Eva

by Ib Melchior

  It was a beautiful, sun-filled day—the best of the Bavarian summer—with a few fleecy, white clouds accentuating the brilliant blue of the sky. They were making their way leisurely along a dirt road in a wagon drawn by two horses. Klingmüller had told them they would not be staying overnight at the hospital, but would spend the night in a place which was run by the Achse.

  “It is a famous place,” he said proudly. “You will see. In happier times—may they return, God willing—many tourists came to admire it.”

  “A famous place,” Eva asked, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

  “It is a church,” Klingmüller answered her. “A glorious work of beauty and splendor for the worship of our Lord. Perhaps you have heard of it. It is the Pilgrimage Church of Our Flagellated Savior. It is called Die Wies.”

  Eva was delighted. She had heard of Die Wies. She had always wanted to see it. But even though she told Klingmüller that she knew about the church and its colorful history, he insisted on telling them all about it. In reverent detail. It took most of the half-hour ride.

  They listened to how in 1730 two of God’s men from the Premonstratensian Abbey in Steingaden had fashioned a Christ figure from fragments of ancient wooden sculptures of various saints, wrapping the joints in canvas and painting the figure. It showed vividly the bloody violence done to Our Lord and they had called it the Flagellated Savior. They had at first carried it around in processions on Holy Days, but so frightening and ghastly was the image that it aroused too deep a compassion, too great a grief in the faithful, and the figure was put away.

  And he told them how it stood, forgotten, for years in the garret of the innkeeper’s house in Steingaden, until it was discovered by a peasant woman who took it to her farm, called the Wies Farm, where she prayed to it. And the miracle happened.

  He crossed himself.

  On June 14, 1738, on the tortured face of the Flagellated Savior, tears could be seen brimming in the eyes!

  The pilgrims came, then, to worship the holy image—and from a small rural chapel rose the magnificent church of today.

  Even though she knew the story, Eva was moved. Tears, she thought. What tears would the Lord not weep were he to see what had been done to her beautiful, her beloved Bavaria.

  “A room has been set up in the crypt under the church,” Klingmüller told them. “You will stay there until your transportation is ready. Tomorrow. Only the caretaker knows of the place.”

  “I suppose he can be trusted,” Willi said.

  Klingmüller laughed. “No man can be trusted, my friend,” he said. “This one no less, no more than others.”

  He gave Eva a sidelong glance. “Your wife will soon make you a happy man,” he said knowingly to Willi.

  “Die gnädige Frau is not my wife,” Willi said quietly. “I am merely her—protector.”

  Klingmüller nodded sagely. “So,” he said. “The wife of— someone else, then. Someone else who soon will be made proud and happy, not so?”

  “Herr Klingmüller,” Eva said, uneasy with the conversation. “What will happen to the little puppies—after the mother dies?”

  The veterinarian shrugged. “Who, these days, can afford to keep a pet that cannot take care of itself?”

  Eva fell silent.

  The day was all at once less bright.

  The road that led through a forest suddenly opened up onto an expanse of green meadows—and there stood the Wies. A massive, rather graceless structure, Eva thought, with dark, high-ridged roofs and a single clock tower.

  But her sad mood was instantly dispelled when she walked into the church.

  Her first impression was of being overwhelmed by light. Then whiteness and gold. And finally a profusion of incredibly elaborate ornamentation and inspiring frescos in glowing colors. It all took her breath away. It was a glorious manifestation, she thought, of the homage Germany and her people offered up to their God. Eight pairs of soaring columns, red, blue, and purple marble, supported the magnificent vault over the choir, and here, above the high altar, set in a gilt-framed encasement, stood the holy figure of the Flagellated Savior.

  She let her eyes roam around the bedazzling church in awe and delight, exulting in the intricacies of the capitals and cornices, the sculptured cartouches and carvings. She marveled at the exquisite detailing on the spectacular pulpit with its rich and delicate ornamentation. Be doers of the word and not hearers only, read the inscription on the balustrade. Her thoughts went to her Adolf. He had been a doer. A doer for the glory of his Fatherland and for his beliefs. Unconsciously she placed her hand on her abdomen. Would his son have the same burning courage and convictions?

