ECHOES OF SILENCE
A NOVEL OF NAZI GERMANY
Patrick W. O’Bryon
Brantôme Press
CAMERON PARK, CALIFORNIA
Copyright © 2019 by Patrick W. O’Bryon.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Design by G. S. Prendergast
Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com
Echoes of Silence/Patrick W. O’Bryon. -- 1st ed.
To my wife Dani
and in memory of my father
As all historians know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes.
―Margaret Atwood, from The Handmaid’s Tale
FOREWORD
The Corridor of Darkness trilogy spans a dozen tumultuous years in Germany from the Great Depression to the months before Pearl Harbor. In the course of the novels the brilliant but initially untested Ryan Lemmon commits himself to countering the Nazi menace. He moves through Europe as an American operative while struggling to outwit a brutal Gestapo nemesis.
Inspired by the journals of the author’s late father, Corridor of Darkness tells of espionage, vengeance and love against the backdrop of the chaotic Third Reich. One related storyline remained untold. In Echoes of Silence that chapter from Ryan’s 1931 past returns to haunt him on the streets of 1941 Berlin.
This tale can stand alone.
However, if you are new to the story, you may wish to start at the beginning of the trilogy to better appreciate the characters, intrigue and many twists and turns along the way. If not, enough of the backstory lies herein to encourage you to turn the page.
PROLOGUE
Berlin, Germany
September 1931
Pedestrians leaned into the brisk wind sweeping down the Spree River. A dray horse trudged wearily across the bridge as it struggled with a wagonload of heavy roofing tiles. The driver snapped his whip in encouragement. Frustrated by this plodding obstruction, a produce vendor scraped gears on his Ford and downshifted to pass. He flicked a cigar butt from the open window but paid scant attention to the official van parked at the quay. Already running late on deliveries, he knew it was always best to turn a blind eye to police business anyway.
The officers eased the body toward the bank. Floaters had become more frequent in recent times. Personal vengeance and political vendetta inspired the cruelest of murders and a rash of suicides reflected the nation’s economic woes. The wash of the patrol boat rolled the swollen corpse to the side, exposing a breast and blanched arm with outstretched hand, its splayed fingers begging for attention. The neck ended in pale flesh, bone and sinew.
The men drew the remains to the edge of the channel, their hooks gingerly avoiding further damage. Unable to mask the quiver in his voice, a rookie shouted up to the sergeant at street-level. “Should we go back and look for the head?”
His superior understood the young man’s revulsion but he himself felt nothing, having long before accepted the realities of the job. “You’d have to search the landfills,” he called back. “The Kripos can take it from here.”
The launch now bobbed against the concrete riverbank. They wrapped the corpse in oilcloth and hefted their bloated find into the arms of comrades above. The doors of the van stood open to receive the morning’s find.
Traffic remained light on the steel span overlooking the recovery scene. Kriminalinspektor Brandt observed from the bridge, his drab overcoat blending with the weathered girders. The pipe clenched in his teeth had grown cold. He allowed the spent tobacco to fall to the sluggish waters below and returned the briar to his pocket. His eyes shifted to a facing tenement at eye level with his perch. Beyond the panes of the window he could see fingers clenching the curtains, ready to draw them shut at a moment’s notice.
The observer in the apartment shuddered at the fate of the dead woman. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. As tears coursed down her cheeks, she made a silent vow to avenge the brutal slaughter of her friend. With luck her actions would also assure that a person dear to her would live on.
She released the curtains and stepped from the window, her hands shaking and jaw trembling. She had seen enough.
Her new life could now begin.
TEN YEARS LATER
CHAPTER ONE
Geneva, Switzerland
November 1941
Edward Lemmon wasted no time as he strode across the lobby of the Hôtel du Lac, a briefcase in one hand and his hat in the other. “Sorry, Ryan, but Berlin must wait,” he whispered. Ryan Lemmon heard the regret in his older brother’s voice. They had said their good-byes the previous evening over a nightcap, so Ed’s reappearance meant a new and unwelcome irritant stood in the way of imminent departure. “Something important arrived in this morning’s London pouch.”
Both men worked for the Foreign Service with Ed assigned to the Geneva consulate. Ryan’s task was more complex. He belonged officially to the State Department’s Special War Problems Division. Covertly he was an operative for America’s fledgling intelligence service, the Coordinator of Information Office under “Wild Bill” Donovan.
Ryan didn’t try to mask his disappointment. His bill was settled and the taxi already waiting curbside. He’d been brooding over a final farewell with an on-again off-again lover of many years and knew the excitement of espionage work would brighten his mood. “So what do they want now?”
“We need someplace quiet.” Ed led his brother into the back corner of the lounge they had frequented the previous evening. He ran a quick comb through his hair as they settled into the leather chairs. A waiter appeared to take orders but Ed waved him off with a gratuity and request that he cancel Ryan’s ride. He kept his voice low as he handed Ryan a long envelope: “Seems a new guy is taking over all COI operations in Greater Germany. Name’s Ellington, and you’ll answer to him from now on as sole intermediary with David Bruce in London.” Bruce was Donovan’s point-man for all European operations.
