The Brass Compass

by Ellen Butler

  I fluffed a pillow, tossed it on the arm of the divan, and guided him down. I nestled between his legs, back to front, and wrapped his arms around me. My body rose and fell with his breathing for many minutes before he broke the silence.

  “We were in the Ardennes. It was cold. A deep-down-to-the-bone-marrow cold. It’s not as though we could light a fire, and I often wondered if I would ever be warm again. One morning, early, I climbed out of the foxhole and headed out to take a pi— uh, relieve myself. We’d get this eerie snow fog in the morning—you could hardly see three feet in front, and sounds bounced around. I’d just finished my business when I heard someone else, close by, doing the same thing. Not ten steps away was a Jerry. You have to realize, our troops were stretched so thin there were gaping holes along the line. Sometimes the enemy would wander into our territory. We’d been taught a few phrases in German. I told him to drop his gun and put up his hands.”

  His thumb stroked the soft flesh of my inner wrist. “I don’t know why he didn’t follow the directions. Did I say it wrong? I don’t know. The kid couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and there was something in his eyes that reminded me of a school chum of mine who was on the basketball team with me, Tommy Gundersen. He scored the winning basket our last game senior year and went to Indiana State on an athletic scholarship. He had the smartest, driest sense of humor...”

  I was so intent on listening to Charlie’s story, I barely breathed.

  “Instead of putting down the weapon, the stupid kid fumbled to aim it. I told him to stop. ‘Halten sie!’ I remember calling. He got off a wild shot and I dropped him. The bullet hit him in the chest. His gasping sounded like a gurgling water fountain, and I knew it must have punctured a lung. I was about to check on him, even call for a medic, when I heard other German soldiers. I slipped back the way I came, into the fog, and realized I’d wandered farther than I thought into Jerry territory, rather than other way around. They must have found their man because there was some sort of argument. German. I didn’t understand ... but the single shot ... that I understood.”

  “That was the last time I fired my weapon. The following day, I was moved up to battalion HQ.”

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “Tommy? He died on the beaches in Normandy.”

  I pulled his arms tighter around me. The dawn light rose, and the candle guttered in its socket. We drifted into sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Ennui

  The March winds calmed, bulbs bloomed, and winter slid into spring. The Red Army steadily ate up land in the east, and to the frustration of Churchill, the western front slowed. The 101st trained for a jump into Berlin. Charlie was unable to get another pass to visit Paris before his regiment moved out of Mourmelon to assist the Twelfth Army’s encirclement of the Ruhr Valley.

  I moved through the day-to-day motions at R and A. Even though I’d admitted to Charlie I feared a return behind enemy lines, I found myself confessing to Colette that Paris made me antsy. The only thing that broke up the tedium was the unexpected presentation of two awards. To my embarrassment, in the relatively small office of the director, I was presented with the Croix de Guerre from France for gallantry in the field during the Normandy invasion.

  The second award was hand delivered by Lord Nigel Graydon. His cast had been removed and he walked with only a slight limp. He presented me the King’s Medal for Courage in the Cause of Freedom for the part I played in returning him home. After the ceremony, he took me out for lunch, and I confessed that I missed the action, and the minutia of office work had begun to bore me. I felt relatively useless doing it, much like my time on Capitol Hill. He laughed and admitted he understood, because ever since the cast came off, he’d been trying to get cleared and return to flight status.

  The feeling of restlessness increased once the 101st moved out and Charlie’s letters no longer arrived with regularity. One afternoon, I returned home in a foul mood, and when Colette asked if I’d brought home the eggs, I snapped, “Colette, I don’t have time to stand in the damn lines. You’ll just have to make do with the powdered kind!”

  “Tiens, Lily! Your clipped conversations give me a headache! You are a poor friend to be out of temper just because your sweetheart is doing his duty.”

