The Swiss Courier

by Tricia Goyer

  Gabi chewed in silence, wondering if Dieter Baumann would continue to hold court. Instead, he posed a question.

  “Have you thought about what will happen when the war is over? I don’t mean in a geopolitical sense, but what will the war’s end mean to you, Gabi Mueller? What will you do?”

  Gabi wiped her mouth with her napkin, a reflex motion that gave her a few extra moments to collect her thoughts. “Actually, I’ve been thinking a great deal about the future. When the last shot has been fired, the world will be a different place, that’s for sure. I think I want to find out what the world has in store for me. Maybe even go to America.”

  Dieter registered surprise.

  “Maybe that didn’t come across right,” she said. “What I mean is that working for the OSS has opened my horizons. Given me more possibilities. Maybe I’ll go explore them.”

  “You’d really move to America?”

  Gabi sensed that Dieter was genuinely interested. “I’ve been to the States just once, when I was twelve. Dad was asked to speak at a couple of church conferences. It took us nearly two weeks to travel from Basel to Chicago, where Dad spoke, and then to Wisconsin, where we visited my cousins. They were so nice! Maybe if I were to go work in Washington or New York, I’d be able to see them again.”

  “Well, that U.S. passport gives you options that many people don’t have, including me.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. My dad always teases me that he won’t be able to keep me down on the farm after working for the Americans.”

  “Like translating messages marked Top Secret. So, how did it go this morning?” Dieter cocked an eyebrow.

  Gabi remembered the courier’s explicit instructions not to discuss the contents with anyone—including those in her office.

  “Oh, fine,” she replied airily. “I can’t discuss what was in the message, though.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to, Fräulein Muell—Gabi. Nobody understands better than me that there are certain things we have to keep secret from others, even those we work with.” Dieter reached for a sip of Henniez water. “That’s why what I’m about to tell you must stay between us. Do you understand?”

  Gabi hesitated. The directness in Dieter’s speech was a departure from their friendly colleague-to-colleague discussion. She opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it again, unsure of how to respond.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dieter smiled. “What I mean to say is that something has come up—an opportunity, you could say—that only Mr. Dulles and myself know about. In fact, he asked me to involve only you in this mission, should you choose to accept it. No one else in the office is to know a thing, which is why I asked you to meet me at this restaurant.”

  Gabi leaned forward to listen.

  “All I can tell you is that this assignment would be dangerous . . . it takes place in Germany.”

  “Germany? In the middle of a war? We have no protection there!”

  “I know. That complicates things if—how shall I say it?— the situation does not have a positive outcome. But don’t worry, we’ve taken steps to minimize the risk. You and I would leave Switzerland in the morning and return to homeland soil before dinnertime. The only other thing I can tell you is that the mission is of vital interest to the Allied war effort. Lives hang in the balance.”

  Gabi reached for her Henniez and took a sip. Here was another chance—a bigger opportunity—to make a difference. Her chest warmed with the thought that Mr. Dulles thought she was up for the job—and Dieter did too. “So you’re saying that you can’t tell me exactly what’s involved until I say yes?”

  Dieter beamed as he fiddled with his bread. “I always knew you were a fast learner. That’s why I like you so much.”

  Gabi blushed. “Does it involve breaking into a safe?”

  “Yes. That much I can tell you.”

  “Then I’m your girl.”

  University of Heidelberg Hospital

  12:45 p.m.

  Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler, with Corporal Becker on his heels, walked past the nurse’s station without breaking his stride. His hobnail boots clacked on the linoleum floor in precise military measure.

  “Make a left. He’s in Room 14.” Becker pointed toward the long hallway.

  The hospital corridor smelled of lemon-scented disinfectant and a trace of urine. Kassler involuntarily wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then set his mind on weaving through the steady traffic of white-coated doctors and nurses coming his way. He narrowly missed brushing shoulders with a studious doctor reading a clipboard in his left hand.

