Children of the Promise

by Dean Hughes

  Brother Stoltz had been carefully schooled. The key was to move slowly, watch and listen, and never get impatient. He could stay in the woods all the way into Germany. At this particular out-of-the-way station, there was usually little activity, and the German guards were often lax. Or so he had been told. That didn’t stop his heartbeat from hammering in his ears.

  Brother Stoltz nodded to the Swiss guard, walked a few paces forward until he was out of the light, and then stepped off into the trees. It was a cloudy night, with almost no moonlight, and he couldn’t use a flashlight. He could tell already that he would have to travel more by touch than by sight. Among all these fir trees, that wasn’t easy. The border was downhill, which was always his key in finding his direction, but the slant was subtle in the beginning, and it wasn’t long until he was struggling to figure out where he was.

  When he became confused, however, he was wise enough to stop, breathe a little and relax, and then look toward the sky. There was a place where the clouds were illuminated by the moon, ever so slightly. He used that hint of light to orient himself, and then he worked his way ahead once again, always feeling for branches and working his way around or under them. As the incline angled more sharply, his job got easier. At the same time, he couldn’t walk too fast and make a noise that would be picked up by the electronic listening devices. No noise beyond what the wind might make was allowable, and tonight there was little wind.

  So he moved one slow step at a time, and sometimes he stood and listened for a full minute–to keep his breathing soft and to do his own surveillance. What he feared most was that a patrol with a dog might be out there in the darkness somewhere. He remembered all too well what had happened when a dog had caught his and his family’s scent when they had crossed into France.

  Slowly he worked his way down the hill, and at some point he felt sure he was beyond the listening posts, but he didn’t change his technique. He listened, waited, inched ahead while time kept passing. But that was all right. He couldn’t be spotted in Singen, the German town below, for quite some time yet. Still, his fear kept pushing him forward. He wanted to be as far beyond the border as possible before he stopped and waited.

  Just when he started to feel he had gotten past the worst danger point, he came to a drop-off that he could feel with his foot but couldn’t see. He clung to the limb of a fir tree, probed with one leg, and tried to find the ground below. This put a strain on his bad knee, however, and suddenly it gave way. He slipped off the little ledge and tumbled into the darkness. He was still clinging to the limb with one hand, but as it dropped, his hand slipped, and he fell a few feet before hitting the ground. The incline was still steep enough that his feet went out from under him, and he slid down the hill on his backside. As he did, his suitcase thudded against the ground, broke loose from his grasp, and rolled ahead of him.

  He wasn’t hurt, except for a little pain in his knee, but the noise seemed tremendous in the quiet woods. He sat where he was and listened as long as he could stand to, and then he crawled ahead until he found his suitcase. Again he tried to wait, but fear kept him going. He hoped no one had heard the racket he had made.

  When he reached the bottom edge of the woods, he could see the vague outline of the horizon and the town, perhaps a mile away. He would either have to cross some fields or stay in the woods and work his way west to a road. But he couldn’t see enough to do that yet. The woods were still the safest place for now–unless a patrol was coming down the hill to find him. But he doubted that. Only a dog could have tracked him, and he hadn’t heard the noise a dog and man together would make. He felt fairly certain he had already passed the danger area when he had taken his fall.

  So he sat and waited. He told himself the worst was over. But he knew he had to travel the length of Germany, to Berlin, and that meant having his papers checked, perhaps many times. He didn’t think the papers themselves were a problem; the OSS had worked with the British MI-6, and they had produced a perfect identification card, along with travel papers. The papers named him Alfred Heitz, and they explained that the company he worked for, as an accountant, had been destroyed by enemy bombs. He was being transferred to another plant, near Berlin, where he would continue to work in the service of his country. Germany had recently announced that all men sixteen to sixty must serve in the military, and so the OSS had also supplied him with papers that showed his medical release from the army. He had supposedly been badly injured in a vehicle accident while serving on the eastern front.

