The Traitor Blitz

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  biggest scandal of our publishing history." That was Dr. Helmut Rotaug, who after a polite, cool greeting, asked, "Do you have a paper and pencil?"

  "Just a minute." I got out my pad and pen. "Ready."

  "Do you have a typewriter with you?"

  "In the car."

  "Very well. The release has got to be typed, two copies. Your client gets the original, you bring us the copy. We need the place, date, then the word 'Statement/ and under that, 1, the undersigned...'" and he dictated the whole, shrewd, ingenious agreement. Nobody signing it could get around it. I took it down in shorthand, a long statement; Rotaug didn't miss a trick. At last he was finished.

  "So there you have the text. And don't forget to get a receipt for any money you hand out. Any more questions?"

  "Thank you, no. It was very good of you, Dr. Rotaug—"

  "Good-bye," he said, and hung up.

  I put down the receiver and stuck the pad in my pocket. Just as I was putting the cap on my pen, a woman's voice outside screamed, "Run, Karl, run!"

  We rushed to the window. What happened next took place much faster than can possibly be described. The first thing I saw was fat Karl Concon, running as fast as he could in the direction of the small open gate. Two camp guards were stumbling after him. I opened the window and heard the woman's voice again. It seemed to come from the parking lot, from a car parked there. "Karl, run! Run, Karl, run!" And Karl Concon was running.

  "Those goddamn assholes!" I shouted. "How could they have let him get away?"

  I vaulted over the windowsill onto the ground, and ran as fast as I could across the sandy, heather-covered ground. Outside the men and women on the other side of the fence seemed frozen to the spot. A few had ducked or thrown themselves on the ground. Nothing moved. It looked like a film strip that had suddenly stopped. Karl Concon, stooped over, zigzagged forward as fast as he could, like a hunted rabbit. Yes. It was a woman in a black Buick and she was still screaming, "Run, Karl, run!" I could see her face stuck out of the open window of the car. She had a scarf tied around her head. That was all I could make out—I was still too far away to see more—and it was then that I saw Fraulein Louise.

  With Bertie at her side and holding Karel by the hand, she

  came out of the infirmary, the barracks near the entrance that was painted blue with a big red cross on a white background. I ran over to them. People—children and adults—were closing in on the scene. To my astonishment I saw Karel, his trumpet in his hand, break loose f romTFraulein Louise and start running toward the gate. As he ran he screamed something in Czech. All I could understand was the word "Mama!" and a shiver ran down my spine. Mama! And it all came clear. The boy's name was Karel, the fat fag's name was Karl. The boy must have thought the woman was screaming "Karel," not "Karl."

  "Talks about his mother all the time, ever since he's been here," according to Fraulein Louise, and on the flight his father had told him to run when he cried, "Run, Karel, run!" And now Karel was running—

  Fraulein Louise began to run after him. She cried out to him in Czech, he paid no attention. I could see Bertie running, his Nikon-F in his hands. And then all hell broke loose.

  A machine gun began to fire. The shots came from a Dodge parked beside the Buick. I could see the barrel sticking out of the window next to the driver's seat. The bullets hit the ground and sprayed sand into the air. They were aimed at the gate, which Concon had finally reached and run through. Whoever was shooting was trying to protect Concon and stop anyone from following him.

  Both camp guards who had been chasing Concon threw themselves on the ground. Some of the shots passed through the fence, others ricocheted crazily. Bertie grabbed Fraulein Louise and pulled her down with him. Suddenly everyone inside the gate was on the ground. I was still running, but when a bullet whizzed past my ear, I threw myself down, too. Children screamed, the older people cursed and swore, and with an icy heart I could see that Karel was still running. Nothing stopped him. He was being told to run and he ran, staggering a little, and he ran directly into the next rain of fire.

  I don't want to imply that the man who was shooting intended to hit the boy. Not at all. But he was determined to protect his man, whatever the price. Perhaps he thought the camp guards would return fire. He didn't know that they couldn't because their only weapon was a billy club.

  It was a sight to turn your stomach when the volley hit the boy. The power of the shots entering his body made it fly at least a meter into the air and be thrown back. I saw Bertie raise himself a

  little and take a picture. If it came out, it would be worth a fortune.

