by Tricia Goyer
Jean-Pierre cocked his head. Incessant gunfire filled the air. His colleagues were apparently keeping the German soldiers and local Polizei at bay, at least for the time being. He knew only a few valuable seconds remained to escape with the prisoner.
He planted a soft kiss on Suzanne’s forehead. “Until we see each other in heaven,” he whispered.
Jean-Pierre darted to a trash can, where the shaken prisoner had hunkered down, covering his head. The resistance fighter clutched the man’s left arm and hustled him inside the watch store, pushing past two startled women. The rear door was propped open, and a black Opel four-door idled in the alley. With a few quick steps, they were inside the vehicle.
Before the rear door was shut, the driver jerked the car into gear, and the Opel roared down the tight alley. The door slammed shut, and Jean-Pierre glanced back. No one followed. The car merged onto a busier street, and only then did Jean-Pierre sink in his seat and close his eyes.
Soon they’d arrive at a safe house pitched on the Rhine River. And later, with the dark night sky as their protection, a skiff would sneak them into the warm arms of Mother Switzerland—a skiff piloted by the mentor who’d recruited him. His nom de guerre: Pascal.
Jean-Pierre’s mission would soon be complete, but at what cost? Another agent—a good woman and a friend—had been sacrificed.
He had followed orders for the greater good, to save the life of a nameless prisoner. He only hoped this mission was worth it.
2
Riehen, Switzerland
7:15 p.m.
The scent of fresh-baked bread drifted through the cracked door to Gabi Mueller’s bedroom. Her mother hummed softly as she stirred the diced potatoes cooking in oleomargarine, and the increased creaking of her father’s rocking chair told Gabi dinner would soon be announced. Her father always rocked faster, in anticipation, as her mother set the food on the table.
Gabi frowned, flipping stray locks of her blonde, shoulder-length hair away from her eyes.
“Don’t be late, Andrietta,” she muttered to herself. She straightened her full skirt over her lap and readjusted her collar. Then she mindlessly picked up a sandpaper nail file from the pine desk her father had made for her when she was ten years old. She used the file, then glanced out her bedroom window, which provided an idyllic scene of green pasturelands. “She’ll be on time—she will,” she stated with feigned confidence.
The only way, though, that she could tell if Andrietta Lansel was indeed strolling down the country road would be to look out the kitchen window—something Gabi wasn’t about to do since that would only raise her mother’s suspicion.
“Gabi, supper! Hurry now, we don’t want the potatoes to get co—” The bang of the heavy oven door closing overwhelmed her mother’s words.
Timing is everything, Andrietta. Gabi closed her eyes and felt the fine grain of sandpaper slide over her already tender fingertips. Not her nails, but rather the fleshy pads—as if she were attempting to sand away her very fingerprints, preparing them for the work ahead.
She’d been dressed and ready to go for the last half hour, but her stomach had rumbled all afternoon since lunch at work had been rather sparse: a simple grüner salat and turnips from the garden garnished with a slice of day-old Roggenbrot. What she would give for a feathery tuft of Parisienne baguette topped with a dollop of creamy butter and backyard honey. Ever since the federal government ordained rationing in 1941, staples had been in short supply—or hoarded by certain families. Meat, cheese, milk, eggs, sugar—even chocolate—could only be purchased with monthly ration coupons and Swiss francs in hand.
Now, the scents of fresh bread and cooking potatoes caused hunger pangs to grip her tender stomach. Anxiety rose in her throat. All afternoon, she’d fought against thinking about her first “black” assignment, which she couldn’t reveal to a soul. Even Andrietta had no idea that the initial step of the plan began with her.
“Gabi! Mir chönned ässe!”
“Coming,” Gabi replied in English as she set the nail file on her dresser and exited her room. She rather liked replying to her parents in the opposite language they addressed her. It was a game she played, and one she was verbally adroit at since she had grown up as the daughter of an American father and a Swiss mother.
“Hello, Papi,” she said brightly. He held the front section of the Basler Zeitung chest high. “Anything new in the war today?”
