Eva

by Ib Melchior

  He had only made certain it would.

  One more thing.

  He did not know the woman’s connection with Hacker’s tailor shop, but the Anlaufstelle had to be protected; no suspicion that would trigger an investigation involving the shop—by either the German or the American authorities—must become a possibility.

  He would have to make the killing look like a robbery. No. There was nothing worth taking. It would not make sense. A rape? Possible. Suddenly he had the answer.

  Werewolves.

  He remembered the lurid warning poster he’d seen tacked up on a fence in Bamberg, addressed “to all traitors and collaborators.” In it the Bavarian werewolves threatened death and destruction to all who collaborated with the enemy. “Unser Rache ist tödlich!—Our Vengeance is Deadly!—the broadside had stated. And it had been signed “Der Werwolf”—“The Werewolf.”

  It was perfect.

  He dipped his finger in the still moist and glistening stain on the bed that had been the life of Eva’s best friend. On the mirror he printed in blood: AMI HURE!—Ami Whore!

  And he signed it, “Der Werwolf.”

  He took a last look at the dead girl.

  A word had killed her.

  One single word.

  Eva.

  He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes to two. He had less then seven minutes to get back to the shop in time for the two o’clock rendezvous with their transportation.

  He ran from the room. He bounded down the stairs. He almost collided with an elderly woman entering the downstairs hallway.

  “Heil Hitler!” he shouted at her.

  Startled, she gaped after him as he rushed out of the door and ran down the street.

  The soldier sat warily on a slab of broken masonry from a demolished building a few houses down the street from Hacker’s tailor shop. His Wehrmacht uniform was close to being tattered and there was no way of knowing the rank or service branch of the man. All insignia had been removed. At his feet stood a soiled burlap bag. It probably contained all his worldly belongings. Unshaven, empty-eyed, he looked tired, disillusioned, and dejected.

  SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz had found the disguise as a returning prisoner of war a most effective one. There were thousands of them roaming the roads and streets of postwar Germany trying to make their way home. No one bothered them. The US soldiers looked away, uncomfortably—half guiltily, it seemed. The Germans did not want to get involved; it might mean being asked for food or lodgings. And there was nothing to share. It was exactly what Strelitz wanted. To be left alone. By everyone.

  He was watching the tailor shop that served as a B-B Achse stop. He had seen Lüttjohann run from the place and hurriedly return. He felt the familiar rushing wariness tingle through him; that faculty of being able to feel trouble in the tips of his fingers, developed through his years of SS investigation—his Fingerspitzengefühl. He had long since learned to respect it. It had often saved his life.

  He tensed as he saw Eva and Lüttjohann come out of the shop. They were carrying their belongings. They began to walk down the sidewalk toward him. He shrank against the demolished building, melting into the ruins.

  Behind the approaching couple he saw a canvas-covered US Army weapons carrier come driving down the road. Eva and Lüttjohann were still about fifty feet from him, when he saw the weapons carrier pass them, abruptly cut to the curb and stop just ahead of them. A big, black sergeant, holding a 30 Ml Carbine, jumped from the cab and barred the way of Eva and her escort.

  Tensely Strelitz strained to hear what was said, but they were too far away. He saw the American hold out his hand. He saw the terrified look of alarm in Eva’s eyes. He saw Lüttjohann reach into his pocket and hand the Negro sergeant his ID papers.

  The big black soldier looked at the papers and gave them back. With his carbine he gruffly motioned them to get into the back of the truck. He followed.

  Strelitz stiffened. His hand stole through the front of his tunic to touch the Luger nestled in his belt. Quickly he assessed the situation. When the truck started up and came close, he could pick off the driver. When the black soldier got out to investigate, he would kill him. He then could help Eva and Lüttjohann escape.

  He heard the truck start up.

  His grip on the Luger tightened, and slowly he began to pull it out. He stood up.

  As he did, he was able to look past the driver of the approaching truck, through the open cab into the rear. The back canvas flap was open and he caught a flash image of the three people sitting inside the little truck. All three of them were smiling. The big sergeant was lighting a cigarette for Eva—while Lüttjohann held his carbine!

