The Swiss Courier

by Tricia Goyer

Emil loosened one of the ropes binding the hay bales. With a practiced jerk of the head, he motioned for Hans to give him a hand. They clasped the fraying cord together and gave it a hard yank. Though Emil’s stomach quivered on the inside, his grip was firm. There was no room for fear—men’s lives were at stake.

  Employing a practiced motion, Emil cinched the rope to a cleat on the flatbed truck and performed a figure-eight knot. His body was on full alert. Silently, he prayed that the approaching soldiers would believe that they had merely stopped in front of the church to resecure their load—something any prudent farmer would do.

  Grant us calmness, Lord. Protection.

  His eyes fixed on the pair of soldiers bearing down in their direction on a mud-splattered Zündapp Z22 motorcycle, painted in Panzer grey and sporting ammo boxes and jerry cans. Bushy gray sideburns sprouted from underneath the flared Nazi helmet of the driver. He looked old enough to be Emil’s grandfather, but that didn’t stop the fear clawing at his chest. On the other hand, the smooth-skinned soldier riding in the sidecar didn’t look old enough to drive a motorcycle. Emil had heard the Wehrmacht was having trouble filling its ranks with able-bodied soldiers, and this pair’s approach was further evidence of the tumbling of the Reich that began with the massive defeat at Stalingrad.

  The motorcycle parked, and the grizzly looking captain stepped off and patted a sidearm that hung from a leather pouch belted next to his right hip. Meanwhile, his youthful sidekick jumped out of the cramped sidecar and jerkily pointed his Mauser carbine at Emil.

  “Papiere!” The younger soldier’s command sounded like he was practicing his unbridled authority.

  Papers. Always papers. Emil reached into his back pocket, where he kept a well-worn leather wallet. Between several Reichsmark bills was his Ausweis—the official residence permit with his black-and-white photo, thumbprint, and the necessary stamps from Heidelberger authorities.

  “You will find everything in order.” Emil handed the papers over.

  Hans produced his Ausweis as well.

  “Privat Grüniger, search their load,” the senior soldier ordered.

  “Jawohl, Captain Hauptmann.” The junior officer returned his rifle to behind his back and ducked underneath the truck, peering into the chassis with particular attention to the rear axle mount. Satisfied no stowaways were lodged beneath the flatbed, he pulled himself up and tugged on the driver side door. The door stuck for a moment before swinging open. He shoved the bench seat forward, but found nothing.

  Emil watched as the teenage soldier next turned his direction toward the load of hay bales, stacked higher than normal.

  “You have a pitchfork?” The youthful soldier glanced at Hans, who stood near the load with arms crossed.

  “On top of the hay bales,” Emil answered for his partner. Then he dropped both hands into his baggy pockets and fingered the Luger pistol in his right hand. His orders had been unusually specific: they were to get Engel out of Heidelberg at all costs, even if that meant killing fellow Germans.

  Emil had never shot a man before, but he had witnessed death. In his mind’s eye, he could see the small group of Jewish men being paraded across the Old Bridge to Heidelberg’s main square. If he remembered correctly, they were the last of the stragglers rounded up in early 1943, but he had never forgotten how a firing squad meted out their deadly volleys. He thought of that bloodbath often, and somehow the bleak image helped steel him for what he might be forced to do.

  The young soldier walked around to the rear of the truck and climbed up a half-dozen wooden slats to scale the summit of hay. He freed the pitchfork and began probing between rows of rectangular bales, but the pitchfork’s curvature failed to make much of a dent.

  He swore in frustration. “You farmers usually stack five— what’s with eight rows?”

  “It was the first time we got petrol in a month.” Emil shrugged. “Just trying to maximize our load.”

  Sweat built on the young soldier’s forehead as he again tried to plunge the pitchfork all the way through the tall piles. Frustrated and uttering another string of obscenities, the private dropped the pitchfork and swung his Mauser rifle around to his front. He gripped his rifle in his left hand and deftly reached for his ammo belt with his right, unsheathing a bayonet. Then with one quick motion, he attached it to his rifle stock.

  Emil saw Hans glance his direction, but he refused to acknowledge his gaze. The bayonet, they all knew, would go deeper. He just hoped it wouldn’t travel deep enough.

