by Tricia Goyer
After the Junker had crash landed, she, Bill, and Joseph had dashed farther into the heavily forested grove that had stopped the sliding transport plane. Shafts of sunlight had streamed through gaps in the trees’ foliage, seeming to spot- light the fugitives wherever they ran. Gabi expected locals armed with shotguns and pitchforks to chase after them, following their spontaneous plowing of the nearby wheat field. But no one had come.
The threesome skirted a dense thicket of massive firs and towering pines until they found a foot trail dating back to Charlemagne. An hour later, beyond the forest’s edge, Gabi spotted Herr Beyer’s farm and his wooden cross. Surely God had been with them. She prayed he was with them still.
Gabi led the two men toward Helmut’s watch store. Bill hustled ahead and opened the entry door for her and Joseph, which tinkled a bell. They hurriedly moved inside and away from the front window.
Within seconds, a gray-haired man with a walrus moustache and rotund girth stepped out from behind a burgundy curtain tucked away in the shop’s left corner. He wore a white shirt and gray slacks, accessorized by a gray vest whose buttons threatened to pop off from his ample abdomen.
“Herr Helmut?” Gabi asked.
“Yes, how may I be of service to you today?” the proprietor replied.
“We’re friends of Jean-Pierre and Pas . . . ,” Gabi said.
The proprietor raised his eyebrows. “Pas . . . who?”
“I’m sorry. Our transmission stopped, and I didn’t catch the full name. Sir, I was told that you could help us, and to mention Jean-Pierre’s name.”
The proprietor’s gaze scanned the three persons, then returned to Gabi. “Your Swiss accent betrays you,” he said with a smile. “And what’s the story with your friends?”
“I’m a good German,” Joseph Engel declared, which elicited raised eyebrows and a nod from the heavyset owner. Joseph shrugged his shoulders and gave a shy gesture toward Gabi. “I’m with her.”
Gabi leaned over to Bill Palmer and translated what had transpired. Bill nodded and declared in English, “And I’m a good American.”
“Ach, ein Amerikaner! That’s a good one!” The jovial watch store owner rushed to the front door, turned over the Offen sign to Geschlossen, and pulled down the shade. “I think I can trust you. Quick, follow me.”
He motioned them around a rectangular glass-enclosed display case to the burgundy curtain, which hid a wooden staircase.
When they arrived on the first landing, he pointed to a closed door. “These are my private quarters.” Herr Helmut gestured forward. “I have a second flat on the top floor. You will be safe there. You can rest.”
“Rest?” Gabi shook her head. “No, we need to get out of here. We must leave as soon as possible.”
The German folded his arms over his broad chest. “We cannot act too hastily. There is a manhunt—I’ve already heard. I’ll send a wireless message to Jean-Pierre and Pascal, telling them you’re here.”
“So the other person’s name is Pascal?” Gabi tucked the name away in her mind.
“They’re Swiss-Germans like you, but those aren’t their real names. Operational security.” The store proprietor hesitated before continuing. “I’m afraid you now know my identity, but Jean-Pierre wouldn’t have sent you unless the matter was extremely urgent. The name is Helmut Emden.” The watch store owner greeted each one with a hearty handshake, then beckoned them to follow him.
He escorted them up two more flights of stairs, which led them to a flat at the top landing. Helmut’s beefy fingers fished for a key in his right vest pocket and opened the door.
The loft apartment with hardwood floors was minimally furnished. “There’s a bedroom if anyone needs a nap.” He led them on a short tour. “And here’s the toilette. Try to flush when you hear Frieda or myself running water or the WC below. Just in case we have unexpected visitors.”
Gabi nodded. “So what happens next?”
“I’m sure Jean-Pierre and Pascal will want to get you across the Rhine tonight. Let’s plan on that. I’ll return for you at twenty-two hundred hours and escort you to the rendezvous point, where they’ll arrive with a skiff.”
“How dangerous is the crossing?”
“Don’t worry. We’ve done this sort of thing dozens of times. But it’s dangerous.”
The Rhine River near Waldshut, Germany
11:47 p.m.
