The Swiss Courier

by Tricia Goyer

  Joseph recalled sitting in the pews one Sunday morning before the war and hearing the pastor repeat Martin Luther’s anti-Semitic views that Jewish synagogues should be set on fire, prayer books destroyed, rabbis forbidden to preach, Jewish property seized, and homes vandalized—nostrums set forth in his tract, Von den Juden und Ihren Lügen—“On the Jews and Their Lies,” published in 1543.

  He remembered his father twisting the church bulletin in his hands and threatening to walk out, but his mother shook her head. Father relaxed while inside church walls, but when they walked home afterward, he could barely contain his rage.

  “This country is headed for a terrible fall,” his father had declared as they passed apartment buildings in Spandau. “Although Germany is the cultural and intellectual center of Europe, Hitler is persecuting the Jews horribly, and Germany will pay dearly for this mistake.”

  “What did you think when the pastor said the Jews are the ‘natural enemies’ of Christian tradition, or that part about secular government having authority over religious institutions?” Joseph asked his father.

  His papi’s face turned dark. “That’s when I lost my temper, when he quoted the apostle Paul from Romans 13:1: ‘Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.’ I have never heard a man of the cloth twist Scripture in such a way.”

  After that, the escalation of anti-Jewish rhetoric and outright persecution of Jews never sat well with Joseph. He’d never forgotten the time when the Rosenberg family of six knocked on their back door, offering to trade two silver forks for a single meal. Within a week, the Rosenbergs were rounded up and shipped east to a “relocation” camp. Everything had been taken by the State: their house, their family car, their furnishings, and their clothes. Joseph shuddered at the thought of losing every possession and being forced at gunpoint to live hundreds of miles from home next to some armament factory.

  The only light in the darkness, his father said, was a small band of Lutheran pastors, led by Martin Niemöller, who had formed the “Confessing Church” to oppose the Nazi regime. Their activities were covert, lest they be arrested by the Gestapo like one of the leaders, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Joseph thought his father was involved, but he knew better than to raise the topic with him. It was too dangerous, especially in case the Gestapo asked questions. And now Jäger was inquiring about him being a Lutheran.

  Joseph cleared his throat. “I consider myself a follower of Christ, and let me explain why. You know how you believe an isotope of uranium will produce a new element?”

  His roommate nodded. “That’s what we’ve been working toward the last year with Doktor Heisenberg.”

  “Correct, but so far that is a theory. It’s a good theory and similar to the Bohr-Wheeler hypothesis that an uneven number of particles makes a good fissioner. But these are all theories that you and I are actively working to prove or disprove. Now this Bible”—Joseph patted his right hand on the brown leather cover—“is like a series of papers and proofs, but the same hand has written them all. And they are not theories but rather the thoughts and wisdom of a Power Source far greater than the atom. In fact, he created atoms and neutrons and protons, and he knows everything about them while we know so little.”

  His roommate only seemed to be half listening, but Joseph continued anyway. “Think of how far quantum physics has come in the last twenty-five years. Many hundreds if not thousands of brilliant minds have tackled unbelievably complicated equations on blackboards, but to the God of the universe, our knowledge of quantum physics is similar to the thickness of one of these pages in the Bible.”

  “That’s nice you feel that way.” Jäger smiled. “But it’s rubbish all the same. I don’t believe there’s a God, and you certainly can’t convince me that there’s one in the midst of this global war. The stories I hear of the brutality, hand-to-hand combat . . . We can end that, you know, by building this bomb. Then the world will know peace.”

  The Bomb.

  The office fell silent once again.

  What looked possible on paper—building a wonder weapon—was proving to be far more arduous than originally thought. Heisenberg had told Joseph and the physicists that when Albert Speer, Hitler’s Minister of Arms and Munitions, asked for an update on the bomb’s progress, he downplayed the chances of exploding a Wunderwaffe before 1947, at the earliest.

