Appointment in Berlin

by Neil Maresca

  They waited for Ambrose’s signal that the SS patrol with its two fierce-looking dogs had passed before starting to creep across open grassland toward an empty barn that stood alongside the road. From there they could see four soldiers, spaced several meters apart, watching for anyone who might try to cross the road and enter the town. The men were tired. They were at the end of their shift, leaning against a wall, or squatting down whenever they thought no one was looking. Still, it was impossible to find a time when at least one of them was not alert.

  They were sitting so still for so long that, despite the danger and the need to stay alert, Ambrose dozed, only to be snapped back to reality by the rumble of a truck, and the unusual sound of human voices.

  He stared into the glare of headlights that suddenly dimmed and went out throwing the scene back into darkness. He watched as the men stretched, yawned, and abandoned their posts to greet the next shift. For a few moments, all of the soldiers were grouped around the truck, and in those few moments Márton, Ambrose, Sasha, and Lukas dashed across the roadway and flattened themselves against the wall of the first building they came to.

  The men continued talking; Sasha’s heart beat so loudly that she was certain they could hear it. She looked down at Lukas, but he seemed composed, almost dazed. My poor baby, she thought, How hard this must be on him. She almost wished they would be caught, that this insanity would come to an end.

  She felt a tug on her sleeve. It was Ambrose. They were going to move again. Of course, she thought, they would have to move before the dogs came back. Good Lord, the dogs! The thought of the dogs drove out her fatigue. She had seen dogs on the estate tear the entrails out of deer. She knew what they were capable of. She jerked Lukas’s arm so hard he let out a small cry, and they all froze where they stood, waiting.

  Nothing.

  Just the sound of the truck’s engine idling, and the crunch of boots as the new men took up their stations. But the truck didn’t move. Why didn’t the truck move?

  They stood rigid against the wall, willing themselves to be invisible, for how long? Five minutes? Ten? An hour? Eternity? They couldn’t tell. It was almost a relief when the truck backed, turned and focused its high beams on the side of the building, revealing four exhausted, ragged, fugitives.

  They could see nothing if they looked into the lights. They turned their eyes instead to the ground, where, to their horror, they saw two pair of black boots. They couldn’t see them, but they were sure there were two guns pointed at them.

  “Nicht bewegen,“ said a disembodied voice emanating from the darkness behind the glare of the headlights. They obeyed, and remained standing motionless against the wall. One of the two men in the darkness barked an order and the truck turned off its lights. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, Sasha and the others found themselves staring at two German soldiers, both with their guns drawn.

  One, an officer, waved his pistol back and forth, indicating that he wanted them to move. “Schnell,” he whispered. Once again they obeyed. Moving quickly from the security of the wall, they followed the officer’s directions to a place behind the building, hidden from the view of the road.

  “Schweigen!” the officer commanded, so they stood silently, lined up along the back wall of the building, expecting to be shot at any moment. Sasha pulled Lukas close, Father Márton clasped his crucifix in both hands and bent his head in prayer, while Ambrose placed his hand on Lukas’ shoulder and whispered “Do not cry, little brother. Be brave. I will always be with you.” Lukas did not cry.

  They stood in silence as they had been ordered, while the officer holstered his pistol and walked over to the truck driver. They exchanged a few words. The truck pulled forward next to the wall that Sasha and the others had just left, and sat with its engine idling.

  The officer did not return, but two soldiers remained on guard, their rifles at the ready. “Schweigen. Still stehen,“ the one guard hissed. They both looked nervously around as if expecting an attack.

  Márton paused in his prayers and looked over at Ambrose, who returned his questioning gaze with a small shrug. Both men were aware that something was wrong, but they had no idea what. They had expected to be shot, but it was the Germans who seemed frightened. Perhaps, they thought, the communists were all around them, and they had unwittingly walked into a combat zone.

  The mystery deepened further when they heard voices, along with the yips of dogs, and laughter. They recognized the officer’s voice among the mix. The sound of the dogs’ breathing so close at hand made Sasha’s heart beat faster. She could not get the thought of being torn apart by a slavering pack of dogs out of her head. She almost cried out, but stopped the sound by thrusting her hand to her face, a movement that nearly panicked the two guards, who seemed even more frightened than she.

  Dogs! All of them, Sasha, Márton, Ambrose, Lukas, and even the two guards, knew what the presence of dogs meant—SS!

  Was that what they were waiting for? To turn them over to the SS? Maybe they wanted to get credit for capturing the gang that assassinated General von Piehl. That would explain all the secrecy and delay.

  But that was not the plan. After a few minutes, the SS and their dogs continued on their patrol. The SS troops saw nothing and the dogs, their senses overwhelmed by the exhaust fumes from the truck, smelled nothing. For a few minutes nothing happened. The sound of the dogs retreated until they could no longer be heard by the captives lined up against the wall.

  The officer returned, his pistol drawn. He waved it back and forth as he had done before, motioning that Sasha and the others should move toward the truck. A soldier in the truck drew back a canvas curtain and held out a hand to Sasha.

  “Schnell, Schnell,” the officer urged.