The sense of foreboding that gripped Gabi’s throat refused to ease. Over the last hour and forty-five minutes, their group of four had stolen out of Waldshut’s medieval, commercial district and worked their way eastward—on foot—along the Rhine River. As much as Helmut’s genial personality diffused the considerable danger surrounding them, the fact that they were the object of a manhunt added to the pressure building in her stomach. At any moment, she expected a Wehrmacht soldier, a local Polizei, or a dutiful German to jump out of the shadows, and that would mark the end. Of her dreams with Eric. Of her mission. Of her life.
Eric Hofstadler had been on her mind ever since she waved goodbye in Dübendorf. He seemed so assured on the drive to the military airfield. The way he exuded confidence in cutting a hole in the perimeter fencing and the sureness in his voice as he waved her off spoke volumes to her. The guy was a rock, and if—or when—she saw him again, she would jump into his arms. She had straddled the fence far too long, and it was time to land on his side. She had told her parents that she always wanted to be pursued . . . that she didn’t want to “settle” for a husband. Here was a solid Christian man who set the boundaries in their relationship, who matched her heart for God, and whose rugged good looks set her heart aflutter. Here was a godly man who wanted her.
Now, she wanted him—or better said, she wanted the chance to see if they were headed for the altar. The danger she currently faced stripped away all that she had used to keep Eric at arm’s length and instead increased her desire to draw him close, to determine once and for all if God was bringing them together for his special purpose.
Gabi turned her attention to the task at hand as she tracked Herr Emden’s footsteps through the riverside brush, thanks to a canopy of bright moonlight. Joseph followed with his leather satchel. Bill, who said he didn’t mind playing the tail gunner role, brought up the rear, stopping occasionally to listen for anyone who might be following.
“Do you have the time, Herr Emden?” Gabi whispered.
“You’re asking for the time from someone who owns a watch store?” The corpulent shop owner reached into his pants pocket for his gold pocket piece. Unsnapping the hunter case cover, he turned the face toward the moon. “I have 11:47. We’re almost at the rendezvous point. Once there, we should get a signal from Jean-Pierre.”
Bill sidled up to Gabi. “Ask him how well the Krauts patrol this riverbank.”
Gabi repeated the question to Herr Emden, obviously not employing the “Krauts” pejorative.
“Not as much as you’d think,” he replied. “Between here and Lake Constance, Germany and Switzerland share more than 100 kilometers of the mighty Rhine. That’s a lot of riverbank to cover. But the Germans do a good job of preventing travel from the interior to the border areas, and the Swiss do a good job of preventing people—including Jewish refugees—from entering their country.”
Gabi involuntarily shuddered, once again visualizing the scene of the poor Jewish couple jumping from the Mittlere Brücke in Basel and drowning in the fast-moving waters, along with their infant. Their looks of desperation.
“I’ve heard stories too,” she whispered.
The watch store proprietor led them to a clearing on the riverbank. “We’re here. Should be any minute now,” he said. “Look near that boathouse.”
Gabi placed her right hand across her forehead. She judged the Rhine to be around 400 meters wide at this point. The water moved quietly, but at a good pace. Her eyes scanned the riverbank—then fifty meters east of the boathouse, she saw a light flash three times.
“Right on time.” Helmut reached
into his rucksack and retrieved a flashlight. He signaled back three times.
“They’ll depart at midnight, at our signal. Jean-Pierre has a skiff with an outboard engine. Don’t know where he finds the petrol to keep it filled, but he manages somehow.”
In the moonlight, Gabi watched a winch lower a small skiff into the water across the river. Her mind was so intent on the shadowy figures positioning the boat on the river that a closer movement startled her.
“Hände hoch!” Three men dressed in black suits jumped out of the shadows. Gabi’s stomach fell as she noted their rifles fixed on her group. She mutely raised her arms in surrender. Who were they? Certainly not soldiers. Her mind raced, trying to figure out a plan for escape.
“Raus!” one man yelled. “March! Keep your hands on your head! No talking!” Gabi felt a rifle press into the back of her shoulder. Her feet moved forward, and she dared not glance across the river, lest she give the boat away. Hands atop her head, she had no choice but to follow the path that led away from the riverbank.
