by Neil Maresca
“Crashed,” he said, and sat down to eat.
The woods between Barcola and Prosecco were thick, but not entirely wild, crisscrossed by paths carved out by farmers, and dotted here and there with small cottages, some inhabited, some not, making travel by daylight far too dangerous for people who did not wish to be seen.
So the small band relaxed for the remainder of the daylight hours before setting off into the forest at dusk, led by Father Márton, who used his large frame to break a path through the brambles. But even this option was not without peril. Most people avoided the forest by night, some out of superstition, and some for more practical reasons, such as the presence of brigands, renegades, and deserters who would not hesitate to slit a throat to gain a purse.
Márton and Ambrose had no formal weapons, but each had selected a stout branch which could be used either as a walking stick or as a club. They struck out due north, avoiding the paths wherever possible. While this route was safer, it was also slower, so slow in fact that they could only cover half the distance between Barcola and Prosecco, and were forced to spend the next day in hiding, as far from the common pathways as was possible. The weather was mild and, thanks to Ambrose, they had enough food, but boredom was an enemy, especially for Lukas. Traveling at night had tired him out so that he slept past mid-day, but once he was awake, like any young boy, he wanted to do something. Sitting quietly for hours waiting for sunset wasn’t very interesting, and despite the danger—of which he was very much aware—he needed to move, and, more importantly, he needed a bathroom. He wriggled so badly that finally Sasha and Márton agreed to let Ambrose take him a short distance away and stand guard over him while Lukas relieved himself. They were making their way back through the shrub when a man stepped out from behind a tree and confronted them with his pistol drawn and pointed.
Ambrose placed himself between the man and Lukas.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What do you have?” was all the man replied.
“Only what you see.”
“I don’t believe you. You look like runaways to me, and nobody runs away empty-handed. So if you value the life of that young lad you’re trying to hide, you’ll give up your stash, and I’ll be on my way.”
He might have said more, but he was interrupted by a blow on his head by Father Márton’s cudgel. The man pitched forward and lay spread-eagled on the ground. Ambrose looked at Márton, who simply said “I heard voices.” Sasha came running up nearly hysterical, calling for Lukas, who stepped out from Ambrose’s shadow, and said, “I’m alright Mama, don’t be afraid.”
Sasha ignored Lukas’ reassuring words and hugged him to her chest.
“Is he dead?” Ambrose asked.
“That’s in the Lord’s hands,” Márton answered. “Best we were out of here, just in case he is alive and wakes up calling for help.”
“I will pray for him,” Ambrose said.
“I suggest you save your prayers for the Countess and Lukas—and for you and me also. It won’t go well for any of us if the Germans or the communists take us.”
Ambrose bent over and picked up the pistol that had fallen from the man’s hand.
“Leave that,” Márton said. “Our trust is in the Lord—besides it would be hard to explain that to a German patrol, should you get stopped.”
“You are right of course,” Ambrose replied, throwing the gun as far into the woods as he could. He watched it sail into the shrubs, out of sight. “Still…”
“Yes, Ambrose? Still…what?”
“I was just thinking. Maybe the Lord placed the gun in front of me for a purpose. Maybe He intended that I should use it.”
“I seriously doubt that Ambrose.”
They moved stealthily through the forest, taking cover at every sound, arriving at dusk on the outskirts of Prosecco, a small town that bridged the gap between the mountains and sea. The coast road ran on its western flank, and the valley road on its eastern. There was no way around it. Neither Márton nor Ambrose were familiar with the town, and so they set their faces northward and entered Prosecco much as they had left Trieste, with Ambrose and Lukas in the lead, Sasha about a block behind and Márton bringing up the rear.
They hugged the buildings as they walked, and ducked into doorways at the sound of any vehicle, fearful that it might signal the approach of a German patrol. They passed very few people in the street, and those they did pass made no attempt to make eye contact or share a greeting. The town was clearly in the hands of an occupying force, and the people had chosen to stay indoors unless it was absolutely necessary to go out.
This worked both for them and against them. Fewer people meant fewer prying eyes—and there were always informers, people ready to point out to the authorities anybody they didn’t like or whom they thought suspicious. On the other hand, the absence of people made their presence more conspicuous. So they ducked and dodged and hid when they could, and in this fashion made it from one side of Prosecco to the other without having to explain their presence to a German patrol.
They headed back into the woods almost gleefully, moving quickly, almost recklessly, until they found a place they deemed safe, and collapsed, not from the physical exertion, but from nervous exhaustion. As bad as their confrontation with the armed man had been, it paled in comparison to the horrors they would face if captured by the SS.
Ambrose doled out food and drink. Nobody spoke for a long time. Eventually Márton, sensing the despair that was slowly creeping into everyone’s thoughts, said. “God has taken us this far. He will not abandon us now. There cannot be much further to go. Ambrose?”
“Yes Father/”
“What lies ahead?”
“Only one more hurdle, Father. Duino. It sits on a small plateau where the mountains reach the sea. We cannot go around it. There are mountains to the east, and the sea to the west. We must go through it.”
