Irish Linen

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Military police, the SS and the Gestapo had established roadblocks all along the Autobahn, checking papers, comparing what we looked like with pictures on clipboards. Each time I pointed to the Irish flag on one side of the car and the foreign ministry flag on the other. Then after some protest I showed them our passports and our endorsements by the Reichsminister and the Reichsführer-SS. The last always worked. The troops who had stopped us invariably apologized and gave us the Heil Hitler salute, to which we both replied with a nod.

  “I always wonder,” Annalise said wearily, “when one of these roadblocks will have my picture.”

  “If they don’t have it now, I don’t think they know yet who the elderly woman in the gray dress was. Those who would know, I presume, are already dead.”

  What would we do if we were pulled out of the car and brought to some commanding officer? I would demand that the officer would call the Reichsführer-SS and ask if his laisez-passer was valid. I didn’t think anyone would take that risk, except a high-ranking officer in the SS or the WaffenSS. As the sun began to sink behind the mountains to the west of us, the roadblocks seem to have been recalled. Later we learned that the three young women who had worked with Annalise in Charlottenburg had been arrested and then released. There was no evidence against them, they were all Catholics, beautiful, and upper nobility. Their haughty contempt for their interrogators had proved very effective.

  Yet they were certainly as guilty as Annalise was. Perhaps the Gestapo had decided that the German public was not yet ready to see young women aristocrats hanging by wire from meat hooks. Or perhaps Himmler was concerned about the reaction from England and the United States. His foolish political ambitions may have saved many lives.

  Were the Gestapo and its allies looking for Annalise, the widow of a war hero? Probably not.

  I suggested that possibility to her as we left the Autobahn for a small Gasthaus set back in the woods.

  “I have thought of that too, Herr Ridgewood. Yet it is better this way. In two more days we will be out of Germany. Please God.”

  Perhaps better and perhaps not. Had I let my love for the woman weaken my judgment? It would be a restless night.

  They had only one room free at the Gasthaus. And that had a double bed.

  “We both knew that this might happen, Herr Ridgeland, didn’t we? I will not distract your sleep tonight.”

  “Nothing would distract my sleep tonight,” I said.

  Only the torment of hideous dreams of roads not taken.

  She was a quiet sleeper. I hardly knew she was next to me. Well, that’s not altogether true. But I was not seriously tempted.

  The next morning she asked if she might drive the car. We slipped through Munich with little trouble and then headed south into the hills and low mountains of the Schwarzwald with its picturesque little towns and villages tucked like Christmas presents beneath a tree. We left the Autobahn and took side roads that would put us below Stuttgart but above Ulm at the end of the day, avoiding Jettingen and its memories and dangers. Single airplanes crisscrossed the skies above us, perhaps scouting for possible oppositions to the American Seventh Army as it moved up from its beachheads in southern France and into Alsace and finally to the Rhine.

  “You were wise, Annalise, to choose a cooler day for this pleasure ride through the Black Forest.”

  “Ja, Herr Ridgewood. I know this part of Germany.”

  I was content to let her do the work. I was worn down and did not trust myself on winding, mountain roads.

  Then, suddenly there was trouble. We rounded a bend in the road and encountered two men in the uniforms of the WaffenSS, the SS’s military unit of Hitler fanatics. They leaned against a motorcycle and sidecars, their uniforms open, and wine bottles in either hand. When they saw us they raised their machine pistols and pointed them at us.

  “Out!” they ordered. “Or we kill you. Maybe we’ll kill you anyway.”

  They meant it.

  They were delighted at the sight of Annalise.

  “We take her a couple of times, make him watch, and then kill them both, nein?”

  They found the suggestions very funny.

  They were dangerous men, drunken thugs who had probably deserted their unit and stolen the wine. Empty bottles lined the road. Now I would be put to the test. Could I really kill another human being?

  “We have a letter from Herr Reichsführer-SS Himmler,” I protested.