  Karel fell into the heather, his trumpet thrown some distance away. Screams. But Karel lay still. Karl Concon had reached the Buick and jumped into it. Its driver, the woman who had shouted "Run, Karl, run!", stepped on the gas; and the Buick, its tires screeching, made a wide turn and tore off. The dark Dodge, with the man who had fired the shots at the wheel, followed it. They made a right turn at the end of the short street and were gone.

  Everyone was screaming and talking at once. A man in white came running out of the infirmary, obviously Dr. Schiemann. Fraulein Louise, the doctor, Bertie, and the camp guards, and twenty or thirty other people ran over to where Karel lay. I jumped to my feet and ran, too. A third guard came hobbling out of the guard room, a fourth followed him, just as halt and lame. Their two colleagues were bellowing as they tried to disperse the young camp inmates. "Get out of here—damnit—get out!" The crowd dispersed.

  When I reached the small group that had collected around Karel, I bumped into Bertie, who, just as dusty as I, had the Hasselblad in his hands and was shooting like mad! "Jeeeesus!" he groaned. He wasn't smiling anymore. "What shots! And all in color!"

  "Do you have enough light?"

  "Sure. Lens wide open. One thirty-second!" He limped around the small group, knelt, shot between their legs. I went over to Fraulein Louise. She was swaying; I thought she'd fall. "Karel—my Karel—a tragedy—" she stammered when she saw me. "If only the man hadn't been called Karl! He thought his mother was calling to him. He was screaming, 'Yes, Mama, yes, I'm coming.' Dr. Schiemann gave him a tranquilizer. His mind wasn't quite clear. 'Yes, Mama, yes, I'm coming.' Oh, dear God in heaven, why did you let this happen?" The tears were raining down her face.

  The doctor, who had been kneeling beside Karel, got up. He looked grim. "Is he—?" Fraulein Louise began to ask.

  "Yes," said Dr. Schiemann. "He was killed instantly."

  Fraulein Louise let out a cry and flung herself on her knees beside the boy, stroked his face, spoke to him imploringly in Czech as if she thought she could bring him back to life. The ground beside him was rapidly turning red. Fraulein Louise was kneeling in the boy's blood. She didn't notice.

  "How could this have happened?" I asked one of the guards.

  "The guy was perfectly quiet. We were watching him. I swear we were. But then he jumped to his feet suddenly and knocked down one of our men, kicked another."

  "In the stomach," said the one who had come out hobbling. He was holding his stomach and groaning. "Full force." There were tears in his old eyes. "I was thrown back, into Eugene." He pointed to another one of the guards. "Both of us fell down, and that's when he got away."

  "There were only four of us," said Eugene. "Fritz," he pointed to the guard who was standing there, panting, "was on the phone. It isn't our fault. It really isn't. We did the best we could."

  "Why didn't one of you go after the cars?"

  "How could we? We don't have a car." Out of a corner of my eye I could see Bertie photographing me and the tired old camp guard.

  "And you don't have handcuffs either?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "We're not allowed to have anything like that."

  "Then you should have tied the bastard to a chair," I said. "You knew the man was dangerous."

  "Who do you think you are, anyway?" said the guard who had been kicked in the stomach. "You can kiss my ass, as far as I'm co
ncerned."

  "I'm a reporter," I said, "and you'll read about this. You can depend on that."

  The man who had been kicked said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "It's all right."

  "We don't know what we're saying. Nothing like this has ever happened before."

  "It's all right!" I shouted. Everybody stared at me. Even the guard who had been kicked straightened up. "Back to your barracks! All of you!" he shouted. "Get going!"

  His colleagues shoved those who were hesitating on their way. Finally the last of the curious left.

  "Get a stretcher," said Dr. Schiemann. "Bring him to the infirmary." Then he said quickly, "No. Leave him where he is. Don't touch him. Get the police in Zeven. Tell them to get here fast."

  "Yes, Herr Doktor." One of the guards ran off to the barracks.

  "Step aside, please, Walter," said Bertie. He was stretched out

  on the ground with his Hasselblad. "And you, too, Herr Doktor, please."