  Bending down to one knee, the soldier jabbed the space between the rectangular rows of hay, plunging as deep as he could.

  Dear God . . . protect them. Shield them with your hand.

  Joseph willed himself not to move, even though he expected a steel tip to tear into his leg or back at any moment. One vigorous thrust just missed his feet. The next sliced through hay behind his torso.

  Shafts of light entered their tomb, created by the soldier’s poking between bales. Joseph looked across to Wilhelm, curled into a tight ball. Two times a sharp blade invaded their space. Two times the bayonet missed the pair by centimeters.

  The young soldier stepped back from the load. “Nothing so far. Shall I yank the bales off the truck?”

  “Yes. Good idea.” The older soldier ran a hand through his gray stubble. “This load is too tall and tightly packed. That way we’ll be sure. You want to start throwing off bales?”

  Emil took one step toward the older soldier, keeping his right hand in his front pocket. “Wait a minute—you’re destroying my hay!” His hand tightened around the Luger.

  “Halt!” barked the grizzled Army captain. He deftly unbuttoned his leather pistol holster and withdrew his Luger in one fell motion. “Hände hoch!”

  Emil realized the older soldier had the drop on him. He hesitated, knowing that pulling a pistol out of his right pocket presented all sorts of problems. Releasing a breath, he eased his right hand out and raised open palms to shoulder height. “Listen, I’m not here to make trouble. I have cows to feed.”

  “You two, give him a hand. I want every bale removed— every one!” The older officer waved his pistol toward the truck.

  Emil had just taken one step forward when the pitched whine of an air raid siren crackled through the air. The high-decibel tone rose and fell, alerting them that Allied bombers would soon be upon them.

  They had only minutes to take cover.

  Since D-Day, the Allies had stepped up massive bombing of German industrial areas along the Rhineland and Ruhr areas—places like Essen, Dortmund, Pforzheim, and Stuttgart. And where was the celebrated Luftwaffe? It was a question everyone wondered, but no one voiced. Their saviors weren’t in the sky—that was for sure. There was no one to stop the waves of American bombers who released their deadly payloads during the daylight hours. No one to deliver them from their nighttime terror when British Lancasters and Halifaxes returned under the cover of darkness.

  Emil looked up to see an American attack plane—with predominantly white U.S. Army Air Corps insignias on its tail and under its wings. The single-seat fighter screeched by at less than 100 meters overhead. One of the new P-51 Mustangs! The lone aircraft swooped past the church plaza, and Emil noticed farmers and civilians—including a mom with three children in tow—sprint for safety in a nearby building.

  Gunfire sounded from the barricade, and Emil turned and observed three soldiers leaving their positions to fire at the approaching fighter. Emil knew the soldiers’ effort would do no good. Unhindered by ground fire, the P-51 Mustang lost more altitude and let loose a hail of ordinance from its wing-mounted machine guns. A half-dozen lines of bullets ricocheted off the cobblestone plaza and bore in on the blockade checkpoint. Another deadly line of machine-gun fire closed the distance between the plaza and a German troop truck. Then, within seconds, the truck exploded into a ball of flames as the P-51 made its first pass.

  Emil cheered on the inside.

  “Grüniger, raus! Leave them!” the captai
n yelled over the commotion.

  The surprised private high-stepped his way across several hay bales before grabbing the highest wooden slat and swinging his body over it. He descended two rows, then jumped to the ground and raced for the motorcycle sidecar. The white-faced captain was already kickstarting the Zündapp engine. On the second swing of the captain’s leg, the 250 cc engine sprang to life. The Motorrad bolted out of the plaza, speeding to defend their comrades at the checkpoint.

  Overhead, the swift American fighter circled and dove even lower on its second approach, relentlessly bearing down on the smoldering barricade that billowed with smoke and fire. A machine-gunner positioned atop a German halftrack suddenly slumped from a fusillade of bullets, and seconds later the halftrack itself exploded, knocking two soldiers to the ground, killing them.

  On its third foray, the American pilot turned to the overmatched soldiers on the motorcycle speeding toward the checkpoint. The sidekick pointed his rifle at the pursuit plane and fingered several shots—none of which hit their mark.

