Return to Berlin

by Noel Hynd

Koehler climbed into his own car and signaled the car with the prisoner should follow. Koehler started out by driving north through the forest. Cochrane could tell the position by the moon, but he was increasingly desperate. He quietly tried to disengage from the handcuffs, even though he knew he couldn’t run. All he could think of was if he somehow could get out of the car he might be able to escape into the darkness. But it was futile and the idea was an illusion.

  They drove for several minutes, maybe a quarter hour. Then Koehler’s Opel slowed. It found some tire tracks that led between a group of pine trees. The lead car’s engine cut to a crawl. The cars pushed through some branches and thickets. Cochrane could see that the foliage had been cut away.

  The cars moved into a clearing, about forty feet by forty feet. Cochrane saw another set of headlights, and then a second set. The Opel rolled to a halt and the Ford stopped next to it.

  Cochrane saw Koehler step out and make a gesture to his two Gestapo assistants to hurry things along. The back doors opened in the Ford. One guard held Cochrane at pistol point, the weapon to Cochrane’s head. Wesselmann unlocked his cuffs.

  Cochrane struggled. Wesselmann quickly whacked him in the ribs by the point of a pistol. Oddly, Koehler saw it and barked for the man to stop. He drew his own weapon, a heavy pistol than may have been Czech.

  “Control yourself, Hans, you idiot!” Koehler said to Wesselmann. “This is for me to finish!”

  The Gestapo agents assembled Cochrane in a standing position. Cochrane took in what was facing him. There were two other cars. One was a utilitarian Benz, the other a newer and grander Opel.

  There were three woman standing with shovels near the cars. Beside them was an open hole in the ground, unmistakably in the shape of a grave. Cochrane processed quickly. The door opened to one of the other cars. A man stepped out in dark slacks and a dark coat. He said nothing and stood with folded arms by the driver’s side of the car. He wore a sidearm and had the face and build of a soldier.

  Cochrane thought fleetingly that he saw a movement in the car, a head silhouetted against the rear window, but at this point it barely mattered. Then it occurred to him that the person in the car – if that person even existed – was female. Cochrane was convinced that he was hallucinating.

  Then that thought was interrupted by Koehler. He spoke Russian to the three women. Cochrane realized the women were probably slave laborers, captured and now in forcible service to the Reich, as were thousands of other Russian and Polish women. They had been brought here to do some dirty work: literally, to dig a grave, presumably Cochrane’s.

  Koehler took charge of the situation. He drew his pistol. He asked for the keys to Cochrane’s handcuffs and ankle cuffs. Wesselmann tossed them to him. Koehler made a good catch with his free hand.

  Then he ordered the three female diggers to go with the Gestapo drivers. They were to be returned to a work camp in Berlin. Koehler gave the address aloud.

  “I wish to stay and watch while you shoot this swine,” Wesselmann said.

  “Your wishes are as meaningless to me as bird shit, Kriminalkommissar Wesselmann,” Koehler said. “Your orders are to return these women to their labor brigade. That is all. Dismissed!”

  Wesselmann hesitated and glowered. Then he turned. Koehler spoke in Russian to the three frightened laborers. The three women obediently went toward the battered Ford, carrying the shovels.

  “Leave the shovels, you idiots!” Koehler said in Russian. “Drop them!”

  The women dropped their tools. They piled into the back seat of the Ford, happy to escape this place with the open grave. The Gestapo men looked at Koehler as if something was wrong. He stared them down. “I’ll finish things here myself,” Koehler said, waving the pistol. “Go! Get out. Now!”

  Wesselmann and the other Gestapo agent hesitated. Across the way, the man who looked like a soldier threw back his great coat and revealed a small automatic rifle.

  “Leave your windows open,” Koehler said. “I wish the pleasure of this execution myself. You will hear the shots.”

  The look from the back-up man by the car was icy. He raised his weapon to indicate that orders needed to be followed. The two Germans took a final glance. Then, with an air of resignation, they turned and stepped into the Ford. Wesselmann was in the driver’s seat. He cranked the engine. He backed the car away, then turned it. The beams from the headlamps caught Koehler squarely.

