A rattle at the entrance caught his attention and he dropped to the dusty floor. Beyond the doors someone hesitated long enough to return a colleague’s greeting. A draft followed the man in. Hunkered down to peer past the ranks of luggage, Ryan watched a baggage handler compare the number of a cart with a notation on a clipboard, then release the wheel brake and back the carriage out into the main hall.
Once the doors closed he hurriedly slit open a few more bags until he had shoes of loose but passable fit, a neck scarf, and woolen gloves to offer some protection from the cold. None of the trousers came close to fitting, but his overcoat of fine quality was the real problem. There had to be something more suited to the average man. He hastily broke into several more cases before acknowledging that a traveler in inclement weather would be wearing his overcoat, not packing it in luggage.
He called it quits, pulling the rumpled shirt over his own and wrapping the scarf around his neck. He transferred his valuables to the pockets of the jacket and the knife to his pants pocket. The well-worn footwear replaced new shoes purchased in Geneva and he slipped on the tired gloves. Once his hair was mussed for an unkempt look, he pulled the laborer’s cap low on his forehead. His tailored woolen trousers, badly in need of a pressing, would have to do.
As he reached for the handle, the metal bar fell away from his grasp. He hugged the wall behind the door as a porter propped it with a brace, grabbed the clipboard off its hook, and moved quickly down the center aisle. The man hummed as he checked cart numbers against his list. Taking advantage of the man’s inattention, Ryan already had one foot through the open passage when the worker abruptly reversed direction. Ryan moved back into hiding behind the door and pressed himself to the wall. He held his breath. The porter hesitated at the first cart, ticked off something with a pencil and re-hung the clipboard. He released the wheel brake on the heavily-burdened truck and backed it out, still humming some indistinct tune.
Alone again, he exhaled and became aware of softness at his back. Outerwear left by workers lined the wall. He would get to Berlin without freezing. He chose a worn tweed overcoat of coarse wool. It smelled of moth balls but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He left his own fine coat in its place, sure to be a pleasant surprise for its unwitting new owner.
The lack of identity papers was worrisome. Any fit man not in uniform carried proof of exemption for some critical labor on the home front. Ryan had nothing. Just months before he’d ridden a flatcar through Occupied France, hiding beneath canvas with a lovely partisan, their backs to a motorized field weapon. He knew that railway men were always in short supply and often excused from picking up a rifle. Better yet, he knew the possibility of finding a sympathetic ear increased among rail crews, the last hotbed of trade union resistance before Hitler did his damnedest to obliterate them. Now the only “unions” were shams, Party-run monopolies.
With his full bladder killing him, he released a stream into a far corner and sighed with relief. Thirst and hunger would have to wait. For now, high time to make his way out into the freight yards and play his new role for all it was worth.
He stooped to mimic a much older man and headed out toward the administrative area. An abandoned baggage cart hugged one wall, a box of rusty hand tools resting on its splintered planking. He gave the cart a test and found a wobbly wheel rubbed the axle with every revolution. Borrowing a hammer from the tool box, he began his journey. From time to time he stopped to pound the stubborn wheel into submission. Reichsbahn personnel twice demanded his business as he trudged along, bent over, cursing his cumbersome burden. Twice he explained in Hessian dialect his orders to get the cart to the machine shop for repairs. Happily, the terminal was too vast and the staff too large for the tight camaraderie among workers that might hamper his chances in a smaller locale.
Once into the blacked-out railyards, he abandoned the cart and headed toward a distant freight terminal. The storm had hit with lesser fury here in Hesse. Only a light layer of snow covered the graveled yard. Dampness seeped into his worn shoes but he made steady progress. Despite the darkness and an instinctive urge for stealth, he now moved purposefully as a man on an important mission would. Why else cross an unlit railyard without lantern or flashlight? He took in the wide sweep of the ranging tracks, halting periodically to allow a train to rumble past in a cloud of smoke and cinders. At last he spotted a goods train stationed alongside a long shed, its massive locomotive idling with a periodic release of pent-up steam. The transport appeared to be pointed north, and anything moving that direction would bring him closer to Berlin.