  The little hidden room in the crypt deep under the church seemed doubly dark and somber after the airy brightness of the nave above.

  Eva had a bleak thought of the terrible sewer and the caves at the Harz. Once again she was to be shut away in the dank darkness beneath the surface of the earth. At least, this time, it would be only for one night.

  “Herr Klingmüller,” Willi asked the veterinarian, “how will we travel on the next leg of our journey? I presume it will take us across the Alps?”

  “Quite correct,” Klingmüller acknowledged. “The next Anlaufstelle is in Italy. In the town of Merano. Just south of the Austrian border. Merano is an important collecting point on the route. Three branches of the Achse go off from there. One goes to Naples and Rome. One to Genoa. The main one to Bari. You will enter Austria at Scharnitz, pass through Innsbruck, and cross at the Brenner Pass, a beautiful trip this time of year. You will both enjoy it. Then, down to Merano.”

  “I hope the crossing will not be too strenuous,” Willi said, with a glance toward Eva.

  “Not at all, my dear fellow,” Klingüller assured him expansively. “In fact, I might as well tell you, you and die gnädige Frau will travel in style. By the safest, most risk-free and unexpected means possible. You will be above suspicion.”

  “You intrigue me, Herr Klingmüller.”

  “Only by intention,” the veterinarian laughed. “But I will tell you. You will be travelling as representatives of the International Red Cross.”

  “The Red Cross!” Willi was astounded.

  Klingmüller nodded. “We have a—an excellent working arrangement with certain officials at the Bavarian Red Cross Relief Center in Innsbruck. The mission of the center is to trace missing persons and help to repatriate them whenever possible. They also distribute food parcels. Extensively. We, on our hand, have the means, both the finances and the right connections, to make it attractive for those officials to transport our people to our centers—no questions asked.” He grinned with huge self-satisfaction. “I helped set it up,” he said. “It is a prima arrangement, not so?”

  Willi nodded. He was impressed. The organization was even more resourceful than he had imagined. But, then, that was, of course, typical of the SS.

  “When you leave here,” Klingmüller continued, “it will be in a Red Cross vehicle, flying a Red Cross pennant. No hiding in cramped and dirty quarters. Die gnädige Frau will be quite comfortable. You will have special Red Cross passes made out in four languages,” he chuckled, “showing that you are transporting food parcels to Red Cross centers in Italy—and you will have a Red Cross armband on your sleeve. You will, as I said, be above suspicion!”

  He limped toward the door. He turned. “Should you need assistance with anything while you are down here,” he said, “there is a bell next to the door. It rings in the caretaker’s rooms. Do not hesitate to use it. His name is Johann. Johann Meister.” He grinned at Willi. “Johann can be trusted, my friend,” he chuckled. “As far as you or I.”

  And he was gone.

  Willi looked after him. He had only wanted a simple answer to his question about transportation, not a lecture on the entire operation of the Anlaufstelle and its contacts. Not that it had not been illuminating, he thought wryly.

  He wondered vaguely how a man as talkative as Klingmüller could make a reliable
Anlaufstelle agent.

  He shrugged. That, thank Providence, was not one of his concerns.

  Gustav Klingmüller guided his wagon through the gate into the yard behind the veterinary hospital and pulled the horses to a stop at the stable.

  With only slight curiosity did he notice a motorcycle parked near the main building. A customer, no doubt. Someone with a dry cow or an impotent rabbit. Although he could not think of any local who had a Schnauferl, as the Bavarians called a motorbike.

  The man who had been waiting for him was a stranger. Rugged, with commanding self-assurance, he now stood before him. He had that certain arrogance of a man with power who used it to instill fear in others, Klingmüller thought. He had seen that arrogance before. Often. In the SS officers at the Russian front. Most of them had lost their arrogance—before they lost their lives. He looked with curiosity at the burly man who stood with unbending legs planted solidly on the floor. The elephant has joints, but none for courtesy. The phrase whipped through his mind. He smiled to himself. It had been many years since he had read Shakespeare. But phrases that had impressed him still shot up from the depths of his memory when something triggered their release. Troilus, was it?