  What he was also carrying, sewn into his underwear, was a set of papers that identified him, under another name, as an agent of the SD, the German security police. He would use these papers to pass back into Switzerland when he was ready to escape Germany. He was more of a courier than a spy; he had a mission to complete, and if all went well, he would be out of Germany in a couple of weeks. His family knew that he was doing something for the OSS, and Anna clearly had her suspicions about what that might be, but Brother Stoltz had admitted nothing.

  Slowly the darkness abated, and Brother Stoltz began to get a view of the countryside. He had to reach the Singen train station, buy a ticket, and head north, probably through Stuttgart. A larger train station than the one in Singen would have been preferable, since he could disappear among the crowd more easily, but this was an obscure area of the border where the crossing was easier. His toughest test of all, between here and Berlin, and his greatest danger, was getting into town and then making it past his first inspection at the train. Small-town inspectors might not be as cautious and well trained, in most cases, but the ones near the border were likely to be quite vigilant.

  When he could see well enough, Brother Stoltz finally began to work his way along the edge of the woods, then down to the road, which he could now see. Once on the road he walked confidently, without hurrying, and he saw no one. He made it to the edge of town and once again breathed more easily. He had studied the map of Singen many times, and he knew exactly how to get to the train station. As he walked along the street, he saw a local policeman, who seemed to eye him rather carefully, but Brother Stoltz tipped his cap to the officer and said, “Guten Morgen,” quite naturally. He wondered immediately whether he had made a mistake. He expected the policeman to say, “Heil Hitler” and perhaps stop him, but he only greeted Brother Stoltz with his own “good morning” and said nothing more. That was one test passed–or maybe he had only gotten lucky.

  The train station was fairly busy, and that was comforting. Brother Stoltz checked the schedule on the wall and saw that an express train was leaving for Stuttgart at 8:36. A slower train, by way of Ulm and then on to Stuttgart, left in only a few minutes. His impulse was to get a ticket on the slower train and get out of the station right away, but he had to remember that he was on his way to Berlin, and he had to do whatever a traveler would normally do. So he stepped to the ticket window. “I’m traveling to Berlin,” he said. “What’s the best train to take?”

  “Take the express train to Stuttgart,” the man said. “You change trains there, but there’s another express all the way to Berlin. You’ll be there by tomorrow morning.”

  “Is it much more expensive than a slower train?” Again he told himself to ask the normal questions, to think the way Alfred Heitz might think.

  “It costs a few more Marken. But it doesn’t stop in every little town. A man could go crazy with all that.”

  “It’s good. I’ll pay for the express.”

  That’s not really what Brother Stoltz wanted to do. He needed to make contact with the underground in Berlin, but his deepest motivation for being in Germany was to find Peter. He suspected that the boy, if he was being held in a jail, might be in southern Germany. So he wished he could stay in the south for a while, but that would make no sense, considering his travel papers.

  So Brother Stoltz bought his ticket. Then he walked to the Gasthaus in the train station and bought a breakfast of bread and cheese and marmalade. Again, he waited.

 
; He was sitting at the table about an hour before departure time when a policeman approached. “Heil Hitler,” the policeman said, raising his hand rather casually.

  “Heil Hitler,” Brother Stoltz said, and he also made the salute. But he didn’t get up.

  “So where are you off to this morning?” the policeman asked.

  “Berlin.”

  “Ach. So far. That’s a long trip.”

  “Yes. It will take me all day and all night. But that’s not bad when one considers how long it used to take–when you and I were both a lot younger.” He laughed, and so did the policeman.

  “I hate to tell you, but you’ll never make it that fast. The tracks will be bombed out somewhere. You can count on it.”

  “Yes, yes. I know. It’s always so these days.”

  “My name is Grosswald. I don’t think I know you. Are you from Singen?”

  This was not friendly chatter. Brother Stoltz had been warned about this kind of interrogation. The policeman had spotted someone he didn’t know, and he was doing his job. This offhanded approach could sometimes lead to a mistake, and then the conversation would take a less affable turn.