  Poor Colette, she wasn’t wrong, and she didn’t deserve my irritation. My happiness had become connected to Charlie, a novelty for me since I’d never been in a serious relationship before. The tables had turned, and now I worried daily for Charlie’s welfare while he could be content in the knowledge that I remained safe in Paris. I needed the intensity of a mission to keep my mind occupied. I put out feelers to move back into Secret Intelligence or the Operations Department, and after a few strategically placed comments, I found myself approached to train for a new mission.

  The OSS remained concerned Hitler’s men would launch a guerilla war in the mountains of Bavaria and Austria. He had a home in Berchtesgaden, where the offensive could be headed up. In an effort to incorporate more agents inside Germany, the OSS had identified members of the Free German Committee in London. The agents had been trained and dropped into Austria in February, about the same time as my own flight to get out of the country.

  The Free German operatives were sent in to make contact with other resistance groups and to provide intelligence. Unfortunately, a pair of their operatives had gone missing. They hadn’t checked in with the radio operator in seventy-two hours, and there was fear the entire team had been, or soon would be, rounded up and arrested. The situation reminded me of my own experience in Oberndorf. The state of affairs wasn’t new, and each spy took on the risk knowing the probable outcome. It didn’t stop me from wanting to help.

  The OSS decided to revive Gisele Sandmeier. I found myself returning to Switzerland. My last letter to Charlie before leaving Paris ended with this cryptic line: G is antsy and declares she will return to finishing school next month. I had no idea if he understood the message or if he would receive it without redaction. It was my way of telling him that I would be returning to Switzerland. The change did me good. My mind was finally engaged upon something other than my obsession with Charlie’s welfare.

  They called the mission Gumdrop. My job—to parachute into Innsbruck, establish contact with the radio operator, who had already moved twice, and identify if our agent had, indeed, been captured by the Gestapo. I would be entering with another agent known to me as Hans. The mission provided addresses for safe houses, courier names, and contacts. I knew it would be dangerous, but resources had already been established and appeared a far cry from spying from within the household of a German colonel.

  I expected the fear to regenerate itself. I expected the nightmares to return. To my relief, they did not.

  Two days before enacting the mission, Hans and I practiced my hand-to-hand combat and small knife skills in the dining room of the home where he was staying.

  “That was much better. Remember to use your weight to draw your attacker off balance and drive upward with the heel of your hand. It’s guaranteed to start a nosebleed.”

  A knock sounded at the front door and the two of us froze.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” I asked.

  “Nein.” With one hand on his knife and the other on the doorknob, Hans asked, “Who is it?”

  “I’ve lost my umbrella,” came the reply.

  Hans opened the door to a young man in dark clothes. “Umbrellas are sold on the blue stall on the Schwarztorstrasse.”

  The courier passed Hans a note and disappeared back into the shadows. Hans unfolded the missive and drew his brows.

  “What does it say?”

  He responded by passing the letter to me. The succinct hand-scrawled message delivered a double blow: Roosevelt Dead. Gumdrop mission cancelled.

  The paper floated to the floor as I sank into a nearby chair. It was difficult to say which of the two pieces of information delivered the most punch. Roosevelt, the passionate leader who led Amer
ica into the biggest war known to man. A larger-than-life leader. One of the big three, along with Churchill and Stalin, determined to wrest Europe from the stronghold of the Nazi regime. Gone.

  Once I processed the president’s death, it didn’t take me long to realize, with Gumdrop cancelled, the likelihood of obtaining another mission was slim to none. HQ must have discovered the fate of their man and no longer needed us to take the risk.

  I picked up the paper and crushed it in my fist. “This is it. There will be no more missions, not for me.”

  Hans looked pityingly at me. “Come, let me buy you a drink.”

  We decided to drown our disappointment with a bier at the Schweizerhof Hotel bar in downtown Bern. As depressed as me, Hans stared moodily into his glass. My efforts to engage in conversation were met with brief monosyllables, and eventually I gave up to my own despondency and took to a spy’s natural pastime—eavesdropping. My ears zeroed in on three English-speaking journalists sitting at a table behind me.