  He smiled at the big man. “Sturmbannführer Strelitz,” he said, “you have impressive credentials.” He glanced at the document the man had given him. He had recognized the signature on it at once. He handed the document back to Strelitz. “Yes,” he continued, “very impressive. But it will not get you across the border and into Italy, will it?” he chuckled. “No matter. I will have the proper papers for you tomorrow. Meanwhile, I can put you up here at the hospital for the night, and get you on a transport tomorrow. You will be safe here. Of course, we do have another safe house, away from here, but it is occupied by other travelers at the moment.”

  Strelitz had been about to interrupt the man’s long-winded monologue to correct his impression that he was merely another Achse traveler. He held off. He had wondered where Eva Hitler and her escort were. He had the feeling that if he just kept quiet, he would find out.

  Klingmüller went on. “It is a young couple,” he said. “Johann is taking care of them. My comrade, Johann Meister, who operates this Anlaufstelle with me.” He nodded pensively. “A rather intriguing couple it is, at that,” he observed.

  Strelitz was instantly alert. He knew, of course, who the couple was that Klingmüller was talking about. But what did the man mean by an intriguing couple?

  “Really?” he prompted. “In what way?”

  “You will see for yourself tomorrow, my dear Strelitz,” Klingmüller answered him. “So I might as well tell you, is that not so? It is a young man and a young woman. She is well along in her pregnancy, six months plus, I should judge. But they are not married.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Unusual is, my dear Strelitz, that a woman is traveling the Achse at all,” Klingmüller said. “She is, in fact, the first female traveler to come through here. Unusual is also that the young man who is no Lack’l—not an uncivil fellow—should call himself her protector.”

  “You think he is the father after all?”

  Klingmüller laughed merrily. “Not at all, my dear fellow. There is—something else.” He limped over to a large, battered icebox standing in a corner of the room. “Would you like a nice cold beer, Strelitz?” he asked pleasantly. “I can use one myself. It was hot, riding in the sun to the Wies and back.” He opened the icebox. “We have our own ice plant in Steingaden,” he said. “I keep a few bottles of nice Bock beer in the icebox with my laboratory specimens.”

  “Bitte—yes, please,” Strelitz said. “A beer would be welcome.”

  “Would you like a bite to eat? I have some nice Datschi—or some Blun’sn?” he asked, using the Bavarian dialect words for fruitcake and blood sausage.

  “Danke—no, thank you. A beer will be fine.”

  Klingmüller took out two bottles of winter-brewed, dark brown Bock beer. “From the Bayreuther Bierbrauerei,” he said proudly. “An excellent beer.” He opened them.

  “You said something else was unusual about that young couple,” Strelitz prompted again. He took the beer offered him by the veterinarian. Both men drank straight from their bottles.

  “There is,” Klingmüller confided. “I find it most interesting that a pregnant woman should travel the Achse escape route. With a bodyguard—protector. It made me wonder, you can well imagine, Strelitz, it made me wonder who she is—and even more, who is the father of the child? Intriguing, not so?”

  He took a deep pull on his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture all Bavarian boys seem to have been born with. “I will wager, my dear Strelitz,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, “I will wager the father is a real Bonze—a real big shot in the party! Someone with influence enough to arrange the escape of his girl friend who is no Flitscherl—no cheap hussy.”

  He looked at Strelitz. “Intriguing, is that not so? Trying to deduce who it could be. Who do you think it is, my friend? Bormann? Himmler? Keitel?” He gave Strelitz a sidelong, almost mischievous look. “The Führer himself?” He chuckled. “There were enough rumors that he liked the young ladies, not so? Especially the young ladies of the theater. Perhaps our pregnant little girl is a cabaret chorus girl from Berlin, yes?” He shook his head. “It is intriguing, is it not,” he chuckled, “to speculate who fathered the child in our mysterious young woman’s womb. I must ask Johann; he will have talked to her.”

  He turned away to put his empty beer bottle on a table.

  Strelitz acted. He swung his heavy bottle and struck a crushing blow to the back of Klingmüller’s head. He hit him high on the junction of the parietal bones.

