Eva

by Ib Melchior

  If an encounter did become imminent he would have to terminate the journey of the young SS officer and the daughter of Klara Gessner.

  He cursed himself. An urgency, a tightness, a danger had crept into the journey which he had not wanted, not anticipated. It was becoming a race. A race with time—and danger. He should have taken care of the threat posed by Diehl, however tenuous, when he had the opportunity. He had let himself be blinded by the parentage of the girl. He should have realized that something would go wrong along the way. Something always did. That was the reason for contingency planning.

  Perhaps it was not too late.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz looked at his watch. He felt a pang of nostalgia. The watch was an SS issue; its black dial gleamed fiercely at him. He had no qualms about wearing it. There were enough of them around, adorning the wrists of Germans and Amis alike to arouse no suspicion. It was 0627 hours. The motorcycle purred under him. He would be in Memmingen in ample time to take care of Diehl and his girl.

  He had spent the night in an empty room in the Pfarrhaus— the parsonage—adjoining the Wies, without getting near the crypt where Meister had told him the young couple was awaiting transportation.

  Johann Meister, a dour, flat-eyed individual, had at once understood the situation. Strelitz was confident the man would be able to follow through, until the organization could put an alternate Anlaufstelle into effect. Frau Hitler and her escort would be on their way to Merano in two or three hours time, with only a short delay. He would have time enough to dispose of his mission in Memmingen, and get to Merano before nightfall. He estimated the whole trip to be about 250 kilometers, if he took the direct route to the border without detouring to Steingaden and the Wies. It was a damned long haul, but he would make it.

  He had just passed the little side road that branched off to the village of Burggen from the road to Marktoberdorf, when he saw a dense cloud of black smoke hanging in the clear sky over the road in the distance. The woods lining the road prevented him from seeing what caused it. A fire obviously. A farmhouse? Barn? A haystack? From the sooty color of the smoke, perhaps a vehicle. He drove on.

  Quite suddenly, around a bend in the road, the forest gave way to a stretch of cultivated fields, and Strelitz saw what had caused the smoke.

  It was not one vehicle, but two.

  Two US Army trucks, ditched near a small grove of trees, one overturned, both blackened by fire and still smoldering, their contents of crates and boxes spilled out on the road shoulder and in the ditch. On the road itself at least a dozen US Army jeeps and weapons carriers were haphazardly drawn up, and several Ami soldiers were grimly busying themselves around the still smoking trucks. On the road shoulder lay four forms, covered by blankets. A short distance before the site of the burned trucks an Ami jeep was halted across the road, blocking it.

  An MP sergeant waved Strelitz to a halt with his tommy gun. He had no choice but to obey. It was too late to turn around. The sergeant strode up to him. With unconcealed animosity he glared at him. “Over there!” he snapped angrily. “Da!” He pointed. “Schnell! Schnell! Da! You wait!”

  Strelitz wheeled his motorcycle into a field, joining a small group of anxious Germans who stood around a battered wood-burner truck, two horse-drawn wagons and an old, banged-up Packard touring car.

  He walked up to a farmer who stood off by himself, scowling at the scene. In the distance the wail of an approaching ambulance gradually grew louder.

  “What happened?” Strelitz asked the farmer.

  “What do you want from me?” the man growled.

  “Nothing. If you have nothing to say.”

  The farmer hawked and spat on the ground. “Someone amused himself with a couple of Ami trucks,” he grumbled.

  “Who?”

  “See for yourself.” The man nodded toward the nearest of the smoldering vehicles.

  Strelitz strained to look. On the side of the truck, partly obliterated by soot, something could be seen smeared on in white paint. A swastika. And little by little he could make out the crude writing accompanying it: “Americans! Beware! Before us, men turn into nothing! Der Werwolf!”

  “They kept their word,” the farmer muttered. “I saw them, the four Amis. I was one of the first ones here. Their throats were cut.” He nodded slowly. “And they were no longer—men.”

  Strelitz looked at him sharply. “How so?” he asked.

