A Despicable Profession

by John Knoerle

  It’s a technical term. It means your question risks exposing more than the answer is worth. But I had to try. We didn’t have any intelligence worth spit.

  A conductor passed by. I asked him how long to Karlsruhe. He checked his pocket watch. One hour and thirty-eight minutes, give or take thirty seconds.

  I mountain climbed my way to the dining car, hand to hand along the seat backs, dragging my loot-crammed suitcase behind me. Served me right. The train was wobbling over the rail bed our B-24 Liberators had spent two years pulverizing at my direction.

  I had cleared bombing runs for Karlsruhe as well. I would soon get to see my handiwork close up.

  The dining car was empty, save for an elderly waiter who grabbed up a menu and eyed me hopefully.

  I smiled with my cheeks and found what I was looking for. A small semi-circular bar at the far end of the dining car. Two GIs sat in a cloud of blue smoke. I got there in time for the punchline.

  “Parachutes? Ohh, we’re using parachutes!”

  The GIs were headed south to Marseille for a long boat home. They bought me a drink, I bought them a drink. And so on.

  They had duffel bags full of black market swag that they just had to show me. Doug from Buffalo had a sterling silver serving platter engraved with two names and a date. A wedding present sold for cigarettes. His buddy had a topper. A bowling ball sized bronze bust of Herr Hitler. We set Adolph on the bar and drank to his health.

  Doug and his buddy both had sweethearts back home and were itching to pop the question. Or were already engaged. Maybe one was already married, I forget.

  I do remember one thing clearly. I remember thinking Am I a lifer? It wasn’t a happy thought.

  I looked out the windows streaked with rain. I recognized the distant outline of the Black Forest, low mountains covered in black firs. We were nearing Karlsruhe. I felt instantly sad, and stupid. How in the name of all that’s holy had I managed to get myself back here again?

  The train pulled into the station. I got up and wished my GI pals Godspeed. Though we had been deep in intimate conversation they waved a quick and cheery so long.

  Soldier’s wisdom. Here today, gone like that.

  I climbed down from the railroad platform, grip in hand, to take in downtown Karlsruhe under a wet black sky.

  The Fan City they call it because it’s laid out in a semi-circle, the palace the hub that all the streets spoke out from. Behind the palace was a large greensward for ducal pheasant hunts and chasing maidens through the hedge maze and like that.

  I hadn’t set foot in the town but I knew the layout. Karlsruhe wasn’t the Ruhr Valley but it had machinery-making plants and a harbor on the Rhine and had paid the price for that. And then some. The palace was a wreck.

  I had plenty of pedestrian company on my stroll but saw no cars, trucks or busses. Just a couple of horse drawn carts and a determined young bicyclist on bare rims.

  The locals looked more hale and hearty here. There were farms nearby. Milk and eggs for breakfast instead of rations of Zwieback and mock liver sausage made from breadcrumbs and beer yeast. I even saw a butcher shop with links of fat black Schwarzwurstl hanging in the window. Yum.

  I was approached by two blue-black Africans in French uniforms suitable for a parade ground, wearing tall shako caps with the lacquered bills pulled low. They wanted to see my papers, best I could make out.

  My onionskins passed muster and I walked on, wondering why in the hell African soldiers were patrolling Karlsruhe. I turned to watch them accost a doughty farmer and his two daughters.

  I understood. We were in the French Zone of Control, the small sliver of southwest Germany that Charles de Gaulle had won from the Big Three at the postwar negotiating table. The Froggies had all kinds of colonies in Africa. Putting black troops in charge of the remnants of the Master Race sent an unmistakable message.

  The light rain turned pinprick hard. And me with no lid. I ducked into a clothing shop and startled the owner by making a purchase. A dusty Tyrolean hat, good for yodeling in an Alpen gorge. It made me look ridiculous but I was used to that. Kept the rain off my neck.

  I repaired to the local Biergarten to chat up the locals. They were sitting out back, at rough hewn picnic tables despite the plinking rain. Farmers, in straw hats and flat black skimmers like you see in Pennsylvania Dutch country. They were smoking Luckies and Camels under the tall trees and hoisting steins to beat the band.

