The Swiss Courier

by Tricia Goyer

  Joseph answered with a nod.

  “To start, we aren’t the Gestapo. In fact, I can assure you that if our location were betrayed to the local authorities, we would all be given one-way tickets to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse . . . including you.”

  “But I broke no law! I . . . I’ve done nothing to instigate my arrest . . . kidnapping . . . capture—or whatever you call it.”

  “No, but you’d have a hard time convincing the Gestapo of your innocence.”

  “Why?” Joseph threw up his hands. “Surely they’ll believe I had no part of this. I was taken by force.”

  The pastor pursed his lips, then reached out and took Joseph’s right hand in his. He let out a long sigh. “There is no way to say this, but just to tell you plainly. The Gestapo— they won’t believe you no matter what you say . . . because you’re Jewish.”

  Joseph pulled his hand away as if the pastor’s touch had scalded him. “No, you’re mistaken. You must have me confused with someone else. This whole thing is a mistake. My parents’ heritage is in accordance with the Nuremberg laws. I’m a God-fearing Lutheran. My background was thoroughly vetted before I joined Doktor Heisenberg’s team at the University.”

  A sadness filled the pastor’s eyes, causing the muscles in Joseph’s shoulders to clench.

  Joseph let out a coarse laugh to lighten the tension. “This must be some kind of twisted joke. My parents are not Jewish.”

  “You’re correct.” The pastor’s eyes bore into Joseph’s. His mouth opened and closed again as if he was trying to find the right words. “Are you . . . circumcised?”

  Joseph’s eyes widened. “How did you—what I mean is yes, I am. My father told me that my pediatrician—a Jewish doctor—recommended the procedure for the prevention of disease. When the Führer came into power, though, he told me never to show my privates to anyone.”

  “Your father was a wise man.”

  Joseph stood and strolled to the window, but his mind wasn’t focused on the view outside. “Jewish? Impossible,” he mumbled to himself.

  Years of Nazi propaganda, he knew, had colored his view of the Jewish people. He didn’t view himself as anti-Semitic, but he was naturally wary of Jews because of what he had been taught. In school he’d learned that the German defeat in 1918 was the work of Jewish and Marxist spies who had weakened the system from within. The financial collapse of the Weimar Republic was the handiwork of Jewish bankers. He couldn’t be one of them . . .

  A light breeze rattled the leaves of an oak tree outside, but he wasn’t paying attention. Instead in his mind’s eye he pictured the photographs of Jews held up by a social studies teacher during his “racial instruction” classes at his Gymnasium, or secondary school. Jews could be recognized by their puffy lips and their bent noses that resembled the number 6. Their eyes—predominantly black—were wary and piercing . . . and deceitful as well. Their hair was usually dark and curly like a Negro’s, and their oversized ears looked like the handles of a coffee cup. A receding forehead was another giveaway, as well as an unpleasant odor coming off their bodies.

  His thoughts took him back to a few weeks ago when he’d been passing by a schoolyard near the University. Elementary schoolgirls had been singing a little ditty that encompassed the shifty Jewish character:

  Once they came from the East,

  Dirty, lousy, without a cent;

  But in a few years

  They were well-to-do.

  Today they dress very well;

  Do not want to be Jews any more

  So keep your eyes open and make a note:

  Once a Jew, always a Jew!

  He had always been a Jew? The thought failed to compute, just like incomplete theorems on a chalkboard. Joseph noted his reflection in the window. Hair: curly but brown, not black. Nose: fairly straight, certainly not a hooknose. Lips: neither puffy or protruding. Eyes: brown, but so was half the world.

  Joseph turned back from the window and met the pastor’s gaze. “But how do you know? I don’t look Jewish.”

  Pastor Leo shrugged his thin shoulders. “Hard to say. But you are circumcised, and that can’t be denied. Fortunate for you, your brown hair isn’t that curly. Your nose, while generous, could go either way. You don’t have the classic Jewish features, but neither do you look Aryan to me. Who’s to say what God’s chosen people should look like? I didn’t know some of my neighbors were Jewish until they affixed a yellow star to their coats. Even though they looked like any other Germans, they were still transported. I’m sure that we have people in our church with Jewish blood who’ve kept that information out of official hands, or they simply don’t know they’re Jewish—like you.”