  “I think we’re closer than what Doktor Heisenberg thought,” Joseph told his roommate. He thought about saying, I pray we will never have to use it, but he knew such a public utterance could be used against him.

  “You would be one to know,” Jäger said, turning friendlier now that the subject was off religion. “Your theory about how to best start a chain reaction through the bombardment of natural uranium was a stroke of genius. If your assertions are correct, an atomic device could be feasible within a year.”

  “I didn’t put a timetable on it, but yes, that was what I was thinking.” Joseph couldn’t help but return his roommate’s smile.

  “Good, because if we don’t beat the Americans and their Jew scientists, we could be their first target.”

  Joseph hadn’t thought of that. A year, maybe less. They could maybe even shave off a couple of months with another idea he had . . .

  12

  Davos Parade Platz

  7:30 p.m.

  Gabi Mueller brushed back her blonde hair and smiled at the boys and girls as the town’s kinder proudly marched past her table holding up lampions—paper lanterns suspended on sticks—while an accordionist wheezed a peppy chorus of Ländlermusik. Hundreds of townspeople—along with several dozen American pilots—clapped rhythmically from their picnic benches, erected in Davos’s town square for the holiday occasion. A distant sun settled behind the serrated Alpine peaks, and the paper lampions—which looked like miniature Swiss flags—glowed by virtue of small candles in this twilight hour.

  “They don’t celebrate Swiss National Day like this where I come from,” said Captain Bill Palmer, assigned to the 351st Bomb Group, 509th Bomb Squadron, U.S. Army Eighth Air Force. “I mean, I’ve seen lampions before, but we don’t have mountains like these back in Wisconsin.”

  “When did your parents emigrate from Switzerland?” Gabi inclined toward the American airman.

  “Actually, it was my grandparents. They were among hundreds of Swiss who settled in the heart of Green County after the Civil War. They named their village New Glarus because the alpine farmlands reminded them of Glarus back in the Old Country. In fact, we call it ‘Little Switzerland’ because—”

  “We know all about New Glarus, don’t we, Willy?”

  Gabi’s younger brother flashed a knowing grin. “Dad grew up there before he met Mom at a missionary conference in Amsterdam,” Willy informed the American pilot. Then he directed his gaze toward his sister. “I told you, Gabi, that you should meet Bill since our families came from the same town back in the States.”

  Gabi turned to Eric Hofstadler. “Are you understanding this?” she asked in English.

  “No, just a leetle bit,” he replied sheepishly. “But okay. I learn English.”

  “Sorry, Eric.” The Yankee pilot chuckled. “My parents only spoke English to me. I think they wanted us to be American, although my brother and I joked that they didn’t teach us Swiss-German so we wouldn’t understand when they were discussing how to punish us. I have to say, though, my Swiss-German vocabulary has picked up since I got here back in January, so be careful what you say.”

  Gabi brightened. “How did you decide to become a pilot?”

  Captain Palmer let the kids and their lampions pass by before speaking up. “My interest in flying started in New Glarus when the crop dusters used to come through, so when the war started, I volunteered to become a pilot. The Army Air Corps shipped me to Maxwell Field in Alabama for basic flight school. There I got my first hours in a Beech AT-10 twin trainer. Those of us who didn’t wash out wound up at McDill Field outside T
ampa for training in the B-17, the Flying Fortress. After Thanksgiving in ’43, I was shipped out to England, where I became part of ‘The Mighty Eighth’—the U.S. Eighth Air Force, 3rd Air Division. We were stationed in East Anglia along the southeastern English coast. I was quickly put into the rotation, copilot in the right seat. Complete twenty-five missions over Europe, and you could go home.”

  Palmer paused and arched an eyebrow for effect. “On my thirty-eighth mission on January 18, we were given orders to bomb a munitions factory in Landsberg, a few miles west of Munich. The boys and I in our ‘Lonesome Polecat’—that’s what we named our bomber—dropped our load without incident, but as we turned around to deadhead back to the Channel, a swarm of FW-190s closed in tight. A burst of fire shattered the cockpit and just missed my head—and another caused a massive fuel line rupture. One engine stopped immediately. Our upper turret gunner hardly got out a burst before his hydraulics were hit, jamming the turret.”

