Return to Berlin

by Noel Hynd

  One night he taught her a game that he had learned from Masud, the Egyptian gentleman who had sold him the set in Lisbon. Cochrane spread out the tiles face down.

  “Now turn one over,” he said. “Just one.”

  “Why?” Frieda asked. She always, it seemed to Cochrane, asked why.

  “A high tile numerically, double fives or double sixes, for example, suggests that tomorrow we will have a good day. Low numbers, double one, double two, suggests trouble may find us.”

  “And the middle ranges?” she asked.

  “We are on our own,” he said with a wink. “We will have to make our own good fortune.”

  “That’s a strange game,” she said. “Why draw at all?”

  “Oh, we could do that, too,” he said. But then we would have no way to anticipate the next day.”

  “Why can’t the next day be a surprise?” she asked.

  “It can be,” he said. “But some days it’s wise to know what awaits us.” He paused. Then, “What about tomorrow?” he asked. “You decide.”

  She laughed. She turned over a tile. A five and a six. And sure enough, the next day went smoothly.

  As they travelled, the odd twenty franc Swiss banknote to grease a palm here or there didn’t hurt. Generally, people were sick of the war and hardships. In the town of Sangerhausen east of Leipzig, a war widow was happy to cook dinner for them and allow them to stay overnight in the rooms in which her children had grown up. She cursed Hitler profanely when his name came up. She hated the war and almost cried when Cochrane gave her a hundred dollars in German currency and a hundred Swiss francs which she could use on the black market.

  A third day went by. Then a fourth. On the evening of the fourth, Frieda drew a low number. Double twos. And sure enough, midway through the fifth afternoon en route, there was a troubling incident.

  They were in the habit of stopping every two to three hours to ease the pressure on the fragile engine of their Benz. They would stop on a plateau or overlook if they could find one and scan the area. It was a good idea to use the binoculars to see what was ahead and what might be following. Some days Goff would do the surveillance. Other days it would be Cochrane. Some days they would each have a look, just to be thorough.

  On this afternoon, “Anything of interest?” Cochrane asked as Goff studied the view through the binoculars.

  “Nothing,” said Goff.

  Goff stood as still as an iron statue, the only movement from him coming from the curl of white smoke that rose from his cigarette. His right shoulder was high as he held the field glasses to his eyes. His left arm hung down and his hand was submerged into a coat pocket. Cochrane assumed his hand was on his pistol, which was not a bad precaution.

  “Nope. Nothing,” Goff said again, relaxing slightly.

  He took one step toward the car and froze. Something in the distance over Cochrane’s shoulder arrested Goff’s attention. He raised the glasses again, peered at the road where they had travelled. He studied it for less than five seconds.

  “Vehicle,” he said, sounding alarmed. Another moment. Then, with an edge, he added, “Shit! It’s a police vehicle.”

  “Local or something more imposing?” Cochrane asked.

  “Local.”

  Frieda’s eyes were suddenly filled with fear.

  “We all stay calm. No attempt to escape., That would make it even worse,” Cochrane said. “I’ll do the talking.”

  Goff returned to the car, as did Frieda. Cochrane had been correct. Goff had been holding his pistol. He now shoved it under the roadmap in the front seat. He picked up an apple and tossed it to the girl, then another one to Cochrane. The appearance of normality could be a beautiful thing.

  “Keep that weapon handy,” Cochrane said, “but don’t get trigger happy with it. The first shot that’s fired on this journey and we’ll be running like hell every afterwards. Best to avoid conflict.”

  “Yes, sir,” Goff said with another edge.

  Moments later, a police car from a local town named Vogelstang slowed as it approached them. It came to a near stop on the side of the road, then abruptly turned in and parked near them. There were two local police in it.

  They both stepped out. They had sidearms. They wore brown uniforms with a belt crossing their chests, plus black armbands with swastikas. They were local cops but burley and intimidating.

  The driver was a squat man and his partner was big and thuggish with a scowl, a scar across his cheek and a limp from God new what.

