Appointment in Berlin

by Neil Maresca

  Chapter 19

  May, 1944

  Town and Country III

  Zagreb, Croatia

  Afternoon

  Father Márton reviewed the plans once more with Sasha, and satisfied that everything was in order, left hurriedly. He had a busy day ahead of him. He had to shop for travel clothes for Sasha and Lukas, meet with the fat man to pick up the documents, and then begin the long, arduous task of conveying Sasha to Opatija, where, God willing, Ambose and Lukas would be waiting for them. He had no idea that Schengel was following him, or that Von Piehl had ordered the SS to the monastery to apprehend Lukas. Nor had he any knowledge of László’s presence in Zagreb.

  Schengel had no trouble following Márton, who made no attempt to hide his movements as he went from shop to shop. Schengel was a trained operative. He made notes of every place Márton went, and, convinced that Márton was working a network of pro-Jewish, anti-German contacts, he also made note of every person he spoke to. The fact that Márton left each shop empty-handed only confirmed Schengel’s opinion that messages were being passed back and forth, and that the priest was an intricate cog in an elaborate network. He watched for several hours as Márton made his way through the commercial heart of Zagreb, stopping at store after store, never buying anything; he watched as Márton stopped for coffee, and tried to decipher the nature of the exchange between the waiter and the priest. Nothing escaped his attention—except the truth.

  Márton, his shopping expedition completed, returned to the rectory. Schengel settled into a table at a café across the square where he could observe the building. He was exhausted. He had been awake for almost two full days, and, in addition to fatigue, he faced another problem. He was only one person. He had no idea how many other entrances and exits there might be from the rectory, but there had to be others, and he couldn’t watch them all. He needed help. He downed several coffees in an attempt to stay awake and think straight. Then he decided: He would have to take his eyes off the building long enough to call for help. Reluctantly, he rose from the table and went inside the café. He showed the waiter his SS identification and demanded to use their telephone. He was immediately escorted to the manager’s office where he placed his call to the SS.

  About five minutes later, a fellow SS officer joined Schengel at the table. Three others were posted around the building, and two more watched the church and the square. Satisfied that Márton could not escape observation, Schengel retreated to the manager’s office where he stretched out on a couch for some much-needed rest. He would have slept poorly if he had known that Márton, who had returned to the rectory only long enough to gather his small satchel of personal belongings, had walked out the front door moments after Schengel had entered the café to make his call.

  While Schengel was napping, Márton was meeting with the fat man.

  After a fun-filled morning swimming in the placid lake, Ambrose and Lukas climbed to the cottage and were preparing to eat lunch when they heard the loud drone of mechanized vehicles—an unusual, and very ominous, sound in this remote area. Lukas looked around in alarm as Ambrose and his parents stopped talking and exchanged concerned looks.

  “What is it?” Lukas asked.

  Ambrose’s father said something that sounded like a curse. “Nazis,” Ambrose interpreted. “Going to the monastery!”

  He and his parents sprang into frenzied activity while an astonished and confused Lukas looked on. Ambrose ran into his bedroom and came out with a bag of clothes; his mother packed food into a backpack; his father pulled flagons out of the air and filed them with water. Together they pushed Ambrose and Lukas out of the door amid a flurry of hugs and kisses.

  “Go! Go!” Ambrose shouted as he pushed Lukas down the hill. They half-ran, half-jumped, and half-tumbled their way down the steep path to rim of the lake where Lukas lay panting, expecting Ambrose to stop. But Ambrose turned sharp left. “Come on!” he shouted.

  Lukas followed along behind as best he could as Ambrose led him alongside the marge of the lake. He skinned his knees on the slick, wet rocks, fell in the lake several times, and arrived, breathless, bruised, wet, and angry at a tiny cove in which a small, wooden boat nestled, bobbing at their approach as if wakened from a long sleep.

  “Get in,” Ambrose said.

  “No. Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Lukas said, barely holding back his tears. He had been pushed helter-skelter down a steep ravine; every bone in his body hurt, and he was scared, but he had made up his mind—he wasn’t going any further until Ambrose told him where they were going, and why they were running.

  Ambrose threw his gear into the boat before turning to Lukas.

  “Little brother,” he said. “There is only one reason the Germans would be going to the monastery—and that reason is you. They must have learned about your presence here. And they have now come to collect you.”

  “How?” Lukas asked. “How could they have found out?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we were followed. Maybe somebody saw us and notified the SS. It doesn’t matter. We have to go—now.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Opatija to meet your mother as planned. We are just going a little early, and by a different route. But there is no time to waste. Soon the Germans will discover that we are not in the monastery, and they will start searching for us.”

  “I’ve never been in a boat,” Lukas said, nervously eyeing the small craft, bobbing in the water behind Ambrose.

  “Then you will have to be very brave little brother. This will be a boat ride like no other.”

  “Is there no other way?”

  Ambrose did not answer. He extended his hand to Lukas, led him to the boat, and held it steady as he climbed in.

  “Go to the front, crouch down and don’t raise your head no matter what you hear.”

