Eva

by Ib Melchior

  Woody deposited Kurt on his swinging gate, the boy aglow with adventure, and brought the Kotsches into the souvenir shop. He had the GIs bring in the loaded bicycles.

  Stiffly the Germans sat watching as he searched their bundles and suitcases. He found nothing out of the ordinary.

  He glared at Kotsch and his wife in silence, letting only his cold eyes move from one to the other, until he could practically feel their tense discomfort exude from them. For the subject of an interrogation the waiting, the not knowing what the interrogator knows nor what he will ask is always the worst. A man’s own doubt-filled mind is his worst intimidator. He tried to think the way they would. That was all-important. Not how he thought they ought to think, but how they really did think. It was a trick of the trade and it was not easy. But it was the difference between a green interrogator—who often gave away more than he got from a clever, trained subject and likely as not was told only what he wanted to hear—and an experienced investigator. A good interrogator as a rule did not reveal how much he knew. Of course, he thought, there were occasions where violating the rules paid off. This might well be one of them. He had a hunch that Herbert Kotsch was not the simple, taciturn nonentity he made out to be. He had not told the man how he came to know his name. He would not do so. He knew it worried him.

  “Why,” he finally asked, “why did you leave Rübeland?” His tone of voice was low and distant, yet murderously dangerous. It contained the disquieting hint that he already knew the answer.

  “We had to,” Kotsch answered. “We no longer could make a living here.”

  “We had a good business,” Gertrud broke in. “When the tourists came to visit Baumannshöhle. But now no one comes. No one buys souvenirs. We had to try to find something to do. Somewhere else. In Göttingen, perhaps. That is where we were going.”

  “Leaving your entire stock of merchandise behind?” Woody asked incredulously. He nodded toward several large cartons stacked in the room.

  Gertrud shrugged helplessly. “What else could we do?” she asked. We could not take it all with us. We—we would have tried to find a buyer for it. In Göttingen. Perhaps someone to take over the shop.”

  It sounded plausible. Totally plausible. Why, then, did he have a feeling it wasn’t? That there was something else? Something the Kotsches were hiding. And not just their true identities and activities. Or was he reading something into their fears that was not there?

  He examined the identity papers taken from the two Germans. They were excellent—completely in order. Including the MG travel permit signed by a U.S. army officer named Johnson. All of them forged, he was sure. Bock had been right. The SS boys in Operation Birch Tree were top drawer.

  “Your papers seem to be in order,” he said. He held up the travel permit. “When did you get that?”

  “The day before yesterday,” Gertrud said. “It is dated. See? June 2. We got it in Blankenburg. There is an American command there. Captain Johnson gave it to us when we explained to him our troubles.”

  “So I see,” Woody said. “Then Captain Johnson would still be in Blankenburg.” He looked straight at Kotsch.

  The man returned his gaze.

  “Soldiers come, soldiers go,” he said.

  Woody kept his eyes fixed on the German. It was time to hit him—hit him hard with the jackpot question. He watched them both closely. “And did Captain Johnson know of your work for the B-B Achse?” He bit the words out.

  They were good. Both of them. The woman drew in her breath—sharply, but almost imperceptibly. The man’s eyes widened slightly, then grew hooded. But the air in the room was suddenly rife with the odor of sweat and fear, mingled with the dry smell of sun-baked dust.

  It was enough. Konrad Bock had told him the truth about the couple in Rübeland.

  “What—what is a B-B Achse?” Gertrude whispered uncertainly. “I—we . . .”

  “Be quiet, Mutti,” Kotsch stopped her. He turned to Woody. “We do not know of any B-B Achse,” he said. “We do not know what you talk about.”

  Well, well, Woody thought. Taking over are you, Herbie. “Don’t you?” he mocked. “Then you have an exceedingly short memory, Herr Kotsch. Within the last few weeks you concealed two travelers who were to use the B-B Achse escape route. A young SS officer. And a young woman. We know all about that already, Herr Kotsch. And we know all about your SS-manufactured identity papers and your forged travel permits!” He threw the papers at the German. Kotsch did not move.