  “Papers?” the squat man asked.

  Cochrane could almost feel Goff’s heart beating. He sensed Goff was staying near his weapon. Frieda came to Cochrane and stood by him. The squat man looked down at her with menace, then smiled.

  Frightened, she recoiled. He stopped smiling.

  “Your daughter?” the cop asked.

  “Daughter of a friend,” he said.

  “What’s she doing with you?”

  “We’re out for a little drive.”

  “From where to where?”

  Cochrane answered, “May I reach into my pocket?”

  The cop said he could. But, “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I am a foreign friend of the Reich,” Cochrane said. “I have business with the Ministry of Finance.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m afraid,” Cochrane said. “That I can’t tell you.”

  “Why is that?”

  Cochrane handed him his passport and the letter of passage. The smaller man accepted it. The larger man moved to a position in which he could watch all three of them. He carried an automatic pistol. It was now drawn and he held it across his chest.

  The twerp looked at Cochrane’s passport, then his letter of passage.

  He raised his eyes. “Who are your travelling partners?”

  “This young lady is my niece,” he said. “I’m taking her to see her mother who is Swiss.”

  “You’re planning to cross the border?”

  “We have every right and permission.”

  “Who is the gentleman with you?”

  “An Italian soldier returning to his unit.”

  “He has papers for travel in the Reich? There is no Italian unit near here.”

  “He is returning through Switzerland,” Cochrane tried

  “You!” he shouted. “Come here!”

  Goff stood his ground.

  Cochrane turned. “Luigi! Don’t’ keep these gentleman waiting. Come over and introduce yourself.”

  Goff was walking toward them but holding something in his pockets. One of the local cops raised the automatic pistol.

  “Show the hands,” the cop demanded.

  Goff slowly withdrew his hands from his pockets. The one cop raised his weapon and aimed it at Goff’s chest from a distance of ten yards. Cochrane was on the balls of his feet ready to attack and hit the weapon.

  Then Goff spoke. “Do you fellows smoke?” he asked.

  He had three packs of cigarettes in each of his enormous hands.

  The cops looked at each other. The one with the gun lowered it.

  “My friend doesn’t have papers,” Cochrane said. “His mother is dying from tuberculous in Italy. He’s AWOL. He’s trying to see her before she dies. Have a heart.”

  On cue, Goff began to cry.

  Cochrane took the cigarettes and handed them to the policemen. They were frozen in place. He stuffed the smokes in their coat packets and patted each on the shoulder. Then, to seal the deal, he handed each cop a Swiss fifty franc note. They smiled.

  “Thank you. God bless you. Heil Hitler,” Cochrane said. He gave a salute and herded his passengers back to the Benz. He turned. “I assume we may go,” he said.

  The lead cop nodded.

  Cochrane and Goff piled into the front seat of the Benz. Frieda slid into the back.

  They pulled away. Neither Goff not Cochrane spoke for several minutes.

  Finally, Frieda broke the silence.

  “Jesus,”
she said. Both men laughed.

  Chapter 53

  Freiburg, Nazi Germany

  March 1943

  They had been driving for more than an hour around the back roads south of Freiburg, when Frieda suddenly spoke. “Slow,” she said, as they went around a wide turn. “Here! This is it!” Frieda said. She sat in the front seat. Irv Goff sat low in the back.

  She indicated a narrow path for vehicles that diverged from the main road. It was covered with snow. There were tire tracks which appeared recent to Cochrane. He didn’t know whether to take that as a good sign or bad. He was at the wheel of the Benz. He turned the car cautiously. Under the vehicle the snow crunched. Cochrane cut the speed to a crawl to avoid skidding or getting stuck.

  Bare branches tipped with snow and ice rose on each side of them. The car continued for several meters. There was no room for another vehicle to pass, so Cochrane hoped they wouldn’t meet one.

  “You’re certain this is the place?” Cochrane asked.

  “I’m certain,” Frieda said.

