by H Schmidt
Billy watched the officer who stood looking into the lighted train. Billy had seen German prisoners. Among them he had seen German officers. But he had never seen the enemy of his country in the field. What had he expected? He thought of his officers in the Seventh Cavalry, men who had served all their lives in the military. Many were graduates of West Point like himself. Was this German officer any different from Colonel Dodd, who headed the Seventh Cavalry? He found it hard to believe he could be any more of a martinet, any harder on his men and himself.
He knew this was the famous Blitz Battalion, the lightning battalion which had disrupted the supply lines from Murmansk before the treaty was signed. Their commander was Friederich von Mecklenburg, no doubt a Prussian, a member of the Junkers, a descendant of the German knights. He knew he was looking at the colonel. There could be little question as he watched him stand calmly among his men that it was he who was in command.
As the conductor waited inside, Willie Giesler stepped onto the train. He spoke to the conductor in Russian.
“Please have Lieutenant William Housman present himself. All others will remain on the train. As soon as Lieutenant Housman has stepped forward, the train will be allowed to leave.”
Billy knew there was no sense in resisting. He would die at this moment, and other innocents, like the little boy who told him about his nightmares, were in harm’s way. As Lieutenant Giesler spoke, a captain stepped into the train beside the young, bookish-looking officer.
Billy could hear the sound of children’s voices, and the whispers of their mothers to silence them. He knew they would be frightened, unable to understand what was happening. He stood and spoke to the women and children behind the curtains.
“Please stay where you are. You will not be harmed. The German officers who have stopped the train have assured the conductor that the train will be allowed to move as soon as it has had time to take on water and fuel.”
With that, Billy walked toward the front of the car where the officers were waiting. A third soldier searched his body for weapons. He removed the .45 from its holster and pulled the wallet from the American’s breast pocket, handing it to the captain. The captain looked at the wallet, then at a paper which Billy guessed contained his description.
“Lieutenant, please follow me.”
The captain stepped down onto the platform. The German lieutenant and the young soldier stepped aside to allow Billy to step down behind the captain. The battalion commander stood on the platform, waiting.
---
“Are you crying, Sir Rupert?” Sir Gustav spoke in a husky voice, hoping the tears that brimmed his lower eyelid did not flow onto his cheeks.
“It’s the Artic winds. My eyes have always been sensitive to the cold winds this far north. I am glad the Grand Master never cared to take us this far north.” “It will be hard for Friederich, don’t you think? Little Willie does not even know he has a brother.”
“I think he does, Sir Gustav. He has kept it locked inside, but I think he knows.”
---
The Brest-Litovsk Treaty between Germany and the new Soviet government had ended the war with Russia. The effect was to allow Germany to send over fifty divisions to the western front and to allow Russia to withdraw from the carnage of the first three years of the war. Since it was the Bolsheviks whom the German Foreign Office had financed to create the conditions which produced the treaty, it was its policy to support them against their internal enemies.
The German Foreign Office took account of the official policy of the president and the Congress of the United States to be neutral toward the Soviet government, declaring governance as an internal matter. But Kuhlmann and others had long been aware that there was another policy being pursued by Americans. That policy was to keep the Bolsheviks out of power and after October, to remove them. American soldiers were fair game since they had declared war against Germany in April.
The Germans were kept apprised of Lieutenant Housman by the Soviet government. They understood that his whereabouts were known because of Cheka surveillance and because of a recently discovered source in the American Embassy. The cable to Colonel von Mecklenburg had been sent by a government telegrapher in the presence of a member of the German Embassy.
---
Reginald Merriweather was proud of his growing command of the Russian language. On his desk were copies of Pravda and Izvestia. Both reported on the stopping of the train carrying American Embassy dependents. He felt the jolt to his heart when he read: AMERICAN LIEUTENANT REMOVED FROM TRAIN BEFORE IT WAS ALLOWED TO PROCEED TO MURMANSK. They had him. Finally, someone had fixed the bastard. He knew the Soviets felt their hands were tied because they still were dealing with the Americans. They wanted him out of Russia. Their protests had fallen on deaf ears. The ambassador, Francis, continued to deny any subversive behavior by his embassy personnel. Lieutenant Housman was doing his job of keeping the ambassador apprised of events in Russia, period. His last note to the Russian foreign minister was that he no longer considered the lieutenant an issue for discussion.
He watched Riezler go through the same ritual. He remembered the feeling of terror the first time they had met. Now he was feeling better. He knew Riezler would be proud of what he did. As his friend sat down, he saw something was not right. Riezler looked at him with the same searing stare as the first time. In their last meetings, he had been warmer, more open. What was wrong?
“Have you anything to report on Elizaveta Voravskii, Comrade?”
Each time they met, Riezler would talk of Elizaveta Voravskii. Merriweather thought this time he would be more interested in the news that Housman was captured by the Germans. The Cheka had let it be known that Riezler no longer was a Party member in good standing. They were looking for him. Riezler had explained to him that the Cheka hoped to persuade enemies of the Party and the Soviet that Riezler was their enemy, to enable Riezler to infiltrate the organizations of their enemies. At the last meeting, Riezler spoke of the contacts he had made, pointing to the arrest of persons he had fingered for the Cheka. Was he being duped? Made a fool of?