  Koehler gave them a final wave with his pistol. The Ford turned and found its path through the trees and away from the burial ground.

  Koehler watched them go. He looked at the man standing guard at his car. He looked at Cochrane. He looked back among the trees and could still see the lights of the Ford as it departed. It was still in hearing distance.

  Koehler raised his pistol in the air. Cochrane watched disbelievingly.

  Koehler aimed the pistol toward the treetops in the heavily wooded section. He fired the pistol twice. Then he fired a third time, a would-be coup de grace.

  Cochrane’s gaze found Koehler’s. The gaze was as heavy as the moment.

  Koehler turned and flipped the manacle keys to his assistant.

  “Unlock him,” he said.

  The other man holstered his sidearm and came to Cochrane.

  “Sorry about all that, sir,” the man said. “I’ll Willie Johnson. British Army. I was captured a year ago. I’m officially dead, also, if it makes you feel better.”

  “I’m not following,” Cochrane said.

  “It will all make sense, soon,” he said. “There’s work to do first.”

  Koehler came to Cochrane. They stood face to face. “I am not your friend and I am not your savior,” Koehler said. “So don’t for a moment think that I am. You wounded me with your transgression against me with my wife. That’s over and done. You can help me now with something precious. And I can help you.”

  In the background, Cochrane again saw a movement in the Benz. Just a head. He couldn’t see more. Then he realized. The person in the Benz was female, as he had first thought.

  “First things first,” said Koehler. “Pineapple.”

  “Pineapple?”

  “Pineapple,” Koehler said again. “As Herr Dulles suggested.”

  “Pineapple, mate,” said Johnson.

  After a long moment while Cochrane processed the fact that he was not going to be killed, he mumbled, “Pineapple. Jesus Christ!”

  Koehler was already in motion. He went to the boot of the Opel and opened it. Cochrane looked in and gagged. There was the body of a dead man in the trunk. The dead man was wrapped in bloodstained sheets.

  “Come on,” Johnson said. “Nothing we can do for this poor bloke. We bury him here. He was a British aviator. Died in a crash after the air raids. If someone comes back to check the grave, they’ll be able to tell there’s a body down there. If they want to run tests, they can. It will take them days to figure he’s not you, Mr. Cochrane.”

  They pulled the dead man from the trunk of the Benz. The dead man was naked, bullet wounds in the chest and the head: dark red blood around the wounds, the eyes half-mast, one unfocused the other shattered and still oozing puss. He appeared to have been no more than twenty-five when he died.

  Cochrane drew a breath. He shifted into gear. His hands and wrists still ached. But he and Johnson carried the corpse a few feet to the grave. Then they laid the dead aviator into it as gently as they could. The body settled in sideways and at an awkward angle. They let him rest in that position, though. Cochrane fought back a churning stomach as he looked at the dead man.

  Johnson picked up a shovel and threw dirt in.

  “We don’t have much time, mate,” he said. “Come on. Give us a hand.”

  The ‘us’ meant Cochrane, not Koehler. Cochrane pitched in. He was dying of thirst but at least not dying. Johnson picked up on it and found a canteen in the Opel and offered it. Cochrane glugged it down.

  Koehler stood by the Benz. “All right, Her Cochrane,” he said finally. �
��Come here.”

  Cochrane walked to the Benz.

  “It is I who summoned you through the office of Mr. Dulles. I am keeping my part of the arrangement. Mr. Dulles continues to receive coded notifications from this end. Now you will help us keep the deal. There is something for you to personally convey first to Switzerland, then to the United States. You will do that.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “That’s the arrangement I’m aware of,” Cochrane answered. “That’s why I’m here. What am I supposed to do?”

  Koehler opened the back door of the Benz.

  Cochrane stared in. Nothing could ever have prepared him for this day and this moment.

  His eyes settled upon a frightened teenage girl in a fur cap and a pale blue scarf. She looked up at Cochrane with wide open terrified eyes.

  “This is my daughter,” Koehler said. “In this foul world, she is the most precious thing I have. She is the only thing of intelligence and beauty that remains for me, the only thing I love. Her safety is paramount. But she is also carrying something from me to Mr. Dulles.”