  Strelitz froze, the Luger half out, and the truck came abreast of him. It gathered speed and drove off down the street.

  Slowly Strelitz let out his breath. It had been close. It was audacious. Using an American vehicle and what appeared to be American personnel to transport B-B Achse fugitives. Was it possible? He had to confirm it. At once.

  He picked up his burlap bag and began to shuffle down the street toward Hacker’s tailor shop.

  Eva drew the smoke from the cigarette into her lungs. She luxuriated the feeling of well-being it created in her. She looked at it. Lucky Strike. It was excellent.

  Out of the corners of her eyes she watched the black sergeant. She had never been close to a Negro before, and the man fascinated her. Jet-black, tightly curled hair; a broad nose with flaring nostrils and full lips in a deep brown face. Like chocolate mousse, she thought. She found him primitively attractive. Of course, Adolf had told her the Negro people were Untermenschen. Inferior, less than human. Only slightly better than Jews. It had all been scientifically researched and proved, he had told her. She remembered when.

  Once, in an amateur show during her school days she had impersonated Al Jolson singing “Sonny Boy.” She had told Adolf about it and showed him a snapshot of her in blackface. He had burst out laughing at seeing her disguised as a Jew impersonating a Negro, as he had said. He had asked to be allowed to keep the little photograph, and he had told her about the black people— Die Schwarze.

  They had left town and were whamming down the country road. Eva shifted on the hard wooden bench. A piece of paper had been caught in a crack. Absentmindedly she pulled it free. She smoothed it out, glanced at it—stiffened.

  It was part of a page from the American soliders’ paper, the Stars and Stripes. Dated May 28, 1945, the headline said:

  LUFTWAFFE LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE.

  The photograph of Ritter von Greim that had caught her attention showed him in his General’s uniform, although the story below it, partly torn away, identified him as Fieldmarshal, the last commander in chief of the Luftwaffe, appointed by Hitler. She read it. Her knowledge of English was good enough so that she could understand the gist of it. Briefly it told of von Greim’s distinguished career as a much-decorated pilot in World War I and his command of an air fleet on the Eastern Front until his promotion. Suffering from a wounded foot, which had become infected, the story reported, he was admitted to the hospital in Kitzbühel in Austria, accompanied by the famous test pilot, Hanna Reitsch. On May 24, after the town had been taken by American troops, he took his life.

  She bit her lip. She knew Greim had been given a vital mission by the Führer when he left the bunker. She knew he had been told to guard its secret with his life. And she knew how very important Adolf had considered it. He had called it Operation Future.

  She wondered if it was to make certain he would not be forced to reveal this, the Führer’s final charge, to the enemy, that the Feldmarschall had taken his own life.

  Did it matter now?

  She sat back. She closed her eyes and let the swaying of the truck rock her.

  In a couple of hours they would be in Memmingen—at their next stop.

  P I N O C C H I O

  Woody and Ilse stared at the sign over the little shop on Bodenfelsstrasse 97 in Neustadt, every letter brightly
painted in a different color and leaning every which way. In the small display window a generously gilded crèche vied for attention with a boy-sized Pinocchio puppet, surrounded by a clutter of other puppets, marionettes, and carved wooden figurines. Under the playful name of the shop was the legend: Manfred Moser—Holzschnitzerei.

  Woody looked at the place with a skeptical frown. Could that be the B-B Achse Anlaufstelle? It was the address they’d been given. He was sure of it. Both he and Ilse remembered it as Bodenfelsstrasse 97. He had a quick pang of alarm. Had they misheard? Both of them? It was not likely. But—a place full of wooden puppets? Manfred Moser, the sign said, Woodcarving. On the other hand, he thought wryly, what’s the difference between Moser’s puppets and Zorina’s dolls? But he couldn’t quite erase the feeling of misgivings from his mind. Had the Zum Stern agent given them a bum steer? The man had seemed a bit resentful when he, Woody, had insisted on leaving early. And the passwords. Festhalle—Banquet Hall, and the countersign, Mädchenfüralles-hand-maid. Somehow they didn’t seem appropriate. How the hell did you work the words Banquet Hall into a casual conversation with a damned woodcarver?