  Márton lifted Sasha, and the soldier pulled her up into the truck. Ambrose hoisted Lukas into the truck and jumped in after him. Márton jumped in, followed by another soldier who drew the curtain closed as the truck drove away.

  Chapter 25

  May, 1944

  Castello di Diurno

  Diurno, Italy

  Only a few short minutes later, the truck stopped. One of the guards pulled back the canvas curtain, and motioned the captives to leave. They stood at the back of the truck, staring in wonder and fear, finding themselves at the side of the castle, next to the servants’ entrance, not knowing what was to come next. They were escorted into the castle, down a flight of steps, along several corridors, and into what appeared to be the servants’ dining room, although it had been stripped of most of its furniture, and now held only a long table with a bench on either side.

  After being shepherded into the room, they were directed to sit in silence as the officer left, and the two armed guards stationed themselves at the door. They did as they were instructed, although they need not have been told to sit in silence since they were all completely exhausted, too tired to do anything more than sit, and too traumatized to speak. They had no idea what was going on. This was not a prison, yet they were under guard, had not been turned over to the SS, but were not free. Each sat, lost in his or her own thoughts until Lukas, unable to ignore the rumbles in his stomach any longer said, “I’m hungry,” which, since he said it in Hungarian, alarmed the guards, but made his mother and Father Márton laugh.

  As if upon Lukas’ command, the door opened and two servants appeared carrying trays of cold meats and other leftovers from the officers’ evening meal. A third servant entered shortly after with jugs of wine and water. They placed the trays on the table in front of the startled foursome, and left without a word. When Sasha and the others failed to do anything, one of the guards said, “Essen,” and made a gesture indicating that they should eat.

  Lukas reached out immediately to grab a piece of cake off the dessert tray, only to receive a smart smack from Sasha, who then asked Father Márton to bless the food before they ate. Márton complied with one of the shortest blessings he knew, and as soon as he finished, the group began enjoying their first real meal
in days.

  They stopped eating, however, when a staff officer entered.

  “I see the food has already arrived,” he began. “Good. You should know that you are the guests of Vice Admiral Henrik von Kroener. He apologizes that he was not able to greet you personally, but he bids you enjoy your meal and advises that he will join you shortly.”

  Sasha, recognizing the formality of the man’s speech, replied. “Thank you,” she said. Please convey our gratitude to the Vice-Admiral, and tell him we look forward to meeting him.”

  “I will convey your message, Countess,” the officer replied, and left the room.

  “Countess?” Márton said, looking at Sasha. “Well, he obviously knows who we are.”

  “Do you think that is good or bad?”

  “I’m not sure. We will just have to wait to find out.”

  Ambrose amused Lukas with guessing games, while Sasha and Márton rehearsed the story they would tell the Vice-admiral, assuming they would get the chance to tell him anything. They agreed to say they were fleeing Hungary because of the communist threat, and that their involvement with General von Piehl was unexpected and uninvited. They would tell the truth about his assassination, which was that they did not do it, and did not know who did. They were hiding because they had been told that the SS was after them for the General’s murder, and were on their way to central Italy, where they thought they could sit out the war. They would say nothing about the Count’s involvement in secret meetings with the Allies.

  It wasn’t too long before the Vice-admiral joined them. He apologized for not being available to greet them, or to offer them better accommodations.

  “This is not the way I would prefer to entertain a Countess,” he said, “especially one of your station and renown. But conditions are as they are, and this is the best I can offer you at this time. I have only recently learned of your husband’s assassination. Please accept my most sincere condolences. I did not know him, but by all accounts, he was an eminent scholar and a good man.”

  “Thank you, Vice-admiral. That is very kind of you, and there is no need to apologize. We are grateful for your kindness.”

  “But, Countess, you must explain to me how you came to this predicament. I have had foisted upon me a most loathsome and overbearing SS officer, who thinks he is God almighty because he carries a commission for your capture that is signed by the Führer himself. I, and all my staff, run a great risk by harboring you, even for a short time.”

  “We appreciate your help, Vice-admiral, and are cognizant of the risk you are taking, but let us assure you, we had nothing to do with the General’s death. We were in Opatjia when the assassination took place.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that. General von Piehl was a lecher, a disgrace to his class. He belonged with the SS scum. I assumed that he assaulted you, or at least tried to compromise you, and that you, or your priest, did him in. I would not blame you, Countess, if that is, in fact, what happened.”

  Sasha never hesitated. If it were a trap, an attempt to get her to admit that she or Márton had killed the General, she would have none of it.

  “You have it half right Vice-admiral,” she replied. “He did indeed try to seduce me. He made it clear that he had the power to take me from my son, and he held that over me. But the priest, as you refer to him, is my loyalist and best friend, and my protector. He found a way, with the help of this young man seated here, to steal my son from the General’s grip, and once he was free, I left also. My son Lukas thinks that the servant who killed my husband followed us to Zagreb, went to the apartment to kill me, and found the General there. It is possible.”

  “Well,” the Vice-admiral replied, “it sounds more plausible than the idea that you or your priest shot the general and then executed your servant.”

  “Executed! Petra was executed!”