  “I understand,” Cochrane said slowly.

  “I am entrusting her to you and to Mr. Dulles. She has a valid passport. It is American. Her new last name is Wagner, same as the great composer. Mr. Dulles and Mr. Donovan provided the passport. Eventually, she will go to live with family in the United States. If she doesn’t reach her destination, or if she is harmed or taken advantage of in any way, for whatever reason, sometime in the future, even if it is long after the war, someone will find you and kill you if you are alive. It may not be me, but someone loyal to me will find you and kill you. Clear?”

  “Clear,” Cochrane said.

  “If she arrives safely, you will be forever in our debt. Consider carefully which you would prefer.”

  Cochrane nodded. “I’ll do my job,” he said.

  “Even if she were to stay here comfortably for the duration of the war,” Koehler said, “the Red Army of General Zhukov may well reach Berlin before the American army of Patton or Eisenhower. If the Russians arrive first, every young German woman will be shot or hanged or raped. So you will take my girl to America. She has family there. An aunt, an uncle and cousins. They live in the state of Wisconsin. Do I need to say more, sir?”

  “No, sir,” Cochrane said. “I promise you. I’ll get her there.”

  Koehler turned to the frightened teenager in the backseat of the car as a light cold rain began. “Introduce yourself,” he said to Cochrane.

  Cochrane spoke to her in German. “I’m William Cochrane from the United States of America,” he said. “Herr Koehler is your father?” he asked.

  The girl looked at Koehler and then at Cochrane. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “I will do everything I can to make sure you arrive safely in America,” Cochrane said, still in German. “I will get you to the family that awaits you. I promise.”

  The girl said nothing.

  “She was active in a foolishly romantic anti-Hitler dissident group in Munich,” Koehler said. “It was called White Rose. The Gestapo is looking for her. There’s no time to waste. By my calculation, you can be across the border at Basel in three to seven days after you leave Berlin. That’s all. Be careful. Good luck.”

  Koehler reached to his daughter in the back seat of the Benz. The girl leaned forward. They embraced. The girl cried. Then Koehler pulled away and handed the car keys to Cochrane.

  “We will lead you back to Berlin where you will stay overnight,” Koehler said. “This car and the other you see here are registered to the Naval ministry. Stay behind me and you will not be stopped. Another vehicle will be ready for you later in the week. At that point, leave Berlin immediately.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Cochrane.

  Cochrane watched as Koehler and the British POW went to the other car. Cochrane slid into the driver’s seat of the Benz. The girl, wise and well instructed by her father, slid low in the back seat.

  Cochrane turned as the other car pulled out to take the lead. He spoke to his passenger in German. “You’re all right? You’re ready?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Frightening, isn’t it?” he asked in his kindest voice.

  She nodded again.

  “”It’s all very frightening,” he said in German. “For everyone. Me. You. Everyone in the whole damned world. I think we’ll do all right. I think we’ll be okay. May I ask your name?” Cochrane finally asked, still in German.

  She ignored him at first. She adjusted her fur cap and made a small pillow from a pale blue scarf. She settled in to sleep as Cochrane took the wheel and drove.

  “Frieda,” she said eventually. “My name is Frieda.”

  Chapter 42

  Berlin

  February 1943

  They drove through the night back toward Berlin, the British POW named Johnson at the wheel of Koehler’s car, Cochrane’s Opel close behind. Sleet was intermittent and there was newly formed black ice on the road, making the journey slow and treacherous.

  At one point as they neared the German capital, there was a military checkpoint, marked with a heavy roadblock and sudden bright lights. Soldiers, having little else to do in the darkest watches of the night, stopped both cars and surrounded them.

  Cochrane counted quickly. There were six soldiers. Cochrane had heard of such squads, the positioning of which changed hour to hour overnight. They all bore rifles and battery-powered lanterns. They were looking for infiltrators or black market smugglers or anything else that swam into their nets.

  Cochrane’s heart was in his throat. Frieda rustled in the back seat of his car.