  “Well, if I am Jewish—which I am not—how would you know? How is it that you know more about me than I apparently know about myself?”

  The pastor drew a long breath. “I’m not at liberty to tell you how we found out, but we did learn that you were adopted by Thomas and Eva Engel in 1918 when you were an infant.”

  “Adopted?” Joseph pressed his fingers to his forehead. “That is unimaginable. Surely my parents would have told me.”

  “Many adoptive parents are advised never to tell their children that they were adopted. In fact, I recommend this in my own counseling so that children do not experience the shame associated with the event.” Pastor Leo leaned forward, threading his fingers and lowering his voice. “And in your situation, your parents may have saved your life. It’s obvious that no one . . . neighbors, school officials, employers . . . knew that your real parents were Jewish—until now.”

  Joseph returned to the chair and allowed the pastor’s direct words to sink in. He thought back to the few photographs of himself as an infant boy and realized that none of them included his mother or father—or rather the two people he’d always known as his mother and father.

  He cleared his throat. “If what you’re saying is true, then what happened to my . . . real parents?”

  “They died in the Spanish flu of 1918. You were an orphan until a Christian couple took you in and made you their own. The secret of your Jewry remained deeply buried until the Gestapo ferreted out the information a few days ago.”

  Joseph struggled to mentally catch up to what he was hearing. “How did they find out?”

  The pastor maintained a steady gaze. “After the attempt on the Führer’s life, the Gestapo suspected treason regarding anyone remotely connected with the war effort. We hear thousands of lives have been purged. As for your situation, your important work with Doktor Heisenberg at the University warranted a second look. When the Gestapo found out about your ancestry, you were earmarked for pickup and transport to the camps. You’ve heard about the work camps in the East, haven’t you?”

  “Everyone hears things, but who knows what the truth is? Some say it’s all lies. Some say it’s not as bad as the rumors claim it is. Others claim it’s worse. For the most part, I try not to think about it. Academic research has been my life since the war started. The people I work with are my friends. And even if the Gestapo did come, I’m sure that Professor Heisenberg would say something on my behalf—”

  “Do you really believe he could convince them that you didn’t know about your past? And that your true motives did not include sabotaging your important military research?”

  The pastor’s stark words gave Joseph pause. “So what you are saying is that no matter what I said, I’m a condemned man?”

  “In the Third Reich, all Jews are doomed. Isn’t that clear to someone as intelligent as you?”

  Joseph thought back to the last time he’d seen any Jewish people in Heidelberg. How long had it been? One or two years ago? It was like they’d disappeared from the face of the earth.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “We’re trying to get you into Allied hands.”

  The Allies? Until that moment when the American fighter plane burst out of the sky and saved them from discovery, Joseph had always considered the Allied forces to be the
enemy. Yet now . . .

  A sinking feeling came over Joseph again, and a battle waged in his mind. How did he know he could trust these people? How did he know if they were telling him the truth about being Jewish? About being chased by the Gestapo?

  His hands rubbed against the seat of his chair and tightened. If the Gestapo knew, they would undoubtedly take away every bit of freedom he had. As important as his work was in harnessing the power of the atom, he was a condemned man. Like the pastor said: in the Third Reich, all Jews were doomed—no exception.

  “Get me into the hands of the Allies? How do you propose to do that? The Gestapo must be looking everywhere for me.”

  “We’re working on that. A plan is forming, but it’ll take a miracle to pull it off.”

  “What sort of miracle?”

  The pastor leaned in, and for the next five minutes, he outlined their strategy for Joseph’s escape into Switzerland. Joseph listened and nodded at the right times, but he knew he would need time to process what the older man was saying.

  If what Pastor Leo said was true, then everything about who he was had changed—forever.