An engineer labored beneath a kerosene lantern suspended from the catwalk of the engine boiler. The man worked with an experienced touch, rapping each high wheel with a hammer as he listened for the dull sound of metal fatigue or a serious crack. Years of exposure to soot and outdoor work had turned his face to burnished leather. Coal black seemed to exaggerate every crease and wrinkle, giving the look of someone decades older than middle age.
Ryan called out while still meters away to avoid undue surprise: “Hello, there!”
“Hello, comrade. What brings you out at this ungodly hour?” The man greeted him with a friendly wave of his hammer and the dark tracks at the man’s eyes suggested someone used to smiling.
Ryan’s father had put himself through college as a part-time brakeman on the Santa Fe and loved to share stories of those days. Ryan had learned enough as a youth to discuss the basics in a pinch. “I work Magdeburg and points west—brakeman—but should’ve slowed myself down last night. Too much beer and schnapps, too much trust in the local dames.” Ryan massaged his temples. “God, my head’s killing me.”
The engineer gave a knowing grin. “Age-old story. Sorry for your suffering.” He squatted to pick up an oil can. “Plenty of traffic heading north in the next few hours, so get yourself over to the passenger terminal and catch a hop.” He gestured in the direction Ryan had just come. “Excuse me, but I’ve no time to chat; we’re out of here in fifteen.”
Ryan idly scuffed gravel as if hesitant to reveal the truth. “Yes, you see, there’s a catch. My footloose brother’s on leave here before heading out to the eastern front. I came down to help him enjoy a night on the town. We won a few hands at cards, romanced a couple of lovelies, then got rolled on our way back to his room.” Ryan explored the back of his head as if feeling for a lump. “Likely done in by the fellows we bested at cards. Never saw them coming.” He gingerly adjusted his cap. “Woke a few hours ago with a splitting headache and double vision and thought it best I head home.”
“That’d be the schnapps!”
“And now I stand before you with no papers, no cash, no ration cards.” Ryan held up his hands in surrender. “They got it all.” He shook his head. “My woman will have my hide for this.”
“Not the first time for a visitor here, my friend. Sorry things turned sour for you.”
Two men at the far end of the train had spotted them and one called out. The engineer waved them back. Ryan knew to give his story some time to sink in. He stood silent while the man lubricated the running gear, the wait marked by the throb of the air compressor feeding the brake lines. Finally the driver spoke again, his words punctuated by the repetitive squeaks from the oilcan. “So, I take it you’re wanting either a hop north or for me to spot you some cash?”
“A ride home will do just fine.”
The trainman hefted his lantern and took a good long look at Ryan, then rehung it with an enigmatic smile. “That first boxcar there—” he directed Ryan’s gaze toward the freight car coupled behind the locomotive tender, “it and its mates run empty as far as Magdeburg. Door’s unlocked, so go settle in.” The man returned to squirting oil. “And better luck with the cards, comrade. Consider losing now and then so no one feels obliged to get even.”
Ryan thanked him profusely and strode back toward the car, only to have the engineer call out: “And consider yourself lucky they didn’t steal those fancy pants of yours!” Before Ryan
could respond, the man had returned to his labors. By the light of the lantern he could see a grin.
He slid back the door and climbed aboard, rolling it shut behind him. Hunkering down in the rear, he prepared for an uncomfortable and brutally cold stretch ahead. The worn planks reeked of oil and fertilizer, a biting stench in the darkness. At least the smell should improve with the constant rush of frigid air. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, phantom images drifted about and his mind began to wander. He sensed slight nausea, either from the acrid smell or from an empty stomach. It would be dawn soon enough, but he would face many hours before finding food or drink.
Abruptly, the iron-framed door creaked on its rollers and stopped with a resounding clang as it met the catch. Ryan was already on his feet, opening the blade of his penknife. He spotted the engineer in the glow of the upraised lantern. The man climbed up into the car and gestured for Ryan to retake his seat. He carried a rolled bundle beneath one arm and a paper sack. “It’ll be damned cold once we get moving, and I suspect food will help.”