“What about the orders from Donovan himself by way of Bruce?”
“On hold for the moment. According to what you have in there,” he indicated the envelope Ryan had pocketed without a glance, “Ellington wants a face-to-face before you meet with your admiral again.” Ryan had recently established a promising contact with the head of Reich military intelligence, Wilhelm Canaris. A joint covert operation revealed American and British corporations financially supporting the Reich, and Ryan had thereby proven his value as a conduit between the admiral and the Allies.
“So how long do I sit around before meeting with this Ellington?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. In Basel.”
“At least it’s soon.” He patted his pocket. “So spare me from having to read this crap—what else should I know?”
“Not much in there, actually, but it does mean you’re done with State. The documents office will take new photographs for your cover this afternoon, and from here on out you’re free of the Foreign Service.”
Ryan was disappointed. Having Ed to buffer his covert activities had been a bright spot, and belonging to the S
pecial War Problems Division had permitted use of his real name and cover story. Just knowing someone trustworthy watched from the wings had been comforting. For the first time Ryan would go it alone. “So we’re no longer a team?”
“That’s my read.” Ed fished out a cigarette and signaled the waiter for coffees. “With Ellington as your coach it’s a whole new ballgame for you, brother.”
“Any idea why?”
“I’ve got ideas, but I’ll ask around at the consulate. They actually wanted COI to give you this news but I pulled strings to be here instead. After this Basel meet you’ll know a hell of a lot more than I do. Word is the bigwigs no longer want Donovan to use State’s facilities for intelligence-gathering. They claim it compromises their ‘solely’ diplomatic mission,” a cloud of smoke billowed from his nostrils, “as if anyone truly believes that’s all we do!”
Ryan knew full well that Foreign Service outposts usually had intelligence-gathering officers on staff. “Makes some sense, I suppose, keeping the two separate. But it does throw a wrench into our personal arrangement. Anything else?”
Ed smiled enigmatically and reached into his breast pocket. “Oh, almost forgot. Seems I do have something else here that may improve your mood.” He produced a square envelope. “It brightened my day, I must admit.”
Ryan removed the metal clip and slid out a stack of photographs that left him momentarily speechless. Stretched out on a coroner’s table lay the pale corpse of Horst von Kredow. Even in death, the Gestapo officer appeared menacing, given Ryan’s past torments at his hands. The images documented damage done by a killer’s blade: stab wounds, at least seven in number and deep. But equally disturbing were track marks of countless hypodermic injections across arms, legs and buttocks. His nemesis had been a user, morphine or heroin. And recent slash marks and healed scars mapped the dead man’s chest and lower body, evenly spaced, deliberately done and thus likely self-inflicted. There could be no doubt that it was truly von Kredow, for he saw at the throat the striations he himself had made with the man’s own blade just months before in France. “My God, brother, where the devil did you get these?”
“Beneath my apartment door first thing this morning, with your name on the envelope and no note of explanation.” He smiled. “Should be a bit of a relief if that’s who I think it is.”
Ryan nodded, acceptance beginning to settle in. “Von Kredow, dead at last.” His cruel adversary of seven years finally put to rest. He stopped abruptly at one particular picture and moved it under the lamp for a better look. His tormentor appeared to have circumcised himself and botched the job, a particularly odd act from a man who despised all Jews. Perhaps he’d hoped in his madness to bring his enemy closer at a most personal level. Ryan could only shake his head at a thoroughly unbalanced mind. “You look at all of them?”
“Yes, and once was enough.”
Ryan returned the photos to the envelope and handed it back with the observation: “And this man had free rein to maim and torture under Germany’s great Führer.”
Ed wisely kept silent, allowing his brother to digest this new information.
Ryan felt again the sear of glowing metal on his body, the stench of his own burning flesh as he struggled against his bonds. The man’s relentless pursuit of his friends and the covert manipulation of Ryan’s own fate had distorted his reality for years, robbing him of all peace. But the horrors inflicted by von Kredow had hardened him, as well, taught him to be cruel and efficient where needed. Were those days of constant dread truly over?
“Thank you for this, Ed. It frees me to do my job in Berlin without constantly looking over my shoulder.”
“Thank your friend Canaris when you see him next. The admiral clearly wants your focus on what you do best.”
After brief discussion, Ed decided to accompany him as far as Basel. He could catch up on paperwork along the way. Having spent some time in the ancient city where Germany, France and Switzerland converge at the Rhine, Ed volunteered to be his brother’s guide to the sights. Bumming around the Old Town seemed a pleasant enough diversion before they went their separate ways. The plan was to have a fine meal, down some good Basler beer, then overnight in an inn close to the train station before Ryan entered the Reich and Ed returned to Geneva.
The following morning they met for a quick breakfast before boarding the 6:35 express. Their first-class compartment was temporarily free of other travelers. Ed settled in to chain-smoke his way through his files and Ryan lapsed into silence. Doing nothing wasn’t his style, and his mind focused on his recent past and the uncertainties of where he headed now under new and unfamiliar guise.
