by Tricia Goyer
That would be my place, Kassler smirked.
In a better mood, he read a half-dozen more reports until he reached one that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stiffen like a thousand needles:
Address: Ulrich Farm off Landstrasse
Beginning of Search: 2 August 1944, 18:00 hours
End of Search: 2 August 1944, 18:30 hours
Description of Search: Two lieutenants, Strassman and Wefelmayer, and I arrived unannounced at the Ulrich Farm. Main source of revenue is hay production and apple orchards. One of Leimen’s largest farms, the owner is Adalbert Ulrich. We found him in his farmhouse with his wife, Trudi, who was starting to prepare dinner for the farmhands. Working the alfalfa fields were Ulrich’s brother-in-law, Leo Keller, and several men, all older.
In the main house, we conducted a systematic search of all rooms, including opening closets and looking under beds. The only unusual circumstance worth noting is that we found a leather satchel containing scientific papers and a notebook in a bedroom armoire. I opened the notebook and saw strings of numbers with x’s, y’s, and Greek letters, but did not understand them. Ulrich said the notebook belonged to a nephew studying mathematics at the University of Heidelberg who’s now serving in the army. Satchel also contained nephew’s wallet and student identification, which was in order.
Kassler stopped right there. Strings of x’s, y’s, and Greek letters? He closed his eyes and imagined the jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols he saw on Heisenberg’s blackboard. What was the esteemed professor’s name for it? The S-matrix equation.
Those were equations that Stampfli had seen in the notebook . . . the notebook found in a satchel.
What had Engel’s roommate, Hannes Jäger, said under questioning? That Engel had departed with a leather satchel containing research papers and his personal notebook, which undoubtedly contained similar strings of equations for his work in quantum physics!
Restraining his joy, Kassler allowed a slow smile to spread across his lips. “I’ve got him.”
He immediately buzzed Becker. A few seconds later, the young man hurried into his office.
“Sir?” Becker asked, winded from the effort.
Kassler waved the file in the air. “Call Stampfli immediately. I don’t care what it takes to find him. I must speak with him about the Ulrich visit.”
“Which visit again?” Becker’s brow furrowed.
“The Ulrich farm south of Leimen. Engel’s hiding out there—I know it. After that, organize a detail, no more than two cars. I don’t want a transport truck announcing our arrival from two kilometers away.”
“Yes, sir, of course.” Becker turned on his heels and practically sprinted out Kassler’s office door.
Kassler slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes in thought. He knew not to let his emotions get the better of him, but he might have just saved his career—and his neck.
The Ulrich farm outside Leimen, Germany
10:18 p.m.
The carpenter’s bench inside the Ulrich barn was a beehive of activity. Two men carried gooseneck flares, which resembled oversized watering cans with long-necked spouts, from a rear shed. Adalbert Ulrich inspected each one and made sure the main body contained paraffin with a wick placed in the spout. Once they were approved, Pastor Leo poured a half liter of kerosene into each gooseneck flare.
“How many do you think we need?” Ulrich asked his brother-in-law.
Pastor Leo stopped pouring, lest he lose a precious drop of flammable material. “At least one gooseneck flare for every fifty meters. I was told to prepare a landing strip five hundred meters long, so”—he performed the math in his head—“ten each side, times two, equals twenty flares. That should give the cowboy pilot enough of a target.”
“An American flyer is coming tonight?”
“Believe so. Don’t ask me how he’s getting here or from where, but the message from the Big Cheese said to expect a landing a couple of hours from now—sometime between midnight and three a.m. If the plane doesn’t arrive by three o’clock, we’re to move Engel. Only God in Himmel knows where we’d go, though.”
“How’s Engel bearing up?”
“I gave him the news a half hour ago. Didn’t tell him much, though. Just that he’s being picked up sometime tonight.” Pastor Leo set the empty kerosene bottle into a wooden crate and uncapped the next one. “I certainly didn’t mention anything about the shortwave transmitter hidden in this barn. Yesterday, Stampfli’s lieutenant must have been tired because he barely searched in here. Fortunate for us, although I don’t think he would have found the transmitter hidden behind the muck buckets. You’d have to get your hands dirty, if you know what I mean.”