  The man was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  23

  STRELITZ STARED ANGRILY at the unconscious man sprawled on the floor. Klingmüller was a fool, he thought. A dangerous fool. He cursed him for the inconvenience and disruption he had caused and would be causing.

  He had had no choice, of course. The idiot sealed his own fate once he started his dangerous guessing game. Obviously an incorrigible Ausplauderer—a blab—he had to be silenced, before he started to babble his minacious speculations to anyone who would listen.

  It was the kind of situation the Führer in his wisdom had foreseen, he realized, and it had been his privilege to carry out the duty charged him.

  Now to finish it.

  He had an idea. He looked around the office. A large medicine cabinet with glass doors stood against one wall. He walked over to it. He surveyed the contents. Trays of surgical instruments. Ointments, salves, and lotions. Pills and medicines. A few cans of some sort of powder. He picked up one of them. Derris Flohpulver, the label read. It would do. He pocketed it.

  He picked up the unconscious veterinarian and carried him to the door that led to the yard. Across the yard was the stable.

  He peered out. The place was empty. He hefted his limp burden up over his shoulder and carried it to the stable.

  The two horses that had taken Klingmüller and his charges to the Wies were in their stalls. Strelitz dumped the comatose man in the nearest one. The horse eyed the prostrate man uneasily, sidestepping skittishly to avoid the motionless body. Nostrils flaring, the animal snorted in nervous confusion.

  Strelitz took the can from his pocket. He emptied half of the powder into the palm of his hand. He held it out toward the fretful horse. Curiously, apprehensively, the animal stretched his muzzle to examine the strange offering. On the floor Klingmüller groaned and stirred.

  Suddenly Stretlitz blew the powder into the exploring nostrils of the horse.

  Instantly, as the strong flea powder burned and seared the sensitive area, the horse whinnied in alarm. He reared up, as the agony in his nostrils worsened, snorting and neighing. As he came down, one hoof crashed into the chest of the man on the stable floor. Strelitz could hear the rib cage crack. Again and again the maddened horse, in a frenzy of torment, reared
and kicked and bucked, his iron-shod hoofs stomping down repeatedly on the body at his feet.

  Finally the raging of the tortured beast subsided. He stood trembling, his flanks flecked with foam from his mouth, his nostrils flaring.

  The straw in his stall was soggy and red with the blood that oozed from the mangled mass at his feet.

  Strelitz looked down at the dead agent. He hoped he could be identified. His head had been crushed.

  Back in Klingmüller’s office Strelitz put the can of flea powder back in the cabinet. He got himself another bottle of beer from the icebox and sat down to take stock.

  The mess in the stable would be considered an accident, he was certain. He looked around. There was nothing to betray his presence. He would throw the empty beer bottles in a trash bin he had seen in the yard. All three of them. The vet had obviously gone to the stable for one reason or other—and the horse had gone berserk. Any trace of flea powder found would be natural and would arouse no suspicion. There would be no meticulous investigation that might place the Anlaufstelle and the Achse in jeopardy.

  The danger was in the disarray to the operation itself.

  Calmly he examined his options. His first duty was, of course, to the safety of Frau Hitler and her companion. He would go to the Wies at once and contact Klingmüller’s fellow agent there. Then he would have to return to Memmingen and report to the Verteilungsstab. Through Ludwig. They would have to make alternate arrangements for the Anlaufstelle in Steingaden. It should only be a matter of a day or two.

  He glanced at his watch. There would not be enough time to make contact with both Meister in the Wies and Ludwig in Memmingen. He obviously could not take the chance of traveling after curfew and being caught as a violator. He would have to remain at the Wies until the next morning. He was certain he could do so without being seen by Frau Hitler and the SS officer. He would drive back to Memmingen first thing in the morning as soon as the curfew was lifted. Only one thing disturbed him. With the Anlaufstelle schedule thrown out of order by the necessary elimination of Klingmüller, there now was a strong possibility that Diehl and the Gessner woman would catch up with Frau Hitler. But he was certain he could get to Memmingen before they left at the scheduled hour of 0830 on the Stars and Stripes truck, and delay them.