutenant had overheard, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Herr Montag," he said, "where are you from?" He suspected his passenger was Volksdeutsch, ethnic German from one of the Baltic countries. He'd known a Volksdeutscher from Latvia; his German had sounded much like this man's.

  "I am from Hermans Acker, Herr Kapitan."

  The lieutenant ignored the unexpected promotion. "I don't mean what farm! What country are you from?"

  "From Germany, Herr Kapitan."

  "Lieber Gott," the lieutenant muttered under his breath. "Another idiot." Some of these psychics, it seemed to him, were candidates for eugenic cleansing. "What state!?" he said aloud. "Ost-Preussen, captain, from Kleines Torfland Gebiet."

  Macurdy had kept part of his attention out the window. They were passing a longish lake that had to be der Kiefersee; he knew it well on maps. He wondered idly what kind of fish they caught there. A forested ridge backed the far shore, while the near shore was fields and pasture, with woods here and there. They'd be at Schloss Tannenber very soon.

  They passed the lake's upper end, were a lane ran down through pasture to a small wooden dock locked in ice. Briefly the road burrowed through woods, mostly of beech and fir, the latter shading patches of old gray snow. The car slowed, then turned onto a horseshoe drive that led to a preposterouslooking building: a large stone manor house three stories high, built in the shape of a U, its courtyard to the rear. Providing some pretense to the title Schloss-castle-its ridged, red-tiled roof was bordered by battlements, embellished at intervals with drain spouts in the form of gargoyles, and by a tower that stood like an afterthought at the end of the farther wing. Macurdy wondered what sort of man had designed the place.