  This would be interesting. ‘Hello, I’m an American reporter for Stars’n’Stripes, working on a story about fleeing war criminals.’ ‘Like who?’ ‘Well, like this gentleman in the photo for instance. Seen him around?’

  That was the plan, designed to make my obvious manhunt a little less so. It was a stupid plan but so was sailing west to reach India and Columbus did okay. I drained a shot of schnapps at the bar to smooth out the wrinkles and waded in with my pad and pencil.

  I didn’t have any luck. The farmers were too busy enjoying their newfound prosperity to be bothered with anything about the war. The war was ginned up by halfwits half a world away so far as they were concerned. My tongue got tired from asking questions.

  In this man’s opinion the perennial cantankerousness of the Deutschevolk can be traced directly to their language. Take my pad of paper for instance. Pad. In English it takes a puff of air. In German, Schreibeblock requires exhausting facial calisthenics and a bucket of phlegm.

  I gave up trying to explain myself, ordered a round of beer for the tables and passed around the photo of Herr Hilde. The photo made the circuit quickly, without comment.

  I paid my tab with a twenty dollar bill and left the photo on the table. Nobody noticed. I asked for directions to a hotel, directions I didn’t need, then hauled my suitcase to said hotel and booked a room.

  The farmers had treated Hilde’s photo as if it were radioactive. They knew I was a rich Amerikaner, they should at least have looked at the damn thing. A natural reluctance to get involved? Or a knowing ignorance born of fear? My gut said the latter. Which is why I asked for directions to a hotel. Someone would come knocking. Preferably not with the butt of a rifle.

  The room had a private bath and a view of the ruined palace. There wasn’t a showerhead so I took a bath in the huge clawfoot tub. What is it about soaking in hot water that makes you hungry? I got dressed and went downstairs to see about something to eat.

  The hotel restaurant was under construction due to bomb damage. Served me right. I couldn’t leave the premises so I dangled a pack of Luckies under the nose of the young desk clerk, said I was expecting a visitor and could he please go to the butcher shop and get me a couple of those fat black sausages that were hanging in the window? He was gone like a shot.

  I took his place behind the counter and rifled the drawers out of habit. I found a French postcard, a gay mademoiselle with thumbprints on her bottom. I closed the drawer and listened to my stomach growl.

  A middle-aged man in a homburg and a haggard black suit entered and approached the desk. He looked puzzled when he saw me. I must have Yank stamped on my forehead because he said “You are the American” before I could speak.

  I nodded. He looked harmless enough, a gut Bürger, a banker or merchant fallen on hard times. But I slipped my hand into my gun pocket anyway.

  “My name is Günter,” said the man. His accent was thick.

  “Sure it is. What’s on your mind?”

  Günter started to speak, stopped, looked around. He didn’t like the set up. What was I doing behind the reception desk for instance. I didn’t offer any explanation.

  Günter had a brass pendant around his neck, some sort of a medal. He rubbed it between his fingers anxiously. “I know where is the man you are looking for.”

  “Really. Who’s that?”

  “Klaus Hilde.”

  I hadn’t used Hilde’s name at the beer garden. No point, he wouldn’t be using it. Could be this Günter had something worth selling.

  “How do you know where he is?�
��

  Günter shook his head. Not here. I invited him up to my room for a private chat. My smoked sausage would have to wait.

  No it wouldn’t. I heard the desk clerk return when we were halfway up the stairs. I ran back down and grabbed the Schwarzwurstl.

  My room had one chair, a high backed job with a cane seat. I offered it to Günter. He declined, preferring to stare out the window at the ruined palace. I flopped on the bed, unwrapped the butcher paper and attacked the fat black sausage with my folding knife. The aroma made me light-headed. I cut off a chunk for my guest. We chewed, happily.

  “Let me guess, Günter. You were a successful man in town, knew everyone, knew how to get things done. Then you lost your livelihood during the war and looked around for another way to feed your family.”

