The Shadowboxer

by Behn, Noel;

  The “prisoners” assembled on the paradeground. Ten men and ten women were given axes and led to the woods, where they began felling trees. The remainder received rough-handled shovels and began digging up the frozen earth as the third and fourth buses arrived.

  The new contingent of twenty-six men and twenty-three women were shaved, processed and sent out to join the others with either ax or shovel. The fifth and sixth buses arrived an hour apart. Twenty-one more women and eighteen men joined the labor battalion.

  Work ceased at ten that evening. One hundred and twenty-eight new “prisoners” trudged into one unheated simulated barracks, were fed a thin soup scattered with occasional bits of old potatoes and were allowed to sleep two to an unmattressed wooden bunk for a full four hours. Men and women could not share the same bed.

  At three in the morning they were mustered in the recreation area in a snowstorm. Instructions began in concentration-camp procedure. Roll call was practiced a dozen times. Food-line procedure took even more rehearsal. Marching received slightly less attention. Other details followed. Two more buses arrived. Thirty-seven more women joined the contingent.

  There was no breakfast or lunch. Digging and chopping began at six in the morning and lasted until nine at night. Twenty-three men dropped out from exhaustion or exposure. The casualties for women totaled fifty-five. Twelve men and fifteen women were placed in a special barracks to recuperate, to be given another chance. The remaining fifty-seven were put into ambulances and sent on to Munich.

  The third day’s schedule was the same as the second. By nightfall the ranks had thinned to thirty-six men and thirty-one women.

  No one was wakened until nine on the fourth morning. The sixty-seven survivors gathered in the heated dining hall for a meal of Wurstel with mustard, Bortchen, beer and coffee. Most could not eat. Cigarettes were passed out as orderlies climbed onto a small stage at the end of the room and set up three easles. Large diagrams and photographs were placed on them.

  The “prisoners” stood to attention. Webber entered, crossed the room, mounted the platform, took up a long wooden pointer and stepped beside the first easel. The audience was ordered seated.

  “This is Oranienburg.” The pointer rapped against the large diagram divided by thick green lines. “Sometime between midnight, the twenty-fifth of February, and midnight of the twenty-sixth, an escape attempt is expected.” The pointer moved to the yellow shaded area. “This sector of Oranienburg is called ‘Privileged Detention.’” Webber stepped to the center easel, to an enlargement of Special Detention. “In these barracks are housed important prisoners—political, religious, former National Socialists, Wehrmacht officers and so on. This is where the trouble will come.”

  Webber moved to the last easel. “This is a diagram of the two barracks within Special Detention that house female prisoners. These two barracks are cut off from the rest of Special Detention by electrified fencing. The gates into the women’s sector are open during the day, closed at night. Whether the gates are opened or closed, no male is ever allowed inside.”

  He motioned. Overlays were placed on the existing chart. “Your mission is to serve as sentinels, as a human alarm system, in case any unauthorized person either leaves or enters the women’s compound during the twenty-sixth of the month. Eight of you women will work in the women’s compound as gardeners. Two more will be assigned as attendants in the barracks themselves.”

  Webber returned to the center easel. “Word has gone out through Oranienburg that it has been selected as a model camp, that it will soon be inspected and photographed. The prisoners know that such an impending inspection means a great deal of extra labor in the cleaning-up process. They anticipate new projects and long hours. They will not be disappointed. One of the new projects will be a sewage line, or at least the ditch for a sewage line.”

  Webber’s crayon slashed a mark to the south of Privileged Detention. “This is the path of the ditch. Digging will go on day and night. Some of you will be on every shift.

  “Another ‘show project’ will be a new shower house.” The crayon circled an area to the north of Privileged Detention. “Many of you will be on each of those twelve-hour shifts. Other projects will be under way in various parts of the camp, but they are not our concern. They simply make it look as if everyone is involved.”