  Emil ducked underneath the flatbed truck with Hans and watched in fascination as the American pilot concentrated his attack on the German pair. Within seconds, a relentless hail of steel-jacketed bullets overcame the motorcycle. The old driver spasmed and fell onto the handlebars like a rag doll, and his younger charge toppled out of the sidecar in a heap. The motorcycle spun in several tight circles until the third wheel struck the private’s inert body and flipped onto its side, dumping the older driver to the ground.

  The P-51’s final pass destroyed what was left of the checkpoint. Two military vehicles and a farmer’s flatbed truck—the latter unlucky enough to be stopped at the checkpoint during the attack—had burst into flames. Billows of black smoke arched into the late-morning blue sky.

  Then, upon his departure, the pilot dipped his wings, a signal that the coast was clear.

  “Did you see that?” Emil straightened himself after crouching beneath the truck.

  “Yeah, I did,” Hans said. “This guy must be important to the Americans to have these types of connections.”

  “You got that right. Time to scoot out of here.” Emil motioned to Hans to help him secure the load once again.

  Minutes later, they swung onto Karlsruherstrasse. Emil didn’t downshift when he pulled onto the shoulder, choosing to accelerate past the burning hulks and bloodied bodies. He barely glanced at the old soldier and his young companion as they passed, thankful he didn’t have to be the one who pulled the trigger.

  In less than a minute, the sandstone buildings gave way to countryside, and they made good time toward Leimen. Their safe house was a half hour away on a farm tucked away from the main roads.

  Emil drove in silence and reflected on their close call. He wondered who the man they carried was, and why this scientist was so important. But their part of the journey was almost over.

  The next leg to Switzerland would be far more difficult, Emil judged, and soon the how or why or who would no longer matter. Tomorrow he’d be given another equally difficult task, and Joseph Engel would become someone else’s problem.

  18

  Basel, Switzerland 11:15 a.m.

  The message was actually easy to translate. This time, there weren’t any strange words like “radiation,” “isotopes,” or “uranium” in the communiqué.

  Gabi peered at the original dispatch—in German Teletype— then at her legal pad, where she had written out a translation in preparation for typing. The memo’s contents floored her, but in the presence of the Bern courier—and the omnipresent Frau Schaffner—she retained a professional coolness.

  Gabi regarded her handwriting one more time:

  Rescued Joseph Engel from Gestapo. Working on a “wonder weapon” project with Dr. Heisenberg at University of Heidelberg. Gestapo uncovered birth information showing that Engel was born to Jewish parents, but parents both died in 1918 from flu epidemic just after his first birthday. Adopted by a Berlin family and raised Christian. Life presently in danger.

  Believe Engel has information vital for war effort. Must fall into American hands. Being driven to Location 3 this morning. Await your instructions for Switzerland insertion—Gideon.

  The English word for Wunderwaffe . . . the literal, word-for-word translation was “wonder weapon.” What did that mean? Did the Wunderwaffe reference have something to do with the “buzz bombs” slamming London neighborhoods?

  The buzz bombs were the first set of futuristic “rockets,” as Gabi recalled reading in the German press, and they’d devastated entire civilian apartment blocks during the month of June and portended a new way that war would be waged in the future. Or, at least, that’s what Hitler’s propagandists were predicting.

  Gabi also noted the possible symbolism between the contents of the message and the name choice that the author gave himself. She searched her memory and recalled one of her father’s sermons about Gideon—a man revered as one of the greatest judges in Israel. Since this Israelite warrior was a strong opponent of the Baal cult and conqueror of the Midianite oppressors, perhaps this modern-day “Gideon” viewed himself as someone standing up to National Socialism’s oppressive regime.

  Gabi turned to the courier, an earnest young man about her age. “Do you want this translation typed out in duplicate?” she asked in Swiss-German.

  “No. I was told by Frau Taylor in Bern that wouldn’t be necessary,” he replied.

  Gabi nodded and poised her forefingers above the home keys of her black typewriter. In less than three minutes, she finished keystroking the last sentence of the two-paragraph message. She advanced the carriage several times until the single sheet of bond paper gingerly released in her hands. After properly folding the sheet into thirds, she slipped the paper into a U.S. Embassy envelope and handed it to the courier. He, in turn, reached into his leather valise for his inkpad and rubber stamp. Then as Gabi watched, the courier turned over the envelope and stamped one time where the pointed flap met the envelope.