  Becker stopped him in his tracks. “This is his room, sir.”

  Kassler rapped the white door with his knuckles, then entered without waiting for a reply. He did, however, remove his black cap and place it under his left arm—a sign of respect for a wounded soldier.

  “Heil Hitler!” Kassler bellowed, his right arm slanted at the perfect, practiced angle.

  Privat Grüniger lamely raised his bandaged right arm ninety degrees. The rest of his upper torso was swathed in gauze. “Heil Hitler,” he mumbled.

  “I see you got into a bit of a scrape with the Yanks.” Kassler returned his cap to his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “The cowardly swine will pay, I can assure you. But first, a few questions about the air attack.” The Gestapo chief nodded toward Becker, a signal for his assistant to take notes. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  The private didn’t hesitate. “Captain Hauptmann and I had been on routine patrol since 0700 in response to the red-alert security directive our commanding officer received during the night. We observed a farmer’s truck leave the main road just before the last security checkpoint in southern Heidelberg.”

  “The Karlsruherstrasse leading into Leimen?”

  “That is correct. Captain Hauptmann thought it unusual for a truck loaded with hay bales to pull over just several hundred meters before the checkpoint. We went over to investigate.”

  “What was the farmer like?”

  “There were two, actually. Neither of them looked much like farmers. Their papers checked out, though. Maybe they were helping out an old lady who couldn’t find farmhands.”

  “Could be.” Kassler stroked his chin. Most able-bodied men had been either constricted into the army or forced into the factories, although some received furloughs during planting and harvest times. The Fatherland needed food since armies marched on their stomachs, as Napoleon famously said one time. “So you initiated a search?”

  “Correct. It’s common to hide fugitives in hay loads, so we followed standard procedure. I was probing between the rows of hay bales when the air raid siren blasted.”

  “How many planes?”

  “Just one. I recall taking a few shots at the American fighter, but he wasn’t too concerned about us.”

  Kassler cocked his head in interest.

  “What I mean, sir, is he blasted the checkpoint. Came in real low. It wasn’t until his third dive he attacked us. After that, I don’t remember much.”

  “Let’s talk about what happened before the raid. You mentioned you were on top of the hay bales when the attack occurred. Do you remember anything else?”

  “I do, but I’m not sure if it’s my memory playing tricks on me.”

  “What do you mean?” Kassler looked toward Becker, who was poised with his notebook.

  “While probing the hay pile, I saw what appeared to be clothing through the hay. Maybe just a lost scarf . . . or maybe something else. Maybe it was someone. But like I said, I’m not sure.”

  One more clue, Kassler thought. One more clue.

  “Type out the description of the flatbed truck and notify the local authorities,” Kassler barked.

  Trailing his superior officer, Becker struggled to keep up, scribbling reminders in his notebook. Kassler barely broke stride as he pushed his way through a set of glass doors that led to their staff car parked at the hospital entrance.

&nbs
p; “A mid-morning, single-fighter raid on a security checkpoint in Heidelberg? Preposterous.” Kassler paused beside the automobile, waiting for Becker to open the rear door for him. “Who do they think they are?”

  Kassler sighed as he settled into the leather bench seat. Becker climbed into the front seat and mumbled something about a late lunch, but Kassler didn’t respond. His mind replayed Privat Grüniger’s report.

  The fact that the Allies had owned the skies in the last year was one thing. But there was something utterly brazen about launching a midday aerial assault in broad daylight, with just a single fighter and no escort. P-51 Mustangs normally escorted the B-24 Liberator bombers to their missions, and while it was true that some rogue American P-51 pilots hung back to hunt for Luftwaffe ME-109s or strafe rail yards and supply depots, a single-seat sortie on an overmatched checkpoint was unheard of—unless . . .

  Kassler balled his hands into fists. Those “farmers” knew the air raid was coming, which is why they stowed their truck in that plaza. And he had no doubt that entombed underneath a ton of hay was Joseph Engel—which meant the bandits and the Jew traitor traveled south.

