by Ib Melchior
The dawn of Saturday, June 9, was cloudy, gray, and dismal. It matched Woody’s mood perfectly as he listened to the dour Anlaufstelle agent destroy his mission with a few words.
He faced a real dilemma. If he was delayed a week, even a couple of days, he would never be able to catch up with Eva and her escort. On the other hand, if he made too much of a damned fuss, he might arouse suspicion and finish off his whole operation himself. There had to be a way.
“Even if the next stop on the route has been closed down,” he argued, “for security reasons, as you say, you must have alternatives—other than just having us waiting it out.”
The agent looked at him suspiciously. “Why?” he asked tersely. “Why are you so anxious to be on your way? You are quite safe here.”
“Ah,” Woody said, “that’s just it.”
The man glared at him, sharply. “Explain yourself,” he snapped.
Woody looked straight at him. “I did not want to say this,” he pointed out. “But—how safe are we here? Right now—yes. But when more and more travelers gather here to wait, the risks of discovery increase. Perhaps they become too big for me to accept.”
The agent frowned at him.
“I am merely looking for a way to minimize any risk that grow out of the closing down of the next stop on the route,” Woody explained. “Our risks—as well as yours. The fewer travelers you have to shelter here, the better the odds are for you. The less danger there is. For you.”
The man looked thoughtful.
“When you were told of the Anlaufstelle shut-down,” Woody continued, “you must have been given other instructions. Alternatives. Emergency measures.” He let a hint of authority creep into his voice, the ring of a man used to giving orders, and having them obeyed, “I know no plans are made without a backup,” he said sharply. “What is it?”
“It will not work,” the man said.
“Let me judge for myself,” Woody said brusquely. “What is it?”
“We were given the location of the stop next on the route after the one that had to be closed down,” the agent said. “For emergency purposes.” He looked at Woody. “But it will not work. It is too far. Over a hundred and twenty-five kilometers. Only with motor transportation could you make it. And we have none available.”
What transportation do you have?” Woody asked.
“Only bicycles.”
Where is the stop?”
For a brief moment the man contemplated him. “In Neustadt on the Aisch,” he said. “Between Würzburg and Nürnberg.”
“Are our papers ready?” Woody asked. “Up to date?”
The man nodded.
Woody made a fast calculation. A hundred miles. Give or take. They should be able to make it in ten hours on bicycles. They should be able to reach Neustadt before curfew. Anyway, they had to try. They had no choice. Resolutely he turned to the Anlaufstelle operative. He thought he caught a flash of animosity in the man’s eyes. He dismissed it.
“I want to leave for Neustadt,” he said firmly. “Within the hour!”
Woody was getting worried. There was a damned good chance they wouldn’t reach the stop in Neustadt in time. They had been on the road over two hours and they were just pulling in to the little town of Lichtenfels, only fifteen miles south of Coburg. He cursed under his breath as he pumped the pedals on his bike. Dammit! He hadn’t counted on the fucking baskets! Their travel permits stated that they were delivering a load of the famous Coburg baskets to Neustadt. Each of their bikes had a little cart—mounted on bicycle wheels hooked to the back—piled high with the damned things. Even though Ilse valiantly tried to keep up, it slowed them down. Especially on the upgrades, where they often had to dismount and push. No way would they make it, Woody thought gloomily.
He looked back at Ilse, fighting her bike behind him. Sweat stains darkened her blouse under her arms and between her breasts. And locks of auburn hair were caught in the perspiration on her forehead and neck. She looked flushed—and totally desirable.
He smiled at her. He pointed ahead. At the roadside stood a small inn. A sign, with its paint peeling, named it: Zum Grünen Krauze—At the Green Wreath.
“Well stop and rest there,” he called to her. “Get something cold to drink.”
Ilse smiled and nodded.
In the distance, behind them, Woody saw a small cloud of dust rising from the dry dirt road. Rapidly it came nearer and presently a man on a motorcycle roared past, enveloping them in dust.