Her father set the afternoon newspaper on his lap. “There are rumors of mass executions following the assassination attempt on that mongrel Hitler. Says in this article that the border guards have noticed a recent influx of refugees, political or otherwise, trying to get into Switzerland.”
“I heard that at work too.”
Ernst Mueller cast a disapproving glance her way. “You know you’re not supposed to tell us anything you hear at work. Loose lips sink ships, and all that.”
She stayed in English. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it. After all, i-if it’s in the papers—”
“I’m just giving you a hard time. But you . . . me . . . everyone has to watch their tongues these days. Spies are everywhere.”
Her father had that right. She mindlessly brushed her fingers through her hair. If he only knew . . .
“Dinner’s on the table,” Thea Mueller sang out—this time in English.
“Was git’s z’nacht?” Gabi slipped into Baseldeutsch—the Swiss-German dialect favored by those living in the Basel region. What’s for dinner?
“Still playing your silly game, I see,” her mother teased. “Well, if you don’t sit down, I’ll feed your potatoes to Seppli.” Thea petted the family’s Yorkshire terrier on the head. “You’d love to eat Gabi’s dinner, wouldn’t you?”
“Mami, don’t!”
“Of course not.” They sat down at a rectangular table with bench seating built into the wall—more handiwork from her father’s capable hands. Her mother set a bowl of steaming potatoes in the center and warm Brötli rolls from the oven. A rectangular bar of yellow butter sat on a ceramic bed of painted flowers.
“We have butter!” Gabi exclaimed. “I thought—”
“Your friend Eric dropped it by this afternoon while you were at work.” Her mother attempted to hide a smile. “Said they had plenty at the farm.”
“Oh,” Gabi replied nonchalantly as her parents exchanged knowing looks. “That was kind of him.”
“He sure seems sweet on you.”
“Mami! Quit teasing!”
“I’ll say the blessing.” Her father offered a sly grin, then bowed his head to pray. “Dear heavenly Father, I thank you for the wonderful meal tonight, especially the fresh rolls and butter, because we know there are many people going hungry. We ask that you watch over Andreas and Willy as they continue to serve this country. Keep them safe, Lord, as we live in these perilous times. Amen.”
Thea opened her eyes and passed the salad bowl. “I’m just glad they got transferred away from the border. Too much action for a mother’s heart, I can assure you.”
Gabi slid her cloth napkin out of a silver ring and set it on her lap, smoothing it and resisting the urge to look over her shoulder toward the door. “Did we receive a letter from one of the twins today?”
“Not today. They must be awful busy up in the mountains, guarding those American pilots.” Her father took a large bite of bread and slowly chewed. “It seems like every other day a B-17 nicked by German flak manages to limp to one of our airfields. At least Andreas and Willy’s English skills are coming in handy.”
“Guard them from escaping?” Gabi flattened a potato with her fork. “Why aren’t the pilots free to go?”
“Because of Switzerland’s history of neutrality. Our policy is to intern downed Allied fliers ‘for the duration’—as they say—because the Swiss government doesn’t want to antagonize Berlin. We import half our food from Germany, you know.”
“I wish we had some more butter in those imports,” Gabi said lightheartedly, despite her ach
ing gut that churned with worries about Andrietta.
“Let’s not complain,” Thea interjected. “We’re not due another five hundred grams until next Tuesday. I used my last ration coupon to make that chocolate cake for your brothers.”
“No complaints, Mami. I know that’s just the way things are. Besides, it was nice to see the boys, if only for one day.” Gabi recalled how Andreas’s face lit up when he saw his favorite Schoggichüche.
Her father spread raspberry preserves on the fresh bread. “Your mother spent days picking wild berries to make this jam, and the rolls are very good, even without Eric’s butter. I don’t think Andreas and Willy are having fresh bread and jam in the Alps tonight.”
“Papi, I wasn’t complaining!” Eager to change the subject, she smiled at her father. “Anything happen at work today?”
For as long as Gabi could remember, her father had pastored a church that met in the back of a local restaurant on Sunday mornings. To support the family, he constructed wood furniture during the week with painstakingly precise craftsmanship that was much sought after.