  The boat was so small that Lukas had only to turn around to be in the front as he had been directed. He watched as Ambrose tied everything down, covered it with canvas, and pushed off from the shore. They had gone only a little way into the lake before Ambrose motioned Lukas to get down, which he reluctantly did, having found sailing on the calm lake more pleasant and less frightening than he thought it might be.

  From his vantage point in the prow of the boat, Lukas could see Ambrose and the sky above him, but nothing of what was on either side or in front of him. They moved along swiftly, Ambrose rowing vigorously, and nervously eyeing the hills above.

  Something zipped over Lukas’ head and splashed in the water. Ambrose put his head down and increased his stroke, frantically sending the small craft toward the narrow end of the lake farthest from the monastery but closest to the shore.

  Lukas followed instructions and kept his head down, which prevented him from seeing the German soldiers scrambling down the hillside, stopping periodically to fire at the speeding boat. He felt the prow slapping against the water, saw the sweat streaming down Ambrose’s face, and heard splats as bullets struck the water around the boat.

  The soldiers, seeing that the boat was headed toward the narrows, stopped their race downhill to the lake, and turned to run parallel to the shore, hoping to reach the far end of the lake before the boat, but their way was impeded by the thickly wooded and uneven hillside. Realizing that the boat was going to win the race, they stopped and let loose a fusillade of rifle fire, but that too was ineffective, and they stood hopelessly by as their quarry, in their small craft, sped away.

  Lukas was confused. He could hear the rifle fire, and knew therefore that the boat had moved closer to the shore, but it was picking up speed even though Ambrose was not rowing as hard as he had been. In addition, he began to hear another sound, a low roar that he could not identify.

  Ambrose had stopped rowing. His eyes no longer searched the hillside for the Germans, whose guns had gone silent. He stared straight ahead, and, to Lukas’ amazement, took the oars out of the oarlocks and laid them on the floor of the boat. He bent far forward, and gripped the sides of
the railings. The boat was moving faster and faster, the unidentified roar growing loader and loader.

  “Hold on tight!” Ambrose shouted. “Keep your head down!”

  Lukas didn’t have to be told twice. He folded himself up as small as he possibly could, squeezed himself into the prow of the boat, shut his eyes and, despite his doubts, prayed harder than he had ever prayed in his life.

  For an instant, Lukas thought he was flying as the little craft crested the falls before turning its nose down and plunging into the roiling waters below. There was no time to think, not even enough time to be terrified. One moment Lukas was flying, the next, he was under water, and then, just as quickly, he was safely tucked into the nose of the boat as it floated along the river in the valley below the falls. He looked up, and there was Ambrose, soaking wet, and smiling broadly.

  “How are you, little brother?” he asked. “Wasn’t that fun!”

  It had taken László far longer to locate “The Snake” than he had anticipated. It was close to noon when he finally arrived outside 45 Nova Cesta and found, to his surprise, not a run-down tavern, or a shuttered warehouse, but a well-kept row house just like many others in a working class neighborhood.

  László stood outside the door checking his paper over and over to make sure he had not misread it. Finally, he overcame his uncertainty and knocked on the door. A slight, middle-aged woman opened the door on a crack and peered out at him without speaking. Unsure of how to pronounce the word Zimja, he held the paper up to her face. She opened the door, motioned him in, and quickly closed it behind her, but not before giving a quick glance up and down the street to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  The woman pointed to a door on the left and walked away. László entered a room that, he assumed, served as the family sitting room. It smelled of tobacco. There was a fireplace, and family pictures were displayed prominently on the mantle. It looked perfectly ordinary, hardly an environment László would associate with a man called “The Snake.”

  If the room was ordinary, the man who occupied it was even more so—past middle age, portly and full-whiskered, he greeted László jovially in fractured German. László’s German was no better, but since he spoke no Croatian, and The Snake spoke no Hungarian, they had no choice but to struggle along in a third language neither one spoke very well.

  László explained why he had come to Croatia. It seemed strange to sit in this very ordinary room, talking to this very ordinary man about killing the Countess and her son, but The Snake gave no indication that he was shocked or upset. He asked where the Countess was now, and how he could help. It was as if László had gone to his cousin for assistance with a debt instead of asking a perfect stranger for help with an assassination.

  The Snake listened to László’s story, and when he was finished, rang a small bell that sat on a table next to his chair. His wife appeared almost immediately with two small glasses filled with a purplish liquid.

  “Slivovitz,” The Snake said.

  László, thinking it was the Croation word for ‘Cheers,’ and not the name of the drink, repeated, “Slivovitz,” which made The Snake laugh. They clinked glasses. The Snake said “Slivovitz,” again, laughed and downed the drink in a single swallow. László did the same and immediately regretted it. His throat burned, his eyes watered. He thought his head would explode. The Snake laughed again, but rang the bell, and soon his wife appeared with a jug of water, two glasses and some bread and cheese.

  László gulped the water and stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth which had the desired effect of quieting the fire in his belly and clearing his head. While he was recuperating, The Snake spoke at length with his wife who left the room, returning a short time later with a small metal object which she passed to her husband.