  “Fuck Herr Reichsführer-SS Himmler.” The bigger of the two seized Annalise and kissed her violently. She fought back and he hit her. She continued to fight.

  “Into the woods, Kurt,” he shouted. “We will have a little party in the woods, a picnic with this lovely morsel.” He dragged a struggling, screaming Annalise into the woods. She fought him every inch of the way. The .25 fit comfortably into my hand. They both were doomed. The man who had captured Annalise threw her on the ground, fell on her and tore at her clothes.

  “Ja, Ja, Fritz, stick it to her. Save some for me.”

  In his delight at the prospect of a brutal rape, he focused his attention on Fritz fighting with Annalise and ignored me for a couple of dangerous seconds.

  “ja, ja!”

  I shot him between the eyes and he died soundlessly.

  “Kurt!” Fritz sensed that he was alone and he turned his head looking for his buddy. I killed him too. He also died soundlessly. I pulled his body off Annalise and threw it on the ground. The .25 makes a sound like a very small firecracker. Both men had barely heard a sound and died.

  I lifted Annalise to her feet.

  “They are both dead. There will be time later for sickness. Now we must move quickly. Drive the car to the edge of the bridge and stop there.”

  “Ja,” she said as she looked at both the bodies. “They are both dead?”

  “They both are dead. Now do what I say.”

  She did. I considered throwing the dead men over the edge into the racing stream below. But that would call attention to them. Let them rot in the wood and the bugs and the birds and foxes feed on them. I was in a very dangerous mood. I had better be careful. I must not hurt Annalise.

  I loaded the wine bottles in the sidecar, started its motor and drove it slowly towards the edge of the valley. Then I turned off the motor and pushed the motorcycle over the edge. It tumbled straight down and fell into the rapidly rushing waters and immediately sank beneath the waters. In a moment it disappeared, just as had the lives of the men who had occupied it. I threw the gun after it.

  Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.

  Then I realized that my heart was pounding and my body shaking.

  I climbed into the car.

  “Can you drive, Annalise?”

  “Naturally.”

  “There is another way to Freiberg?”

  “Yes. We could have turned at the last crossroad. It is longer, though not much longer.”

  “Can you back us up and turn around?”

  “Naturally.”

  She turned us around and drove back to the previous signpost.

  Several kilometers down that narrow road there was a parking space, overlooking the same plunging stream.

  “If you wish, this would be a good place to change your blouse.”

  “Thank you, Herr Ridgewood.”

  She climbed into the back of the car. I stared firmly down the road, watching for other cycles. In a couple of minutes she returned to the driver’s seat, her hair brushed, her face clean, another blouse in place.

  “Thank you, Herr Ridgewood. I now feel more myself.”

  “You look fine.”

  “You killed those two men with the gun you threw in the river?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have another gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am happy to know that … I heard no shots.”

  “A .25 makes a noise like a small firecracker. Your screams drowned out the sound.”

  “You must have shot very quickly and very accurate
ly.”

  “I learned in Ireland when I was afraid that a gang might assault our house. I knew that I could never kill anyone with it.”

  “But you did?”

  “I understand now that killing is easy when someone you love is in danger.”

  “Those poor men would still be alive if we had not taken that road.”

  “To kill and rape others and to die eventually in the war.”

  “Do you feel sick, Herr Ridgewood?”

  “Yes. And my heart is still pounding and my muscles still quivering.”

  “I also.”

  We proceeded down the road to a valley where the stream rushed into the Neckar and towards the Rhine. An occasional car passed us. Farmers were working in their fields, reaping an early harvest. The peace of a gentle summer day slowly returned to our weary bodies. We had kept the rules that ours was a fictional marriage. We had not embraced one another and shared the horror of what happened. Nor would we exorcise death with life creating love that night. Not until we were safe in Berne. If then.

  My comment about killing to protect someone you love had escaped my lips. She had not reacted to it.