  The pointer ran east and west between the ditch and shower-house projects. “What we have done,” Webber announced, “is create a corridor through which the escape will probably take place. Some of you will be in each of the barracks along this corridor. Since we do not know how the escape is to be engineered, we must look for two things: unauthorized persons entering Privileged Detention, in particular the women’s sector, and anyone leaving Privileged Detention. Since Privileged Detention is a quarantine sector, no one is allowed to leave or enter it, with the exception of the eight women prisoners who work in the female barracks. Since those eight women will be from this room, anyone else is our suspect.

  “As I said before, your function is that of a warning system.” He began marking black crosses on the overlay. “These will be the relay stations. They will be manned by two of you day and night. Some will be working on barracks roofs, others filling potholes in the street areas. If anyone is seen entering the Privileged area you notify the nearest relay station. They in turn will notify the patrol stations.” An arc of orange X’s were marked on the overlay.

  Webber stepped to the front of the stage. The pointer began beating against his boot. “The reason for this strategy is quite simple. We do not know what our man looks like. We do not know if he will come into the camp for the prisoner Hilka Tolan or whether she will be led out to meet him. Therefore we must observe both the entrance route and the escape route without interfering. Once she has been led out of the camp we will know the person with her is our man. Your job is the most important: to notify the others when contact is first made.

  “Our man must be captured with the Tolan woman outside the camp—that is the only way we can identify him. Therefore, under no conditions will you attempt to intercept anybody entering or leaving Privileged Detention without authorization. Even if you are attacked you will do nothing.”

  “But, Standartenfuehrer,” one of Webber’s aides interrupted, “everyone has been given a knife.”

  “On whose authority?” shouted the colonel. “The knives will be confiscated immediately. Even if the suspect has his hands on your necks, you will do nothing. Nothing! Is that understood?”

  Assignments were given, and the various groups split up for their special instruction. At noon another hot meal was served. Vitamin and nutrition shots were given.

  The “new prisoners” were issued battered cups and spoons and instructed in how to tie them to their clothing. The march began at 1400 hours. They tramped through the knee-high forest snow and descended onto a frozen mud path. By 1830 hours they had passed through the “outer ring” of dug-in, camouflaged Alpine Troops. At 1900 hours they were met by the Death’s Head Totenkopf guard from Oranienburg and led between the hidden white-uniformed Waffen-SS paratroopers with white-sprayed submachine guns who composed the “outer center ring.” At 1920, with nine battalions of troops behind them, the “prisoners” reached a well-concealed road observation point overlooking the Autobahn.

  The line of prisoners from Kreisberg stretched a quarter of a mile—a quarter of a mile of stooped, silent figures trudging through the fresh snow, clutching their arms around themselves. Not one head was unbowed, not one glance wasted to right or left—just a soundless procession of half-frozen men in rags. Not a soul noticed or cared when the Gestapo’s “new prisoners” fell in at the end of the line and joined the trek to Oranienburg.

  9

  The fishing boat passed Belle-Île, circled the German patrol lines, slid into the fog bank and slowed its engine.

  The Peppermint Priest buttoned his slicker tightly over the black cassock and tugged down the brim of his storm hat. A revolver was offered. He
shook his head and climbed on deck. He sat on the gunwale and squinted out over the midnight water. The haze was thining; a pointilliste outline of waterfront buildings began to materialize.

  The boat drifted between the lines of piling and bumped to a stop. The Priest stepped over the side and swung himself out onto the moss-covered rungs. He reached the top of the ladder. The hatch was closed. He gave three long taps, followed by two short. He signaled again. The hatch squeaked open. He stared directly up the plump pantless female thighs. Orange-lacquered fingers reached down. He was lifted into the kitchen.

  The face was doll-painted, the age elusive. The woman could have been forty, perhaps fifty; possibly older. She stood back, examined the sea-sprayed visitor and pressed a warning finger against her Clara Bow lips. A solitary button below the midriff strained to keep the white linen gown together. She motioned him to follow. Music was audible from a scratched victrola record.