  “The family home of your friend Ilse?” Goff asked.

  “I’m certain,” Frieda said. “I used to come here in summers before the war.”

  The blanket of snow around the structure rose and fell in waves, indicating either recent winds or recent footsteps. It was impossible to tell.

  Cochrane raised his eyes to the rear view mirror. He ran two quick visual checks. The first was on the narrow pathway upon which they drove. No one was following. The second was on Goff behind him. Goff looked apprehensive. From the corner of his eye, Cochrane could see that Irv had his gun in his hand, positioned across his lap.

  “You all right, Irv?” Cochrane asked.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Goff, who could have been better, answered. The car continued up an incline of about twenty meters. Three quarters of the way up the vehicle lost its traction. The wheels spun. The rear of the vehicle fishtailed.

  Goff reacted quickly. He opened his door. He shoved the pistol in his pocket and quickly stepped behind the car, put his hands on the boot and gave it a powerful shove. The wheels found their grip again and the car surged up the hill to a crest, Goff continuing alongside it with a steady jog.

  “There’s the house!” Frieda said with excitement.

  A small dwelling behind a broken gate came into view. It looked recently abandoned. The front door was slightly entre’ouverte. A small pane of glass by the door had been smashed.

  Cochrane stopped the car and cut the engine, knowing he had to save every half teaspoon of fuel. Frieda opened her side door. Cochrane put a hand on her near arm, stopping her. Goff walked to the front door of the house, his weapon concealed.

  “We need to proceed carefully,” Cochrane said. “And be ready for what you might find. Is Ilse’s family Jewish?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “None to me, Frieda. But the Nazis have been in this area for two years.”

  “Herr Kleinman was a veteran of the first great war. He was being allowed to run his farm.”

  “In the past, perhaps. More recently, who knows? When did you see Ilse last?” he asked.

  “Last month. But she would have come here to get her Swiss passport.”

  “Be careful,” Cochrane said.

  Their eyes met.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? And what I’m not saying,” he pressed.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You asked me two days ago if I trusted you and when I would prove it,” he said. “That moment is now.”

  He reached within his jacket and pulled out his second pistol, the Beretta. “Have you fired a gun?” he asked.

  “Everyone has.”

  “You know how to shoot?”

  “Yes.”

  In front of them, they saw Goff knocking at the front door to the house. There was no response from within. Cochrane handed the Beretta to her. “Keep it in your pocket. Use it only when you have to and use it wisely. We agree?”

  “We agree,” she said. She accepted it. She gave him a small nod and a faint smile. She put it in the left hand pocket of her coat.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” Cochrane said.

  They both stepped out. Goff stood next to Cochrane. “I don’t like what I’m seeing, I don’t like what I’m feeling,” Goff said.

  “I would suggest you watch the car, Irv,” Cochrane said. “Frieda and I will go to the door. I don’t know whether that house is empty or if it contains and entire Panzer division. I do know that we will know in short order.”

  Cochrane scanned for recent tire tracks or footprints. Still, he couldn’t see anything conclusive.

  “Why don’t I wait from cover?” Goff suggested. “No point giving away my location.”

  “Fine idea,” Cochrane said. Both men looked around. They both spotted a thick strand of trees about twenty yards away from the car. Goff nodded toward it. “Perfect,” said Cochrane.

  Goff walked toward the stand of trees by stepping backwards in their new tire tracks. Cochrane admired his caution. Goff reached the trees then broke off a large branch which he lay on the ground. He took a crouching position behind it. He raised a gloved hand and waved to indicate he was set in position.

  Frieda and Bill Cochrane stood before the door to the Kleinman’s house. He pushed it and it gave way with a creak. He stepped in first. He felt a sinking feeling. There was furniture overturned, signs of a struggle. He looked for signs of blood but saw none.