“Officially, the embassy has no interest in Elizaveta Voravskii, Comrade. There are no resources being used to find her. I can only hope something will come into the embassy that will be helpful.”
Merriweather wanted to ask why he was still looking for the girl now that Housman was no longer a threat. He had told him he needed to find her to lead him to Housman. Housman was a prisoner!!! Merriweather understood. He needed to get away. He would let the Cheka know where to find this man.
Riezler looked at the man across the table. Merriweather would betray him.
He knows I lied. No matter. I do not need him. I do not need anyone.
“I am sorry to have brought you here, Comrade. I will have to find Elizaveta myself. Such things are best handled personally.”
He sat calmly, staring at Merriweather. For a moment, he thought he would entertain himself by allowing the American to try to make conversation, leading him on with terse replies, watch him squirm. That no longer interested him.
“You may go, Comrade. I have a great deal to do tonight.” After he had finished, he would walk by the university. He had a lead there.
“I am sorry I could not be more helpful.” Merriweather got quickly to his feet. “Good evening.” He nodded.
Riezler did not acknowledge the nod but continued to stare at the tall man. Merriweather quickly opened the door and hurried out onto the street. He was almost to the end street of the street when he heard his voice. “Wait, Comrade. I will accompany you.”
Merriweather wanted to run, but his feet seemed planted on the cobblestones.
Chapter Six
Friederich watched his brother walk toward him. He has grown so. He smiled to himself. Yes, it has been eighteen years. He had thought about the moment when he would see his brother, what he would say. But in all the scenarios he had created, never had he created one like this. A small train station in Russia. A
short, fifteen-word telegram instructing him to detain his brother whom he had not seen for eighteen years. As he watched Willie approach, he saw the confusion in his dark eyes. He wanted to shout for joy and hug his brother, see the light go on in Little Willie’s eyes.
Before Billy reached him, he turned and walked through the back of the station to where his horse was waiting. Why do we want Willie? Why is he in civilian clothes? He mounted, and with Lieutenant Giesler and two privates following, broke his horse into a canter toward the village.
Billy was taken through the station and loaded onto a wagon. The supply wagon was empty. Billy was asked to seat himself on the floor, leaning against the tailgate. Two soldiers climbed onto the wagon with him. One carried an American Springfield, the other a sidearm.
The wagon was drawn by two horses. The driver urged the horses that moved slowly away from the station. Billy guessed why he had been taken off the train. He knew the Bolsheviks wanted a reason to question him, but could not. The Germans, now at war with America, would have no qualms about doing it for them. After the treaty, he knew they were cooperating on intelligence.
He was sitting facing the front. One of the soldiers was looking at him. He spoke to Billy in English. “I have a brother in America. I used to receive letters from him, but no more.”
Billy saw no reason not to talk to the soldier. “Where does he live in America?” “He lives in Baltimore. Where do you live?”
“In Denver, Colorado.” “Buffalo Bill, yes?”
Everyone knew America through the cinema and sideshows. He remembered his surprise at how the Russians were captivated by the American cinema. He smiled when he thought of Yuri. Yuri learned American history from D.W. Griffith.
“Yes,” Billy replied. “And William S. Hart.”
“My brother is a butcher. If you like, I have a picture.” He started to reach into his pocket when the sergeant who was riding beside them shouted at the young man. “Hans, you do not have long to live if you trust everyone. Stop talking to the prisoner.”
Billy guessed the sergeant was angry because the young man spoke to him. Perhaps it was better. His duty was to get away. He may have to kill that young man. He thought about the German butcher where his mother shopped. How did he feel now, he wondered? How does this young man feel? The simple answer is that we are not allowed to feel.
Friederich reined his horse in front of the mayor’s house. He had commandeered the house the night before. Tomorrow, new orders would come regarding Willie. He had decided he would use the evening to speak to his brother. He had dismounted and smoked a cigar in front of the house, waiting for Willie to arrive. Soon he heard the sounds of the party as it moved into the village. He waited for the captain to dismount, then moved to the side with him.
“I want to talk to the prisoner, personally, Captain. It may take some time. Any messages, bring them to me immediately. I want parties out all night. Do not alarm the men, but be alert.”
“Do you know anything about this man, Colonel? Taking one man off a train does seem odd.”
“Nothing officially, Captain.” Friederich turned and followed the prisoner and his guards.
It was not a large room. Friederich could see that an effort had been made to make the room comfortable. There was a table that had been made at a mill. The chairs were rough, probably made by someone in the village. There were two windows. The quality of the glass was poor in the windows, the images on the other side distorted. The walls had been roughly plastered and painted with lime and water. Because the weather was still below freezing at night, a wood stove heated the room. A single lantern hung from the ceiling created highlights and shadows. As Friederich walked in, he could hear the floorboards creak. Billy was sitting at the table, watching Friederich.
