Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Ryan was a man without viable identity now trapped in a totalitarian state. He would need to avoid police checkpoints until new papers could be arranged. Another clandestine meeting with the admiral would be necessary to learn how he was compromised at the Reichsbank and what became of Klara. The number Johannah had given him to memorize was a cut-out contact, for sure, but that was his sole link to Canaris. He would contact Ellington for a new identity before going underground until COI sorted it all out.

  chapter FIVE

  En Route to Berlin, Germany

  November 1941

  The long hours dragged on, the tedium punctuated by seemingly endless delays in ranging yards as new rail cars joined the train and others were left behind, destined for parts unknown. Wrapped in the threadbare blanket and chilled to the bone, Ryan dozed as best he could and recalled his weeks in Geneva severing ties with Marita Lesney. Their on-again, off-again dance had finally come to an end. For a dozen years Ryan had drifted in and out of her life, her letters pursuing him on the road while he kept his emotional distance. Yet she remained a special friend through it all, never wavering in her personal support. On some level he always knew that such a time would come, but staring it in the face he felt deep sadness over the self-inflicted loss.

  He pictured her in her Parisian milieu, so full of spirit, so proud of her night club off rue Pigalle. With hips swaying to the rhythm of the small orchestra, she had chided him for his inability to commit to any one woman. But that mental image surrendered quickly to reliving their reunion only a few weeks past: the shorn hair, the fragility in the eyes, the barely-healed chemical burns on her hands and arms. An undeniable beauty still radiated from within, but deprivation and vile treatment at Nazi hands had rendered sassy Marita a wisp of her former self. The hotel’s beautician had done her best and his brother had seen she had new clothes before staging the surprise reunion with Ryan, but Marita’s old verve appeared gone.

  For two days he listened to her narrative of abuse, emerging in fits and starts before expanding into a vivid account of torments in Gestapo captivity, a French prison, and finally the German munitions plant. He comforted and commiserated as best he could. Impossible for him to picture the strength she had shown, yet she seemed to take it all as a matter of course. For her it felt like fitting punishment for failing to perish with her family on the road out of Paris.

  She knew the fate of her last lover, the Abwehr agent known as Argent. Again she felt a deep responsibility. Her eyes brimmed with tears in recounting his death on a dark square, shouting out her name before falling to the rifles of her guards.

  Ryan felt there was something he must reveal: “He loved you, you know. He told me so.”

  She acknowledged the fact with silence and a nod.

  “Was it mutual?” Ryan found himself asking.

  Her eyes carried silent recrimination. “Such a fool you are, Ryan Lemmon. Brilliant in so many ways, yet so blind. You really don’t know what I was doing with him all along? How callously I treated him?”

  He hedged, suspecting the truth: “What do you mean?”

  She looked away. It was on the second day as they sat below the Hôtel du Lac veranda, occupying the same bench where Edward had orchestrated their reunion. Another frigid morning but without the bitter wind, and she leaned into his shoulder. A swan ambled up in anticipation of crumbs, then wandered off when they ignored its pleading look. A steamer chugged by, gulls squawking in its chilly wake. Marita stared out at the disturbed waters. He kept silent, wondering just how much of herself she intended to reveal.

  Her eyes met his again. “I fell for Argent when I couldn’t hold on to you. Surely you saw the resemblance—handsome, each debonair in his own right, and yet both gentle at heart. How could I not turn to him when I realized you wouldn’t—couldn’t—share your life with me?”

  He searched for words but none came.

  “Non,” she said, “allow me to finish so you know there’s no blame.” Her eyes sought something distant, out of reach in the blue sky above. “You’ve always chased some unknown dream, mon Cher.” She kissed his cheek. “You know, you’re much like that cloud up there.” She singled out a solitary puff of white. “You always have been. Remember long ago when you first saw me dance? I was barely eighteen, and you wanted me for my body, my looks? I let you pursue me, though I’d sworn to avoid stage-door Johnnies. Why? Because I thought you might actually be all I’d hoped for in a man.” She touched his lips with a gloved finger to still his interruption and continued: “I knew deep inside I could eventually win your love as well as your desire.”