  The farmer did not look at him. “Each one,” he said, “each one of them had his Schwanz—his prick—cut off.” He was silent for a brief moment. “And stuck in his mouth,” he growled.

  Strelitz felt uneasy. He did not care what had happened to the Amis. Only that the MPs might take it out on the people they rounded up. In any case, there would be a delay. A delay, before they got around to checking everyone out and sending them on their way. A delay he could not afford. He was not worried that his papers would not stand up to scrutiny by a bunch of MPs. They were the best. But he had to reach Memmingen before Diehl left the ropery.

  He looked at the scene of bloody and fiery carnage. The words of Reichsführer Himmler suddenly rang out in his mind: Ruthless resistance will spring up behind their backs time and time again. Like werewolves, brave as death, the avengers will strike the enemy!

  Well and good, he thought. Only, this time, the action of the werewolves might well have struck down a vital friendly mission.

  He looked around. Another wagon had joined the group. Perhaps he could double back, find a side road and bypass the scene of the werewolf raid. He started to wheel his bike toward the road.

  The MP sergeant stopped him. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he rasped angrily. “Back. Wait! Los!”

  Strelitz addressed him in simple German. “I will go back,” he explained deferentially. “With your permission, I will try to find another road. It is important I get where I go as quickly as I can.” He gestured. “I will go—around.”

  “The hell you will, you Kraut shithead!” the sergeant spat. “You get your ass back there. You’ll wait, you bastard. If it takes all day!”

  It was 1142 hours when Strelitz finally pulled up at the ropery in Memmingen. He had seen no Stars and Stripes truck on the way. It meant nothing, of course. The truck could have taken any one of the several different roads between Memmingen and Steingaden. There could have been a delay, or a change of transportation. The route was flexible.

  Ludwig met him at the gate. He greeted him with a self-satisfied look on his face.

  “You will be pleased to know, Herr Sturmbannführer,” he beamed, “that Diehl and Fraülein Gessner left for Steingaden on the Stars and Stripes truck—on schedule!”

  The light in the confined space behind the bundles of newspapers stacked almost to the roof of the truck was feeble, but Woody—his eyes having grown used to the faint light—could still make out the headlines and some of the body of the stories in the paper he had pulled from one of the bundles. Stars and Stripes, Monday, June 11, 1945.

  The Allied Control Committee was still trying to hammer out details of the agreement reached in Berlin on June 5 by the four superpowers, represented by Eisenhower, Montgomery, Zhukov, and Tassigny, which divided Germany into four occupation zones with Berlin to be run jointly. Woody hadn’t even known of the agreement—let alone the detailed problems it had stirred up . . . Great Britain and the US had made an agreement with Tito for the military administration of Trieste and Venezia Giulia, the region in northeast Italy formed after World War I from ceded territories . . . The point score for enlisted men was about to be lowered again; and the Soviet commander in Vienna had ordered the British military missions to get out.

  The Krasnov syndrome on a larger scale, Woody thought wryly. Whenever he thought of the brazenly two-faced Russian liaison bastard, he bristled.

  He glanced at Ilse who sat silent and withdrawn, huddled in a corner of the cramped space. Ever since that damned interrogation i
n Memmingen she had been cool and distant. He knew she felt betrayed and he ached to take her into his confidence and tell her the whole damned truth. Take her in his arms and comfort her; restore her trust in him. And the world around her. He knew he could not, and it was about to tear him apart. But his mission had to come before his own personal feelings, so he tried to force himself to ignore his emotions, thereby making the anguish greater. There was nothing he could say, and the silence was bitter. For them both.

  He heard the driver tap on the cab window. He peered through it. “Steingaden,” the man mouthed at him. He held up two fingers. “Zwei minuten!”

  Woody turned to Ilse. He touched her shoulder. She stiffened, but she did not move away. There was nowhere to go.

  “We are ready to get off,” he called to her, over the rumbling of the truck. “Two minutes.”

  The girl did not look at him. She gathered her belongings together and sat hugging them to her.

