‘That’s what bothers me. But if they were murdered, who did it, and why?’
‘If they were assigned to different units then they didn’t spend any time together during the war?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘OK.’ Joe sat in thought for a few minutes. ‘They lived at the same address, were drafted on the same day, and when they were brought back together as prisoners of war, they both died on the same day. Or were murdered.’
‘Yes.’
‘They must have seen something before they were drafted. Or learned something. About a German, or Germans, I would assume; only the Germans would have the authority to conscript them. What they knew caught up with them on that ship.’
Joe’s conclusion agreed with my own. If the two men were murdered it had to be that their deaths were related to their lives while they lived in Reichenberg, before they went into the Wehrmacht.
I gripped Joe’s arm. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That was a great help. Do you know anything about Reichenberg?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Not really. Been through it a few times on the train, well before the war. Of course everything there is different now.’ Now that the Sudetenland was part of the German Reich. ‘Do you know where those two men lived?’ Joe asked. ‘I can ask my Czech colleagues at work if they’re familiar with the neighborhood.’
I should have hesitated, but I didn’t. I gave him the address.
‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he said.
I didn’t let Joe walk me to my bus stop. Now that I had a better job I felt even more vulnerable being with him than I had in the past. His accent, charming as it was to me, just attracted too much attention.
Agent Gray Williams was waiting for me at the bus stop. I’d wondered if he knew about Joe, and now I had my answer. I suppressed the urge to walk away. I knew there was no point. He knew where to find me.
I sat down next to him. ‘What do you want?’ I asked.
Williams put down the newspaper he’d been pretending to read. ‘Why, Mrs Pearlie,’ he said. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Just a guess. I knew Mr Prager was back in town, and since you’re such great friends, I thought you might show up for a visit.’ I shouldn’t have been surprised that Williams knew Joe. The FBI kept a close watch on the JDC, since it was staffed with Jews, refugees and socialists, all special obsessions of Director Hoover. The FBI files rivaled ours at OSS in their size and completeness.
‘How did you know where Joe lived?’
Williams waited until a woman with a wailing baby in a pram passed us by.
‘We had him followed, what do you think? He works for a covert organization.’
‘A charity that smuggles Jewish refugees out of Europe. How subversive.’
‘He’s a Czech. The country is a part of Germany now.’
‘Joe has a British passport. Last I heard Britain was our ally,’ I said.
‘He was born a Czech. If he’s not a Nazi sympathizer he’s probably a Communist.’
‘He’s not. But I would be if my country had been invaded by Hitler and no one in the world had lifted a finger to help.’
‘You just don’t know all the facts, Mrs Pearlie,’ Williams said, in a tone of voice suitable for a recalcitrant child.
I was furious. I had worked for months now for America’s spy agency. I had Top Secret clearance. I knew plenty of facts, and would have liked nothing better than to tell him so. But I had to control my temper and keep my mouth shut. Not just because it was my job, but because I didn’t want to anger him. He knew too much about me, and about Joe, and his waiting here at the bus stop for me was proof.
‘My bus will be here soon,’ I said. ‘So I’ll ask you again, what is it you want from me?’
‘What I told you at Fort Meade. Information. The FBI is responsible for domestic security and counterespionage inside the United States. Not the OSS. I expect you to deliver to me every scrap of information you and your colleagues collect from the prisoners you interview at Fort Meade.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You have no choice.’
‘You can get access to the information you need through regular channels,’ I said, as calmly as if we were discussing the last Senators baseball game. ‘Speak to Miss Osborne, she’s in charge of the operation. Of course, you could always make use of the FBI agents that have infiltrated OSS.’
That hit home. I could see Agent Williams’ expression change from cocky to concerned.
‘Director Donovan knows who they are,’ I added. ‘Every last one of them.’
I could see my bus coming and stood up.
Williams jumped up next to me and grabbed my arm to restrain me. ‘We’re not done talking,’ he said. ‘Don’t get on that bus. You’re not Diana Prince, you know.’