  “You succeeded at that, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” She rearranged the crimson shawl at her neck. “You’ve proved that.” She took his hand in hers. “But I didn’t really understand you then…and now I finally do. Yes, you’re forever my shining cloud, Ryan. You drift into my life and I find you so bright and wonderful in a barren sky. But then you wander off again, some new wind drawing you away.” He started to speak but she hushed him. “You know, I used to fantasize about receiving a cable asking me to join you in your golden America, but our timing has never been quite right, has it? And you’re always on the move, always shy of settling down. There’s simply too much you want to experience, and your destiny isn’t tied to any one woman—” she lightly stroked his cheek, “to any one love.”

  He had only himself to blame for her regrets. She read him right, knew him too well, better perhaps than he knew himself. In truth he had already moved on, by personal choice his future too uncertain. Some part of him craved the excitement he still faced, and he couldn’t imagine settling down now. If ever. “You know, Marita…” His words again found nowhere to go.

  “No explanations, darling. We have now what we’ve always had—companionship, tenderness, and support where needed. At some point that must suffice.” Another kiss to his cheek, a friend’s kiss. “And I will always treasure it.” He had drawn her closer and felt guilty.

  On the second evening a soft knock had pulled him from his bed. He thought first of Edward, some news out of London or Washington demanding immediate attention. But Marita stood there, lovely in red lipstick and new crimson boots of Spanish leather. “We both deserve this much,” she whispered, opening her overcoat to reveal she wore nothing beneath. Now wide awake, he cast a quick glance down the hotel corridor, then pulled her in and hastily locked the door. Shrugging her coat to the floor, she tugged off his bathrobe.

  A knowing smile played on her lips as she slipped a hand into his pajamas and led him to the bed. She teasingly pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips. Catching his breath at her heat, he still noticed how fragile she had become, yet the caress of her tongue and the fluid rhythm of her dancer’s hips had not changed. It was only their past she sought to relive in that moment of passion, memories of times shared before her old life went to ruin. In the throes of their desire he knew it, and knew she recognized it, too. Afterwards, deep in the crook of his arm, her breasts pressed to his chest and her hand protectively cupping him, she said her first farewell. He held her close until she appeared to sleep, fully aware of the dull ache in his heart, then rose to stand at the window and stare out at the frigid lake.

  They remained together through that night and the days that followed, planning for her future during long walks, often reminiscing about Paris before the Nazi conquest. They met Ed several times to help arrange her new life. She graciously rejected his offer of a temporary stay with his wife and the young boys in Virginia. “They’ll find you as delightful as I do,” Ed assured her, “and I’m sure the connections of my parents-in-law will find something fulfilling for you in no time.”

  “What use has American society for a former Parisian nightclub owner?” she chided with a hint of her old smile. Instead she accepted his suggestion to find refuge in Palestine. With support from the American consul she received an immediate invitation from an agency resettling Jews driven from Europe. The pay would b
e modest; her needs would be, too. “After all,” she said, “anything’s better than slave labor in a munitions plant, n’est-ce pas?”

  Ed’s associates expedited her new identity papers and a visa. She would fly to Marseille at Ryan’s expense. From there an American-flagged freighter would bring her to Palestine. Had her family survived their exodus from Paris, their entry into their new life would have benefitted from people like her, and this charitable work would return some meaning to her life.

  A lake steamer had carried them to the walled town of Yvoire for a final dinner by candlelight. They returned to the city well after dark. On the following morning a car brought them to the airfield. No words came, only tears and a last peck on the cheek. She did not look back as she boarded. As the plane taxied across the airfield he had finally accepted all that he was surrendering. The hurt had been real and deep, but he was not prepared to change the direction his life was taking him.