Ulrich lifted another liter of kerosene. “Let me help you out, or we’ll never get done in time.”
“Be sure to top off each flare,” Pastor Leo said. “This American pilot is going to need all the help he can get to find this place.”
En Route to Dübendorf
10:22 p.m.
Gabi thought about closing her eyes to give her racing mind a rest, but the Citroën’s right headlight wasn’t properly aligned, which diminished coverage on the winding two-lane road leading into Dübendorf. On some of the bigger curves, Eric threatened to outdrive his headlight beams, which kept Gabi concentrating on the strip of pavement beyond the darkness.
“You’re going a little fast.” Her fists clenched in two balls.
“Sorry, but we have to get you there on time.” Eric gripped the wheel as the boxy vehicle plowed through another curve, then she saw him relax his grasp. “Just another five kilometers to Dübendorf.”
When the next road sign said “Dübendorf 2 km,” the knots in Gabi’s stomach twisted even tighter. On one level, she couldn’t believe she was actually going through with the operation, not because she wanted to back out, but because the experience seemed so surreal. Having Eric at her side, however, reassured her that she wasn’t alone. When Mr. Dulles had asked her and her father who could drive her to Dübendorf, she was pleased that her father suggested Eric for the task.
Eric looked her way as incoming headlights brightened the cab. “You don’t look so good. You feeling okay?” He reached over and patted her left knee.
Gabi stroked his hand and wished she could tell him how scared she was. Or share stories about how the Gestapo tortured spies within an inch of their lives to extract all the information they could before brutally executing them. But this was Eric, and she could tell him nothing. He had no ties to her work, and that’s how things would have to remain.
Instead, she forced a smile. “I’ve never flown in an airplane before, that’s all.” She glanced out the side window, staring into the dark night and hoping the emotion in her words didn’t betray her.
“I wish I could go in your place.” Eric’s voice caught. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, but it has to be dangerous.”
She turned and scooted closer, then laid her head against his shoulder, letting the automobile’s motion lull her.
Gabi moved her head so she could look up to him, then began speaking hesitantly. “I’m wondering if this is the right time . . . to share how I feel . . . how much I care . . . it seems all my emotions are heightened right now.” She let her voice trail.
Eric kept looking straight ahead as a truck came from the other direction. “Go ahead. I’m willing to take that chance.”
She straightened up in her seat and glanced at him again, noticing his strong jaw and handsome face. He was of good stock, as they said in Switzerland, a godly, kind man, and suddenly she wondered why she’d allowed herself to be dazzled by Dieter at all. Especially when she had someone like Eric so close.
She pressed her cheek once more against his right shoulder and wished she could stay there, in the car. Feeling the warmth of Eric’s body. His soft breathing as he drove. Yet she knew she couldn’t pretend this was an ordinary drive on an ordinary evening, not toni
ght. The thought of arriving in Dübendorf shortly shifted her mind back to the present.
“Let’s talk about this when I get back. But do know that I find you to be a very special person, Eric Hofstadler.” Gabi straightened up in her seat and met his eyes to demonstrate her sincerity.
Eric grinned like a schoolkid. “Thank you. Yes, to be continued when we meet again. But are you sure you want to do this, Gabi?”
“Maybe, but there are things we must do for a greater good, and we just do it without thinking.” Her voice wasn’t more than a whisper. “It’s like when you dove into the Rhine to try to save that Jewish family. When it mattered most, you did the right thing.”
“Jumping off a bridge was different, Gabi. There was no one else who could help . . .”
The Citroën passed a sign announcing their arrival in Dübendorf, and Eric slowed to 25 kilometers an hour. He steered the French car into the tidy town center located to the west and north of the military airfield and passed a whitewashed Reformation-era church and steeple. A left-hand turn took them into Dübendorf’s commercial district, where darkened shops hid amongst vaulted arcades fronting a generous boulevard. Atop the covered shopping promenades were sandstone buildings that housed flats accentuated with decorative ironwork and flower boxes filled with flowing geraniums.