I pulled my arm out of his grasp. That was the last straw. Diana Prince was a comic book character, a clerk who worked in an intelligence agency and fought the Nazis as her alter ego, Wonder Woman. She was the secretary – what else? – to the Justice Society of America. I’d read one issue of the comic, and it seemed to me that Wonder Woman spent most of her time mooning over Steve Trevor.
Williams’ remark was unforgivable. I was finished being afraid of what he could do to my career. I’d already told Miss Osborne about him, and I felt sure she would back me up if he tried to blackmail me.
‘I’m not your snitch,’ I said to him. The bus stopped, its door clanged open and I climbed on board, leaving Williams standing on the sidewalk.
NINE
Inside the German mess most of the tables and chairs had been shoved up against the canvas walls of the tent. The remaining table stood in the middle of the room with twenty chairs arranged in short rows in front of it. A large cross, roughly fashioned from scrap timber, stood in the center of the table. Next to it was a man wearing khaki with ‘PW’ stenciled on the back of his shirt and a Bible tucked under his arm. An ugly red scar ranged down the left side of his face. A nasty black eye had faded to purple and yellow. His congregation, what there was of it, also consisted of prisoners of war.
‘We only have a few hymnals and prayer books,’ Lt Bahnsen, the scarred man, said. ‘We’ll just do our best. Let’s start by singing “Jesus Sinners Doth Receive”. Most of us know that one, don’t we?’ The congregation and its leader began to sing enthusiastically and badly.
Outside the tent two army MPs guarded the entrance to the makeshift church. A war dog slept at their feet.
‘I don’t like it,’ Corporal Steesen said. ‘Why do they have their own Sunday service? What’s wrong with the one the camp provides?’
‘They want to pray in German,’ said his colleague, Private Jenkins.
‘That don’t mean we have to let them do it.’
‘I think we do. It’s in the Geneva Convention.’
‘Damn the Geneva Convention! You don’t think the Nazis care about the Geneva Convention, do you?’
Inside the tent Lt Bahnsen held up a hand. ‘If we say we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.’
His congregation answered, ‘But if we confess our sins God, who is faithful and just, will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’
And Bahnsen answered, ‘Let us then confess our sins to God our Father.’
‘Even the damn dog is bored,’ Steesen said, nudging the animal with his foot. He rested his rifle against his leg and pulled out a package of cigarettes and a box of matches.
‘What are you doing?’ Jenkins said. ‘We’re on guard duty!’
‘I don’t care,’ Steesen said. ‘If I have to listen to all that German singing going on the least I deserve is a cigarette. Besides, do you see anybody? It’s Sunday. The officers are all off paying golf or taking their wives to lunch at the officers’ club.’
Jenkins cocked an ear. ‘That sounds like the Lord’s Prayer,’ he said.
‘You don’t know what it is,’ Ste
esen said. ‘It could be the Nazi creed, or the devil’s pledge.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s got the right rhythm. I’m sure it’s the Lord’s Prayer.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Steesen said. ‘Do you think our boys in German POW camps are attending their own church services now? Do you think they’re getting ham and apple pie for Sunday dinner? Do you think the Nazis are following the bloody Geneva Convention? Treating these guys like our own brothers is the sin happening here.’
‘Shut up yourself,’ Jenkins said. ‘If you don’t like it fill out a complaint slip and take it to the chaplain.’
Inside Bahnsen’s congregation rose to its feet. ‘Turn in your hymnal to “The Son of God Goes Forth to War”,’ he said. ‘And be reminded that there is more than one kind of war.’
After the service Hans Marek stayed behind to help Lt Bahnsen clean up and set up the mess hall again. When they were done reordering the tables and chairs Marek touched Lt Bahnsen’s arm. ‘Father,’ he began, in his halting German.
‘Hans, I am not a priest,’ Bahnsen said. ‘Call me Lt Bahnsen, please.’
‘But you’re almost a priest.’
‘Almost doesn’t count in this business,’ Bahnsen said, smiling.
Marek kept his grip on Bahnsen’s sleeve. ‘But I want to make confession,’ he said.