  Hans excused himself to go to the restrooms and I shifted to better view the group.

  A man wearing an ugly brown tie bragged, “Believe me, fellows, I heard the frantic Morse code transmission. It said, ‘SOS. This is Buchenwald concentration camp,” and they were requesting help from Patton’s army. It said they were being evacuated.”

  “Where?” a balding man drinking ale asked.

  “It didn’t say. And then, very faint, I swear I heard a reply from Patton’s staff telling him to hold on, they would be there soon.”

  “I heard Murrow arrived today. He’s going to get the jump on all of us if Blake doesn’t get us permission to go in,” said a third man sipping from a brandy snifter.

  “Do you believe the stories? About the mass killings?” ale drinker asked.

  “I heard they had crematoriums to burn the bodies,” brown shirt said, “but I think it’s an exaggeration.”

  “Maybe it’s to burn the evidence. If it’s not an exaggeration, then it’s genocide for sure and a blatant violation of the Geneva Convention.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll believe it when I see it.” Brandy snifter finished the last sip, rose from his seat, and threw money down on the table. “I’m turning in for the night.”

  I was so intent on eavesdropping I barely noticed Hans’ return.

  “Gehst Du jetzt?” Are you going now? He gathered his coat.

  “I think I’ll have one more drink. You look tired. You go ahead,” I urged.

  Hans tossed some francs on the bar and wished me a good evening. The remaining two journalists turned to discussing Roosevelt’s death and the job Truman had ahead. But their conversation about the prison camp intrigued me, and thoughts spun through my head.

  My mission was cancelled and I had doubts that another would be forthcoming. The Red Army in the east and Allies in the west had Hitler’s Wehrmacht on the retreat. My time at R and A had already shown breakdowns in the German Army communication along with a fair amount of surrenders. Goebbels could churn out all the propaganda he wanted, it didn’t change the fact that their country would soon be overrun and bring the Wehrmacht to its knees. If I couldn’t be of use to the OSS office in Switzerland, I’d likely be returned to R and A in France. I cringed at the thought.

  Lily Saint James had a photojournalist cover identification and press credentials. Even though I’d reestablished Gisele, it seemed her moniker would not see a return to action. For some unfathomable reason burning deep in my gut, I was desperate to return to Germany. When I left the apartment in Paris, Colette had handed the camera to me on my way out the door. “It helps steady you,” she’d said. She wasn’t wrong. I missed my photography, and the Minox was nothing compared to the 35mm Argus A hidden behind the dresser in my room.

  I flagged a passing waiter, ordered another drink, then headed to the ladies’ room. The transformation took only a few minutes. Luckily, I’d opted for a wig this time. I tucked the gray-brown strands and glasses into my handbag and combed my own hair into a French twist. I washed the dreary makeup off my face, and with a few pinches to my cheeks and swipe of lipstick, Lily Saint James emerged.

  To my relief the journalists were still at the table and had moved on to a heated discussion about Stalin and Churchill. A hotel staff member stopped by the table to deliver a missive to the journalists as I returned to my stool at the bar.

  “Hot damn, we’re in!” The brown tie slapped his hand on the table.

  “We’re in?”

  “Buchenwald, it’s been arranged. Pack your bags, we leave at oh-six-hundred...”

  I swiveled on my seat, caught the eye of the fellow with the brown tie, dropped my lids, and produced a mysterious half smile. It was an enticing move I’d learned from Colette.

  The gentleman paused, mid-sentence, straightened up from his slumped posture, and smiled back. “Guten Tag.”

  I gave a deep chuckle. “Speak English. I’m an American, like you.”

  “Would you like to join us?”

  I settled in the empty chair and pushed the brandy snifter aside.

  “I’m Jack and this is Freddy.”

  “Lily.” We shook hands.

  “What are you doing in Switzerland?”

  I smiled and whispered, “I’m going to be honest with you fellows.” The two men leaned closer to hear me. “I heard your conversation about Buchenwald. I’m a freelance photographer trying to get my foot in the door to Germany, and I thought ... maybe I could hitch a ride with you gentlemen to the camp?” I fluttered my lashes.