Woody coughed. When the dust settled, he saw the motorcyclist, a civilian, come to a stop at the inn. He dismounted, wheeled his motorcycle into the shade at the side of the building, and entered the inn.
Woody began to pedal as fast as he could. Startled, Ilse tried to keep up. In a couple of minutes he came to a halt at the inn. He pushed his bike up next to the parked motorcycle. He inspected it. It was a Belgian make, late 1930s model.
Ilse joined him.
Woody stood staring at the motorbike. It was against all the rules laid down by the Achse—but what the hell. He had to take the chance, or he might as well kiss his whole damned mission goodby. He didn’t want to come crawling back to Buter telling him he screwed up. The guy would nail his balls to the nearest wall.
“Quick!” he said. “Grab half a dozen of those damned baskets.” He turned to the motorcycle. “This thing is going to get us to Neustadt in no time!”
At once, without questioning him, Ilse grabbed some of the wicker baskets. She hung a few of them over each arm. Woody kicked up the side stand and mounted the bike.
“Get behind me,” he said. “And hold on.”
She did—the baskets sticking out to the sides like wicker wings of a wheeled Pegasus.
Woody stomped on the kick starter. The motorcycle roared to life—and in a cloud of dust they careened down the road.
They were making excellent time. Less than an hour later and thirty miles closer to their destination, a few miles before the town of Bamber, the motorcycle engine sputtered, missed—and died.
Using a long straw Woody tested the fuel tank.
It came up bone dry.
They were still a good fifty miles from the Anlaufstelle in Neustadt. They had no transportation—and they were saddled with half a dozen baskets they could not discard because their travel permits specifically stated they were bringing them to Neustadt.
Woody kicked the motorcycle. Dammit all to hell!
He peered ahead up the road. In the far distance he could make out the skyline of the city of Bamberg. They had no choice. They’d have to push the damned bike with the damned baskets—and hope they’d be able to find some gasoline in town.
He knew the chances were as close to nil as they could get.
It was just before noon when they passed by a railroad yard on the northern outskirts of the city. Parked at a warehouse were three or four American 2½-ton trucks.
Woody stopped. While Ilse sat down on the grassy road shoulder to rest, he took the opportunity to inspect the contents of a small leather pouch attached to the rear of the seat. A short chain and a combination lock to secure the motorbike when unattended; it would do him no good, he did not know the combination of the lock; a few open-end and box-end wrenches wrapped in an oily rag. That was all. While he looked it over he watched the trucks. One GI was guarding them. He stood, smoking a cigarette, at the lead vehicle. No one else was in sight.
Woody motioned to Ilse. “Come on.” He began to wheel the motorcycle along the road toward the railroad yard. And the trucks. “Look, Ilse,” he said urgently, “when we get to the trucks we’ll stop again. You go on up to the soldier. Talk to him. Understand?”
Ilse shot him a startled glance. “Talk?” she said. Then, quickly, she saw what he was after. “Yes,” she said. “I will do it. I will keep him—occupied.”
Woody watched the girl walk up to the GI. Apparently she asked for a cigarette. He saw the grinning GI give her one and light it for her, while he ogled her. Ilse wa
s smiling and chattering. She’d keep the guy busy, Woody thought. Long enough.
He wheeled the bike to the far side of the trucks, out of sight of the sentry. There were three trucks. He ran to the nearest one. In the side rack were two Jerry cans. Gasoline.
He stopped in consternation. A steel chain ran through the handles of the cans. They were locked to the truck. His eyes flew down the road of trucks. All the cans had chains.
He stared at the can before him. It was all there. Every drop he’d need—and a helluva lot to spare. But how the hell was he going to get it?
Siphon it! He could siphon out enough of it. Even as he thought it he knew it was impossible. What with? He had no tube. Nothing. So how the hell . . .
Suddenly he knew how.
He tore his shirt out of his trousers and ripped off part of it. He wrapped the rag around a stick he found on the ground and tied it. He opened the lid on the can and stuck the cloth into it. It came up dripping wet.
Gasoline!