If Bahnsen’s face hadn’t been so sore he would have raised both eyebrows. ‘Hans, I just reminded you that I’m not a priest. I can’t provide absolution. The General Confession in the service will have to do.’
‘Please,’ Marek said. ‘It’s important to me. I need to talk to you. I don’t care if you can’t absolve me. I just need you to listen to me. You can’t tell anyone what I say, can you?’
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Bahnsen said. ‘But all right, if you understand my limits, let’s find two chairs and we can talk about what’s bothering you.’
A German prisoner of war, one of the SS riflemen, passed by the open flap of a window into the mess tent just in time to see Marek kneeling at Bahnsen’s feet, talking.
My valise was looking mighty small but it was all the luggage I could take, no matter how many weeks we’d need to stay at Fort Meade. I’d need to carry the case full of documents and my handbag too, and whether we flew or not luggage space was limited. Even if we had Private McVey or another soldier assigned to us it was important to me that I be able to carry my own things if necessary.
I’d told Phoebe I’d be out of town for a week again, but the truth was if we worked on Saturdays I could be at Fort Meade for several weeks. We had most of the prisoners of war left to interview. The weather was cooling off too. I decided to wear my fur-collared coat and my lightweight wool army green shirtwaist to travel in. I’d pack a menswear grey wool suit, collarless and bound in green, that I’d just bought at Woodies, black corduroy trousers, a green cardigan that I could wear with the suit skirt and the trousers and a couple of white blouses. I wrapped my pearls and a pair of earrings in my pajamas. After I tucked in some underwear, which I could wash out in the bathroom, I was relieved to see that I still had room for the new pint bottle of Gordon’s gin I’d bought on the way home from Joe’s yesterday, a nip of vermouth and a can of cashews. And a tin cup for cocktails in our billet, of course.
Hanzi tired of waiting for reveille. His bladder was full; surely the guards would let him use the latrine. He rolled over on his cot, but his face encountered something on his pillow that didn’t belong there. Things, rather, that rustled when his cheek touched them. He recoiled, and as his eyes adjusted he saw the pile of gnawed chicken bones arranged on his pillow. Hanzi screamed, startling his tent-mates awake. One of them turned on a light, and in its glow Hanzi saw that the bones weren’t just stripped clean of meat, they were charred too. Terrified, he cowered on his cot with his blanket wrapped around him, trembling, almost blinded by flashing spots of terror exploding in his field of vision. When his tent-mates saw the bones they fled the tent, calling out for help.
The next thing Hanzi knew Lt Bahnsen was urging him off his cot and outside. An MP stood with a war dog on his leash behind him, the dog barking and straining on his harness. Bahnsen half dragged Hanzi out of the tent, but the dog kept barking and growling at the pile of bones.
Outside a crowd of prisoners gathered. Hanzi had stopped screaming, but still trembled with shock as Bahnsen kept an arm around his shoulders and spoke to him gently.
Kapp stood over the two men. ‘What has happened here?’ he asked.
‘When Private Hanzi awoke he found charred chicken bones in his cot,’ Bahnsen said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
‘Not at all,’ Kapp said. ‘Why would I?’
Bahnsen urged Hanzi to his feet. ‘You,’ he said to Hanzi’s roommates, ‘leave the bones as they are for now. The Americans will want to see them. Collect some clothes for Private Hanzi and bring them to my tent. He can change there.’
‘I believe it’s my job to give the orders here,’ Kapp said.
‘Of course,’ Bahnsen said. ‘Do you have anything to add, Major?’
‘No. But I will inform Lt Rawlins of what has happened, not you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bahnsen answered. ‘Come on,’ he said to Hanzi, ‘by the time we’ve changed hot coffee will be ready in the mess. You’ll feel better after a cup.’
We headed back to Fort Meade by air again. I recognized our plane as the same one we took last week, the one that was identical to the Lockheed Electra 10 Amelia Earhart was flying when she disappeared. But, gee whiz, she was lost over the vast Pacific Ocean. If we crashed our wreckage would be easy to find in the Maryland countryside.