  I paused to take another bite. How can something taste both sweet and bitter at the same time? I continued, mouth half full.

  “The war goes badly. Nazi officials need a place to hide. And a way to ship themselves, their families and their looted treasure to South America. A complicated undertaking, requiring a man of knowledge and influence.” I swallowed the sausage and sliced more. “Any truth to that?”

  Günter managed a sour smile. “I have no longer any family of which to feed. A wife only.”

  The way he said it made clear that his kids hadn’t gone off to college. I asked how much for Herr Hilde’s location. Günter shook his head.

  “I am a man of principle. I will carry only your message.”

  “A man of principle who helps war criminals to flee.”

  Günter’s shoulders slumped. I felt bad for him, dug a gold sovereign from my leather purse. I shined it on my shirtsleeve. Günter’s posture improved.

  “Tell Hilde I have a message from Wild Bill Donovan.”

  “Who is that?”

  “He’ll know.”

  “What is this message?”

  “I deliver it in person. Assure Hilde that I’ll come alone.”

  “And with no weapons.”

  “Sure.”

  Günter fingered his brass pendant. It was copper bright in the center where he had rubbed it raw. I let the silence between us grow.

  You’re rusty, Schroeder. Rusty as a barn hinge. Flapping your gums about Bill Donovan to a complete stranger. A guy who had identified Klaus Hilde from a five year old photo. How?

  I didn’t ask. No point. Günter was all I had. I got up and placed the shiny gold sovereign in his palm. “You get two more if he shows up.”

  Günter looked at the half-dollar sized coin bearing the likeness of King George V and muttered something I couldn’t make out. He tucked the coin in his vest watch pocket with great care and straightened his homburg.

  “St. Bernhard’s Church, three o’clock in this morning.”

  “Okay. But we, you and me, we meet outside beforehand. On the front steps.”

  Günter paused to consider this. Being my hostage going in.

  He nodded and left the room.

  Chapter Four

  I am not the most devout Catholic that ever lived, but no baptized son of St. Peter wants to see a bombed out house of worship, much less one he might have had a hand in. So I was pleased to see that venerable St. Bernhard’s was still in one piece. The church had a square four story bell tower that rose from its right front corner like an afterthought. The tower was the best recon spot for miles, best sniper’s nest too. How was it still standing?

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  Three o’clock in the morning, Harold Schroeder crouched behind a granite pedestal in the park across from the church, the pedestal’s statue long gone, melted down for cannon balls. Three o’clock in the morning and no Günter on the front steps.

  3:05. 3:10. 3:15. Or thereabouts. Time to blow or go.

  I went. I crossed the street and climbed the stone steps, my eight shot Walther in hand. The endless plinking rain turned to hail about then, not that I noticed. I was a gun-wielding killer in a Tyrolean hat.

  I put my ear to the gap in the great oaken doors and heard silence. I pushed open the door and jumped back. No gunfire commenced. I dug out my penlight and stepped into the vestibule.

  Günter was waiting. He was seated on an armless straightback chair in his old black suit, sitting upright in the middle of the vestibule, eyes milky, dead as dead can be.

  I kept all emotion at bay and concentrated on the task at hand. Figuring out how in hell a corpse was sitting rigidly upright in a straightback chair. I bored in with my torch beam. Günter was bound up with some kind of raggedy rope. Check that. The rope came from his blood-soaked abdomen and wound around and around. Günter was bound to the chair with his own intestines. The little ones, the ones lower down.

  I told myself I had seen worse. I called up images of bloody horror from the war. Headless children, still-breathing soldiers with half a face. It didn’t work.

  I bent over and vomited beer and black sausage on the marble floor of the vestibule of historic St. Bernhard’s Church.

  Chapter Five

  I had to untie Günter, that was the first order of business. No one else was going to see him like this. Some might say that Günter deserved to die for helping Nazi war criminals to flee. But he didn’t deserve this.