  He wheeled the motorcycle into a small alley next to the building and put it on the side stand. He and Ilse both took an armful of baskets and entered the woodcarving shop. It was just past noon. They had made excellent time.

  A small bell over the door tinkled delicately. No one was to be seen in the shop. Curiously Woody looked around. There were puppets everywhere. Marionettes and half-finished string puppets hanging from the wall; rod puppets, hand puppets, and a couple of ventriloquist dummies propped up wherever there was room; fantoccini, wooden figurines, and severed heads cluttered shelves and tables. And Pinocchios. Every size and shape, with only the long nose in common. At the rear of the shop stood a marionette theater with an ornate proscenium, flanked by heavy draperies. A gaudily clad marionette hung limply over the front of the stage.

  Woody and Ilse put down their baskets.

  “Hello!” Woody called tentatively. “Anyone here?”

  Suddenly a singsong voice rang out:

  Bitte! Bitte! Bitte!

  Was wünschen Sie, mein Herr?

  If you please! If you please!

  What do you want, good Sir?

  Startled they looked toward the voice. The puppet hanging over the front of the marionette theater stage had come to life. He sat on the edge of the stage, cocking his little head at them and waving his hand.

  Woody took a step toward the little theater. “Is anyone here?” he asked. As soon as he had said it, he realized how inane it was.

  Elaborately the puppet swung around and looked up and down in every direction. “Anyone here?” he sang. “Anyone here?” He leaned forward at an impossible angle and looked directly at Woody. “I see no one. Do you?”

  Ilse watched the strutting little puppet with delight, but Woody was not amused. It seemed hardly the time for fun and games. All he wanted, dammit! was the address of the next stop, their papers fixed up, some gasoline—and to be on his way. He was in no mood to hold a conversation with a retarded Mortimer Snerd, for crissake!

  The puppet blew kisses at Ilse.

  Warum, warum, warum,

  1st die Banane krumm?

  He sang with earthy Bavarian peasant humor.

  Warum ist sie nicht g’rade?

  Das ist doch furchtbar schade.

  Why? Why? Why?

  Is the banana bent?

  Why is he not erect?

  That is a dreadful shame.

  “Whoever is back there,” Woody said testily, “we only want some information, please. We have just come to town and we wondered if you could recommend a hotel to us. A reasonable place. It need not have a Festhalle—a Banquet Hall.”

  “Hotels are for sleeping,” the marionette sang out. “Not for me! Not for me! I like to dance.” And the puppet launched into an animated jig.

  Woody stiffened. The countersign! The puppeteer had not given him the countersign! Had he heard? Could he? Behind those damned draperies?

  “Please,” he said loudly and firmly, “I should very much like an answer. You are not in a Festhalle now, my little friend. So, please stop dancing and give me an answer, if you can.”

  The puppet stopped. He bowed. “As you wish, mein Herr,” he said. You might try the Gasthaus Krüger. Two streets to your left.”

  Woody suddenly felt cold. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Either they were in the wrong place, or they had been given the wrong passwords. He was suddenly certain of it. An Anlaufstelle agent wouldn’t make a mockery out of the process of identification, as the puppeteer was doing. The man was just a simple woodcarver. Bavaria was famous for its colorful woodcarvings. There must be thousands of artisans. They had been sent to the wrong place. Deliberately? Had the bastard in Coburg maliciously misled them? Double-crossed them? To show them who was boss? If so, he had only one recourse: Return to Coburg and get the right information. It meant he was dead. As far as the mission was concerned. Dammit all to hell!

  “Thank you,” he said leadenly.

  He started for the door, followed by Ilse. The baskets. They had to hang on to those damned baskets. Come up with some cock-and-bull story of why they were returning to Coburg with them, if they were stopped. He started to pick them up.

  Suddenly a door burst open and a woman came hurrying into the shop from a back room.