  “No. I’m not from here. I’m from Donaueschingen, north of here.” Brother Stoltz hoped that would be enough, but he knew better. The crucial questions were still ahead.

  “Oh, is that so? How did you get here from up there so early in the morning?” Grosswald stretched and yawned, as if tired himself. He was probably in his fifties, with gray hair and big, fleshy ears. He seemed harmless, but Brother Stoltz saw how keen his eyes were, how carefully he was watching.

  “I got a ride from a man who makes deliveries here,” Brother Stoltz said. This was a story Brother Stoltz had worked out while still in England. Few people had cars available, or gasoline, and if he answered that he had taken a bus, the policeman might want proof of that: a ticket or the bus’s arrival time.

  “Deliveries? What on earth does he deliver from Donaueschingen?”

  “Vegetables. Mostly cabbage.”

  “What? He comes for market day?”

  “Yes. I suppose that’s it. He’s not much of a talker, I found that out. I don’t think he likes the early hour himself.” Brother Stoltz laughed again.

  “What’s the fellow’s name, this truck driver?”

  This was getting more obvious now, but Brother Stoltz tried not to let himself seem concerned. “Fleischer. Wilhelm Fleischer.”

  “I don’t remember this man–Fleischer from Donaue­schingen–at our market.”

  “I have no idea. He may sell his cabbages to someone else here–for shipping perhaps. Maybe to the military, for all I know.”

  The policeman nodded. He had apparently followed that line to a dead end, but he clearly wasn’t backing off, wasn’t satisfied. “So what takes you to Berlin?”

  “Work. I was an accountant with a ball-bearing factory, but it was bombed beyond repair not long ago. So I’m being transferred to a company up north. It’s not what I would choose, but you know how it is. These things happen in wartime.”

  “What factory are you speaking of? I’m not aware of a ball-bearing factory in Donaueschingen.”

  Once again Brother Stoltz had his story ready. “No, no. It’s not there. It was in Regensburg, in Bavaria. It was bombed–destroyed, actually–on August 17. I suppose it will be back running before much longer, but I’m being shipped up north, where they say I’m needed even more. I merely came to the Black Forest for a little rest–and to visit my sister–before I start work again.”

  The information about the bombing was accurate–gathered for him by OSS agents–and Grosswald seemed more convinced this time. Brother Stoltz thought he saw the policeman relax a little. Still, he came back with another probe. “I guess it could be worse. You could be called up, if you’re not yet sixty, and have to pack a rifle on the eastern front somewhere.”

  “Actually, I wish I could go back in the army,” Brother Stoltz said. “I served in Russia and might still be there if I ­hadn’t been in a bad accident. I was in a truck that was hit by tank fire and went out of control. I was thrown out. I broke my shoulder and my right knee. I had to be discharged. I’ll tell you, though, I’d like to go after those filthy Bolsheviks again. They’re not human, those people.”

  “How long ago was this? When were you discharged?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “You have papers to show that, I suppose.”

  “Of course I do.” But he didn’t offer to pull them out. He wanted Grosswald to drop the act.

  “Let me see them. I’m supposed to check such things, you know. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Brother Stoltz pulled his wallet from the inside pocket in his coat. He got out his identity card, his work and travel papers, but he didn’t offer them. Instead, he handed over just the military papers Grosswald had asked for.

  Grosswald took them, studied them carefully. “So you were a sergeant, I see. You must have served for quite some time.”

  “I served as a young man, as you see there. And then, in ’39, I signed up again. It’s what I wanted to do for my country.” He laughed. “Besides, it’s more exciting than what I do, keeping books.”

  “But it got a little too exciting when the artillery fire hit your truck.”

  “Oh, yes. Up until then I was lucky. I never feared much of anything. But that day, I found out. Everyone’s day will come if he stays in the army long enough.”

  Brother Stoltz was growing weary of all this. He was smiling, sounding relaxed, just as he had practiced so many times before, but his life was on the line this time, and he kept wondering how long before a word, a fact, a bad bluff, might give him away.