  I breathed through my nose, choked back bile and did what I had to do. I set the penlight on end and unwound Günter’s bowels from the straightback chair in the spooky light. They were slippery and surprisingly taut, ropy. You know what they smelled like. I made a loop from my thumb to my elbow, wound them up like an electrical cord. Must’ve been ten yards long. Then I leaned down and used my knife to cut them loose from Günter’s bowels. The blade was dull, it took a few tries.

  Now what? They didn’t cover this at spy school. How to properly dispose of a wagon wheel of human guts. I yanked open the great oaken door and held it ajar with my foot as I dug out my Walther in case the sick bastards who did this were waiting. Not likely. They were using Günter to send a message. We ’re everywhere and we mean business. Killing me, the messenger boy, didn’t figure.

  I stepped outside. No gunfire commenced.

  I took the slick steps carefully, head swiveling, and saw a storm drain. I went there and shrugged Günter’s guts off my arm with unspeakable relief. I fed them into the sewer. My stomach tried to heave but the tank was empty. I took out my knife and cut off the last link of Günter’s lower intestines before it disappeared into the nether regions. It took some doing.

  I put the piece of intestine in my handkerchief, folded it up carefully and placed it in my coat pocket. I went back to the vestibule and dragged poor bloody Günter into the nave, laid him out in the last pew. I dried my hands on my coat. I would have to burn my vicuna topcoat when this was done.

  Holy water. There was a font of holy water by the door. I dipped my fingers and drizzled drops on Günter’s forehead as I mumbled a quick prayer. I closed his eyelids and removed the brass pendant from around his neck.

  Time to visit the French authorities.

  -----

  It took me forever to find French Army HQ. St. Bernhard’s bell tower had tolled four a long time ago. Black night paled, the hailstorm moved on. Lanterns were lit, a horse drawn carriage plocked by on a cobblestone street. Dawn is sobering. What the hell was I doing here?

  I was furious that my contact had been murdered. I wanted justice. I would storm the Bastille and tell the French commander that I was a reporter from Stars and Stripes doing a story on fleeing fugitives. A local man had promised to let me talk to such a fugitive for a price. That local man was now dead, bound with his own guts. When the haughty French commander scoffed at me I would remove my handkerchief and unfold it on his desk.

  Idiocy. I wasn’t thinking like a spy. I shouldn’t tell the French commander anything at all. I was the last person Günter visited. Did anyone know that? The hotel clerk hadn’t seen Günter come up to my room but had likely seen him come down. And I was the rich Amerikaner trolling the beer gardens f
or fugitives. But so what?

  Christ on a crutch, Schroeder, you gave Günter a gold sovereign then failed to search his vest pocket to see if it was still there. It’s what they call evidence.

  Every instinct told me to flee. The French authorities couldn’t touch me outside their little slice of southwest Germany. I would be secure in Berlin.

  Tough shit. I was no longer a lowly ‘observation agent.’ I was an emissary of Major General William Donovan who needed to clean up his mess. I double timed it back to St. Bernhard’s Church. I arrived shortly after the tower chimed five. Was there a five a.m. Mass?

  I brushed off my coat. The rain and hail had washed away most of the blood. I was reasonably presentable if you didn’t look too hard or get too close. Oh yeah. My handkerchief. I returned to the storm drain and interred the last of Günter’s lower intestines.

  I climbed the stone steps and pushed open the oaken door. No pre-dawn Mass, though candles flickered on the altar, candles that hadn’t been lit before. I hurried to the last pew. Günter was right where I left him, knees hiked up, head thrown back. Rigor mortis.

  I wedged a finger into his watch pocket. The gold sovereign was still there. I took it back.

  A door closed somewhere. I hooked my arms under Günter’s armpits and dragged him up the side aisle, past the stained glass windows and the Stations of the Cross. I opened the door to the confessional, the priest’s booth, sat the body on the padded stool and closed the door.

  I heard a thwunk. The door popped open. Günter’s legs protruded from the booth. He had fallen off the stool. I folded him up with great effort and stuffed him back inside. An unseen voice from the sacristy called out.

  “Hallo?”

  I looked down. My topcoat was slick with blood. I tore it off, transferred my Walther to my pants pocket and tossed the coat into the confessional booth with the corpse.