  The truck came to a stop. Woody heard the cab door slam, and the rear door being opened. Light spilled in trickles through the cracks between the bundles of paper—becoming a torrent as the driver pushed aside the bundles covering their exit.

  “Everybody out!” he called cheerfully.

  The driver had let them out south of the village. The veterinary hospital which was their destination lay just ahead, around a bend in the road, he’d told them. As they walked along, their bundles slung over their shoulders, Woody looked at his watch. 1147 hours. They had been on the road a good four hours. The driver had had to make an unscheduled detour to Kempten, and the trip had taken almost twice as long as it should. Perhaps there was still a chance they could continue to the next stop that same day anyway, he thought, depending on where it was.

  They walked around the bend in the road—and stopped dead.

  Ahead they could see what was obviously the hospital. Several vehicles were drawn up on the road before the building. American jeeps, an official-looking German car—and an ambulance.

  Woody stared at the unexpected scene. Had the Anlaufstelle been blown? What the hell had happened? No matter, he thought grimly. They would have to act as if it did not concern them.

  “Ilse,” he said tautly, “just walk. Follow me. Pay no attention to anything. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  They walked on past the hospital. Only one man, sitting in the civilian car, was in evidence. He paid them as little attention as they did him.

  Woody was disturbed. He tried not to let it show. He knew Ilse must be afraid. Uncertain. He knew she needed assurance and support. He could not give it, nor would she take it. Dammit all to hell! He cursed the SS officer who had forced that damned interrogation on him.

  The sign pointing down the sylvan side road read: DIE WIES 3 KM. It was the alternate stop. Ludwig had instructed them to go there in the unlikely case of trouble at the hospital. To look for the caretaker, Johann Meister. And he’d been given alternate passwords.

  The road led through a forest, and Woody was glad for the shade. He had begun to sweat. He didn’t know if it was because of the hot summer day or the disturbing turn of events. He hoped the first. He was getting thirsty. It had been close and hot in the truck. Memories of the tall glasses of cool iced tea his mother used to serve on hot summer nights back in San Francisco flooded his mind. And, unbidden, the corny joke his father had always told, scandalizing his mother—especially when company was present. The one about the New Mexico Indian who drank forty-seven cups of iced tea on a real hot summer day. And how the next day they’d found him dead in his tepee.

  He chuckled to himself. He felt Ilse eye him, strangely. Startled, he realized he had chuckled aloud. What the hell was he doing?

  Whatever it was, he felt better.

  Suddenly the sound of a motor vehicle could be heard approaching on the road ahead. They walked over to the shoulder, trudging on, single file. The vehicle passed them. It was a truck. It flew a Red Cross flag. Woody thought he could glimpse three people in the cab before the cloud of fine dust stirred up by the truck enveloped him. Dammit! The dust stuck uncomfortably to his sweaty skin. He suddenly didn’t know what he wanted more. A cold drink or a shower.

  Ludwig had mentioned that the Wies was some kind of showcase church, but Woody had not been prepared for the sight that met him when he stepped from the entrance hall into the nave. He stopped dead and stared. He had the feeling he’d walked into a gigantic wedding cake, angels, hearts, and all. Even the gilt was gilded. It was as gaudy and as garish as anything he’d ever seen. He looked around in genuine awe. My God, it’s pretentious, he thought.

  In the choir at the far end a man was polishing the marble in the base of a tall marble column. Woody and Ilse walked toward him. As they got closer, Woody had another surprise. The marble. It wasn’t marble at all. It was painted plaster, for heaven’s sake. How kitschy, he thought. He looked at the figure of Christ that stood in a niche above the high altar. A strange, disturbing, marionette-like figure, flecked with painted blood. He chilled. It was the eyes. Haunted. Filled with abysmal suffering. He had seen the same eyes before. In the faces of the Flossenburg Concentration Camp inmates.

  The man at the column stopped his work as he saw them approach. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Woody said. “I was wondering. Could you tell me, please. Tempus non erit amplius—there shall be delay no longer— is it not from Apocalypse 6:10?”