“May I sit down?”
Billy’s tone mocked his questioner. “Please.”
Friederich smiled. “It is a strange custom, isn’t it? Asking permission of your prisoner to sit down. A habit, I suppose.” He spoke to his brother in English.
Billy waited. He could not remember ever feeling such tension, taut like a crossbow without a release.
Friederich looked at his brother. He was struck at how sure he was. He was never sure that when he saw Willie that he would know him. There he was. The dark hair and eyes, the almost delicate features of his mother. His body was thicker than he thought it might be, but still he was slim by men’s standards. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the photograph and placed it in front of Willie.
There was a picture of the family taken in front of the house in Moshi. Willie was five then. Friederich was ten, little Maria eight. With them were their mother and father and Johannes. Kibo stood smiling beside the three children.
Billy looked at the picture. His head began to spin as images began to wash over his eyes. He found himself looking at the small boy, then at the older boy. He looked at Friederich, then back at the older boy.
“May I tell you about the people in that picture, Lieutenant?”
They had talked until they could see the gray in the sky; it would soon be dawn. Friederich had patiently allowed Willie to sort out his dreams, realizing that there were parts of that first year where he could not help.
He watched his brother as they talked. He realized that he had never thought about how his brother would react. Somewhere inside him, he wished he would stand up and cross the room, hug him and say, I am your brother and everything that has happened since you were kidnapped is washed away. But he knew, as he watched, that Lieutenant William Housman could not simply become Wilhelm von Mecklenburg. He was little Willie and the son of Gustav and Maria von Mecklenburg. He was William Housman, the son of David and Christina Housman.
“How long have you known?”
“Over two years. The large man you remember who gave you to the Housmans was sent to prison in German East Africa. He kept his secret from my father until he was ready to die.”
“When father was lost, he took the news with him. It was only when the commandant of the prison visited us at Marburg that we found out.”
“Why did I not know this two years ago?” Friederich noticed the angry tone. What could he tell him, that the Housmans lied about him? He did not want to do that.
“We did try to reach you through the German Embassy, but we could not.” He did not want to say more. He could see Willie piecing everything together. Billy remembered his parents’ evasive answers.
“When did Mother and Father know, Colonel?”
He could only tell the truth. “When they read my mother’s letters, I suppose.” “Colonel, if you would not mind, I would like to be alone.”
Friederich stood. He wanted to touch his brother, who now stood facing him. Instead, he turned and left the room. As he saw the two guards looking curiously at him, he began to think about what the day would bring.
---
“It isn’t so simple as we thought, Sir Rupert. Can you imagine what must be going through Little Willie’s mind? Five hundred years hasn’t helped me. I still cannot imagine.”
Sir Rupert was sitting on the stove. He could not hide his disappointment. He had hoped for songs and sounds of happiness, of the von Mecklenburgs gathered in the great room of the castle. He expected nothing like this.
“It is a beginning, Sir Gustav. It could have been worse. Remember how we worried that the train might not stop, or even worse, that Friederich might accidentally blow up the train.”
---
Elizaveta found reading Izvestia distasteful, but there were few choices. Only the socialists could print papers any longer. She had read the news of Billy’s capture. All day she had worried about him. There was nothing she could do. It was time to begin making plans to leave Russia. There was nothing left. As she read, another news item caught her eye. It was carried on the front page. American Embassy official murdered. It was the man Billy did not like.
---
When the troop train stopped at the small station to
refuel, two men got off the train. The captain was there to greet them. Max Surelius had been a policeman in Berlin before coming to Russia only three weeks ago. Surelius had a specialty. It was his job in Berlin to interrogate persons taken into custody. The German government had voiced frequent denials that Surelius tortured his victims. Mikhail Abramovich Bogrov had worked with the Ohkrana, doing for Russia what Surelius did for his country. He now worked for the Cheka.
The captain watched the two men, struck by the similarities. While Surelius was light-skinned and Bogrov darker, both seemed laconic in their movements and manner, their faces without expression as they looked at the captain. Both wore wide-brimmed hats and black leather short coats. Only the bodies seemed different; Surelius was thick and short, Bogrov tall, thin, and stooped.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Captain Marx. The colonel was detained elsewhere. He asked that I take you to the village where the American is kept.” He waited for introductions and received none as the two men started to walk by him.
With a quick hand signal, the captain moved two of the soldiers in front of the station door, stopping the two visitors.
“Gentlemen, you are in a war zone. You will observe certain formalities, which perhaps you do not understand. May I see identification from each of you? For your own safety, you will be restricted to the area where the prisoner is held. Any movements beyond that area must be approved by the colonel.”
Surelius spoke. “We will want to see the prisoner immediately.”
“The colonel has asked that he see you first, Herr Surelius. He thought such a discussion would be helpful to you, as well as to him.”
Bogrov saw Surelius about to protest. “We will wait, then.”
He saw no need in creating friction. The German officers had the upper hand.