Quickly he wheeled the bike up close to the truck. Again he dipped the rag into the can and wrung it out over the open fuel tank on the bike. Half a cup. More. He set to work. Dipping and wringing. He felt totally exposed. Any second he expected to hear a shout of alarm. It suddenly struck him that everyone was his enemy. Krauts and Americans alike. Every man, woman, and child—every GI. He was hunted by all. He prayed that Ilse would be able to keep the GI interested and that no one else would show up.
A few minutes later he was done. He estimated he’d wrung out a couple or three pints of gasoline. Enough to get them to Neustadt.
He threw the stick away. His hands reeked of gasoline. He gloried in the stink of it. He wheeled the bike back to the road.
Ilse saw him. Quickly she leaned forward and lightly kissed the GI on the lips. As quickly she drew away and, waving gaily, she ran toward the road.
Woody was waiting for her. She’d done her job well, he thought. But did she have to kiss the damned guy?
It felt good to have her close behind him again, the baskets jutting out from her arms.
He gunned the motorcycle and barreled off toward Neustadt.
Willi looked at his watch. It was past noon. Their transportation would be ready to pick them up at two o’clock, Hacker had told them. They would get to their next stop in Memmingen well before dark.
He looked at Eva. She had regained her composure completely. “We should be getting our things together,” he said. “I’ll just make a trip downstairs.”
Eva stood up. “I’ll go with you,” she said.
They made their way down the steep stairs from the attic. They could hear Hacker rummaging around for something in his rooms on the second floor. They continued down to the workroom.
Willi was making for the little bathroom when suddenly the heavy portiere in the doorway to the shop was thrown aside and a young woman, a couple of dresses cradled in her arms, came into the workroom.
“Herr Hacker,” she called. “Können Sie . . .” She stopped short. Her hand flew to her mouth. She stared at Eva.
“Eva!” she exclaimed. “Du lieber Gott! Eva Braun!”
19
EVA STOOD TRANSFIXED, staring at the girl. Willi at once stepped up to the young woman. He smiled at her—that special smile with which a man can tell a woman that she attracts him. “You are mistaken, Fräulein,” he said pleasantly, holding her eyes with his. “My sister’s name is Anneliese. Not Eva.” His eyes subtly explored her puzzled face. “A pity all the same,” he said regretfully. “I should have liked you and Anneliese to be friends.”
The girl frowned prettily at Eva. “But I . . .”
Hacker came into the room. “Ah! Fräulein Damm,” he said, “I see you have brought the dresses. I am certain we can fix them up for you.” He fingered them analytically. “Yes, yes,” he nodded. “There are many months of wear left in them.” He took her by the arm and steered her toward the door to the front shop. “You will try them on, yes? In the dressing room.” He turned to Willi and Eva. “I will be with you in just a few moments,” he said politely. “I have your suit ready, mein Herr.”
And he disappeared into the shop with the bewildered girl.
Willi turned to Eva, who stood, ashen-faced, beside him, staring after Hacker and the girl. “Who is she?” he whispered hoarsely, obviously deeply disturbed. “How does she know who you are?”
“Fannerl Damm,” Eva breathed. “She was—my best friend. At Simbach.”
“Simbach?”
Eva nodded. “It—it is only about a hundred kilometers east of here,” she explained. “On the Austrian border. There was a convent school for girls there. It was run by the English sisters. I went to school there. I was sixteen. Fannerl, she was my best friend.” She stood staring at the faded blue portiere seemingly unaware of what she was saying. “It was so strict. Rules and rules. I—I hated it. Only the shows were fun. We—we used to put on shows. Fanned was always so good.”
“Eva,” Willi said firmly. He took her by the shoulders and gazed intently into her eyes. “Go to the attic. Wait there. I will talk to your friend. Explain why it is important she does not know you. We have not much time. Go. Now. Please.”
Eva nodded. “We were—best friends, Fannerl and I,” she whispered. “Best friends . . .”
She started up the stairs.
Willi turned toward the shop. He was profoundly alarmed. The impossible had happened. Eva had been recognized. The danger was enormous. Frightening. He had to make sure her friend stayed silent.