When they approached a protected grove, Gabi’s heart skipped when she noticed a Mercedes sedan with lights on waiting for them. They had been ambushed! It was like someone knew they would be waiting at this rendezvous point for Jean-Pierre.
A tall man, also dressed in a black suit, stepped out of the rear door, slapping a pair of leather gloves into one of his hands. Seeing this dark figure faintly visible in the moonlight prompted all sorts of anguished thoughts to swirl through Gabi’s mind. To come so far, to overcome so many hurdles, to be just 400 meters from freedom and safety . . . and now facing sure death. Feelings of anxiety and despair rose in her heart. The memory of her father’s voice spoke to her heart—Pray!
She silently petitioned the Lord for a miracle and reminded herself that no matter what happened, she was God’s child, and her Father would protect her.
Instead of approaching the four prisoners, the tall man— who was clearly in charge—reached back into the rear door and assisted someone too weak to exit the automobile on his own. The decrepit passenger wore a fedora that shielded his face from view. His gray slacks were worn through at the kneecaps, and a torn gray jacket with a ripped-out shoulder seam hung over his hunched frame, partially concealing the swaths of gauze bandages binding his upper left torso.
“Dieter?” she whispered to herself.
Shock and revulsion swept through Gabi’s veins. So that’s why they were trapped! Dieter Baumann was a modern-day Judas who had betrayed them to the authorities. She wanted to beat him with her fists. He had sold them out for the proverbial thirty pieces of silver—in this case, the allure of stealing a pouch of diamonds.
The tall man supported Dieter, who, in his weakened state, required his assistance to approach the prisoners. “I am Captain Aeschbacher of the Waldshut Polizei. Would you care to introduce our guests, Herr Baumann?”
Dieter remained silent.
By the glow of the Mercedes’ headlights, Gabi saw several welts decorating his face as well as a black eye and bloody lip.
“What’s the matter, Herr Baumann? You lost your tongue? When properly motivated this afternoon, you were much more forthcoming.”
Dieter’s knees unlocked, causing him to slump. The Polizei captain struggled to keep the Swiss on his feet.
“Take him back to the car,” he said to one of his lieutenants. “He’s served his purpose.”
Gabi watched the lieutenant half drag Dieter back to the car.
Captain Aeschbacher stepped forward. “Time to get down to business. Which one is the American pilot? Or do we need a German vocabulary test?”
Gabi shivered, wondering how he knew. She looked over to Bill, and she could tell that he had picked out the two words: Amerikaner Pilot.
Since there was no way out, she motioned with her hand. “This is Captain Bill Palmer of the United States Army Air Corps.”
“And who are you, Swiss Miss?”
Gabi considered not answering him, but his condescending tone told her that he already knew the answer. “Gabi Mueller, sir.”
“And the others?”
“I’m Helmut Emden.”
The Waldshut police chief advanced toward the portly German. “I saw your wife, Frieda, not more than forty-five minutes ago. Herr Baumann told us where we could find her. We had a friendly chat, and she told us about the visitors who arrived this afternoon. I admire her cooperation, especially in a short amount of time. She’s waiting for you to join her very shortly.”
Captain Aeschbacher’s sarcasm sickened Gabi, and she wondered how Helmut was taking it—
“And you must be Joseph Engel.” Captain Aeschbacher took two steps toward Joseph and stared into his eyes. “The most wanted man in Germany. You’ve been very difficult to find, Herr Engel. Very difficult.”
Joseph remained mute.
The Waldshut Polizei chief allowed a satisfied smile to etch his face. “You were very clever to make it this far, but I’m afraid this is a case of so near, yet so far.”
Captain Aeschbacher turned to one of his lieutenants. “Get on the radio and order a transport truck for the prisoners.”
With a snappy “Jawohl,” the lieutenant retreated toward the headlights and slid into the Mercedes’ front seat to call in the transport truck.
“Bind them.”
With two rifles still pointed at them, a lieutenant approached with thin cords. He spun Gabi around, grabbed her arms, and held them behind her back. His practiced hands looped the cord around her wrists several times and gave the final knot an extra twist.
Gabi’s knees trembled as pain coursed through her wrists and arms—although she’d never admit it.