  Frieda called out. No response. There was a salon to the left, flanked by a flight of stairs. There was a kitchen in front of them. Frieda went to the kitchen. Cochrane paced carefully to the living area. He cocked his head to see if he could hear anything, people in hiding, for example. He wasn’t sure whether he had heard something significant or not. It could have been a branch scraping the roof or it could have been a floorboard. But there was no mistaking anything when he heard Frieda scream.

  He bolted to the kitchen. He found her by a window that looked back over an area behind the house. She was sobbing uncontrollably and held her face in her hands. He wrapped an arm around her and she screamed again. Her body language indicated something she had seen through the window.

  Cochrane pulled back a shade. He grimaced. There were two bodies in the backyard. A man and a boy. He was still staring out the window in horror when he heard the front door open. He reached to his weapon, pulled Frieda out of the line of any fire, and turned.

  “Bill?” came a voice. “You okay? I heard the girl scream.”

  “Come have a look,” Cochrane said.

  Goff came to the kitchen window and looked out. There was no shock on his face, just anger. He held his gun at his side. “Fucking hell,” Goff said in a low voice.

  “You stay with Frieda. I’ll go take a closer look.”

  Cochrane walked around the cottage to the carnage and stopped short. It was worse than he could have seen from the kitchen. The father of the family were dead in the snow, as he had seen. They had been shot. The executions had been point blank in the face, swift and lethal. In its way, though, it barely approached the other horror. On a long branch near the back of the cottage, not visible from the kitchen window, hung the body of the woman of the house.

  Cochrane winced. He looked at the path of footsteps in the snow. He counted three victims and three executioners. Cochrane processed it quickly. It had all the earmarks of a Gestapo execution. Three armed thugs and a defenseless family. He hypothesized that a squad had arrived to look for Ilse. Then, not finding her, they tried to extort her location from her family. When the family wouldn’t give her away, if they even knew, they hanged her mother and shot her father and brother.

  Cochrane put his hand to his mouth and walked back to the house. He entered. Goff had calmed Frieda slightly but the girl was still in tears. Cochrane sat down next to her on a ragged sofa in the salon. Goff went back to the front door. He remained inside but stood guard.

  Cochrane let Frieda t
alk. She sobbed. She cursed. She refused to leave. She began to talk about burying the family or of waiting there until Ilse turned up.

  “I’m sorry,” Cochrane said. “That’s impossible.”

  “We have to do what’s decent,” Frieda said.

  “What’s decent is to get you to Switzerland and then to America,” Cochrane said. “That’s the best thing we can do.” He paused. “I didn’t see a girl out back. Perhaps she went elsewhere. Perhaps she’s already in Switzerland,” he said. “She has a Swiss passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe she’s already there, Frieda. That’s the best we can hope for.”

  Frieda’s expression became very still. He thought for a moment.

  “Come on. We need to leave before anyone comes back,” Cochrane said.

  “There’s a crawlspace here,” Frieda said. “We used to hide there when we were kids.”

  Picking up the implication quickly, “Show me,” Cochrane said.

  They passed Goff and exited the front door. They went around to the side of the cottage where there were some loose boards beneath the frame of the house.

  There are minutes in everyone’s life that are made up of more than can be lived at the time they occur. These were surely some of them. No sooner had Cochrane and Frieda pulled a nearly catatonic Ilse from the filthy crawl space beneath the house, the two teenagers embracing and Frieda trying to stifle her friend’s screams, than Goff came around the size of the cottage like a madman.

  “Bill!” he said in as low a tone as he could muster. “They’re back. Two of them! Gestapo!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure!”

  Cochrane came fast to his feet. “Stay with your friend,” he said to Frieda. “You have that Beretta?”

  Frieda nodded.

  “If Irv and I don’t come back, use it as you need to.”

  Frieda nodded again. pulled the pistol from her coat. Ilse looked at Cochrane with an expression that would stay with him forever. Goff took a quick angry look at the three dead people in the back area. He signaled that he would return to the front of the house from which he had come. Cochrane signaled that he would go up the other side. Unspoken between them was the desire to get the visitors in a crossfire.