  “All you will do now,” Woody said, “is to corroborate certain facts for me. One: When exactly did you send the two young people on their way? Two: The exact address you sent them to.”

  Kotsch looked him straight in the eye. “I know nothing of what you say,” he said firmly. “Nothing.”

  Woody stared at the man. A gust of foreboding whipped through him. Had he overplayed his hand. No, dammit! He knew they were involved with the escape route. But how the hell get them to admit it? And, more important, tell him what he had to know?

  He had only one thing going for him. A nebulous feeling. A hunch. A hunch that had no logical explanation, but which was familiar to every seasoned CIC investigator. Something was wrong. There was something he had overlooked. He let his eyes roam the little room. He dismissed the cartons of souvenirs. There would be nothing of interest there. The Kotsches had been content to leave it all behind. The bundles and suitcases? He’d gone through them—perhaps not thoroughly enough. And, of course, a complete body search. He’d wait to the last with that. He hated it. It seemed degrading to both the searcher and the searched. The human body has seven orifices and every one of them had to be thoroughly probed. He looked at Gertrud and Herbert Kotsch. It might have to come to that. He hoped not, but he could leave nothing undone.

  He fixed his eyes on the two bikes. Each had had a bundle tied to the handlebars, another to the luggage rack over the rear wheel, and a suitcase hanging from the rack on each side of the wheel. It had all been piled back on the bikes after having been searched.

  He turned to Corporal Kowalski. He pointed to one of the bikes. “Bring that bicycle over here,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye—on the face of the woman—he saw what he was looking for: The slight, sudden muscle tenseness; the subtle change in breathing rhythm; the minute glint of alarm in the eyes. Was there something hidden in the bags after all? He looked at the two Germans. He wondered if they actually were who their papers said they were.

  Suddenly it was clear to him. If course! That was it. Had to be. The ID papers and travel permit had been forged for the Kotsches by the SS; that he knew. But that was not all. Operation Birch Tree had had further duties.

  “Grab the bags,” he ordered Kowalski and the other GI. “And the suitcases. Go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. The linings. The seams. Every inch.”

  He watched the woman; she was the one who had the least control over her micro-momentary reflexes. Kotsch himself was like a damned cigar-store Indian. He expected to see apprehension and alarm on the woman’s face. Instead, she seemed to relax.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Herr Offizier,” Kotsch said suddenly, “before you destroy our few remaining belongings, I have a statement to make.”

  Woody held up a hand, stopping the GIs in their search. “Go ahead,” he said.

  Kotsch drew himself erect. “I am Oberst Herbert Kotsch,” he stated. “Colonel in the German Army, Retired.” He suddenly spoke in a firm, authoritative voice. “You are correct. My wife and I did work for an organization that attempted to aid our country’s leaders escape the vengeance of the conquerors. I was gassed in the First World War. At Marne. I could not serve my Fatherland, the Third Reich, on the field of honor. Only in this way.”

  “What about the young couple I asked about?” Woody pressed at once.

  Kotsch nodded. “They were here. We afforded them a place to hide. That was all.”

  “Who were they?”

  “We asked for no names.”


  “Where are they now?”

  “They left here two days ago,” the colonel said. “I do not know where they are now.”

  “The hell you don’t!” Woody shot at the German officer. “I know how the escape route works. You would have sent them on to the next stop.”

  “You are mistaken,” Kotsch said evenly. “We were not part of the route itself. Only a temporary waiting station. The couple you ask about would have been instructed where to go by others. Not by us.”

  Woody glared at him. Dammit!—it could be true. It did fit with what Konrad Bock had told him. Then, who? Who had given the young SS officer his instructions? The Bocks? No. His instinct—his hunch—told him that the Bocks had told the truth.

  Not so Colonel Herbert Kotsch, Retired, and his wife.

  Not the full truth.

  He glanced at the woman. Suddenly silent, having abandoned her usual garrulous ways, she was content to let her husband do the talking.