  Toward Leimen.

  Dieter placed the folded napkin on the table and leaned back with a contented smile. He studied Gabi’s face, watching her as she finished the last bite of her lunch. Although from the outside she appeared to be enjoying a comfortable meal, he noted a look of excitement in her gaze. He had her on a string—like a marionette at the Salzburg Children’s Theater.

  “I’ve got the check. I’ll let you head back to the office first, Gabi.”

  “You don’t have to. Here, let me cover my part of the bill.” She reached for her pocketbook.

  He lifted a hand and waved her offering away. “Don’t worry. Lunch was on Mr. Dulles.”

  “Well, all I can say is thank you, Mr. Dulles.” She stood and waved her hand in the direction of Bern. “I’ll see you back at the office. Thank you . . . for thinking of me.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and hurried off with a smile.

  Dieter kept his eyes on the lithe figure approaching the elevator. When Gabi was gone, he called over the waitress to pay.

  “Two Röstis, two Henniezs,” he announced.

  The waitress, per custom, reached into her apron for a black purse filled with Swiss banknotes and enough loose change to open a bank teller cage. “Zweimol drüü macht sächs,” she uttered in the local dialect, “plus zwiemol eis macht acht Franke, bitte.”

  Baumann counted out eight francs in coins and handed them over.

  Instead of exiting via the elevator, Baumann turned right and pushed through the door leading to the men’s room. His contact, Ludwig, waited next to the washbasins.

  Dieter’s eyes darted to the stalls. “Empty?”

  “I checked. We’re alone.”

  As habit, he walked over to the middle stall and bent over. No feet rested next to any of the three toilets.

  Ludwig passed a comb through his thinning black hair. “What did she say?”

  “She took it hook, line, and sinker, as the Americans say.”

  “Did you tell her when?”

  “Not yet. I thought we should talk first.”

  “Consider yourself talked to.” Ludwig tucked his comb into his front shirt pocket and then pulled two papers from a pouch he carried under his shirt. “We go tomorrow. Here are your papers for getting across the border.”

  Baumann fingered the two work permits. “Interesting that the Germans don’t require a photo.”

  “They match this permit to your Swiss identity card, which has your photo, so you have to take both.”

  “I knew that. I was just making the observation that this seems out of character for our neighbors to the north.”

  “Could be, but consider that these work permits are for Swiss wanting to come into wartime Germany and work in their factories. They know what side their bread is buttered on.”

  Dieter tucked the documents inside his jacket pocket and then folded his arms across his chest. “You’re sure the diamonds are in that safe?”

  “I double-checked with my police source this morning. You get your girl to work those magic fingers of hers, and when this war is over, we’ll be sitting pretty. From what I hear, there are enough rocks inside that safe to open a diamond exchange in Amsterdam.”

  Jean-Pierre peered over the top of the newspaper as Gabi Mueller exited the busy Globus entrance. What was she doing here? She looked to her right and adjusted a white scarf over her hair, then turned to the left and walked past a series of department store window displays while he continued to track her progress from across the street.

  At the third display—where two women were dismantling a First of August scene—she stopped and regarded their work. Jean-Pierre lifted the newspaper to cover his face. When a suitable amount of time had passed—fifteen seconds—he dropped the newspaper, but she was gone.

  A minute or two later, Dieter Baumann departed the Globus, his right hand working a toothpick as he strode back toward his office. Jean-Pierre sized up the situation: this was an off-site rendezvous with Gabi Mueller. What was that all about?

  Jean-Pierre didn’t have an answer, but he was sure that Allen Dulles would be interested in this development.

  He tried to ignore the knots that had formed at the base of his neck, and he hoped the anxious tenseness that surged through him was wrong this time. Gabi Mueller had a lunch meeting, nothing more.