  “Manfred!” she called. “Stop him! Do not let him go!”

  At once the puppet on the stage plopped to the floor like a wet rag. The draperies were flung aside—and a man stood facing them.

  A steady hand held a Walther 7.65 pointed straight at Woody’s guts.

  “Stay right where you are,” he ordered coldly. “Both of you. Do not make a move!”

  20

  WOODY GLARED AT THE PUPPETEER. The man was not at all what he had expected. Not the simple, roly-poly and playful Bavarian peasant type, but a man in his fifties, lean to the point of being gaunt, with a deep scar, recent enough still to burn angrily red, running from his left temple to the tip of his chin. Cold, hard eyes bored into them.

  Woody drew himself up. “What do you mean by threatening us?” he exclaimed in outrage. “I shall call the police!” He surveyed the man standing before him. His extreme gauntness gouged deep, black hollows under his eyes and in his cheeks. In a flash image Woody saw the faces of the Flossenburg Concentration Camp inmates. Theirs had been the faces of suffering and horror. The face of the man confronting him was the face of ruthlessness and menace.

  The woman urgently whispered something in the man’s ear. He looked startled. He asked her a question. The woman answered it. Although he tried, Woody could not make out what was being said. The man frowned at him.

  “You asked to be directed to a hotel,” he said slowly. “What kind of hotel did you say you were looking for?”

  “You heard me perfectly well when I asked,” Woody snapped angrily. “A reasonable place. Simple. Without luxuries such as a Festhalle.”

  The puppet maker drew a deep breath. “I was—mistaken,” he said. “I should not have recommended Gasthaus Krüger. There is another place, more suited to your needs. A simple place. With a Mädchenfüralles who will take care of you.” He lowered the gun.

  “What the hell is going on?” Woody asked, exasperated. His fear, only just relieved, still made him sound tense and angry.

  “You must forgive us,” the man said. “But it is better to be overcautious than not cautious enough.” He put away the gun. “My wife just now received the new passwords. Because the Bamberg Anlaufstelle had to be closed down temporarily—a matter of possible compromise—all passwords were changed.” He looked at Woody. “You were not expected here until tonight. You are early.” He eyed him with obvious curiosity.

  “We were lucky,” Woody shrugged. “We came into possession of a motorcycle. We made good time.”

  The woodcarver nodded.

  “It is still early in the day,�
�� Woody went on. “We should like our travel papers brought up to date, including the motorcycle. We need some gasoline—and we shall be on our way to the next Anlaufstelle.” He looked at the man. “Where is it?”

  “In Nördlingen,” the man answered. “At a tailor shop.” He put out his hand. “May I have your papers?”

  Woody handed them to him. He was beginning to relax. “Here,” he said, “I am glad I do not have to present them to your puppet.”

  The man smiled mirthlessly. “You must forgive me my little act,” he said, as he examined Woody’s papers. “It is my cover. A good cover. Who would consider a simple-minded puppet maker a menace, or an agent of the SS?”

  He put Woody’s papers in his pocket. He turned to Ilse. “May I have your papers, too,” he asked. Ilse gave them to him. “We have a collection point,” the man said. “Close by. Mutti will take you there. I shall have your papers fixed up—and you can leave for Nördlingen already tomorrow morning.”

  “We want to leave today,” Woody said firmly. “There is still plenty of time to reach Nördlingen.”

  The woodcarver gave him a quick glance. “That will not be possible,” he said.

  Woody looked straight at him. Here we go again, he thought. “You owe us,” he said quietly. “And everything is possible, if you want it to be.” He went on, emphasizing every word. “Besides, I know the comrades in Die Spinne will—appreciate your cooperation.”

  The puppet maker gave Woody a sharp glance at the mention of the powerful, secret SS organization that operated the B-B Achse. Woody’s veiled hint of the consequences, were he not to be cooperative, was not lost on him. He studied the young man. Who was he? Really? And the girl? She was unusual. Only one other woman had passed through his stop. Only days ago. Who were they? There was no way of knowing. It was possible they were nobodies. It was also possible they were not.