  “How did it go with Engel?” The pastor’s brother-in-law, Adalbert Ulrich, who owned the ten-hectare farm, had been waiting downstairs. Actually, waiting and keeping his eyes on the single-lane dirt road leading to the farm.

  “Very good,” Leo replied. “I believe he understands the gravity of the situation. I asked him to stay inside the house. Perhaps at night he could get some fresh air, but we’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

  “Did you tell him how we’ll get him out of here?”

  “Yes, I did. He was inquisitive, but he never asked me why I was telling him so much operational information.”

  “So why did you?”

  “I’m not sure . . . maybe to ease my conscience.”

  “Conscience?”

  “I haven’t forgotten our last communication from the Big Cheese. The message clearly stated that if Engel’s capture looks imminent or even possible, we’re to shoot him. He cannot, under any circumstances, fall under Nazi control again.”

  “Because he’s working with Professor Heisenberg.”

  “Precisely.”

  20

  Gestapo Regional Headquarters

  Heidelberg, Germany

  3:12 p.m.

  Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler leaned over the topographic map of southern Heidelberg and ran his right forefinger along the main route—Rohrbacher Strasse—right into the heart of Leimen. He knew the region well, having grown up in nearby Sandhausen. Leimen was where the countryside started: rolling hills to the east, suitable for dairy production; flat, arable land to the south, where rectangular plots yielded rows of wheat, alfalfa, and corn.

  “Everything points to right here, ja?” he said, jabbing a finger and tracing the contour lines that indicated an elevation change south of Leimen. “I can feel it in my bones. Nothing unusual turns up elsewhere, but an American plane shows up at the stroke of noon and smashes one of our . . . checkpoints? It doesn’t make sense—unless it was a coordinated attack. Then Privat Grüniger swore he saw something move in that farmer’s hay pile. You agree, Becker?”

  The young corporal cleared his throat. “Grüniger’s statement was convincing. I think you are on the right track, sir. It was genius of you to order more checkpoints south of Leimen . . . here . . . and here.” Becker’s finger also followed the Rohrbacher Strasse in a southerly direction toward Nussbloch. “I’ve circulated a description of the farmer’s truck, so if the criminals are in the region, Joseph Engel will be captured.”

  Kassler stood and walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. “By now, the local Polizei in Leimen are fanning out, knocking on doors. They better turn over every—”

  The jangling of Kassler’s black phone interrupted his words. “Take it, Becker. We know who it is. I need another moment to gather my thoughts.”

  Becker picked up the phone and listened. He immediately stiffened and said formally, “Yes, he’s right here.” Turning to his superior, he announced, “Sir, the Reichsführer is on the line.”

  Kassler felt his shoulders straightening to attention as he cradled the receiver to his ear. “A pleasure to receive your call, Reichsführer Himmler. I regret—”

  “I don’t have time for excuses,” replied the oily voice from Berlin. “I received your message that the Jew traitor has escaped capture, a serious lapse in discipline, unless you have more welcome news forthcoming.”

  Kassler felt his face flush. “No, mein Reichsführer, we have not located Engel, but we feel strongly he’s making his way south in the company of the plotters. As I explained in my message—”

  “But of course Engel’s traveling south. Switzerland lies just 200 kilometers away.”

  Actually, the distance was more like 250 kilometers, but Kassler wasn’t about to quibble with the Reichsführer. “Yes, sir, I’ve initiated several strike teams to comb the area. The fact that Engel and his cohorts are making it difficult to locate him prompts me to believe that our adversaries are more well-organized than previously thought.”

  Silence greeted Kassler’s ventured opinion, and he wondered if he had overstepped his boundaries. Instead, he heard a voice of resignation. “It’s becoming more obvious to me that traitors operate in our midst. First, the assassination attempt on our beloved Führer, then this betrayal. I was wondering why the High Command wasn’t reporting more progress from those uppity intellectuals at the University of Heidelberg. When I briefed the Führer that a Jew had been working alongside Doktor Heisenberg and the other scientists for three years, he became hysterical, screaming that this latest example of Jewish treachery explained everything.”