Sudden movement in the corridor caught his eye. A stylish blonde had stumbled while avoiding a passenger boarding from the opposite direction. She stooped to retrieve her fallen handbag as the train began to move. Righting herself, she momentarily pressed a hand against the window of their compartment. Ryan sprang to his feet to offer help but she’d already recovered her bag and was straightening the seams of her stockings. Ryan received a smile as she moved on. He followed her progress down the aisle. She entered the vestibule without glancing back.
“Quite the dish,” he noted to his brother as he returned to the window seat.
Ed’s face remained buried in a file. “Well stacked, that’s for sure.”
Ryan’s smile broadened. “And what would your lovely Grace say to her minding the kids at home while your eye’s over here roving?”
“Brother, you know full well my eye appreciates the aesthetic but never roves. And Grace knows it, too. It’s one reason I remain in her good graces.” Ryan moaned as Ed continued: “No, I’ve no interest in that lovely creature out there, but I do know your type.” He plucked a shred of tobacco from his tongue and his banter turned cautious. “So how’d you leave it with Marita? The good-byes were difficult, I gather?”
“Tough as the devil, I’ll admit.” It was clear Ed had also seen something familiar in the passing blonde, a touch of Marita Lesney. Certainly not the hair color or even height—Marita was petite and brunette—but those shapely curves, yes. And something in the walk perhaps, self-assured, knowing her own attractiveness, or in that smile. “For the best though,” Ryan confessed. “Let’s face it: I’m not cut out for a relationship, at least for now. Who knows? Perhaps never.” He checked his watch, figuring an hour to go before Basel. “Marita will find her footing in Palestine and end up running a night spot again. It’s in her cards. She’s a survivor. Maybe I’ll visit if this world ever returns to normal.” Ryan knew it was a lie. Ed gave a non-committal nod, lost again in his endless stack of files.
Ryan pressed his forehead to the window glass, the cold surface a relief in the overheated compartment. The slick surface fogged with each exhalation. He lowered the pane a bit to welcome frigid air on his face. The beauty of the snowbound countryside lifted his spirits. Edward took no notice of his surroundings, his attention devoted to a seemingly endless parade of documents emerging from the briefcase beside him. He absentmindedly brushed fallen ash from his vest.
Woods of birch and beech clipped by, spikes of color still clinging to tangled branches. A chill blue blanketed the hillsides, prelude to the blinding white to come with sunrise. From moment to moment the meadowlands parted to reveal an ice-rimmed lake or huddled village. He waved to schoolchildren waiting at a grade crossing.
Boyhood trips to Green Mountain Falls came to mind, pristine Colorado blanketed in winter snows. He thought of his parents, both so recently lost to age and disease. He’d lived away nearly as long as he’d lived in Kansas, yet home would always be home, right? The subject seldom arose between the brothers, perhaps because it seemed selfish to dwell on personal loss when the horrors of war destroyed the lives of so many. Or perhaps their silence meant there was little more to add. Firstborn Ed had always been their golden boy; his success in the parents’ eyes a high hurdle for Ryan. Should he have written home more often, or telephoned more while still able? It was never enough
.
Smoke curled from farmhouses squatting under snow-laden eaves. Dung steamed in the courtyards and firewood lined the walls in stacks so symmetrical the word “pile” insulted their perfection. With the sun finally breaching the hills, a farmer swung open the doors to his basement and his herd filed out toward the field beyond. The heavy bell of the lead cow rocked at her throat, and gossamer auras surrounded the animals as stable-warm hide met frigid air.
Ryan sat down again and closed his eyes. Switzerland. How odd it must feel to live in such tranquility while surrounded by tyranny and war! Ahead lay Germany and Berlin, nexus of Hitler’s new Europe. To the west struggled poor France, torn in two by oppression and economic deprivation, ransacked by the Occupation to fuel an invincible war machine. To the south, Mussolini and his fascist thugs terrorized Italy, Greece and Africa. And now eastward, beyond a once proud Austria demoted to the “Ostmark,” the mechanized hordes of Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS seemed destined to conquer Russia in weeks if not brief months.
How many families already annihilated? How much suffering and death for untethered ambition and hubris? Ryan felt the deep pangs of inadequacy and guilt, knowing he’d once held proof of a Nazi plan to annihilate European Jewry. Despite his best efforts, the warning had fallen on deaf ears, and now the demons were devastating the continent. Let it go, he told himself, let it go. Focus on what comes next.
He shook off depressing realities and settled on a far more mundane issue—his growing hunger. Breakfast had been quick at the Place de Cornavin rail station: bread rolls with butter, strawberry jam, and several cups of real coffee, not the ersatz brew of malted grain Berliners christened Muckefuck, their witty interpretation of mocca faux. He smiled. Right now he could go for another cup of the genuine article. In truth, he could handle another thickly-buttered roll. “Damn it, Ed, I’m already famished,” he said. “What I wouldn’t give for a couple of fried eggs, sunny side up.” A passing memory of Mother and Maggie the cook, warm biscuits emerging from the oven, bacon sizzling in the iron skillet. Now that was breakfast!
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