  Woody turned to Kowalski. “Go ahead, Corporal,” he said. “Let ‘er rip! The Colonel here has lost his memory. Let’s see what we can find.”

  Surreptitiously he watched the woman. The expected reaction did not occur. No tension. No apprehension. Nothing! It did not make sense. A moment ago when he had . . .

  Dammit! It did make sense!

  Abruptly he nodded to the GI. “You,” he said. “Soldier. Wheel that bike over here.”

  This time the reaction, the sudden tenseness, was there. Visibly so. The woman stared at the bike being pushed over to him as if it were made of solid gold—and about to explode.

  He looked at it, curiously. It appeared quite ordinary. It had obviously seen quite a lot of use. The seat was padded; it was large and thick, made for comfort.

  The seat!

  Quickly he took out his knife and with a single cut slashed open the saddle. He pried the leather apart. Inside was a compact stuffing of spongy rubber. Nothing else.

  The woman was staring at him, her mouth half open, her eyes wide. Unconsciously she tried to moisten her dry lips with her tongue.

  Woody gave the saddle a forceful wrench and twisted it off the seat tube. He peered into the hollow frame. A couple of inches below the rim—leaving only enough space to give the saddle pin a purchase—a string was taped to the inside of the steel tube. With a finger he fished it up. He hauled it out. Attached to it was roll after roll of tightly wound new $100 bills!

  He had found the further product of Operation Birch Tree!

  He looked at the two bikes. He had no doubt the hollow frames of both of them were stuffed with U.S. currency. Forged, of course. But so masterly executed that only an expert might detect it.

  The damned bikes were worth their weight in gold, he thought wryly. And they had just exploded in the faces of Herbert and Gertrud Kotsch.

  He glanced at them. They stood frozen, chalk-faced, staring at the bikes.

  It suddenly all made sense.

  Gertrud and Herbert Kotsch were skipping out. Absconding with the funds given to them by their organization for dispersement to escape route travelers, hoping to be able to disappear with their loot in the chaotic aftermath of the war. Sterling characters. No wonder they had been willing to sacrifice their paltry souvenirs.

  They had their own little personal fortune. It was their anxiety over that which he had detected. That was what had been nagging him all along.

  He smiled sardonically at Kotsch. “Well, Herr Oberst,” he said. “It looks as if this leg of the B-B Achse will be without funds for awhile.”

  Kotsch remained silent.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” Woody went on. “The forgeries are good. Damned good. But sooner or later you would have been caught. And would have had to pay the price.” He regarded the man speculatively. “You will, of course, have to be tried by the Military Government courts—you and your wife. You will, of course, be placed in a Detention Camp. Probably near Halle.” He looked at the bikes. He sighed. “I will do my best to ensure your safety there,” he said. “But—I can promise nothing.”

  Kotsch looked up. “Safety,” he frowned. “Promise? I do not know what you mean.”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple, Herr Oberst,” Woody explained guilelessly. “The Halle Detection Camp is like the other camps. Internal security is provided by the internees themselves.” He looked pityingly at the Kotsches. “Once they learn that you tried to defraud your organization—betrayed the Reich, as it were—running off with their money given you in trust, your safety may be endangered. I . . .”

  “We did not!” Kotch burst out. “Our orders . . .”

  “But will your fellow internees know that?” Woody asked. “Will they believe you—or the evidence?” He glanced at the bikes.

  Kotsch clamped his mouth shut. He knew the answer.

  “Unfortunately,” Woody went on, “unfortunately we have had a few rather messy cases like this before. And there are other internees at the Halle camp who worked in organizations such as yours.” He shrugged. “They may take actions that—I’m sure you understand, Herr Oberst—that are difficult if not impossible for us to control.”

  The Kotsches looked soberly at one another, fear pinching their faces. Gertrud instinctively moved closer to her husband.

  “Of course,” Woody said tentatively, “no one at the camp need know of your—eh—temporary lapse of discretion. I could keep that between us.”

  Kotsch looked at him. “For a price, I take it,” he said bitterly.