  We stepped aside. Bertie took pictures of the dead boy with Fraulein Louise kneeling beside him, and again a squadron of Starfighters roared over us, low, very low. The ground shook, the air vibrated, and I felt sick. Then the planes were dark spots in the flaming sunset. A black cloud hung over the glow in the west; only a thin eclipse of the sun was visible, and Fraulein Louise was still kneeling in her grief. She didn't move, she didn't speak. She knelt, bowed low over the dead boy.

  I took my flask out of my hip pocket and drank. And the jackal went away. He had been very close.

  Fifteen minutes later. The day died fast here; it was almost dark. The men and women outside the fence had disappeared. Except for my Lamborghini, the parking lot was empty. The young people had withdrawn to their barracks, the small gate was closed. Fraulein Louise was still kneeling beside the dead boy.

  The camp guards were waiting for the police from Zeven. They would have a long wait. There hadn't been a response yet to the first call for Concon. One of the guards was standing at the gate. Now they were guarding it! Nobody had dared send Fraulein Louise away.

  "So how about it?" I asked Irina Indigo. We were standing pressed against a wall of one of the barracks, in the shadow, and she was staring at me wide-eyed.

  "You want to take me to Hamburg?"

  "Goddamn it!" I said. "What do you think I mean?" I was terribly nervous. "My friend and I will take you there. Well help you find your fianc6. Or don't you want us to do that?"

  "Of course I do. But just now somebody said no one could leave the camp."

  "My friend and I will be allowed to leave once the police arrive and they have our statement. And once we're out, you'll join us."

  "Where? How?"

  "You heard about the cracked pillar Hilde Reiter was trying to push over when she saw Fraulein Louise on the moor. Over there." I gestured with my chin.

  "But she never got out. She couldn't move the thing."

  "One person alone can't, probably two can't either. But with a car we can manage it," I said, and thought: I hope!

  "With a car? What car?"

  "My car. The only one left on the parking lot. And we have a rope. We'll manage it. I promise you," and again thought: I hope. "It's ten to five now. The police should get here in three quarters of an hour. I'll be waiting for you at the pillar at ten."

  "What about my things?"

  "What do you have?"

  "A big suitcase, full of—"

  "Leave it here. Can't be anything in it that we can't replace. You must realize by now that you haven't a chance of getting out of here normally. Not once Security starts investigating you."

  "Oh, God!" she said, and clung to me suddenly. "Then you do believe all this is connected somehow with Jan."

  "Yes."

  "But a while ago—"

  "I lied. To calm you down." I was talking fast now. I had to convince this girl. I needed her; I had to have her. And I couldn't leave the camp before ten, because first I had to send Bertie to Bremen to get our things and the money. And I had to speak to the police when they came, and get a few releases. I had a lot to do.

  "It's against the law, what you're doing," said Irina. Her eyes were black, she looked terribly worried.

  "Of course it is. So... will you be there at ten? It's your last chance to get to your fiance, fast. And to find out what's going on in Hamburg. Yes or no."

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Okay. Now go back to your barracks. Don't attract any attention. Walk in the shadows, if you can. Nobody must see that-"

  "There you are!" The voice of a man.

  I turned around. Tall, thin Wilhelm Rogge with the strong glasses, whom I had met in the Security Office, was standing in front of me. I cursed my stupidity. Security! Great! I should have gotten Irina out of the camp right away, right after it had

  happened. But how could I possibly have done that?

  "Good evening, Herr Rogge," I said.

  He nodded. "I've been looking for you everywhere, Fraulein Indigo. My colleague Klein, too."

  "Why?" she stammered.

  "Well, we want to have a talk with you," he said politely.

  "Right now?"

  "Yes. Right now. If we weren't so busy, we'd have had our little talk yesterday. You're at the top of the list."

  "At the top of the list?"

  "Well, of course. Such an important refugee with such an important fiance. So come with me, please. Good evening, Hen-Roland."

  "Good evening," I said, and watched the two disappear into the twilight. Godamn it!

  What now? If Irina told Rogge and his colleague what she had told the pastor and me—and what else could she do?—then God only knew what they'd do with her, much less make it possible for her to get to the fence by ten. I was beside myself with rage. Then I was quickly calm again. I had to believe in my luck. Until now I'd always been lucky in this shitty profession. Always. I had to go ahead as if nothing was wrong. I could always give up if and when I had to.