  “Thank you, Fräulein. I have a train to catch.”

  “Any time.” She smiled, hoping he couldn’t see in her gaze any hint of the questions that filled her mind about the “wonder weapon.”

  That didn’t take long.

  Jean-Pierre had been catching up on the latest war news from the Basler Nachrichten while hanging around the kiosk vis-à-vis the OSS office. Allen Dulles had asked him to meet the courier kid at the Basel SBB train station and keep an eye on the young charge.

  “She was cute,” the courier remarked to Jean-Pierre after exiting the OSS office. “Didn’t catch her name, though.”

  “About 165 centimeters, straight blonde hair pulled back, apple-cheek complexion?” Jean-Pierre knew all the “girls” in the Basel OSS office—at least by sight—but this one . . . she was something special. “I imagine she caught your fancy?”

  The gangly courier’s nod was quickly followed by a mischievous grin that creased his face.

  “So you were in the company of Gabi Mueller. She turns a lot of heads. Some farmer is sweet on her, but from what I’ve seen, I’m not so sure she’s on board.”

  “Maybe she’ll have a coffee with me the next time I have to make a trip.”

  “Take a number, my friend.” Jean-Pierre looked at his watch. “Listen, if we get moving, you can make the 12:15 to Bern. No reason to wait around an extra half hour if we don’t have to.”

  The Basel SBB train station was ten minutes away by foot, south on Schützengraben. Jean-Pierre deposited the courier into a second-class rail car, bid him off, and returned to the kiosk—just in time to catch Dieter Baumann leaving the OSS office building. Perfect timing. Allen Dulles had asked him to shadow the Swiss operative, and on this first day of surveillance, Baumann was already on the move. Since it was lunchtime, he was probably going out to eat like many Baslers enjoyed doing.

  Jean-Pierre lost himself in the midst of hundreds filling the sidewalks during the noontime hour. Baumann, he noticed, never looked ov
er his shoulder, never changed his cadence, and never stopped in front of window displays to glance sideways. Sloppy fieldwork. Jean-Pierre planned on noting these tendencies in his report to Bern.

  He tracked Baumann to the elegant entrance of the Globus department store, where Jean-Pierre figured he was taking an elevator to the penthouse restaurant. That is, if he was having lunch.

  “I would like the Rösti with onions,” Gabi informed the waitress. Anything on the menu with meat—like the flavorful Speck—was frightfully dear and beyond her modest salary. She hoped the pan-fried potatoes would be cooked in butter rather than greasy oleomargarine, but even better restaurants like the Globus café were forced to deal with wartime rationing.

  “I’ll have the same,” Dieter ordered. “And if you could cook our Röstis in butter, please.”

  The waitress finished scribbling the orders. “That will be an extra charge, sir.”

  “I understand.” Dieter closed his menu and handed it to the waitress, who—in the same motion—set a checker-weave basket filled with chunks of Pariserbrot on the table. Dieter motioned for Gabi to take the first piece.

  She opened the red-and-white-checked cloth hoping to find pats of butter along with the bread. Gabi sighed as she set a slice on a small serving plate.

  “Disappointed?”

  Gabi didn’t want to sound ungrateful, especially since Dieter had asked that their Röstis be cooked in butter instead of that awful margarine. “I was just hoping for a dab of butter with my bread.”

  Dieter reached for a slice of Pariserbrot. “I’m fortunate that I like my bread natural. Unless, of course, I have a cream sauce or olive oil and pepper to dip it into. Maybe you should try that sometime. It’s not half bad.”

  “You sound just like my father. And you’re both right . . . I know I have nothing to complain about.”

  “Well, even if you do complain, perhaps the war won’t last much longer.” Dieter winked at her. “Things are looking better on a lot of fronts. From what the newspapers are saying, the tide has turned—the Allies are threatening to break out of the Normandy box any day. If that happens, the Germans might not be able to hold the Low Countries or even Paris. After that, who knows what could happen?”