“Is it best done in daylight or at night?”
“Night I would think. It is a very small town. We would surely be noticed in daylight.”
“Then we must get to Duino by dusk, and take our chances in the night.”
SS-Hauptsturmführer Schengel was greeted courteously by Vice Admiral Henrik von Kroener upon his arrival at his headquarters in the Castello di Duino. Kroener took an instant dislike to Schengel, not only because he was SS, but because he was nobody; that is, he was, like most of the SS, from the lower classes. Nevertheless, Kroener knew it was dangerous to offend an SS officer, especially one carrying orders signed by the Führer.
Kroener knew what Schengel had only begun to suspect. The war was virtually over, and the Germans had lost. He also knew that a wounded animal was erratic and dangerous. He watched in disbelief as Hitler and the Reich wasted its manpower and resources on rounding up Jews, and concluded it was a sign of a man and a nation in the final throes of defeat, trying to inflict as much damage as they could before dying.
But of course, he said none of this to Schengel. Instead, he promised the officer his full cooperation, set aside a suite of rooms for his headquarters, ordered his men billeted in an outbuilding, assigned him several junior officers to serve as his aides and liasons, and ordered that his accomodations be librally stocked with food and wine. He did not invite him to dinner, nor introduce him to his wife and senior staff, on the pretense that he did not want to interfere with the urgent task that lay ahead.
“I’m sure you have many more important things to do Hauptsturmführer Schengel, than to spend your time socializing. The Führer has entrusted you with this task,” he said. “You must not fail.”
Schengel was used to being slighted by people like von Kroener and von Piehl, so he simply clicked his heels, bowed slightly, and thanked his host. If he cursed him as he left, he made sure the Vice-admiral didn’t hear it. However, his mood softened when he reached his suite of rooms.
Duino Castle was built in the 14th century on the grounds of an older 11th century castle overlooking the Bay of Trieste. In
the 19th century, it became one of two residences for Prince Alexander von Thurn und Taxis and his wife Princess Marie, and a fashionable retreat for Austro-Hungarian nobility and artists such as Rainer Maria Rilke who wrote one of his most famous poems while a guest at the castle.
Schengel knew nothing about either history or poetry, but he recognized luxury when he saw it, and was immensely pleased with the opulence of the suite he had been given. His bedroom was larger than his entire home in Germany. His bathroom reminded him of something he had seen in a movie about the Roman Empire. He had his own private office, with an outer office for staff, and his living room led directly onto a large terrace that overlooked the Adriatic Sea. He may have been slighted socially, but he had papers signed by Hitler himself, and the Vice-admiral knew it. But the Vice-admiral knew something else as well, and Schengel realized it too. Orders from Hitler not only had to be obeyed, they had to be fulfilled.
Von Kroener’s parting words, You must not fail, were ominous. Catch or kill the priest and the Countess, and he would be a hero, perhaps even decorated by Hitler, at least a promotion, yes, that much at least. But fail to capture them? The outcome was uncertain, execution, perhaps. The Eastern front, at the very least, and that was as good as execution.
So he wasted no time in indulging his senses. He went immediately to work. He summoned his aides, demanded maps of the immediate area, ordered patrols all along the southern border of the town, set up barriers on all the roads leading into Duino, and put the local forces on alert.
He poured over the maps. The longer he looked at them the more certain he was that he was right. They were headed north, he was sure of it, and that meant they would have to pass through Duino. He ignored the food that had been laid out for him, summoned his SS Company, and went out hunting.
At approximately the same time, eight kilometers north, in Monfalcone, László was sitting in a corner cleaning his pistol while his two escorts, Carlo and Felix, were arguing with the local communist leader who was trying to explain that he had neither the men, nor the time to go chasing after Countesses, no matter how important they may be nor how famous the assassino in the corner may be.
László didn’t understand what the men were saying, but he could clearly see that they were in a heated argument, and judging from the gestures the men made in his direction, he concluded that he was the subject of the debate. He didn’t care. He was no longer the man that sat quaking in his boots across the table from Dunayevsky. Now he was the man to be feared, and he was becoming annoyed with the loud voices and the extravagant gestures that seemed to accompany every discussion in Italian.
“Enough! Basta,” he shouted, using one of the only Italian words, aside from curses, that he had learned. “Enough. If you will not help, then I will do it alone. I killed an SS general alone; I can kill this silly Countess and her brat alone as well. Just tell me where she is likely to hide, and I will leave you to your pasta and women.”
The commandant was astounded. He had no idea what László had said, but he understood the gun that was cocked and pointed at his heart. He looked at Carlo and Felix for help.
Carlo began speaking softly to László, holding his hands up almost in supplication, trying to calm him down, while Felix whispered a translation to the commandant, who nodded his understanding, but never took his eyes off László or the gun.
Felix and the commandant continued their whispered conversation as tensions gradually eased. When they were finished talking, the commandant left.
“What did he say?” László asked.
“He will help us,” Felix said. “He says the Jesuits run an underground operation to rescue Jews. He knows little more than that, but he will find out what he can. If the Countess is in the company of a Jesuit, he believes it likely he will take her to this network.”