“I feel the same way about this mission,” she said. “Mr. Dulles said I was the right person at the right time, and I’m confident in God’s protection.” She squeezed his arm. “Besides, if you were in my position, you’d do the same. I know you would.”
Dear, sweet Eric. For the first time, she was thankful that he was a simple farmer who had nothing to hide—and would be waiting for her return.
Dübendorf Train Station
10:25 p.m.
Bill Palmer regarded his U.S. Army Air Corps chronometer watch. “We made good time,” he said as Ernie Mueller swung the Peugeot into the train station parking lot and extinguished the engine.
“Yeah, too bad you couldn’t sleep,” Ernie said. “I’m sure you could have used some rest.”
“No way I was getting in forty winks—not tonight,” Bill replied.
Ernie flipped off the headlamps, revealing a clear evening lit by a nearly full moon. “I told Gabi we’d meet at the train station since we can’t risk a rendezvous in a public place like a restaurant.”
“Mind if I stretch my legs a bit?”
“I’ll join you. I could use some blood circulation myself.”
Bill stepped out of the car and marveled how much warmer the Swiss Lowlands were compared to the Alps. It had to be close to 70 degrees on this warm, moist evening. He wind-milled his arms to loosen up and was performing a set of knee bends when a powder blue Citroën carefully swung into the parking lot, still managing to kick up some dust.
Ernie greeted his daughter with a kiss, but formal introductions weren’t necessary.
“Bill, you remember Gabi from the First of August celebration in Davos.”
“I certainly do.” Bill doffed his Eighth Air Force cap and shook hands with Gabi, who even in this low light still appeared to be a looker.
“And a good friend of ours, Eric Hofstadler, who’s still learning English.”
“You have to watch out for this one.” Bill laughed. “I think he understands more than he’s letting on, especially when you’re talking about Gabi. I made a joke that Eric better keep an eye on Gabi with all the American pilots around . . .”
A dull rumbling in the distance grew with intensity as the source drew closer.
“What’s that sound?” Gabi asked, and all froze.
Bill cupped an ear toward the propeller whine coming from the west. “I know those engines anywhere. That’s a—”
An American B-17 bomber roared past, not 200 feet overhead, drowning out his voice. The bomber’s tail was adorned with an equilateral white triangle and a black “C” painted in the center of the triangle. The wings dipped from side to side as smoke billowed out of the No. 3 and 4 engines.
“She’s in trouble,” Bill said. “Must have taken a hit over Germany. C’mon, guys, you’re almost there.” He didn’t take his eyes off the stricken plane until it dipped below the tree line on its final approach into the Dübendorf military airfield.
“One of those guys can have my bed in Davos.” Seeing the wobbly American bomber reminded Bill that he was back in the game. The war was still on, and there was a mission with his name written on the chalkboard.
He clasped his hands. “So what’s the plan? We certainly can’t fly that busted B-17 into Germany.”
Ernie Mueller looked toward his daughter. “Mr. Dulles put you in charge of the mission tonight.”
Gabi straightened her shoulders. “He did, and he said I could enlist your help with, ah, liberating a plane. Are you okay with that?”
Ernie translated for Eric, and they both nodded.
“Good.” Gabi, dressed in khaki pants and matching jacket, caught Bill’s eye first. “Here’s a change of clothes,” she said, handing him a leather satchel. “I don’t think a U.S. military uniform is a good idea, not tonight. Once you get changed, we’ll see if the Swiss Air Force has their guard up.”
29
Dübendorf, Switzerland
11:05 p.m.
Bill Palmer hunched behind the bramble bushes, just meters behind a chain-link fence—topped with two strands of barbed wire—that marked the perimeter of the Dübendorf military airfield. He, along with Gabi and Ernie Mueller and Eric Hofstadler, had chosen to hide in the foliated overgrowth on the south side of the quadrilateral-shaped Dübendorf airfield, where the main runway ran east to west. The village of Dübendorf lay beyond the northwest corner.