  The staircase creaked with every footstep. The narrow hall was red-papered and gas-lit. They passed five doors; she pushed open the sixth. The Peppermint Priest entered. The door closed behind him. A lock clicked. He was alone.

  A solitary glazed candelabra on the long wooden table provided the sole illumination. Silver trays of fruits and nuts lay waiting. Six bottles of iced Dom Perignon stood neatly in line.

  Thick, rich blue carpeting covered the floor. The walls were covered in a lighter blue, the curtains were still lighter. The canopied brass bed was covered in blue satin and trimmed in gold. On the wall opposite the bed hung a large gold-tinted rococo picture frame enclosing an oil painting of Marshal Pétain. At least the head was Pétain’s. The body belonged to a satyr. The organs, both male and female, were grossly exaggerated. The golden hooves stood in a pool of blood.

  The Priest hung his slicker and cap on the coatrack, slipped off his shoes and socks and placed them on the blue-tiled corner stove. He felt his cassock. It was damp. He decided to keep it on. He reached beneath, brought out an oilskin package and tossed it on the bed.

  He moved to the French doors leading to an adjoining room and tried the brass handles. They were locked from the other side. His ear went to the louvers. The two French voices were female. The man spoke German. Talk erupted into laughter. Silence followed.

  The Priest returned to the stove and warmed his hands. The chill persisted. He raised his cassock high and stepped closer to the warm tile.

  The shrieks startled him. Cassock up, he spun around. The louvered doors lay open. Two girls stared gleefully through. Both were young, sixteen at the most. Both were pretty. Their hair swept tightly back behind their ears. The faces bore no trace of makeup. Each was dressed in a thin virginal white linen sheath, held together by a single button below the waist.

  The cassock dropped. The girls scurried from the room. One reached back in and pulled the doors closed. Excited chatter was heard from the other side. Then whispers. Then silence.

  The doors opened again. Von Schleiben, clad only in an open admiral’s tunic, stood in the doorway with the girls peeking over his shoulders.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Father?” the German reminisced. “I’ve missed our little tête-à-têtes.”

  “Have you, Wilhelm?” the man replied with a turn of the head. “How very odd. I haven’t missed you in the least.”

  “You are refreshing, Peppermint. Revitalizing. You look in good health.”

  “From all I can see, so do you. A naval uniform suits you. Are we only playing sailor this week or is the fleet actually waiting in the bathtub?”

  Von Schleiben crossed the room, boosted himself onto the table and let his legs swing free. The girls remained leaning in the doorway. “I am by the sea. I dress for the occasion. By that token you should be wearing stars and stripes. Rumor has it, Father, that you have become extremely close to the Americans.”

  “They’re extremely generous with their donations.”

  “Donations? Ah, yes, now I recall.” Von Schleiben snapped his fingers and pointed. The girls left the room pulling the doors closed. “That was your phrase, wasn’t it? Donations for—now, what was the name of that organization?”

  “International Refugee Assistance Program, IRAP.”

  “Of course. Now, why would I forget a splendid group like that?”

  “Perhaps because we’re nonprofit.”

  “Innuendo, Peppermint? Are you forgetting how many refugees I helped you bring out of Europe? How much assistance and information I provided your volunteers? Didn’t I singlehandedly get that entire Belgian family you wanted off the Continent? No, Father, when it came to you, I was most charitable.”

  “It was never your charity I questioned, it was the additional expenses.”

  “Smuggling has a rather high overhead.”

  “And profit margin.”

  “A man must live, Father. He must think to his future. Tell me, do you think the Americans would be interested in my services?”

  “You would have to ask the Americans.”

  “I value your opinion in such matters, Peppermint. I know you share many confidences. As an old friend, what is your opinion? Would they be interested?”

  “I should think that would depend on what you have to offer.”

  “You saw what I could do in the past, before my promotions. You know my present position within the Reich. You know what I could do for them now.”