  “Yes, Countess, shot in the head at close range. I am surprised that even an SS officer could be stupid enough to believe you could have done such a thing, but then, he is a brute, and has no understanding of how people of quality think or act.”

  “Oh my God, poor Petra.”

  “Countess, I can do little to help you other than to send you on your way. I wish I could do more, but my power and resources are limited. Rest well tonight, and be ready to leave at first light. I will arrange for transport away from here. Is there a place you wish to go?”

  “If we could get to Monfalcone, that would be sufficient.”

  “That is only three kilometers away.”

  “We cannot ask you to risk any more than that. You have already done too much.”

  “As you wish Countess. I will not see you again. God speed.”

  Chapter 26

  May, 1944

  Monfalcone, Italy

  Early the following morning, just as the first light was beginning to glow on the eastern horizon, the small band of travelers boarded the same truck that had brought them to the castle the night before. This time there was only the driver on hand, and he seemed unconcerned as they helped each other into the back of the truck and drew the canvas curtain closed behind them. He took them to a darkened alleyway only a block from the train station, Márton having stressed the importance of getting as close to the station as possible without being seen. They climbed down from the truck and stood in the shadows as the truck pulled away. Once it was out of sight, they moved, not in the direction of the station, but toward the Jesuit Church of Saint Ignatius Loyala, only a few blocks away.

  About the same time that the truck was pulling into the alleyway behind the station, Schengel was enjoying his first sip of morning coffee and dreaming about the glories that would come his way when he presented Hitler with the gang that had assassinated General Piehl. He was, at that time, unaware that his prey had slipped his net, and were now safely out of his grasp. Schengel was a patient man, and extremely self-confident. When the fugitives weren’t caught that day, he waited another, and another. It wasn’t until a week had passed that he was forced to concede that he had failed—a failure that was reported with great delight by the Vice-admiral, who complained that Schengel’s stratagem had diverted troops from the important task of rounding up Jews.

  Even before Schengel had finished his coffee, and long before his dreams were shattered, the four fugitives entered the Church of Saint Ignatius Loyala, and took seats in the back along with a few elderly women who had arrived for the early mass. Sasha, Lukas, and Ambrose waited while Márton disappeared into the darkness of the apse behind the altar.

  After about 20 minutes, Márton appeared in the front of the church, and signaled the others to join him. He led them behind the altar where an old, bent, white-haired, but amazingly spry priest greeted Sasha and Lukas in Hungarian, and Ambrose in Latin.

  “Father Damien will be our guide for the next few hours,” Márton explained. And without any further discussion or explanation, Father Damien turned and started walking away, followed closely by his newly-found flock of refugees. They followed him into the sacristy and out a small door that led them into a narrow cobblestone alley. Father Damien crossed the alley, and opened a small wooden door at the back of a nondescript three-story building. He ushered the group inside, up one flight of stairs, and into a small apartment overlooking a busy street.

  “You can rest here for a short time,” the old priest said, “but it is dangerous to stay in one place too long. We use this apartment as an assembly point only. This is the beginning of an underground railway we have established to smuggle Jews to safety in Switzerland. It is unusual to see people such as you on the run, but it is no problem. We are happy to help. I understand that you have Italian passports?”

  “Yes, Father,” Sasha responded, “all except Ambrose, who is Croatian.”

  “That is no matter. I understand the young man is an acolyte. If you are stopped, simply tell the authorities that he is here in Italy with Father Márton as part of his training.” He paused to look with apparent disapproval at Márton’s
and Ambrose’s dirty, ripped clothing. “Of course,” he continued, “we will have to find you suitable garments so you do not get mistaken for bandits.”

  Father Damien had been gone for less than an hour when he returned with his arms full of clerical garments for Márton and Ambrose and fresh travel clothes for Sasha and Lukas.

  “Change into these,” he said. “I hope they fit. I tried to find parishioners of the same size, but it was difficult, Countess, to find someone with as delicate a figure as yours. Change quickly. Your car will be here shortly and it will not wait long. Father Márton,” he commanded, “When you have changed, come downstairs and stand outside the door so the driver can recognize you. As soon as you see him approach, open the door and alert the others. Do not waste time. The driver knows where to take you, so do not worry. God be with you.” He blessed them and left.

  Márton didn’t bother to change into clean clothes. He simply put his cassock and collar on and bolted out the apartment door and down the stairs to the street. Sasha, Lukas and Ambrose changed quickly, and left the apartment intending to go down the stairs and position themselves by the rear door in order to be immediately available as soon as they received Father Márton’s summons, but as they exited the apartment, they heard the front door close, followed by the sound of someone ascending the front staircase. They hesitated, torn between retreating into the apartment, or continuing down the hallway and into the rear staircase. No one person made the decision; they all turned at the same time toward the staircase.

  They kept moving down the hall toward the staircase even as they heard POP, and a bullet whistled past them.

  “Go!” Ambrose yelled as he turned to confront the shooter.

  “László!” Sasha screamed in horror.

  “Go!” Ambrose repeated, wishing now that he had not tossed the gun away. “GO!” he shouted again, and turned to face his attacker.