The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  Franz returned the dipper to its place. Before starting the motorcycle, he checked the fuel level again with a stick. It was lower than he’d hoped. The final kilometers of his journey might have to be on foot. He rode slowly from town and onto the main road. Ten minutes later he saw a bright light in the distance. There was a wooden barricade across the road. When he came closer, he realized what barred his path.

  It was a military checkpoint.

  CHAPTER 3

  In his pocket Franz had a general authorization to travel signed by General Berg. The document allowed Hauptmann Haus to conduct wide-ranging reconnaissance. Franz rarely used the permit and never at nighttime near a foreign border. A long wooden plank painted white and red blocked the road. Franz slowed to a stop and turned off the motorcycle’s engine. Two soldiers came out of a guard shack. Next to the small building was a large motorcycle with a sidecar.

  “Heil Hitler,” said one of the soldiers, a burly sergeant.

  Franz reciprocated. “I’m on General Berg’s staff with the 114th Division stationed near Freiburg,” he said.

  “And where are you going this evening, Hauptmann?” the sergeant asked.

  “I cannot reveal my destination,” Franz replied, reaching into his pocket for the authorization. He handed it to the sergeant. “This is signed by General Berg and gives me permission to pass.”

  The sergeant stood up straighter at the mention of the general and returned to the lighted guard shack with the paper in his hand. The other soldier, a corporal, stayed near Franz. The corporal had a mustache exactly like that of the führer. He walked around the motorcycle as if considering a purchase. Franz ignored him. Through the open door of the guard shack, Franz could see the sergeant studying the document. The sergeant picked up a phone, and Franz’s heart sank.

  “Do you need any petrol, sir?” the corporal asked.

  “Yes.”

  The corporal left. Franz kept his eyes on the sergeant, who held the phone receiver to his ear as he yawned. The corporal returned with a gray metal can. Franz stayed on the motorcycle while the corporal unscrewed the fuel tank and poured in the petrol.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Franz said when the young man finished.

  The sergeant left the guard shack and returned with Franz’s authorization in his hand. He stifled another yawn.

  “Hauptmann Haus, I couldn’t reach anyone at General Berg’s headquarters who could verify your paperwork.”

  “That’s because General Blaskowitz, the commander of Army Group G, is there for a reception.”

  Franz shouldn’t have revealed the information to a common soldier, but he felt he had to say something impressive. Dropping the name of an even more important general would make the sergeant think twice about delaying him.

  “I gave the captain some petrol,” the corporal volunteered.

  The sergeant looked at his subordinate, and Franz knew he was about to receive permission to proceed.

  “Raise the barricade,” the sergeant said with a shrug to the corporal.

  Franz started the motorcycle’s engine and moved forward; however, he didn’t give the engine enough fuel, and it died as soon as he passed the barrier. Without looking back, he kick-started it again and drove off, badly missing the shift from first to second gear, which caused the engine to rev to a high rpm and scream in pain.

  It was a terrible performance and made Franz cringe. Only after he’d gone a couple of kilometers did he begin to relax. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he saw a single light on the road behind him. It had to be another motorcycle. Pressing his lips together, he accelerated, but the other motorcycle continued to gain ground. Driving too fast would cause Franz to either wreck or attract too much attention. He throttled back and waited for the other motorcycle to come up to him. When it came close enough to get a better look, he recognized the sergeant from the checkpoint with the corporal in the sidecar. The sergeant raised his arm and lowered it in a clear sign to stop.

  Franz opened the throttle as wide as it would go, and the motorcycle shot forward. His pursuers accelerated as well. Franz kept his attention focused on the road ahead and hoped the corporal in the sidecar wouldn’t try to fire his gun at him. But there was no way he could outrun the more powerful machine. Franz came around a corner and saw a narrow dirt road to the right. He slammed on the brakes and barely maintained control of the motorcycle as he swerved onto the unpaved track. Within fifty meters the narrow road became little more than a dirt path. Franz bounced over some tree roots and nearly crashed into a tree. He looked back and saw that the sidecar on the other motorcycle prevented the soldiers from following him into the woods. However, the corporal was already out of the sidecar and running toward him.

  Franz jerked the handlebars of the motorcycle to the left and made his way around the tree. He continued to bounce up the path as it climbed a hill. He didn’t look back but knew he was going faster than a man could run in the dark. The path suddenly ended, and he burst into a meadow. In the headlamp he saw several Holstein cattle that looked up in curious surprise. Franz continued across the meadow and onto the path the cows probably took to and from the meadow. He stopped just inside the trees and turned off the engine to listen. There was no sound of pursuit. He restarted the motorcycle and continued down the trail, not sure where it might lead.

  Ten minutes later the bumpy path spilled out onto a paved road. It was narrower than the main road he’d been on, but at least it seemed to run north and south. Franz headed south and hoped the road wouldn’t be a dead end. He was encouraged when he passed several darkened farmhouses. He came to a crossroads with a sign that pointed to the right for Basel. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was but knew he couldn’t be far from the Rhine. He took the road for a kilometer, then turned onto a rutted dirt track that curved around and through the trees. Even going slow, it was a jarring ride. The trees got thicker and the road narrower. If this was the way to Basel, not many people used it. He came around a sharp bend and stopped.