  “And how much money will it cost?”

  “Money is immaterial.”

  “You being generous? Come, now, Wilhelm, I wasn’t born yesterday. You’d sell your grandmother to an ape if there was half a mark in it.”

  “My dear Peppermint, is it any secret that Germany will lose the war? I must prepare for the future. The Casablanca accord somewhat complicates matters. My affiliation with concentration camps makes the situation even bleaker. I am already dealing with the Russians. Now, quite simply, I would like to see if I can better my lot.”

  “You play the louse with astonishing conviction. Have you been practicing?”

  “No more than the rest of mankind.”

  The Peppermint Priest scratched behind his ear and smiled a sad smile. “All right, Wilhelm, I will make contact for you, but I must know exactly what merchandise you can provide—and what you expect in return.”

  “The Americans can have access to all secret information under my jurisdiction.”

  “Information is too general a term. You will have to speak in specifics.”

  Von Schleiben paused. “Perhaps they would be interested to learn that we are listening in on the transatlantic-cable conversations between Roosevelt and Churchill.”

  “They already know that.”

  “There is a plan afoot to assassinate Pétain if the Allies attempt to rescue him.”

  “They are fully aware of the SD commando detachment waiting in the south of France. I myself passed the information on.”

  “I could offer an outline of Kuprov’s operation. He has infiltrated German hospitals with low-grade agents, usually wounded or deformed men, who serve as orderlies or menials. The demand for this type of labor is so great that almost no security clearance is required. Once the agents have penetrated the hospitals they report back on the number of wounded soldiers and officers brought in as well as the units they come from. With this sampling the Russians are able to make projections establishing the total casualties of each German division. Needless to say, this information also gives the Russians a rather accurate picture of the Army’s order-of-battle deployment.”

  “I think the British might be greatly interested in this.”

  “No. I want the Americans.”

  “Then provide something they will find appealing.”

  Von Schleiben paused in obvious concentration.

  “Perhaps,” he began confidentially, “the Americans would like to know what I have collected on G. P. G.”

  “G. P. G.?”

  “Have you ever heard of it?”

  “No—not that I
can remember.”

  “How odd, dear Peppermint. How very peculiar—since G. P. G. is precisely the American operation you are now employed by. Ah, yes,” continued von Schleiben, “your International Assistance group did good work It brought many a refugee out of wartorn Europe and provided for them. It constantly attempted to help even more. In the name of humanity it made contact with various churches, charities, governments, espionage services, resistance groups—anyone who could help. You even dealt with me. But none of this is unusual for a refugee organization, is it?

  “The degree of your legitimacy always eluded me, Peppermint. Now I realize that you were a front from the very beginning. American intelligence elements organized you long before that country’s entry into the war. You were the perfect listening post on friend and foe alike—but I have a strong suspicion that your main concern was the concentration camps. You were the organization where all camp escapees were cared for—and interrogated. Almost all your early contacts had some relationship to the camps. That’s how you came across Erik Spangler. You do recall Spangler?”

  “Spangler?”

  “You used him on many occasions then, remember, Father? I think I even provided you with information that was subsequently passed on to him.”

  “The name sounds vaguely familiar—but I deal with so many people. Please, don’t interrupt your fairy tale. The suspense is killing me.”

  “My pleasure, Peppermint,” von Schleiben replied with a half salute. “After America entered the war, you went under the direct jurisdiction of the o. s. s.—even though your main contact appeared to be the British MI-6. Then approximately eight months ago the o. s. s. was out of the picture and you were instructed to function independently. It was during this period that your main interest shifted from concentration camps and began to rest on establishing stronger relationships with clandestine resistance groups within Germany, as well as on the worldwide search for exile German writers, technicians and other assorted professions. The motives behind these orders were unknown to you at the beginning, but as your operation grew in manpower, money and equipment you became a much more dominant factor in the project. For all I know, Peppermint, you may be one of the main planners.”