  Brown tie didn’t hesitate. “Sure thing, dollface. Why don’t you and your camera meet us out front at oh-six-hundred? That’s six a-m to those who don’t speak military.” He’d obviously tied on a few and might not have been thinking straight.

  I didn’t care. Just like my spur-of-the-moment decision to save little Klara had gotten me the job in Oberndorf, my impulsive move tonight would get me back into Germany.

  “Thanks. Why don’t you let me pay for your drinks?” I pulled twenty francs out of my purse, laid it under the brandy snifter, and rose.

  “Wait,” the ale drinker said. “You’re leaving?”

  “I must get my beauty rest. Tomorrow’s a big day.” I blew them a kiss and made my escape before they rethought their position.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Buchenwald

  April 15, 1945

  Buchenwald, Germany

  Nothing in the world could have prepared me for Buchenwald.

  Human skeletons wearing black-and-white-striped pajamas, eyes much too large in their gaunt faces, stared with little expression as the journalists recorded this atrocity against humanity. I heard they had cheered when troops from the Sixth Armored arrived, throwing their rescuers into the air. By the time I entered with other press colleagues, the harsh reality had been revealed. Even though their tormentors had run off, men were still dying. Their bodies, so far depleted of any nutrition or overrun with Typhoid fever, couldn't battle any longer. I had no idea a human form could survive such conditions.

  The spring sun shone bright and warm on my shoulders, its vividness in direct contrast to the blackness of horror before us. Never will I forget the stink, a combination of unwashed bodies, bitter sickness, and rotting flesh that permeated the surrounding air. I wasn’t the only one to lose my breakfast, and I’ll admit it took more courage to remain and observe the camp than it did to live inside the colonel’s home. My senses were overwhelmed. Having the camera was almost a relief. The lens diffused the ghastliness and distanced me from the devastation it filmed.

  Citizens from the closest town of Weimar had been rousted early from their homes and marched, escorted by American soldiers, five miles to Buchenwald Camp. Patton, Eisenhower, and Bradley commanded the civilians witness the atrocities the Nazis had committed in their backyard. Prisoners guided them through the camp, pointing out the vileness like docents at a museum. Patton himself oversaw the Buchenwald procession and called for more press to come re
cord the barbarism. Typhus had run rampant through the camp, and though the press and army were sprayed and given pills, Patton took no precautions to protect the civilian population from the disease.

  Twenty-one thousand prisoners were housed here, and the morbidity rate was estimated to be one hundred a day—in the winter as high as nine hundred a day. I photographed a wagonload of emaciated bodies piled in preparation to be burned in the crematorium, left there like an unimportant pile of rubbish rather than children of God. Women, dressed in their Sunday best, became physically ill or turned their heads aside in shame. I understood why. Mortification that anyone could inflict this type of suffering upon another human being, much less the tens of thousands, weighed heavily on my heart.

  A group of Jewish survivors placed themselves at a table in front of the barracks, a squat building with hard wooden slats, stacked three high, to be used for beds and no stove for warming the room. Still wearing their striped uniforms, they confronted civilians who walked past. A dark-haired man jumped out of his chair and ranted as loudly as his weakened lungs would allow, with finger pointed, at half a dozen men and women who turned their heads aside in shame.

  “Do you understand what he’s saying?” a frowning soldier asked as I reloaded another roll of film.

  “He’s telling them they did this to the Jews. They are Nazi swine. He holds them as responsible as the SS. He says they are all murderers and their town should be burned to the ground.”

  The man spoke more eloquently than my translation, and I pitied the soldier’s inability to understand the language. The former prisoner finally ran out of breath, and his colleagues helped him back into his seat. One of the women in the group that had been harangued sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.

  “Ich wusste davon nichts.” I didn’t know. It became a regular refrain heard from the civilians as they toured the camp.