  He’d reached the Rhine.

  This close to its headwaters in the Swiss Alps, the river looked deceptively easy to cross; however, after the recent rains the current was strong, and Franz was an average swimmer without any floatation device. He looked to the left and saw the outline of one of the several bridges that spanned the river in the vicinity of Basel. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed it was the Schwarzwalkbrucke, the Black Forest Bridge. Serving as both a train bridge and a roadway bridge, it would be heavily guarded.

  A narrow path ran along the river. Franz turned away from the bridge and rode along the path in hopes he could find a small boat. He rode several hundred meters and came into a clearing. On the right was a small, dilapidated wooden structure, and beside the river on the left was a large boat. It was a ferry crossing. On the far side of the clearing was a narrow paved road running along the bank.

  Franz turned off the motorcycle, leaned it against a tree, and walked down to the ferry. The twenty-passenger ferry wasn’t motorized and made the short trip attached to a cable strung across the river between two telegraph poles. Franz couldn’t steal something as large as the ferry but suspected there might be other small boats in the area. He stepped away from the dock and heard a deep growl. Turning around, he was suddenly knocked to the ground by a large dog that stuck its muzzle close to his face and bared its teeth. It was an enormous Rottweiler.

  “Bruno!” a man called out. “Heel!”

  Still showing its fangs, the dog slowly backed away. A man with a workman’s cap on his head and carrying a kerosene lamp approached. He held the lamp so it illuminated Franz. When he realized Franz was a German officer, he backed up, and Franz could see fear in his eyes.

  “Hauptmann,” the man said. “I’m sorry.”

  Franz scrambled to his feet. The man grabbed the dog by its collar and attached a stout leash. The animal panted, and its eyes glowed yellow in the reflected light from the lamp.

  “He was only doing his duty,” Fran
z said, trying to sound military.

  “We’ve had a problem with thieves,” the man explained, reaching down to pat the dog on the top of its head.

  As he watched the gesture, Franz knew what he wanted to do. “Are you the ferryman?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like to cross.”

  The man stared at Franz and then looked over his shoulder at the path.

  “I’m alone,” Franz replied. “I came on a motorcycle from Freiburg. I’ll show you.”

  Franz led him to the spot where he’d left the motorcycle. The man nervously glanced down the footpath.

  “I found out this afternoon that all my family was killed by a bomb in Dresden,” Franz continued. “My war is over. Take me across the river, and I’ll give you the motorcycle. You can sell it to your friend in Basel. You know, the one who buys the goods you smuggle.”

  The man eyed Franz with suspicion.

  “I also have money,” Franz continued, pulling out a small roll of reichsmarks and handing them to the ferryman.

  The man quickly counted the money in the light of the lamp.

  “You will need clothes,” he replied. “Come inside.”

  Leaving the dog to guard the ferry, they went inside the building. The front room was bare except for a few chairs where people could sit while waiting for a ride. The man opened a door that led to two rooms that were filled with cans of food, clothes, furniture, and a broad selection of junk and other items that might be valuable, especially during wartime rationing. The ferryman began sorting through a pile of clothes.

  “Are you going to be a businessman?” he asked in an excited voice. “I have a nice suit that would fit you perfectly. Or would you prefer to blend in as a farmer? That might be better. However, your accent is going to give you away as soon as you open your mouth.”

  The man held up a dark red woolen shirt and dark pants.

  “It’s too warm for that,” Franz noted.

  The man tossed the clothes over his shoulder.

  “Here you go!” he exclaimed.

  He held up a green shirt and light brown pants. Franz did a double take when he saw the outfit. It looked almost identical to something his father had worn.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll take that.”

  “Excellent. Leave your uniform with me. It can be reconditioned into civilian clothes.”

  Franz took off his uniform and put on the green shirt and brown pants. He stuck the Luger inside his trousers. The ferryman looked at him with approval.

  “A farmer come to town for a holiday! Now all you need is a pretty girl on your arm.”

  Franz ignored the comment. He looked at his watch. “Let’s go.”

  “As soon as I hide the motorcycle.”

  “No!” Franz replied immediately. “Leave it until you return.”

  He knew success depended on the ferryman’s motivation to make a quick trip across the river. The man hesitated but then shrugged.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  They went down to the ferry. The man carried the lamp. The dog pattered along after them.

  “Stay inside the shelter,” the ferryman said to Franz, pointing to a small enclosed space in the center of the boat. “The last patrol checked the river about half an hour ago. I thought you were part of their group. You’re lucky they didn’t spot you. If someone hails me, I’ll tell them I’m bringing the boat over for repairs before the morning shift. The guys on the Swiss side are friends.”

  The man stepped into the boat and the dog jumped in behind him. Franz paused and tried to figure out if he was overlooking something.

  “Come, come,” the man said, gesturing.

  It was all the encouragement Franz needed. He got into the boat. The man cast off and let the boat drift into the river. The connecting cable became taut, and the force of the current caused the boat to slide along the thick wire toward the other side. It was an ingenious method of navigating.