“Is there more?”
“Yes. He says we can stay until tomorrow when he will have the information we need. After that, we are to leave, and if we ever come back, he will have the three of us shot on sight.”
Chapter 24
May, 1944
Duino, Italy
Sasha dropped onto the grass, exhausted. Lukas dropped down beside her. Ever since they left Prosecco, they had been traveling hard, trying to put as much distance between him and them as possible, a journey made doubly difficult by the lack of adequate cover. The distance between Prosecco and Duino hardly deserved to be called a forest, as it was crisscrossed with paths, and studded with cottages and even an occasional small farm. They had been forced to duck and run for cover, dash across open spaces, and push through underbrush, yet they continued on as if pursued by demons. They had stopped only when Duino Castle was visible, a large, ominous mass seemingly perched on the end of the earth, looming over them.
“Less than a kilometer,” Ambrose observed.
He and Father Márton had walked a little apart so they could talk unheard by Sasha and Lukas.
“The forest is thinning. There is almost no cover here,” Márton said. “Like it or not, we will have to move again as soon as it gets dark. You stay here and watch over the Countess and the Prince. I will go ahead and see if I can find a safe path.”
“No Father, you are better suited to guard them than I, and besides, you are too large and clumsy to play the part of a scout. The Germans will hear you coming all the way up in the castle.”
Father Márton laughed at Ambrose’s joke, but had to admit there was some truth in it. The smaller, quicker Ambrose was the better choice, so he blessed him and turned away to sit with Sasha and Lukas while Ambrose moved off into the dim light of a setting sun.
Márton returned to Sasha and Lukas, sat down and rubbed his aching bones. Ambrose was right, he thought, he is lighter and quicker, younger too. But there was no time to dwell on his own aches and pains, he had to offer comfort to the mother and her son, who, he realized must be feeling the effects of this past few days even more painfully than he who was raised on a farm and was used to hard labor and long days without much to eat.
He passed out the last of the bread and cheese, taking nothing for himself other than a sip of water.
“Tell me the truth, Father,” Sasha whispered, so as not to disturb the sleeping Lukas, “What lies ahead?”
“We only need to cross through this town in front of us and we will be in the outer limits of Monfalcone. There is a church there that can house us for a day while I make arrangements with my brethren for your safe transport to Switzerland. The Bishop has assured us that the route is still operating.”
“Our safe transport? Not yours?”
“No Countess, not mine. I promised the Count that I would see to your safety, and I will. But once you and the boy are safe, I must return to my work in Budapest. I suspect I will be needed there and not in Switzerland. I will see you to the border, but there we must part.”
“And Ambrose?”
“He must return to his work as well.”
“Lukas will be sad. They have grown quite close.”
“Yes, I have noticed, and I suspect that Ambrose will also be sad to lose his ‘little brother.’”
They grew quiet for a while, Father Márton spending his time in prayer, Sasha stroking Lukas hair and watching him as he slept.
“Father?”
“Yes, Countesss?”
“I have not asked before, but now I feel I must—where are we going? I know we are headed for Switzerland, but I have no idea how we are going to get there. I have left everything in your hands, but now I feel I must ask: if something happens to you, how will we know where to go or who to turn to for help?”
“I have not told you before, Countess, because I feared that if we were captured and tortured, you would reveal the information to the Gestapo.”
“You do not know me well, Father. I would die a thousand deaths before I told those pigs anything.”
“I do not doubt your courage, Countess, but you underestimate their methods. They would march Lukas out in front o
f you, tied and bloody, and place a gun at his head. I have no doubt that you would die a thousand deaths, but would you, could you, remain silent and watch your son have his brains blown out in front of your eyes?”
When Sasha failed to reply, Márton continued: “I will tell you this. I am a Jesuit. If you are ever in need of help, seek out a Jesuit.”
Márton returned to his prayers, Sasha to her thoughts.
“Ambrose has been gone a long time,” Sasha said.
“Yes, he has,” Márton replied.
It was hours before Ambrose, filthy, bruised, and bloodied from a thousand small cuts and scratches, punched through the darkness into the small circle of his friends. He came so quietly that Márton only heard him at the last moment, and neither Sasha nor Lukas, who were both sleeping, even stirred.
Márton observed Ambrose’s condition, but did not comment on it.
“What news?” he asked.
“The news is not good, Father,” Ambrose replied. “The city has become a fortress. There are checkpoints every few hundred meters or so, and SS patrols with dogs in between. I tested the entire perimeter of the city from the mountains to the sea. I could find no safe passage.”
“We must move this evening. The Countess and the boy are stretched to their limits. They will not last much longer, and we cannot stay here unobserved in daylight. We must choose the best path and put our faith in God.”
“If we can avoid the dogs, we might have a chance. The troopers at the checkpoints do not seem as zealous as the SS. Perhaps we can slip by during a shift change.”
“Is there one place better than another?”
“There was one checkpoint that seemed to be less well manned, but I cannot promise that it will be so again.”
“I understand, but you must lead us there. We have no choice.”