Ryan returned the knife to his pocket but left the blade extended. The bundle was a thin woolen blanket cinched with a cord. Inside the bag he felt a bottle and the soft give of bread or a sandwich. He set the items down quickly, keeping his eyes on the train man. “Most considerate of you, sir.”
“Name’s Gunther.” He reached out and shook Ryan’s hand.
Ryan started to offer an alias, but the man made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t reckon we’ll meet again, so why bother. Gave mine by force of habit.” He ran his fingers through his hair and replaced his cap. “Don’t know as how I believe your story, but you haven’t the look of a criminal, you’re lacking the arrogance of someone trying to trip me up, and you’re a bit too polished for a brakeman on any crew I’ve worked.” His smile seemed genuine enough.
Ryan grinned and started to speak, but Gunther interrupted: “No—better for me I know nothing—” He lit two cigarettes and offered one to Ryan before crushing the spent match underfoot.
“Much obliged, and the blanket’s a lifesaver.”
“What’s in the sack will help with hunger and thirst. We get in late afternoon, so prepare for a long haul. And—my apologies—not going to be a comfortable ride.”
“How can I thank you enough?” He took a drag on the cigarette, grateful for the warmth.
“Believe me, nothing to thank. Just doing a man a favor, right?” Gunther swung down with practiced skill. He grabbed his lantern and rolled the door shut behind him. Ryan rose to his feet and opened the opposing door a crack, ready to jump and run at the first sign he’d been conned. Instead, he heard the engineer shout up to the fireman in the locomotive that he’d be back in a moment before heading toward the rear of the train.
Something about the encounter gnawed at Ryan’s gut. Had the engineer played along with his yarn a bit too easily? His friendliness had seemed forced, his curiosity too limited when encountering a stranger in the darkness of the yard. Perhaps it was Ryan’s wariness on the heels of Klara’s arrest and his renewed commitment to take nothing at face value. Watch your back.
He waited moments for the man to move beyond earshot before pocketing the sandwich and beer. Easing the door open a fraction, he stuck his head out to sight the length of the train. A glance forward assured that the fireman was nowhere to be seen. The engineer stood conferring by lantern light with some men at the far end of the shed. He had said the train would depart in mere minutes, so shouldn’t he be up in the locomotive by now? A flashlight emerged from beyond the building to join the group for a brief discussion. That man disappeared briefly from Ryan’s sightline before abruptly reappearing in the company of another man who appeared to hold something on a rope. Darkness and snow flurries made trusting his vision a challenge, so he sensed rather than saw a large dog pass beneath the lantern’s glow.
The building only meters away offered a long wall with no doors or windows. No escape route. Edging out sideways, he lowered himself to the cinder bed. With another quick glance in either direction, he dropped to the cinders and crawled beneath the railcar. The sharp odor of grease and oil bit at his nostrils. Crouching on the track, he moved forward and eased beneath the thick axle to emerge between buffers flanking the brake lines and the coupler. Standing atop one pneumatic buffer shaft, he used a vertical handrail as his next step. Reaching high, he braced his other foot on a metal upright and pulled himself atop the boxcar.
The roof curved gently away from the center line. Lying prone on the slippery ridge he hoped to remain unseen. He had a real chance as long as no one scanned the roof with a flashlight. He felt the snow beneath him begin to melt and saturate his trousers as he waited on his high perch. Moments later the careful crunch of boots on cinders announced men approaching from both sides. They trod cautiously enough, but he had been alert for the sound. He lifted his head just enough to spot a man wielding a metal bar. Likely there were pistols drawn. He plastered his cheek to the cold surface and held his breath.
Abruptly coarse shouts rose to either side of his boxcar. “Raus, raus! Hände hoch!” Both doors slid open simultaneously and a chorus of voices competed with a baying dog. Someone loosed the excited animal within the confines of the carriage and it ran from one end to the other, seeking prey and barking excitedly in frustration.
Ryan recognized the voice of the engineer: “He’s gone!”