  “You’re lucky to be alive and have all your limbs, if you ask me, Herr Heitz.”

  “Certainly. I couldn’t agree more. So many have given their lives. Or a leg. Or an arm. I know that. But my knee is not good at all. It pains me all the time. And my shoulder is bad enough that I can lift nothing heavy.”

  It was always easiest to sound convincing when he was telling the truth. These, of course, were his injuries, even though they had been sustained in fighting against Hitler, not for him. But Grosswald wasn’t letting up. “Could I see your other papers?” he said, and he studied the false travel papers, the identity card, the work permit.

  After a time he looked up from the papers and said, “What time do you have?”

  Brother Stoltz glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearing eight. Five minutes before.”

  “Don’t you carry a watch with you?”

  “No. Mine stopped working some time ago. How can one get a watch fixed now? The watchmakers are all in the army.”

  Brother Stoltz knew exactly what this was all about. He had been warned not to take a watch with him. It was easy to check a timepiece and see where the inner movements were from. Even a good fake, from outside Germany, could be discovered by anyone who knew what to look for.

  “Would you mind coming with me, Herr Heitz? I want you to talk to someone.”

  “Surely. What’s this about?” Brother Stoltz asked, but Grosswald didn’t answer. He walked on ahead.

  As they left the Gasthaus and entered the main hall of the station, Brother Stoltz tried to think of everything he had said. Had there been some trap he hadn’t noticed? Was there something about his clothes, his dialect, his history, that didn’t add up? His impulse was to spin and run for the doors, try to run all the way back to the woods and the border, but he knew that would be the end of him. He had to stay calm.

  Grosswald walked to a man who was standing near the entrance to the train platforms. The man was wearing a suit, no uniform to identify him with any particular agency. But he was not a ticket-taker. He was stationed where he could watch people and check the papers of those who were about to board the trains.

  “Herr Miller,” Grosswald said, “this man plans to board the express train for Stuttgart and Berlin. He tells me he’s a pa
triot, and he shows me his discharge papers from the military, but I have never seen him before, and he tells me he came here with a delivery man from Donaueschingen. He gives me the name of the truck driver but doesn’t know where the man takes his cabbages. What concerns me most is that he carries no watch. He says his is broken, and that may be, but when undercover agents cross the border, they never carry anything that can be traced. I wonder if we have such a man here.”

  Miller was nodding as he heard all this, and he was looking at Brother Stoltz, studying him. “You are a German, am I to understand?” he asked. He took the papers from Grosswald and began to look through them.

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  “But not from Scwabenland. I can hear that in your voice immediately.”

  Brother Stoltz knew to expect this, of course. “No, no. I wasn’t born here. I lived in Darmstadt most of my life.”

  “And what of this cabbage truck? Why don’t you know better who the man is you travel with?”

  “My sister knew the man, told me he came once a week. So I asked the man for a ride, and he was willing. That’s the whole story.”

  “I know you’re a German. That’s easy enough to recognize. But Grosswald here, he thinks you’re a spy. Maybe you are.”

  Brother Stoltz shook his head. “I fought for the Fatherland–won the Iron Cross, as you see on my papers. I never thought I would be accused of such a thing. But I guess you two have a job to do, yourselves. I don’t take offense.”

  “What regiment did you fight with, in Russia?”

  This was easy. “I was under General von Paulus, in the Sixth Army. The 371st Division, 670th Regiment.”

  “Ach. My goodness. That’s interesting. My brother was with that division. That means you fought with General Lattman. He was your commander.”

  Brother Stoltz took about one full second to make his decision. He had never heard the name Lattman, and yet he was tempted to agree, to satisfy this man who now seemed to be accepting him. But he knew better. He couldn’t fall for a trick, if it was one. “No. My commander was General Richard Stempel. He shot himself, committed suicide, during that mess in Stalingrad. It was a very sad thing. I was hurt before the Sixth Army surrendered. I was lucky in that regard. Most of the men in my regiment are dead–or still in captivity. I’m surprised your brother made it back.”