“Two more orders for bunk beds came in. I guess some families are taking in refugees. Our justice minister in Bern keeps telling the newspapers that ‘the lifeboat is full,’ but how can you turn away desperate Jews when they land at your doorstep? It’s horrible that our authorities escort families back to the border and hand them over to the Nazis. A shame.”
“What about us, Papi?”
“Take in a family? Good question. If we ever got a knock in the middle of the night, how could we not? Remember Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan? We should do no less when somebody’s life is in danger.”
Gabi’s fork penetrated her second potato when a heavy pounding sounded at their front entrance.
“Maybe I spoke too soon.” Ernst Mueller stood from the dinner table. He opened the front door to the sight of a lanky young woman in a black skirt and white dress shirt. A long braid of brown hair flipped over her shoulder.
“Andrietta, so good to see you. You’ve come just in time. Won’t you join us for supper?”
“Sorry, Herr Mueller, actually I was hoping Gabi could join me at the Hirschen.” Andrietta swayed from side to side, the hem of her skirt brushing against their doormat. “I got a promotion at work today and can’t wait to celebrate.”
“Nonsense. Why spend a few francs on food and drink when a fine meal waits. I insist you join us.” He motioned toward the table, set with china and sterling silver.
“Thank you for the kind offer, but I’ve eaten already.” Andrietta’s eyes sparkled. “We had something special tonight— bread and potatoes.”
“Then I guess you wouldn’t want what Thea’s serving,” he muttered with a smile. “But come in anyway.”
Gabi stood to greet their guest. Her heart resumed its quickened pounding.
“Hoi, Andrietta. How are you?” Gabi bussed her friend once on each cheek.
“So nice to see you.” Andrietta fingered her braid. “But I see I’m early.”
“No, you’re not. I’m done.” Gabi pushed aside the plate after finishing the last few bites of food. “Ready to go?”
“Aren’t you going to give us a hint of what time you’ll return?” her mother asked.
“I’m twenty-four years old.” She smiled, glancing at her father.
Ernst Mueller cocked an eyebrow. “This is true, but you know that your mother and I still worry, and we always will— even when your hair is as gray as mine.”
“Papi, please. We’re fully grown women with stressful jobs who just need a little time off every now and then. I wouldn’t be out until dawn. I promise. Besides . . .” She wrinkled her nose and peered up into her father’s soft brown eyes. “I promise to ask Eric to walk me home. Deal?”
Pastor Mueller patted her shoulder. “Fine. Go. Have fun. But next time make plans so we don’t have to rush through dinner.”
Gabi poked her father’s slight stomach paunch, attempting not to wince as her raw fingertips caught against the rough wool of his shirt. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll take care of that.” She placed a kiss on his bearded cheek.
“Don’t wait up,” she called over her shoulder, hurrying out the door.
With quickened footsteps the two women hustled down the pathway to the road in silence. When they reached the pavement and rounded the first curve, Andrietta paused, glanced up into the sky, which just hinted of dusk, and made the sign of the cross.
“Mercy. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I swear I’ve never seen a finer performance in any of those American films you insist on me watching with you at the Kino. Lying to your Reverend father, of all things!”
“Lying? I don’t think so. You did get a promotion, and I will ask Eric to walk me home, later.” Gabi intertwined her arm with her friend’s as a truck rumbled past. “And it is a celebration that we are grown up enough to venture out on our own for the evening. How many nights did we hide under the quilt and whisper about the day when we’d be able to spend a night on the town?”
“Yes, but while I’m sitting in a dark restaurant, you’ll be off meeting up with a handsome admirer. I just wish you’d tell me who he is.”
Gabi patted her friend’s arms. “In due time, Andrietta, I promise. Have I ever had a secret that I didn’t eventually confess to you?”
3
Riehen, Switzerland
9:45 p.m.
The Schlagerkapelle band had finished their second set when Gabi patted her friend’s hand. Mouthing a merci vielmol, she slipped away from their table. She stepped aside as a heavyset waitress rambled past hefting three foamy glasses of Warteck in each hand. The Swiss government knew better than to ration beer, she thought.