  Jean-Pierre told himself that was all Baumann was up to, but he was having trouble convincing the jury—himself.

  19

  A farmhouse outside Leimen, Germany

  2:30 p.m.

  At first, he believed he was still dreaming.

  Joseph rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swept his gaze

  around the second-story bedroom, paneled in finished pinewood and fully furnished with an armoire, a small table, and chairs. He sucked in a deep breath, taking in the scent of lye soap and lilac—not unlike his mother’s house when he was a child. He noticed a vase of lilacs on a small bedside table, and his lips formed a soft smile.

  Sunshine flooded through a single-paned window, outlined with red-and-white checked curtains. He figured it must be midafternoon. From somewhere beyond his bedroom door, a chorus of baritone voices sung a familiar hymn—a muffled melody, he realized, that had awakened him. A song as sweet as an angel’s hymn.

  Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott,

  Ein gute Wehr und Waffen;

  Er hilft uns frei aus aller Not,

  Die uns jetzt hat betroffen . . .

  Joseph closed his eyes and hummed along with the next stanza. The words flooded his consciousness, words as familiar to him as the Lord’s Prayer. This didn’t surprise him. After all, it was in Fräulein Ritter’s second grade class when he first learned the lyrics to Martin Luther’s seminal hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Luther’s paraphrase of Psalm 46, as well as the rhythmic isometric arrangement, reassured Joseph that no matter what he faced, God was a bulwark never failing.

  After the fourth and final verse, muffled male voices rose from beneath his floor, but he couldn’t make out more than a snatch of their conversations. Joseph stared at the ceiling as a peace settled over him. Even though this group of people had protected him, he still questioned whose side they were on. And he wondered what they wanted from him.

  But now, waking to these songs, he had a renewed hope. Maybe it was God’s people who’d protected him. Perhaps he was safe after all.

  Two minutes later, a knock sounded on the pinewood door.

  “Herr Engel, darf ich herein kommen?”

  Joseph didn’t recognize the voice, but the genteel request sounded courteous enough.

  “Yes, you may come in.” He rubbed his eyes once again and regarded the slim, tall man entering the bedroom.

  Joseph quickly sat up on the low-slung twin bed, covered by a duvet with an ivory white slipcover. “Excuse me, but I don’t normally n
ap in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Well understood. The events of the last twenty-four hours would drain the reserves of any individual,” the man said with an understanding smile.

  Joseph swung his feet onto the hardwood floor, remembering that he’d slipped off his trousers before dropping into bed hours ago. He felt heat rising to his cheeks. “Excuse me. Let me put on some clothes.”

  The slender man strode over to the second-story window, peering out.

  Joseph grunted as he plucked his black pants—still speckled with strands of straw—from the back of a chair. He dressed, and then approached the window, glancing out toward a dirt yard that separated the main farmhouse from a two-story barn whose stained finish had faded to a mellow burnish.

  “I see that the chickens are finding enough to eat,” the caller commented. “Lord knows how we need eggs around here.”

  The older man turned and extended his hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Pastor Leo. I thank God Almighty that you arrived safely today.”

  Joseph regarded the visitor before him. The pastor looked to be the same age as his father—early fifties, clusters of wispy gray hair, and skinnier than a rail. His nose resembled a raven’s beak, and his sallow cheeks spoke of his wartime diet. The way the pastor’s blue eyes met and held Joseph’s— warm, inviting—imbued the young physicist with confidence. He inspired trust, a sureness of mission.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Pastor. You’ll have to excuse me if I seem confused. I’m having a terrible time sorting this all out.”

  “I figured as much.” Pastor Leo approached a pine table with a pair of arrowback chairs. Dressed in casual farm clothes—with no clerical collar—but wearing wooden clogs so as to not track dirt and mud into the home, Pastor Leo pointed to one of the chairs. “Here, take a seat. We need to talk.”

  “I would appreciate finally getting some answers.” Joseph settled into the offered chair.

  “You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”