  Halfway across the river, Franz pulled out the Iron Cross his grandfather had given him and held it loosely in his hand over the edge of the railing. To drop it would sever all links to his past. Knowing he no longer deserved to possess it, Franz let his fingers run over the edges of the military medal. He pulled back his arm to throw the medal into the dark water, but an unseen force stayed his hand. He struggled for a moment but slipped the medal into the pocket of his new pants.

  They neared the opposite bank.

  “Do you want me to introduce you—” the ferryman began.

  “No,” Franz interrupted. “Return as fast as you can and hide the motorcycle. Hurry, in case another patrol comes along the path.”

  “I told you. The evening patrol already came.”

  “Believe me.”

  In the light of the lamp, the ferryman’s eyes widened. “Will they be looking for you?”

  Franz didn’t answer. As soon as they reached the dock, he leapt from the boat. “Go!” he hissed. “Don’t start the motorcycle. Push it out of sight.”

  The ferryman used a long pole to reposition the ferry so the current could push the boat across the river. Franz sat in the shadows on the bank and watched as the boat slowly moved away and then picked up speed. The ferry completed the crossing, and Franz saw the light of the lantern bob toward the motorcycle before it moved slowly toward the building. The light disappeared. A few moments later he heard the Rottweiler barking furiously as a group of soldiers with flashlights entered the clearing. A shot rang out, and Franz knew Bruno was dead.

  He wasn’t sure why, but the end of the dog’s life saddened him. Perhaps his real hurt was so numbingly deep that all he could feel in the moment was the death of a creature to whom he had no real emotional attachment. He watched as the lights continued toward the run-down building. The door opened, and he could see the ferryman standing in the entrance. Then he saw a large, furry flash run past him and disappear inside.

  Bruno was alive.

  Franz had been wrong. And he was glad. He scrambled to his feet and brushed off his pants. He didn’t know where to go, what to do, or what lay ahead of him. And he would be content to keep it that way. All that his access to secret knowledge had produced thus far in his life was death to the enemies of a dying Thousand-Year Reich and failure to save his own family from fiery destruction. He walked up the bank away from the river.

  CHAPTER 4

  NEW BERN, NORTH CAROLINA, 2003

  Parker House ran his fingers through his curly brown hair and straightened his yellow tie. As the only associate attorney at Branham and Camp, he had been responsible for bringing over the large cardboard banker’s box containing the paper file on the case. Now the lanky young lawyer sat at the end of the counsel table while the firm’s two partners, Greg Branham and Dexter Camp, pored over the notes they’d taken during voir dire questioning of potential jurors. The members of the jury pool had retired to a waiting area while the attorneys decided whom to cut and whom to keep. While his bosses talked, Parker held his new BlackBerry phone beneath the edge of the table. The phone represented the cutting edge of technology in 2003, and Parker’s thumbs had rapidly become adept at pounding out messages on the miniature keyboard beneath the screen.

  Today he was checking on players to pick up for his fantasy football team. Parker was desperate. His best wide receiver had gone down the previous Sunday with a season-ending knee injury. He made a selection and glanced up. Greg was furiously scribbling notes on a legal pad. A former all-conference wrestler in high school, Parker’s boss had been practicing law for eight years and considered every case a chance to grapple with the opposing lawyer until he applied a match-ending choke hold.

  “Mr. Foxcroft, the guy who works for the gas company, has got to go,” Greg said to Dexter. “One bad apple can spoil the whole barrel.”

  Greg had an unshakable penchant for clichés and never tired of trotting one out from his vast repertoire. Dexter squinted and pushed his rimless glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. The
younger of the two partners felt more comfortable analyzing the merits of a shopping center lease than assisting in a jury trial, but Mr. Nichols was Dexter’s client, and Dexter had to show up and pretend he knew his way around a courtroom.

  “I’m not so sure,” he replied. “He’ll understand the purpose for an easement. The gas company has to get them all the time so it can run lines beneath an owner’s property.”

  “But the easement issue isn’t the key to the case,” Greg responded with exasperation. “We’ve got to prove an unfair and deceptive business practice to open the door for treble damages and attorney’s fees. Otherwise we’re wasting two lawyers’ time”—he paused and motioned toward Parker—“two and a half lawyers’ time. We need jurors who will have the guts to sock it to the lumber company. I can see Foxcroft getting in the jury room and arguing that a verdict against a major employer is going to be bad for the community. Didn’t he say he was a member of the Kiwanis Club?”

  “Yes,” Dexter replied and then turned to Parker. “What do you think?”

  Not expecting to be invited into the conversation, Parker quickly glanced down at the practice notes he’d jotted on a legal pad. For some unexplainable reason he’d put a star beside one name.

  “Uh, the key person to get on the jury is Layla Donovan, the photographer.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Greg snorted. “The blonde? How old is she? Twenty-six? She’s total filler.”

  “I’m twenty-six,” Parker replied.

  “I rest my case,” Greg answered. “How about Ms. Hamrick, the chubby lady who owns the beauty shop on Spencer Avenue?”

  “It’s not a beauty shop,” Parker replied. “They have both men and women customers. That’s where I get my hair cut.”