  The sudden approach of another train, its whistle screeching as it rumbled past, distracted him from such memories. His body had suffered from long hours in the jolting boxcar and his mind felt equally numb. Once his freight car rested on a siding in the Magdeburg yards and the shuttle locomotive ambled off, he slid open the door. With no personnel in sight, he bundled the blanket and moved quickly from one string of cars to the next, crawling over buffers and couplers to get distance from that accursed boxcar. At last he spotted a scalable fence and reached a service road fronting a noisy machine shop, a foundry blasting heat, a storage yard for heavy road-repair equipment and several nondescript buildings. He finally caught sight of the high roof of the passenger station in the distance. His first stop was a restroom where he made himself as presentable as possible. The mirror convinced him he needed rest before tackling the final leg into the center of Berlin.

  Over coffee and a sandwich at the canteen he considered where to catch up on sleep. Along the service road he had spotted a particularly decrepit storage shed. With a box of crackers and two bottles of mineral water, he retraced his steps and confirmed the building was abandoned. The only dry spot was under the eaves in back, well-shielded from public view by long-idled refuse containers. Cocooned in the blanket, he finally slept. He awoke too late to beat the Berlin curfew, so he settled in with restless thoughts to waste the long hours till dawn.

  At first light the station facilities allowed him to wash up and slick back his hair. He could do nothing for the two days’ growth of dark stubble. A razor or barber could wait until he was housed in the city, and for now his grizzled appearance suited his attire. After consulting a schedule board, he joined the queue and purchased a one-way third-class ticket on a local to Berlin-Pankow leaving within the hour. From there he blended with the morning crowds, transferring from the elevated S-Bahn to the underground U-Bahn for the final stretch. No police checkpoints interrupted his back-route journey.

  He joined the other subterranean commuters emerging like so many ants onto the broad square of Alexanderplatz. The expanse already swarmed with laborers and businessmen, shoppers and merchants, cabbies and street vendors. Sharply-tailored uniforms of yellow, brown and black were everywhere. Vehicle horns and bells fought for attention and yellow trams shrieked against their rails under sprays of blue sparks. Cars, trucks and double-decker buses lurched to and fro, navigating the busy intersections.

  Placards in the windows of the huge department stores warned that much on display was unavailable for purchase, but cafes, delicatessens and bakeries fared better, serving foodstuffs, wine and liquor plundered from Occupied France. He passed cigar stores, apothecaries, travel agencies, milliners and clothiers. Waiters scurried about in the beer gardens preparing for lunchtime patrons.

  There were few signs of wartime footing. A bomb had pocked a nearby street, but otherwise damage near the Alex seemed negligible. Forced laborers carted stone and sand to fill a crater facing the famed statue of Berolina, the goddess herself standing proud atop her tall pedestal. Air raids over the city had recently tapered off dramatically. The nocturnal sirens still wailed on occasion, but usually to announce a rain of propaganda flyers falling from the skies. No one knew a reason for the respite, at least no one amongst the Berliner citizenry. Some speculated with hope in their eyes that the British were running low on airplanes or materiel.

  In the warren of tight, walk-up offices just east from the main square, import/export firms worked their trades, cut-rate dentists improved the much-neglected mouths of Berliners, and doctors of every specialty consulted on latest afflictions. Behind the scenes, insurance vendors issued dubious policies, fortune tellers fleeced believers, and print shops churned out flyers and advertising posters and—if the money was right and security tight—false ID’s and forged ration cards. Up the side streets, bars, sex clubs and strip joints dozed, ready to awaken once the urban day would again fade to black.

  This shady neighborhood had long been a center of Berlin’s crime world, rife with gangsters, forgers, swindlers, pimps, and prostitutes. Despite the Criminal Police headquartered alongside the high arch of the rail station, the entrepreneurial spirit of the city’s underworld lived on. After all, the locals reasoned, if big-league criminals and thugs could rule your nation, why should they have all the fun? Ryan counted on this laxity to shield him for a few days longer.