  “You are in error, mein Herr,” the man answered. “It is Apocalypse 10:6.” He looked at them. “I am Johann Meister,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  In the crypt room under the church Meister gave Woody and Ilse a surly look. “You have come here at an unfortunate time,” he remarked, obviously resenting their presence and the necessity of attending to them at a time when more pressing matters demanded his attention.

  Woody nodded. “Apparently so, Herr Meister. What happened?”

  “An—accident,” the caretaker answered evasively. “It is being investigated. By both the Gemeinde Behörden—the township authorities—in Steingaden, and the Amis.”

  “I saw them at the Anlaufstelle,” Woody acknowledged. He looked worried. “They may come here, too. To investigate. Is that not so?”

  “No,” Meister snapped, “there is no chance of that.” But he did not sound convinced. “I am certain.”

  “That is not acceptable,” Woody said curtly. “I will not risk being caught in a routine accident investigation, because of a stupid mistake on the part of some idiot!” He glared at Meister. “You will have to send us on to the next Anlaufstelle immediately!”

  “That is impossible,” Meister declared.

  “Nothing is impossible!” Woody shot back at him.

  “If you had arrived this morning,” Meister muttered irritably, “you could have left on the Red Cross transport with the other couple.” He scowled at Woody. “Now, you will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “I will have to do nothing!” Woody snapped testily. He was startled. Red Cross! The damned escape route employed Red Cross vehicles. With Red Cross cooperation? It was incredible. But there it was. With a surge of excitement he suddenly realized that that “other couple” of Meister’s had to be Eva and her cohort. They had been in the Red Cross truck that passed them on the road less than an hour ago! He thought one of the three people he’d glimpsed through the windshield had been a woman. He’d thought nothing of it then because—my God!—Red Cross.

  Cold-eyed he glared at the caretaker. Here was his chance. “I am afraid, Herr Meister,” he said icily, “I am afraid I do not think that under the uncertain circumstances my companion and I will be safe here overnight.” He glowered at the agent. “And neither will you, my good fellow, if you are found here with us.” He drew himself haughtily erect. “If you cannot assist us, as required of you, I must attempt to reach the next Anlaufstelle on my own. And, of course, give a full report to the Brotherhood.” He gave Meister a withering look. “I am certain yo
u understand.”

  Meister suddenly looked frightened. “I can assure you,” he said fervently, “I would like you gone from here as much as you do. I am fully aware of the danger your presence here constitutes at this time.”

  “Then I suggest you find a way to send us on,” Woody snapped.

  Meister nodded. “As you say.”

  “Then do so!”

  “There—there is a possibility,” the caretaker ventured uncertainly, “a slight possibility that . . .”He stopped. He was obviously thinking.

  “I am waiting, Meister!” Woody snapped.

  “There is a special Red Cross courier arriving here,” Meister said. “He is not supposed to be a transport. He is here to get a full report on the—the accident. And he will have instructions regarding changes in the Red Cross escape route assistance in crossing into Italy. He—he should be here within the hour.” He looked at Woody. “I will talk to him. Perhaps . . .”

  “We will both talk to him,” Woody interrupted firmly. “Where is the next stop?”

  “The Red Cross transport goes to the Achse collection point in Merano. In Italy,” Meister said. “It is at least a five-hour drive.”

  “Then that is where your courier will take us. Today.” Woody’s tone of voice precluded any gainsaying. “In one hour. We will have more than enough time to get there, if you, Herr Meister, get to work on the necessary documents immediately!”

  Willi Lüttjohann was impressed. Both by the magnificent scenery he and Eva had driven through, crossing the Tyrolean Alps, and the ease with which the Red Cross truck, loaded with food parcels, had crossed the border checkpoints. The guards had saluted, counted the number of passengers, and checked the Red Cross manifest, keeping it just long enough to place their stamps on it. He had felt like a tourist, and had thoroughly enjoyed the trip, taking special satisfaction in the obvious pleasure and enthusiasm expressed by Eva.