  “You must have been scared out of your wits.” Gabi leaned forward, her eyes focused on his.

  “A lot more than that, I can assure you, sister. The fuel was leaking fast, and the captain and I agreed that we couldn’t make it back to England. We talked with the crew, and we agreed that we didn’t want to parachute into Krautland. We had heard about flight crews machine-gunned on the spot, so the only option was to limp toward Switzerland. That’s exactly what we did, setting a course for Dübendorf, the military airport just outside of Zurich. Just before we entered Swiss airspace, German AA guns really fouled things up. Another engine took a hit. A fire started in the belly, and with black smoke billowing from the plane, we dropped our gear and dove for the Dübendorf runway. We managed to land in one piece, but a half-dozen Swiss troopers, rifles ready, were waiting for us when we rolled to a stop. I’ll never forget what the squad leader said that day. With a K31 pointed at us, he said in English, ‘Velcome to Sveetzerland. For you, ze vor ist over.’” Palmer mimicked the Swiss-German accent, which elicited smiles from the group.

  “So now you’re waiting out the war?” A cool wind brushed Gabi’s face.

  “You could say that.” Palmer spread his hands wide. “You could also say that the Swiss stuck us in the middle of nowhere. Not much to do here. We play cards, read books. The Davos Kino has a movie in English every night, but they tend to show the same films over and over. Basically, we do our best to kill time.”

  “Great,” Gabi said. “And now you’re interned here in Davos until the war ends.”

  “Right,” replied Palmer. “Officially, we are not prisoners, we are internees. We’re staying at the Palace Hotel and several others, but don’t get the wrong idea. We don’t have maid service, and the food is horrible. Cheese, cheese, cheese! Yesterday we had cheese for breakfast, bread and cheese for lunch, and potato soup and cheese for dinner. And cheesecake for dessert! No wonder you have bidets over here in Europe, if you know what I mean.”

  Willy and Andreas nudged each other with a knowing look. Gabi had been translating snatches here and there for Eric and could tell from the look on his face that he wondered what he was missing. She stifled a laugh.

  “Typsch Buebe,” Gabi muttered to Eric, who would have to be satisfied with that. Typical boys.

  “Hey, I understood that!” Palmer adjusted his flight cap. Like all the internees, Gabi knew he had to wear his standard-issue American uniform at all times.

  “So the American airmen are allowed to walk around town.” Gabi tucked her skirt tighter against her legs as a cool breeze stirred.

  “Oh, yeah. Like I said, we get to talk to all the pretty Swiss girls. Some of the pilots have become quite smitten with the local ladies, so your boyfriend might want to keep an eye on a blonde bombshell like you.” Palmer’s eyes, filled with mirth, nodded toward the young man seated next to Gabi.

  “Was ist passiert?” Eric interrupted.

  “So Eric, your English is improving rather quickly.” Willy laughed and elbowed his brother. “We have to be careful.”

  Gabi deflected the compliment about her looks. “What if you want to escape?”

  “We’ve been told by the American Legation not to try,” the pilot explained, “but the Army Air Corps drilled into us that we have to do everything we can to return to our units. It’s not hard to try—all you have to do is walk out of town some night, but it’s a long way on foot to the Rhine valley. Most pilots who attempt escape are picked up in a day or two, and then it’s bad news, right, Willy?”

  “Correct. A trip straight to Wauwilermoos, a penitentiary camp between Bern and Zurich. Ninety days of confinement behind barbed wire, minimum, for escaping.”

  The lampion parade was over, and the accordion joined a quartet for a rousing musical celebration.

  “Shall we dance before we have to get on the train?” Eric asked in Swiss-German.