  “Sharing mortal danger is no guarantee,” the Old Fella had told me once, “nor a sign of permanent friendship after the danger is over.”

  He was talking about battlefield danger and not about a man and a woman. Still he was right. There had always been a bond between me and Annalise. Now it was much stronger. Yet we both had doubts about the strength of the bond. At least I did. I was well on my way towards the fate of the traditional Irish bachelor.

  Yet I had learned much about this young woman. She was brave and tough and resourceful. Perhaps I had learned nothing new. I would want her next to me in a bar when the lights went out.

  “Despite this unfortunate incident, we are ahead of our schedule, are we not, Herr Ridgewood?”

  I noticed for the first time that we had been speaking English through most of our journey. Was that a sign of something? Perhaps only that Frau Ridgewood must speak English when someone questioned her.

  “Yes. We should be able to arrive at Lake Constance by tomorrow afternoon, without any difficulty.”

  “There is a nice hotel thirty kilometers down this road. It might be useful to spend the night there. We both need to rest … It used to be a nice hotel. I do not know what it is like now.”

  Excellent idea.

  Then a flight of four planes appeared, flying very low I did not recognize them. What were they doing here at this time of the day?

  They ascended rapidly and one of them turned and skimmed the treetops as it inspected us.

  “Folk-Wulfe?” Annalise asked.

  She gripped my arm with her strong fingers.

  “P-47.”

  Were we to die, just as Claus had been wounded? It was too late to jump out of the car. We waited for the bullets, too frightened to scream.

  The plane flew over us, the white star on his wing clearly visible. He turned and ascended again. He wagged his wings and the four planes quickly disappeared.

  “An American Stuka?”

  “Yes.”

  “How ironic!”

  “Americans are sentimentalists, Annalise. He may have seen that there was a woman in the car. Or perhaps he had caught a glimpse of the Irish flag. Irish-Americans are especially sentimental.”

  She removed her fingers from my arm.

  “We both need to rest, Herr Ridgewood.”

  [I would learn many years later in Washington what had happened. At a dull cocktail party, an Air Force colonel approached me.

  “You’re the Irish ambassador, aren’t you, sir?”

  “Some people think so.”

  “Perhaps you can solve a mystery for me. I was leading a reconnaissance flight in ’44 over the Neckar valley. We suspected the Panzers were rushing to the front to resist the Seventh Army.”

  “Herr Hitler always argued that German soldiers never retreated.”

  “We were able to break up one Panzer formation and to report that indeed Hitler was diverting some of his forces to resist on the Alsatian side of the Rhine. We spotted what looked like a German staff car with a Swastika painted on one side and what looked like Irish tricolour on the other side. A blond woman at the wheel. I had no idea what the Irish might be doing in the Neckar valley. But my Irish ancestors would not permit me to strafe the tricolour. Any idea who it might have been?”

  “Maybe an Irish diplomat driving to Switzerland to escape the Gestapo after the attempt to kill Hitler, in which some of his friends were involved.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, puzzled.

  “As I remember, Colonel, you wagged your wings in salute as you ascended. Permit me to return the compliment, however belatedly.”

  I saluted him and we both laughed.

  The hotel, probably built before the Great War, was still open, though with a small staff and only a few guests. We were greeted with a mix of grave formality and smiling delight. They gave us a room with two large beds and a balcony overlooking the Neckar. Annalise insisted that the Herr Ambassador’s morning suit needed cleaning and pressing and that there was also other laundry. We must leave in the morning …

  “But of course, Frau Ambassador …”

  Annalise laughed at the title.

  “First time!”

  We bathed, dressed properly (I in the one suit I had brought, she in an elegant blue dress with a white sash), and sipped sherry and ate cake on the porch overlooking the Neckar as the sun slipped into the hills across the river. She had now become the efficient and gracious Frau Ambassador, who carefully supervised the details of our schedule. She would indeed be a good wife for a diplomat.