  Despite his long hours of sleep, exhaustion began to slow his step and he couldn’t quite shake a gnawing headache. Tobacco would help. He missed his pipe, overlooked in his haste to abandon his jacket back at the Frankfurt station. A sense of guilt was his other heavy burden. Had Klara gained her own release as expeditiously as she had handled his? No doubt Canaris had already raised a major stink at Gestapo intervention, or so Ryan hoped.

  He caught his reflection in a shop window and paused. The disheveled clothing passed fine but his features appeared drawn. Since the luxury of a Hotel Adlon was off the table, he hoped for a simple room where he would await new identity papers from Ellington. And once he had lodging, he would dial the contact for Canaris. In the meantime, carrying no identity papers was one nerve-wracking problem he intended to remedy quickly.

  He joined the pedestrian flow and quickly came upon a small tobacco shop likely to cater to locals. Tobacconists tended to be free with neighborhood gossip. The rich aroma hit him like a welcome friend. Though tempted to buy a new pipe, he would stick to his plan: first room and board, then perhaps a smoke. True relaxation could only come later once he again had papers in hand. The tobacconist appeared friendly enough, his broad brush of a mustache harboring mustard from some morning snack. Ryan had noted a pretzel vendor’s cart outside and wished he’d made a purchase of his own.

  He waited while a legless customer completed his transaction. Clearly identified by his threadbare tunic and medals from the Great War, the veteran reluctantly reached up a ration card and the shopkeeper used his scissors. The old man clutched the tobacco can to his chest and scooted toward the door on his roller board. Ryan opened for him and wished him a good day. The man grunted a reply.

  “May I be of help, sir?” the shopkeeper called over to Ryan, a forefinger smoothing down his mustache. He noted the mustard residue in the process, laughed at his discovery, and dabbed his upper lip with a handkerchief. “Never a bad time to finish breakfast, right?”

  “Indeed.” Ryan ignored the tempting display of pipes. “A moment of your time, sir? I’m looking for an inexpensive room to rent. Have you heard of anything?”

  The shopkeeper eyed Ryan’s shadow beard and rumpled clothing but still deemed him worthy of consideration. “See the widow Küpfermann. She’s just off Dircksenstrasse—ten minutes by foot at most. Lost her man a couple of weeks back—done in by a Grosser Mercedes in a big hurry. Sad story…our proud men in black had no time to stop for a look, just left him untended on the square.” Ryan nodded in commiseration. “A goner before the ambulance even arrived and that with the Police Presidium just around the corner. My friend Erik out there—excellent pretzels, by the way
—saw it all as he shut up his cart for the night.” The tobacconist shook his head in disgust. “Anyway, Anton Küpfermann used to come in here weekly, nice fellow, another veteran of the last one.”

  Ryan expressed his sympathy before inquiring: “And his widow has a room to let?”

  “Little choice, from what she tells me.” The shopkeeper snipped the tip of a cigar and fired up. “Anton had only been working part-time. His knees had been acting up again. His pension is Scheisse—wasn’t a lot there to begin with, judging by what little he spent in here, and the poor woman barely gets enough from the state to get by. She was in here just last week wanting me to buy back what little tobacco he’d left behind. Sad story. The flat is all she’s got left.” Ryan let the man ramble on. “Inheritance you know, but upkeep and city taxes will get her in the end. All that being said, however, her sad plight might help you both out. She tells me she’s just put out a sign.”

  Ryan placed a coin on the counter. “Much appreciated.”

  The man slid it back. “Save it for Frau Küpfermann.” He tore a corner from the morning paper, jotted down an address and laid it alongside the rejected tip. “Take a left out the door, head around the square past the S-Bahn overpass, then steer right and you’re on Dircksenstrasse. Then watch for the street signs. Look for Emmengasse and the ‘Zimmer’ card in a window. Half a block down on your right. Can’t miss it.”

  “Most helpful, sir. My thanks for your time and information.” Ryan turned to leave and had a second thought. Funds weren’t a problem, but dressed as he was he should appear frugal. “Don’t happen to have a bargain on a pipe, do you? Stem straight or curved, doesn’t matter. Needn’t be pretty, just draw well.”