  Gabi looked at her watch. The last train would leave in twenty minutes and wouldn’t get back to Basel until past midnight. She yawned, knowing she was expected to be at her desk in the translation pool at 8 a.m.

  “Okay, but we only have a few minutes.”

  Gabi took Eric’s hand in hers, and as she twirled, she caught Andreas and Willy watching them dance. They smiled and raised short-stemmed glasses of white wine, a signal, Gabi thought, that they approved of the young man leading her through an energetic waltz.

  Gestapo Regional Headquarters

  Heidelberg, German

  8:15 p.m.

  “The Reichsführer is on the line,” Becker announced.

  The second time in one day. Kassler immediately stood at attention as he switched the black phone from his right ear to his left ear. He regarded the black-and-white headshot of his mentor on the office wall and held his breath, waiting for the phone call from Berlin to be connected. He had met Heinrich Himmler just once—at his installation as Sturmbannführer of the Heidelberg regional headquarters.

  “My dear Kassler, I trust you are well since our conversation earlier today,” the lubricated voice intoned over the scratchy connection.

  “Very well, Reichsführer. It pleases me to receive your—”

  “The Führer himself has been briefed about your discovery of Joseph Engel and is taking an active interest in the case,” Himmler interrupted.

  The Führer heard his name? Kassler felt a warm glow radiate through his body.

  “And? Did the Führer provide input on how to proceed?”

  “Yes. It is imperative that Professor Heisenberg continue his work on a secret military project that will assure final victory for the Fatherland. Because we do not know how vital Engel is to that effort, my previous orders stand. Engel is to be taken into protective custody and not harmed.”

  “I understand, Reichsführer. Our plan is to bring in Engel tonight.”

  “Good. I know this is very unusual—treating a Jew in such a manner—but with the weight of Heisenberg’s project, I’m sure you understand.”

  “Jawohl, mein Reichsführer.”

  Moments after Kassler slipped the handset back onto its cradle, he buzzed for Becker, who arrived breathless in a matter of seconds.

  “Has Frisch arrived?”

  “He’s going over assignments with the night brigade down the hall. He asked me to tell you that it felt good to be in the Jew-hunting business again.”

  “Excellent. When Frisch is finished briefing his men, tell him I need to see him.”

  After Becker closed the door, Kassler leaned back in his chair and ruminated on the phone call from Berlin. Himmler, he decided, was just checking up on him. But the truth couldn’t be denied: it was he, Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler, who’d discovered the Jewish mole working on the most secret military project in the Reich’s history. And now Hitler knew that fact.

  If everything went as planned tonight, Hitler would be apprised of that too.

  13

  University of Heidelberg Apartments

  10:21 p.m.

  Joseph Engel rinsed the dinner plate unde
r a stream of hot water and handed it to his roommate to dry. “Last one.” He pulled a rubber plug and watched the dirty dishwater run down the drain.

  “Where did you learn to cook schnitzel?” Hannes Jäger ran his tongue over his lips. “Delicious.”

  “That was Mami’s recipe. She taught me a lot, including a little horseback riding. I guess she doted on me because I was an only child.”

  “I had forgotten about that.” Jäger set the dried dish atop the other plates in the cupboard. “Not common to have just one child. Your parents didn’t want more—”

  “Mami always told me I was a special gift to her and Father. But they never talked about why I didn’t have any brothers and sisters. I never asked. In fact, I sensed they didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Maybe you should ask some day—” Jäger cocked his ear and quickly turned his head toward the front door. “Did you hear that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  “The car pulling up outside. Don’t they know there’s a curfew?”

  “You’re too nosy these days.” Joseph finished wiping off the countertop. “Somebody is probably dropping someone off or picking someone up.”

  “I’m going to investigate.” Jäger stepped out of the kitchen and approached their second-story window. “Mein Gott im Himmel! It’s not possible!”

  Joseph trailed behind him, wiping a glass with a hand towel. “What’s going on?”

  Jäger peered through the side of the drapes. “I think it’s the Gestapo.”