  Woody could almost see the wheels spin in the German’s head. He would rather take his chances with his enemies than with his own kind.

  “For a price,” he nodded.

  Kotsch sighed. He clutched his wife’s arm.

  “The address is Bebelgasse 49,” he said tonelessly. “In Eisenach.”

  “And the password?”

  “Baumannshöhle.”

  “Countersign?”

  “Hermannshöhle.”

  Woody turned to Kowalski. “Corporal,” he said, “you will take the prisoners—and their bikes—with you when you return to your unit.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I will write a report and forward it to your CO.” He turned to Kotsch. “Just one more thing, Herr Oberst,” he said. “I want to see where that young couple was hidden.”

  Kotsch shrugged. “I no longer have the key,” he said.

  “Don’t worry,” Woody assured him. “We’ll manage.” He motioned to Kowalski. “Corporal, you come with us.”

  The lock on the door to Baumannshöhle yielded to the second blow of Kowalski’s gun butt. By the light of the carbide lamps the three men descended into the caverns below. They made their way through the halls and chambers, past contorted pillars of stone and glistening stalactites and stalagmites, marveling at the spectacularly gnarled and craggy rock formations. They squeezed through the narrow opening at the end of the public caves, negotiated the tight corridor, and finally stood in the chamber that had been the hiding place for the B-B Achse travelers.

  Woody looked around. Two cots, folded, stood leaning against the wall. A pile of German army blankets lay next to them, as well as several books. At the opposite end of the cave stood a few still-sealed crates and cardboard boxes, and several more open ones, some filled with debris, torn rations wrappings, and empty food and carbide cans. Woody walked over to the trash boxes. He tipped one of them over. The trash spilled out onto the rocky floor: the crumpled paper, empty cans, and a deck of well-worn playing cards as well as other refuse. He overturned another with more debris and rubbish, and another. In the trash was a small piece of dirty, white cloth. He picked it up. It was a small handkerchief spotted with what looked like dried blood.

  He looked closely at it.

  In one corner were embroidered the initials EB.

  He had found his proof.

  Eva Braun was alive.

  16

  YOU’RE AWOL!” Major Hall growled at Woody as he walked into the CIC office. It was just
after 0800 hours, Tuesday, June 5. “You were supposed to report back here yesterday, dammit!”

  “I know, I know, Mort.” Woody put up a defensive hand. “But . . .”

  “I could throw the damned book at you.”

  “But you won’t,” Woody said. “Not after you’ve heard what I have to report.”

  Hall looked speculatively at the young agent. Something was obviously up. Something important. He’d only given lip service to his annoyance when he made his AWOL threat. Hell, CIC work was too damned flexible to bother with that kind of crap. But, dammit, Woody should have at least reported in. He’d actually worried about him gallivanting about outside his jurisdiction on some wild goose-step chase. He did not like to worry about his boys.

  “It had better be good,” he grunted.

  “It is,” Woody quietly assured him.

  Quickly, concisely he told his CO of his interrogation of the Bocks in Halle; his tracking down of the Kotsches in Rübeland; their admissions; and his finding of the EB handkerchief. Hall listened to it all without interrupting him.

  “Eva is alive, Mort,” Woody finished. “I know it in my guts.”

  Hall nodded. “I tend to agree with you.”

  “So—the question is why? Why the elaborate hoax to make her appear to be dead? Why the charade carried out by both the Nazis and the Russians, including our lovable Major Krasnov? Why?”

  “I’ll be damned if I know,” Hall said. “What the hell is so all-fired important about her anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” Woody said soberly. “I honestly don’t know. I only know that we’d better find out.”

  “And I suppose you already have a plan for doing just that,” Hall commented caustically.

  “I do.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Hall said.

  Woody told him.

  Hall sat staring at him. “You’re out of your gourd,” he said. “No way.”

  “Okay, Mort,” Woody conceded, “I realize you can’t okay an operation as unorthodox as that.” He looked straight at his CO. “I want your permission to go over your head.”