  I looked across the heather to where the delad boy was lying. The fog was rolling in, covering the ground. It settled around Karel's body and Fraulein Louise, who hadn't moved from her place beside him. I hoped Bertie had seen this pieta and taken a picture of it, in spite of the fading light.

  It must have been a dining hall, the barracks I was leaning against, because suddenly I could hear children's voices, praying in German, "Come, dear Jesus, be our guest, let what we're about to eat be blessed."

  We had fastened the loop of the tow rope high up on the cracked pillar, to get as much leverage as possible. The other end was 92

  knotted to the rear axle of the Lamborghini. I had left the road just beyond the village and driven the car cautiously through the bushes and over frighteningly soft ground, up close to the fence. The Lamborghini was hidden by gorse and juniper bushes. The whole camp was lit with floodlights on high posts, and one was burning here. It was damned light, and a full moon in a cloudless sky. We could hear the wind rushing high above us, but no ground gale—yet.

  "She's not coming," said Bertie. He was sitting beside me in the car.

  "No knowing," I said. "It's now five to ten."

  "She can't come. Security's got her and that's the end. Always. From here on she can't make a move without a cop."

  "How do you know?"

  Bertie's pessimism could get under your skin sometimes. Both of us were smoking and staring straight ahead into the camp, where nothing was moving. The police were still there. "We'll wait until eleven. She'll come. I can feel it. Bet?"

  "That she'll come? That's like taking candy from a baby. No. I'm not betting. Nice mess—"

  "Why nice mess?"

  "Without the girl."

  "Well go to Hamburg in any case."

  "Sure. But without the girl—"

  "Bertie!"

  "What?"

  "Shut up!"

  He did. Offended. He had driven from the camp to Bremen and back in record time. I had passed out the money he'd brought with him an
d pocketed the receipts. ^Then we had let the police question us again. Odd, but neither Herr Klein nor Herr Rogge from Security showed up. At last we left the camp and drove here, and here we had been sitting for the last forty minutes. I had contradicted Bertie without much conviction. I didn't think Irina was coming either. I couldn't imagine that Security would let her

  "Hello?"

  Both of us sat up like a shot. My heart was beating wildly. Irina was lying flat on the ground behind the fence. She lifted one hand and waved. I got out of the car and ran crouched over the soft ground to the pillar. "Punctual," I said. She nodded.

  "Stay where you are."

  I had the jack handle with me. Bertie, at the wheel, looked back at us out of the window. I gave him a sign. He started the motor. Gave it gas. Cautiously, very cautiously. The car began to move slowly. It seemed to me that the Lamborghini made a hell of a lot of noise in the still night. The rope grew taut, the car jerked suddenly; if the wheels start spinning now, I thought, we're finished.

  The wheels didn't spin. The car moved forward, centimeter by centimeter. The crack in the pillar began to widen on the inside, and the pillar moved a little toward the outside. I leaped to the fence, shoved the jack handle into the crack, and pushed it up with all the strength in me. The car moved forward, the crack widened a little more. The wire had a metallic, grinding sound as it began to stretch. Bertie was doing his thing marvelously. The pillar crackled, the barbed wire above it was taut now, too.

  Now I did the opposite thing—I leaned on the jack handle and pushed down with all my weight. I pushed so hard that my feet left the ground and I was suspended in midair, head down, an upside-down human U. With any luck... if no one came... if no car passed, no driver saw us—goddamn the floodlight! The sweat was running down my back. I could hear a humming sound above me. The nylon rDpe. If it broke...

  It didn't break. We were lucky. The pillar began to fall, slowly at first, then faster. And it dragged the fence down with it. I had to jump back to avoid the barbed wire headed my way. "Now!" I whispered, and Irina jumped to her feet. She had on a coat—no luggage. "Crawl over the fence," I told her. "It's practically on the ground. Hang onto the mesh. Slowly. Slowly now. You've almost made it." The sweat was running into my eyes. Bertie had stopped the motor. "Look out!" I said. "That's barbed wire. Step on it."