  “It was an interesting day, Herr Ridgewood,” she said. “We must say a Rosary tonight in gratitude to the good God for keeping us alive.”

  “All the angels too.”

  We did not discuss the details of the day. There would be many dreams in the days to come about these events. Nor did we discuss our own future after we crossed the Rhine at Basle late the next afternoon. We maintained the fiction that our “marriage” was a fiction. As we ate supper, I felt intense sexual desire. I wanted her desperately. I had to have her. After killing the enemy, the male must have a woman.

  If I treated her that way I would be a rapist like the man who had thrown her on the ground of the Black Forest. I must continue my discreet and respectful pursuit. If she refused me in Basle, I would continue my pursuit.

  I had not been a particularly effective pursuer before. Would I give up the chase now?

  We said the Rosary and then went to bed. We must, she said, leave at ten in the morning. I agreed, but overcame the temptation to call her Frau Ambassador.

  Nothing happened during the night except that we both enjoyed sound sleep, so sound that it was difficult for me to struggle out of bed. We did not leave the resort till eleven, entirely my fault because I couldn’t organize myself. My fictional wife did not nag or complain, perhaps a very hopeful sign for the future.

  It was another intolerably hot and humid day, with thunderstorms that only added to the humidity. I drove till three and then she offered to take over. We should arrive in Basle by seven. Our flight from Nazism was coming to an end.

  Then the roadblocks began again. The Gestapo was searching for people like us—refugees from the terror. Our documents were impeccable, especially our laissez-passer from Himmler. That earned us smart salutes and apologies at every roadbtock—and smiles for the Frau Ambassador as she was now called by everyone, excepting me.

  Then, just as I was falling asleep after passing the last roadblock, I was jolted away as the car bumped and swerved and ground to a halt.

  “The tire is kaput!” Annalise said, covering her face in mortification.

  “Ja, ja is kaput,” I said, climbing out of the car and looking at the left front wheel.

  “You know how to change a tire, Herr Ridgewood?”

  “Every man knows ho
w to change a tire,” I snarled.

  I’d even done it once or twice.

  So I began the long and tedious effort necessary to change a tire on a 1933 Benz. It rained several times. After the rain, the humidity hung all around us like a thick curtain. I was mean, nasty, angry. It was all her fault, why didn’t she watch where she was driving, why did she have to spoil the whole trip almost at the very end. I swore, I cursed, I used every foul word in the Irish vocabulary (mostly English words) and was in every possible way an idiot.

  My fictional wife wiped the sweat and grease off my face, brought me water to drink, and, I am certain, prayed for me.

  Then I saw that she was laughing at me.

  “You think I am amusing, Frau Ambassador?”

  “Ja.” She grinned. “I know it’s not funny, Herr Ridgewood. But it is funny. God will take care of us.”

  “He’ll have to make this friggin’ pump work if we’re ever going to make it to Basle … I am sorry, Annalise. It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t God’s fault. It’s probably my fault for not asking Franz to show me how to do this before he went home.”

  “It is not required that you apologize, Herr Ridgewood.”

  “Yes it is.”

  God probably took pity on me then. Or one of the angels. The pump finally worked. The car was no longer kaput.

  By the time of our arrival in Basle it was dark and the rain was constant. The city on the German side of the border was dark and foreboding because of the blackout, though the lights were shining across the river in the Swiss city. We had a difficult time finding the border gate on the German side of the Rhine. We drove up and down dark, rain-drenched streets and searched in vain for street signs and directions.

  Why had we ever left Berlin?

  Though I had reinstalled the canvas top, it was useless. We shivered like we had caught the flu. Indeed I became convinced that I had caught it.

  “There is the sign for the border post, Herr Ridgewood.” Annalise, intolerably proud of herself, pointed down a street. “There, to the left.”

  She would be a know-it-all Frau Ambassador, though she would never say, “I told you so.”

  Just the same, she would think it.