  “You will need this,” he said. “In the Grand Excelsior, you do not want to make any noise. Always there are many people there. Many Germans.”

  László looked at the object that The Snake had given him. “What is it?” he asked.

  The Snake laughed again. “You do not know? I think you are not much of an assassin,” and he laughed again. “It is a silencer. Look,” he said. “Give me your gun.” He took the gun and showed László how to attach the silencer. Then he turned the gun toward the fireplace and pulled the trigger, scaring László half to death. But there was no loud BANG to alarm the neighbors, just a soft pop.

  László was surprised and delighted. This was almost as good as receiving ‘Walter’ from Dunayevsky. He took the weapon back from The Snake and fondled it, screwing the silencer on and off repeatedly.

  “You like?” The Snake said.

  “I like,” László responded.

  “You cannot go to the Excelsior immediately,” The Snake said, suddenly serious. “It will take a little time for me to make arrangements. You can stay here until then. But after you do what you need to do, you cannot, under any circumstances, come back here. You will be on your own. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good!”

  “Slivovitz,” he laughed, and poured two more glasses.

  Chapter 20

  May, 1944

  Excelsior Hotel

  Zagreb, Croatia

  Father Márton walked casually along Llica, Zagreb’s main street. He was in no rush. It was early afternoon, and he did not expect to meet with Sasha for a few more hours. So, while Schengel and his men stood around watching the rectory, Márton spent a pleasant afternoon, sitting outside one of Zagreb’s cafes, sampling a few of the dozens of flavors of ice cream the city is famous for, and—for the first time in a long time—relaxing. His meeting with the fat man had gone well. The documents were ready, and in order. Countess Alexandra Károlyi de NagyKárolyi of Hungary had been transformed into Anastasia Carrelli of Milan, Italy. Lukas was now Luca Carrelli—and both had official permission to travel from Croatia to their home in Milan.

  Márton allowed himself a moment or two of self-satisfaction. The original plan had been for all four to stay at an apartment in Zagreb for a few days while the documents were prepared and the remainder of the travel plans finalized, but the appearance of Von Piehl had required a last-minute change. Lukas had to be sent off with Ambrose; he had to do the shopping, and Sasha would have to placate the General for two days, but it had all gone without a hitch so far. Or at least so he thought.

  The next step was for Sasha to escape Petra’s surveillance long enough to meet him at the apartment, change clothes, and catch the evening train to Opatija. He did not know how she was going to accomplish that, but she said she had a plan, and he trusted her, so there was nothing left for him to do at this time other than enjoy the ice cream.

  By mid-afternoon, Schengel was getting nervous. No one had come or gone since Márton had entered the rectory a few hours earlier, more than enough time for him to have eaten his lunch. So why was there no activity? What was he waiting for? He got his answer when he was called to the phone by the café owner. Von Piehl was on the line, and he was furious. He had just heard from the SS squad that he had sent to the monastery—the boy had escaped. He was on his way over to the Grand Excelsior to confront the Countess, and he wanted the priest arrested immediately. Schengel hung up the phone, cursed and ordered his men into the rectory. They didn’t bother to knock. They kicked down the door and ran through the rooms in a frantic search for Márton who was long gone. They questioned everyone in the residence, but all they could tell them was that he had left the building several hours earlier. Schengel, convinced that Márton was hiding somewhere in the building or on the grounds, ordered a thorough search of the rectory and the church, and sent the resident priests and their staff off to SS headquarters for interrogation.

  Schengel was furious. Only a few hours earlier, he had seen himself as the brilliant SS officer who had almost single-handedly broken a major spy ring. Now, the boy was gone, the priest was gone, and his dream was gone with them.

  Von Piehl was no less angry. He
too, was seeing his dreams of glory crumbling faster than the German defenses on the Eastern front. He ordered his driver to take him as quickly as possible to the hotel, and berated him for not driving fast enough. He leapt from the car and up the stairs without bothering to wait for the elevator. He knocked furiously at the apartment door, and when Petra answered, demanded to know where Sasha was. Petra was so frightened, she couldn’t speak. Von Piehl punched her so hard she fell to the ground. He picked her up and held her upright against the wall, his face only inches from hers.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, but she didn’t answer. Her eyes, wide with fear, had moved away from his, focusing instead on something behind him. He realized that there was someone behind him, and he turned slowly, expecting to see the Countess. Instead, he found himself staring at a ragged peasant, waving a large pistol.

  From the look of the man, and the unprofessional way he held his gun, Von Piehl could tell that he was not a trained soldier. He relaxed. Whoever this man was, and whatever he wanted, he was no match for an SS General.

  “Put that gun down,” the General ordered.

  László Farkas looked at the General for a moment before firing two shots into his chest. Fargas was pleased. There had been no noise, only the gentle sound of two pops, not even as loud as a champagne cork.

  Petra feinted. László considered shooting her too, but decided she was not a German sympathizer and left her on the floor. He went through the apartment, but found nothing. He returned to the front room, and nudged Petra awake by prodding her with his foot.