The lieutenant had just finished binding Joseph’s hands when a transport truck rolled into the open grove. Two Wehrmacht soldiers jumped out of the cab, leaving the driver behind.
“Into the Lastwagen!” Captain Aeschbacher barked his command, and the soldiers immediately herded them at gunpoint to the rear of the flatbed truck, enclosed on three sides by wooden slats. A soldier motioned Gabi to the rear of the truck, then grabbed her arms and tossed her in like a bale of hay. It took two soldiers to throw the rotund Helmut on board.
“Sit in the back!” one soldier barked.
Gabi peered through the slats and saw Captain Aeschbacher huddled with the driver, a Wehrmacht soldier. She only picked up snatches of conversation, but what she heard indicated they were discussing where to take the prisoners. When she heard something about picking up Frau Emden, driving to Freiburg, and then the dreaded word Gestapo, her heart pounded. Horrifying stories about cruel interrogation methods replayed in her mind, and she imagined that nothing would be out of bounds. First they would steal her dignity by stripping her naked, then they would inflict blood-curdling pain.
Even worse, her mission was a failure. Joseph Engel and whatever knowledge he possessed about a “wonder weapon” would remain in Nazi hands for use against the Allies. Her sad gaze met Bill’s, whose seriousness reflected the peril they faced. Joseph appeared dazed, staring straight ahead.
She shifted her gaze to Helmut, who seemed passive— almost serene. He must have been a good actor to hide his feelings so well, since surely he knew that he and his wife were facing impending torture and death.
Two soldiers jumping onto the rear of the flatbed interrupted her thoughts. One whistled into the nighttime air, and the engine fired up. The transport truck executed a U-turn and soon found a frontage road that undoubtedly would lead them back to Waldshut and then on to Freiburg. The Mercedes followed in their dust.
As the truck bounced along, Gabi sat cross-legged with her hands tied behind her back. Trying to keep her balance, she pushed up onto her knees, which prompted an immediate glance from one of the soldiers. Bill did the same, followed by Joseph. Poor Helmut couldn’t summon the strength or the agility, so he remained cross-legged on the wooden floor. Gabi winced at the pain of her pinched hands, and she turned her head to look at Bill. He appeared deep
in thought, and she hoped he too was trying to come up with an escape plan.
The truck suddenly downshifted to lower gears and rolled to a stop. One of the guards standing in the back peered over the cab at the commotion over the unexpected checkpoint.
“What’s happening?” Bill whispered.
Gabi eyed the soldiers, who also appeared confused. “I don’t know. Pray. That’s our only chance . . .”
“How come we’re stopping?” one guard asked the other.
“There’s a roadblock—”
The sharp report of several rifle shots split the air. Gabi instinctively hit the deck, and Bill landed on top of her. One of their guards barked out a stifled scream and fell hard next to Gabi. She craned her neck and saw his blood-drenched hand clutching his neck as he struggled for a gurgling breath. The other soldier stooped quickly below the line of fire, his wild eyes taking in his dying comrade’s condition. He jumped off the truck and took cover. Though he raised his rifle and fired off several shots toward the bushes, more gunfire erupted behind him, and he lurched forward against the truck and crumpled into a heap.
Pistol shots burst from the Mercedes sedan, but another volley of gunfire from the shadows shattered glass and tore into sheet metal, silencing the shooters in the car. A stray shot or two rang out, and then just as suddenly as it started, the shooting stopped.
Gabi found herself crushed under Bill’s body. She could barely breathe—and her mind failed to comprehend what had just happened. She was just starting to regain her composure when she noticed—through the wooden slats—two German soldiers striding past the truck, approaching the rear.
German soldiers? Fear and confusion gripped her. All her mind could process was that there had been a firefight—an ambush—but the Germans must have beaten the partisans back.
The German soldiers nudged their fallen comrades with their rifle muzzles.
“Jean-Pierre?” Helmut cried out. “Pascal? You saved us!”
In the moonlight, Gabi felt detached from reality—out of sorts. She couldn’t put this together . . . the soldier hauling himself onto the flatbed looked exactly like . . . no, this couldn’t be, but there was no mistake. “Eric? Is that you?”