Gabi glided into the lobby, then slipped outside unnoticed. The summer air remained warm at this hour. A few shafts of muted moonlight managed to maneuver into the narrow alley between the theater and the business offices next door.
With cautious steps, she hurried toward the back of the building and unbuttoned her skirt at the waist as she moved along. Looking back to ensure she hadn’t been followed, Gabi ducked into a small alcove and slid off her skirt. Her sweater quickly followed, and then her white-collared blouse, revealing the slim, black slacks and black undershirt she’d purchased just for this mission.
With a kerchief she’d knotted around her leg under her skirt, she quickly tied up her hair the best she could. A stocking cap would have done better, but for the life of her, Gabi hadn’t been able to figure out how she could have hidden one on herself without drawing attention to the extra lump of fabric.
Letting out a slow breath, Gabi tucked one last strand of hair into the kerchief and stepped into an alley.
“Identification papers, bitte,” a gruff voice demanded from out of nowhere.
Gabi spun on her heels, only to see the smirk on the face of Dieter Baumann.
“I thought I was supposed to meet you around the corner, Herr Baumann.”
“You were. I was just checking up. In fact, I was nursing a half liter of Bier at the Hirschen while you yapped away with your girlfriend. I hope you weren’t talking about work.”
“She doesn’t even know I work for the OSS.”
“Good girl. That’s the way Mr. Dulles prefers things. But he must have seen something special in you to give you this assignment. I can’t recall someone from the translation pool ever being involved in a covert operation before. But that is to your credit.” Dieter Baumann flashed a toothy smile.
Gabi frowned. One moment he spoke to her as a child; the next he poured on the charm like Clark Gable. Dieter Baumann kept a desk vis-à-vis the translation pool, but he had ignored her until the day Allen Dulles, the head of the Office of Strategic Services, paid a visit from the American Legation in Bern. Dulles had invited her into a private office and proceeded to interview her about her background, her political leanings, and yes, even her religious beliefs. She explained that as the daughter of an American father and a Swiss mother—and h
older of dual passports—she felt a deep allegiance to the Allied cause. If she could be of help in the translation pool, translating whatever was handed to her in German and typing up the English translation on a well-used Krupp manual, then that work suited her fine. If there were other duties asked of her, she would willingly comply.
She recalled the way Allen Dulles, who looked like he was in his early fifties, leaned back in his leather chair and turned his gaze to the window overlooking the Rhine River that wended its way through Basel. “Miss Mueller, you understand that our job is to provide Washington with information we deem important.”
Gabi nodded, wondering what was coming next. She knew all along the OSS—Office of Strategic Services—was, for all intents and purposes, a spy organization. She didn’t really feel like she was involved in espionage since her low-level job involved shuffling papers and typing up reports, but nonetheless, the organization she worked for was trafficking secrets— ones that could determine the war’s outcome.
“The rumor walking the halls is that you have an overlooked talent.”
Gabi blushed and glanced away.
“Now here, Miss Mueller, there’s no reason to hide your talent under a bushel. Perhaps there is a way we can tap into it. I must state at the outset, though, what I’m suggesting will be more dangerous than your translation work but eminently more satisfying.”
And that’s how she found herself in the company of Dieter Baumann, the dark-haired man assigned as her handler. Dieter had to be one of the most handsome men she knew. Not only was he tall and broad-shouldered, but his light blue eyes spoke of passion for his work that Gabi envied. From first hearing of this meeting, she’d secretly wished Dieter had offered to meet her inside, in full view of Andrietta. What would her friend think of her keeping company with such a man?
“My car is around the corner. You can leave your extra clothes with me.” Dieter’s words interrupted her thoughts. Ten minutes later, they arrived in Basel’s Altstadt, or Old Town. Since the spring of 1940, when German Panzers and Nazi shock troops stormed into the Lowland countries and France, Basel had been under nighttime blackout restrictions. Now only a few muted lights escaped the shuttered windows.