“Look for tracks!” The command carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed. “Can’t have gone far.”
A flashlight threw shadows along the shed wall. “Snow’s already a mess,” a new voice shouted off to his left.
“Same here,” the response from the other side of the car.
“You bucket-brained fool, you must have tipped him off!” The authoritative voice was now damning as it turned on the engineer. “You tipped him off.”
“No way! The man didn’t have a clue. I made him right at home!”
“Sure you did. Now search the other cars, one by one.”
The engineer had clearly had his fill. “I did my duty and blew the whistle on the guy. You can’t fault me on that, so the rest is on you. And if I don’t get this consist out of here—and now—there’ll be all hell to pay.”
“Don’t even think of using that tone with me!”
“You really want to delay us further? For God’s sake, he was likely exactly what he said he was—down on his luck. Just didn’t want to spend his day riding in this shitty icebox!”
The engineer wouldn’t have dared talk to Gestapo that way, so the response surely came from a railyard policeman: “I’ll have your stinking hide for this!”
“You can kiss my ass for all I care! Right now, my hide is worth twice yours, unless you know how to drive this train north, and right now! We’re a good quarter hour late already. So you and your man get the hell out of our way or you’ll be the one explaining the shot schedule to the Transport Ministry!”
A muted curse. A shouted command to retrieve the frustrated dog from the boxcar. Doors slamming shut and voices fading until only the steady thump of the compressor marred the silence. Ryan took several deep breaths. Crouching low, he worked his way back toward the leading edge of the boxcar. A look to either side showed he was in the clear. In one fluid movement he eased over the lip, his foot sought out the vertical rail and he dropped to the buffer shaft. Perched there, he scanned once more the length of the train in both directions, then slipped around the corner to enter the darkness of the boxcar. There would be little or no sleep coming but he knew they were unlikely to search again.
As he calmed his nerves, he noted the stench of dog feces had joined the previous odors. Oh well, sure as hell beats a Gestapo interrogation. He felt with his foot along the rear of the car, hoping to avoid the source of the sour odor, and found what he sought. The rolled blanket was still where he’d left it.
A whistle shrilled, the engine drew out the slack and the cars creaked and moaned in protest as they eased from the
yard. Ryan remained by the barely parted door until the train reached the outskirts of the city and began to gain speed. He then settled back, grateful for the modest warmth of the blanket, and contemplated his next steps.
First and foremost, he must determine who had blown his cover on the Reichsbank job. He relived his tense charade as an auditor just six weeks past. The guards had paid him little notice, the same for the receptionists. Johannah, secretary to the vice president of Hitler’s bank, secretly worked for Canaris. She had made it possible for Ryan to obtain proof that Allied industries were helping finance Hitler’s war. Her aid stemmed from outright hatred of the Nazis and the terror they had wrought, so only the worst torture could force her to talk. And yet the secret police had very effective means to loosen lips. And then there was that mysterious courier, the one without a name. Had he been coerced into revealing Ryan’s likeness, perhaps even Johannah’s role in the undertaking?
Surely the admiral knew where things had gone wrong and how he’d been exposed. After all, Canaris sent Klara to shadow him in Switzerland and the bank incursion was the admiral’s own operation in play. But the fact that the Gestapo had arrested her showed a bold new confidence on their part, a willingness to directly challenge the strongest intelligence operator of the Reich. The Sicherheitsdienst, Himmler’s state security apparatus, had long fought covertly to undermine Canaris’ military intelligence operation. Now they had taken a bold, open step. The balance of power between Abwehr and SD may have shifted.
Equally troubling was his compromised new persona. The Gestapo agent in the customs shed recognized him from the flyer and delivered his fake papers to the portly major. It seemed probable they’d immediately reported to Berlin the discovery of a likely suspect for the Reichsbank intrusion. After Klara’s intervention, the major would have worked overtime to convince the Gestapo that they’d been mistaken. His standing in the Party and the SS depended on it. But Klara’s arrest clearly showed that the secret police weren’t buying that story.
Echoes of Silence Page 5