  “Stay down,” Cochrane said in German. “Pretend you’re asleep.”

  Frieda rolled over, turning her face away from the windows.

  Cochrane drew a breath. He watched what was transpiring in the car ahead of him. His driver was keeping quiet. Koehler had a sheaf of papers, probably forgeries, that appeared to impress the soldiers. He was pulling rank, Cochrane thought to himself as his stomach was set to explode, and he was doing a good job at it.

  One of the soldiers lost interest in the first car and wandered to the second. He came to Cochrane’s window. He peered in, then shined the lantern in Cochrane’s face. He gestured that Cochrane should roll down the window. Cochrane obeyed and gave a weak tired smile.

  The soldier was a thirtyish private. He didn’t look very smart and thus, to Cochrane, was dangerous and unpredictable. He shined his lantern first in Cochrane’s eyes, and then on the female body in the back seat.

  “What’s this, your drunken whore?” the soldier asked.

  A breath full of booze assaulted Cochrane. The man was obviously drunk on duty. “Why don’t you lend us your slut for an hour? We’ll fill her holes with more fucking than she can handle, hey?”

  Cochrane opened his mouth to answer the extreme vulgarity with righteous indignation. But at the same instant, Cochrane’s eyes caught movement around the car in front of him. The detail of soldiers was quickly stepping back, weapons lowered. The lieutenant in command of the soldiers was saluting obsequiously and his sergeant was quickstepping to the thug at Cochrane’s window.

  In two seconds the sergeant’s hand landed on the shoulder of the drunken private. The sergeant grabbed back of the private’s uniform and yanked him away. He shoved him backwards away from the car. The private fell hard into some rocks and ice. The sergeant kicked him.

  “Hey, you stupid arschloch, shut up!” the sergeant snarled. “That’s Naval chief of intelligence in the lead car!” The sergeant whirled and sharply saluted Cochrane. “Everything is very good, sir. This private will be discipled. Drive carefully.”

  “Sehr gut, Feldwebel. Danke,” said Cochrane with all the courtesy he could muster.

  From the lead car, Koehler made a hand gesture to Cochrane that the second car should follow.

  There was another half hour of driving. They stopped at the building where Co
chrane had his two temporary rooms. As the cars waited, Cochrane quietly went into the building alone. The last thing he wanted was to draw Heinz or Greta into the events of the early morning.

  His key had been taken from him by the Gestapo and never returned. He turned the knob hard on his door. The lock broke with a loud snap that echoed through the ground floor. The electricity was still out. He stepped in and lit the lantern. He packed everything he could into a single suitcase and abandoned the rest, careful to take the case that contained his extra cash and escape passport.

  He was back on the street within ten minutes. It was three AM. The neighborhood was black, except for the car lights. Koehler was standing protectively by the car where his daughter slept, his back against the car door, a Luger in his hand and pointing downward. Cochrane was convinced that Koehler would shoot anyone unauthorized who came near the girl. He respected that.

  Koehler gave Cochrane a nod when Cochrane returned.

  “I’m taking you to a safe house. They are expecting you. It’s run by a woman named Frau Schneidhuber. Anitka is a personal friend. You’ll be respectful and stay with her till summoned?”

  “Of course,” Cochrane answered. “As if I have an alternative,” he thought to say, but didn’t.

  “Your exit from Berlin is being arranged. Be patient. It will be dangerous.” His tone changed. “Officially, you are dead, unless you are recognized or until they exhume the man we buried. Frieda? They will be looking for her.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you have a backup passport? I’m told you do.”

  “I do.”

  “Use it,” Koehler said.

  Fatigue was crashing down on Cochrane. He was unsure how long he could stay awake. Idly, he thought back to the nighttime drive with Sergeant Santini which felt as if it had happened several years ago. He wished he’d had whatever chemical uppers that Santini had been snorting, but he didn’t. So they pressed onward, Johnson now at the wheel of Cochrane’s vehicle.

  They drove for another quarter hour through the dark quiet streets of Berlin, detouring once because of rubble and running into another checkpoint, this one with more than a dozen soldiers, including two SS who seemed to be in charge.