He parted the curtains and peered into the shop. Hacker was just taking his leave of the young woman. She stopped in the door and glanced back at the curtained workshop, an expression of excitement and puzzlement on her face.
She left.
Willi hurried into the shop. “Help my travel mate get ready,” he said to Hacker. “She is upstairs. I will be back.”
Hacker nodded. Willi slipped out of the door into the street. A short distance away he saw Fannerl Damm hurrying across the street.
He followed.
The girl walked rapidly down a side street and entered a small apartment house. Willi ran after her. It was imperative that he get to her before she had a chance to talk to anyone. To gossip about her secret discovery.
He stepped through the front door—just in time to hear a door close on the floor above. He ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. On the door to one of the apartments on the landing was a sign: F. Damm.
He knocked.
Fannerl Damm opened the door. She looked at Willi with astonishment.
“Please, Fräulein Damm,” he said quickly, “forgive me. I did not want to startle you. But I thought we owed you an explanation. May I come in?”
The young woman regarded him, a strange hopeful, timid, and appraising look in her eyes. He recognized the look. It dwelled in the eyes of so many young women in Germany. It was the look of loneliness. She held the door open. “Bitte,” she said prettily, not unaware that Willi was apparently attracted to her.
He stepped into the room. It was a small, one-room apartment with a kitchen alcove. He took it all in with a single glance. A large bed, neatly made; a threadbare sofa; a table with two straight-backed wooden chairs; a chest of drawers with a pink-patterned porcelain washbowl and pitcher and a mirrored back; a large wardrobe painted with colorful Bavarian ornaments. Fannerl Damn did not live in luxurious surroundings.
“It is Eva,” she said, looking straight at Willi. “I was certain of it!” She was obviously excited. “When we heard what happened in Berlin, I—I cried.” She put her hand on Willi’s arm. “We were best friends,” she confided. “Many years ago. You understand. I could not be mistaken.” She clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, it is so wonderful she is still alive!”
“Fräulein Damm,” Willi said quietly. “There is something I must tell you. Something of great importance.” He looked solemnly into her eyes. They were pale blue, almost white, he thought. He placed his hands gentl
y on her shoulders and felt her nearly imperceptible shiver of pleasure. “Will you listen to me?”
“Of course.”
“You are aware, now, of Eva’s relationship to the Führer?” he asked.
“Of course,” Fannerl said, bubbling with the excitement. “It was so—fantastic! I did not know. Not until the announcement came out that she and the Führer were dead. And that Eva had become the Führer’s wife!”
Willi nodded grimly. He paced before her. “This brings me to the point I want to discuss with you, Fräulein Damm,” he said. For a moment he paced in silence, obviously searching for the best way to say what he had to say. He walked behind her chair. “I— I hope you will understand.”
She started to turn to him. He touched her hair. “Your hair is very pretty,” he said softly. “It has such a lovely shine.”
She looked down at her hands. He could see the blush rise on her neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The blade sliced across her throat, biting into her white skin as easily as a warm knife into soft butter, severing her jugular vein and cutting her windpipe, instantly choking off any sound. Only a bubbly gurgle frothed in her slashed throat. She wrenched her head around in a final spasm of agony. Her eyes met his in an eternal moment even as they glazed over in death—the astonishment and hurt in them dying with her. The warm blood that welled out over his hands felt silken and slick. He picked her up. He was surprised. In death she was heavier than he had thought she would be. He carried her to the bed and put her down. The bedding would absorb the blood. No need to leave a mess in the room. He poured some water into the porcelain basin and washed the blood from his hands.
He turned the girl over. Only a little blood was still oozing from her throat. Her open eyes stared up at him as if they wanted to commit to a dead memory the image of the man who had robbed her of her life.
Involuntarily he shuddered. He was instantly angry with himself. The primary rule was to sever from yourself all feelings when a disagreeable duty had to be performed. And the girl had been a menace. A menace that had to be eradicated. Ruthlessly—and without delay. No regrets. In his mind he heard the Führer’s solemn charge: No one must know. The secret must stay with us.