I came prepared. My large handbag contained my own paper bags in case I got sick and an apple if I missed a meal.
True to her word Miss Osborne brought me a case for the prisoner-of-war documents we’d prepared. The canvas olive drab messenger bag had more than enough pockets, buckles and straps to make anyone carrying it feel official. The young seaman loading our luggage into the underbelly of the airplane wanted me to store the case there, but I insisted on taking it into the airplane with me.
Merle and I followed Miss Osborne up the ladder into the passenger compartment and squeezed our way down the aisle. I wasn’t the only person on the flight who’d brought extra cases on board. An army colonel had an attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. Another officer kept what I recognized as a suitcase radio between his legs in front of him. I wondered where he and the radio were headed.
We landed without incident and were met by Private McVey driving an army staff car. It was a two-door Ford sedan without insignia or flags flying. Two of us had to climb into a narrow back seat, but it was more comfortable than a jeep.
‘Where to first, ma’am?’ McVey asked Miss Osborne.
‘We need to drop off our bags, then go straight to the stockade,’ she answered.
‘Welcome back,’ Rawlins said, extending his right hand to each of us, holding a steaming cup of coffee in the other. He must have noticed our eyes fixed on it. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. We’d only had time for one cup before we headed for the airport and we eagerly accepted.
‘There’s a fresh pot in my office,’ Rawlins said.
We crowded around the coffee pot, staying hot on an electric ring on top of a file cabinet, and dosed our java with cream and sugar. I was the only person who noticed Rawlins slipping a half-empty pint of Old Forester bourbon sitting on his desk into a drawer. His eyes met mine, and he shrugged.
It was none of my business if the man spiked his morning coffee. I remembered what Miss Osborne had told me, that prisoner-of-war camp officers tended to be unfit for combat duty for some reason. Perhaps drinking was Lt Rawlins’ weakness. As long as he could do his job, at least regarding our mission, I didn’t care.
Rawlins cleared his throat, and Merle, Miss Osborne and I turned to him.
‘We’ve had some trouble here,’ Rawlins said. ‘It involves one of the men you interviewed while
you were here last week. You know we located Hans Marek in Baltimore. He’s back in camp, in his billet.’
‘That’s all?’ Merle said. ‘He’s not been punished?’
‘Under the Geneva Convention he’s permitted to escape,’ Rawlins said. ‘In fact it’s the duty of all captured soldiers, including ours, to escape if they can. Now if he committed a felony, or damaged property, we could arrest him. But he didn’t. We’ve added a guard with a war dog at the base of all the watchtowers at night to keep prisoners from climbing up the supports again.’
‘You mentioned an incident involving one of the men?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Rawlins said. ‘When Thomas Hanzi woke up this morning he rolled over into a pile of gnawed chicken bones. The bones were stacked like wood for a fire, and most were charred.’
‘My God,’ I said. ‘How awful.’
‘How did he react?’ Miss Osborne asked. ‘Is he OK?’
‘He was terrified, of course. Screaming. He almost lost consciousness. Lt Bahnsen got him out of the tent and calmed him down.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?’ I asked.
‘None,’ Rawlins said. ‘But he is, as you know, a gypsy.’
I saw Miss Osborne’s jaw muscles clench. ‘So you think he was being persecuted by the Nazis in the camp. Kapp and who else?’
‘Lt Steiner is Waffen SS. So are two ordinary soldiers, just privates, who are SS riflemen. They would obey any order from Kapp or Steiner instantly. Regular soldiers in the Wehrmacht, like most of the POWs, aren’t permitted to join political parties, but of course many are just as loyal to the Nazi Party as the four Waffen SS men.’
‘You’ve got to protect him,’ Miss Osborne said. ‘He’s terribly vulnerable.’
‘There’s not much we can do. We did move Hanzi into Lt Bahnsen’s tent because Bahnsen consoled him after the incident. He seems to have taken on that role in the camp. And we have notified the Swiss Legation and the Red Cross. They’ll investigate the incident. Maybe some of the prisoners will talk to them.’
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