  Kassler recoiled. The Reichsführer had discussed Engel’s kidnapping with the Führer? “Sir, you can assure the Führer that every effort is being made to find Engel.”

  “Maybe I will,” the voice replied. “Or maybe you can make the trip to Berchtesgaden and tell him yourself.”

  Davos, Switzerland

  4:30 p.m.

  From a round white table parked in front of the Palace Hotel, Bill Palmer glanced one more time at the black-and-white photograph of him dressed in his Army Air Corps Service Dress uniform with his arms wrapped around a pretty strawberry blonde. His longing to hold Katie again caused his heart to ache. He missed her greatly, and her tender letters—which arrived in batches every two weeks from Wisconsin—were like salve to the homesickness that periodically gripped his heart.

  On most days, Bill tried to pretend that he didn’t mind being interned in Davos. Compared to the bunkhouses back in Britain, his accommodations at the Palace Hotel were fairly regal. There was enough to eat, if you could stand all the cheese and potatoes. His thoughts turned to his buddies back at the Mighty Eighth, stationed in England. Here he was, riding out the war in the cushy Alps while his buddies risked life and limb every time they climbed into a B-17 with their flight suits on. The load shouldn’t fall on their shoulders. He needed to pull his weight in the effort to free the world from Nazi domination.

  “Palmer, how ya liking life in this gilded cage?” The voice of J.J. Marx interrupted his thoughts, and Bill returned the photo of Katie to his breast pocket.

  Bill stood and shook J.J.’s hand, then glanced at the Jakobshorn, where fissures of snow filled its couloirs even in August. “Kind of like summer camp. Just a lot more rules.”

  James Joseph Marx, a bombardier with the 446th Bomb Squadron, 331st Bomb Group, U.S. Army Eighth Air Force, reminded Bill of the kid in school who wanted to be friends with everyone but didn’t really fit in with any of the groups. He’d been interned in Davos since German flak destroyed the right engine to his B-24 Liberator back in January. When the Yank bomber veered into Swiss airspace, they were inexplicably attacked by a pair of Swiss Me-109 fighters—Messerschmitts painted with a red square and a white cross on the tail assembly. Under a rain of .50-caliber fire, J.J.’s pilot buddy had managed to d
rop his wheels—a universal sign of distress. Then the crippled bomber successfully bounced onto the runway at a military airfield outside of Lake Constance.

  Bill knew everyone’s story, just like everyone else knew his. Those things were easy to talk about—the missions, the dogfights, the escapes. What they couldn’t talk about so easily were their hopes of leaving this place. After all, they were in Davos “for the duration,” an open-ended time that no one knew how long would last.

  “This place isn’t so bad . . . all things considered, although the hotel could use a paint job.” J.J. jerked his head toward the peeling paint on the white colonnades fronting this grand five-star establishment as well as the faded red carpet leading to its lackluster lobby. The Palace Hotel, one of the village’s fourteen hotels that had been transformed into lodgings for the interned pilots, had fallen into disrepair after Europe plunged into total war—and turned off the spigot of tourists.

  “Yeah, I guess things could be worse. I’m not complaining.” Bill adjusted his khaki cap against the afternoon sun. “We don’t have to work. Three squares a day, my own bed, a bathroom down the hall. We even have some spending money in our pockets.”

  The American internees received their full flight pay, converted into Swiss francs, every ten days from the U.S. Legation in Bern. The $7 or thirty Swiss francs from each paycheck could be used to supplement their Red Cross packages or even buy something more frivolous—like Swiss watches, cameras, or a pair of skis. What the money could not be spent on was clothes. The Americans had to wear their regulation GI uniforms at all times so that Swiss authorities could tell them apart from the locals.

  Beyond the cheese-heavy diet, their biggest problem was idleness. The Hague Convention of 1907 prohibited obligatory labor, so many of the internees turned to sports as an outlet for the constant ennui. The British pilots favored football, but not the American kind. Several teams of various abilities played against Swiss club teams that ventured into the high country to give the Engländer a good match on the soccer pitch. During winter, American airmen took to ice hockey since Davos had an outdoor rink.