From their concealed position, Bill could see the crippled B-17, with wisps of white and black smoke still rising from its engine cowlings, parked several hundred yards away at the east end of the military base. Ernie had told him on the drive from Davos that the Dübendorf airfield was considered the birthplace of the Swiss Air Force with the establishment of a Schweizer Fliegertruppe in 1914. Charged with policing neutral Swiss airspace from constant Allied and Axis intrusions, it looked like Swiss Me-109 fighters had escorted another banged-up American bomber to Swiss soil.
The B-17’s final resting point was at the end of six rows of Flying Fortresses, B-24 Liberators, and British Lancasters positioned nose-to-tail with a precision that typified the Swiss desire for orderliness. Ten American crew members stood at attention under the floodlights’ glare while Swiss military personnel rummaged through the grounded plane.
“Velcome to Sveetzerland. For you, ze vor ist over,” Bill said, imitating his captor’s Swiss accent that he had heard back in January. Gabi and her father exchanged glances, but neither cracked a smile because of the situation’s seriousness.
“Just what we need,” Gabi said. “The Swiss military on heightened alert at the same time we want to borrow one of their airplanes.”
She raised a pair of binoculars and swept the airfield beyond the assemblage of American and British flying machines. “Most of the Swiss aircraft are buttoned up in the hangars”— she pointed across the airfield—“but there could be something past the B-17s and B-24s. Care to take a look?”
Bill accepted the binoculars from Gabi and peered toward the southeast corner. “Past the Allied boneyard, I see a handful of Swiss Messerschmitt 109s, but they’re single-seaters like our Mustangs and Thunderbolts. They won’t do—wait, I see a couple of . . . Schlepp 3603s. They’re fast as greased lightning, two machine guns in the wings, and they’re two-seaters. You might have to sit on someone’s lap on the way back, but a Schlepp could do the trick.”
Bill dropped the binoculars to his chest. “I forgot a couple of things, though. With these single-engine fighters, you couldn’t assist me with the German words on the instrument panel. I don’t even know the German word for fuel.”
“That would be Benzin.” Gabi adopted a teacher mode. “Just think of a Mercedes Benz—Benz
in.”
“Benzin. Okay, I think I got that. And magnetos for the ignition would be called—”
Bill’s question was drowned out by the deep, steady thrum of radial engines on final approach.
“What’s that?” Gabi pointed toward a slow, ponderous aircraft coming their way. A solitary landing light came on, and the pilot flattened out the silver-and-black plane for a two-point landing down the center of a grass runway. Under incandescent moonlight, a white cross against a square red background had been painted on the empennage of the Schweizer Luftwaffe airplane.
Bill peered through the binoculars. “Never thought I’d see a Junkers in real life.”
“A what?” Gabi asked.
“It’s a Junkers Ju-52—a transport plane. Made in Germany.”
Ernie hid a laugh. “I don’t think Bill knows it’s pronounced Yunkers, which is the proper way to say it in German,” he said, pronouncing the Ju-prefix to sound like you.
“Yunkers?” Bill said. “Back in the States, we called them ‘Junkers,’ because we thought they were junk. ‘Iron Annie’ was our other nickname. A decent enough bird, though, considering all the drag from the corrugated metal skin hanging on the fuselage and wings. Seats fourteen or sixteen, range of 1,000 kilometers. Three BMW engines top out at a speed of 265, 275 kilometers per hour. Junkers were workhorses for Lufthansa before the war, like our Douglas DC-3s back in the States. So where’s she stopping?” He lifted the binoculars and tracked the Ju-52 until she came to rest next to a line of parked Swiss fighters at the main hut just to the right of their position. “Looks like big brass is aboard.”
A dozen Swiss Army personnel sprinted from the operations building and formed a receiving line. A solitary officer positioned himself in front of the fuselage door—located on the port side, aft. As the first passenger exited, the receiving line stiffened and, in unison, presented arms. The attending officer offered a snappy salute to the uniformed man gingerly stepping down a four-rung ladder.
