by James R Benn
“Tell the lad I am a deserter as well,” Lasho said. “Der Zigeuner is done with the war.”
“The boy says he is sorry,” Kaz said, after a brief conversation. “He said he knows the Nazis do terrible things. Which is why he deserted.”
“Tell him I wish him no harm,” Lasho said, squeezing his eyes shut and banging his head against the wall. “Tell him he’s a good boy.”
Chapter Eight
We left the train before dawn, as it slowed for the station at Ville-la-Grand. Lasho knew a spot where the engineer always slowed going into a curve, even more than necessary, since the embankment sloped away gently, the ground softened by thick grass.
We gave Hans the MP 40 back. Unloaded, since trust only goes so far between recent enemies. But if we ran into trouble, perhaps he could bluff his way out. We set off, Lasho in the lead, hunched over and running low along stone walls bisecting pastures and fields.
Luckily for us, Hans’ pack was filled with food he’d swiped from his unit. Black bread and hard sausage, which tasted like heaven. Lasho had stayed quiet, which was his normal approach, even when we asked how we were getting over the border. Hans had no plan himself, simply hoping to find some place to cut through the barbed wire and slip across.
I figured Lasho didn’t see the percentage in telling us, since anyone could get captured. We didn’t need to know until we got there.
Morning came, and we had to move more carefully, keeping out of sight and close to cover. Once a light aircraft flew low, the black cross and swastika visible as it dipped one wing to give the observer a better view of the ground. Routine, or were they looking for us?
Finally, we halted, going prone at the top of a small hill, warily looking ahead as Lasho pointed out our destination. Across a weedy, untended field, a small church sat surrounded by white stucco buildings, their clay roof tiles drenched in sunlight. A low wall surrounded the compound, except on one side where it was ten feet tall.
“The other side of that wall is Switzerland,” Lasho said. “Schweiz,” he added for Hans’ benefit, who nodded enthusiastically.
“Look,” Kaz said, lowering his head to point where the road ran in front of the buildings. An open truck, packed with German soldiers, drove slowly by. I watched Hans, in case he got cold feet with his pals so close. His hands were shaking. Good sign.
“They are a regular patrol,” Lasho said. “At ten o’clock the guard changes, a few kilometers down the road. We must go now.”
We ran hunched over through the field, making for the closest stone wall. It was about four feet high, and we vaulted over easily, catching our breath as we crouched against the cool rock. The church, with its thin, tall steeple, stood at one end of the courtyard. Two buildings, each three stories high, were to our front and left. One of the structures backed up to the high wall, which was topped with barbed wire. The open ground in front of us had once been a garden, the rows of mounded earth now strewn with weeds.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It was the Juvénat School, a seminary, until the Germans shut it down,” Lasho said. “The priests were smuggling people over the wall. Resistance, escaped prisoners, Jews. Many Jewish children, especially.”
“They were discovered?” Kaz asked.
“Yes. Too many people learned of it. The Germans arrested four priests and sent the rest away. All dead by now.” Without another word, Lasho sprinted to a shed, rummaged around until he came up with a crowbar, and beckoned us to follow him inside the seminary.
“If the Germans know about it, isn’t it too dangerous to use?” I said.
“Exactly! Who would be stupid enough, yes? So the Germans expect nothing. Father Rochet had the idea. Good, eh?”
He popped the locked door with the crowbar, wincing at the loud noise. I carefully closed it up behind us and we climbed the stairs, our shoes echoing in the empty space. The top floor was chaos. Clothes, open suitcases, books, papers, and other debris littered the floor. It looked as if the Krauts had closed the place in a hurry and sent the inhabitants where they’d have no need for a change of clothing. I hoped no refugees had been here when it happened, captured only a wall’s width from freedom.
“Here,” Lasho said, kicking aside a pile of clothing and opening a hallway door. Inside the narrow space was a single boarded-up window. He applied the crowbar to the planks, working quietly, prying off the wood piece by piece. “It is the only window on this side.”
Kaz and Hans were gathering bedsheets and knotting them together. “We’ll loop these lengths around the radiator. That way we can pull it down after us and not leave a sign for the Swiss border guards,” Kaz said.
“I’ll go last and shut the window as best I can,” I said.
Lasho had one more board to go. While Kaz finished knotting the sheets, Hans dashed off into another room, leaving the submachine gun and his pack on the floor.
“What is he doing?” Lasho grunted, pulling at the wood plank.
“Getting civilian clothes,” Kaz said. “He doesn’t want to be put in a camp with other soldiers, or worse yet, sent back to Germany.”
“Smart boy,” Lasho said. “He trusts no one, not even the Swiss.” With that, the last board flew off. Outside the window, it was a free country.
Hans returned wearing corduroy pants, a cloth cap, and a baggy sweater. With his backpack and boots, he looked like a high school kid off on a hiking trip. Not so far from the truth.
Kaz gathered up the knotted sheets, looping them once around a radiator pipe. “Remember to grip both lengths,” he said. “Otherwise it will be a fast drop.” He confirmed with Hans that he understood, then nodded to Lasho to open the window.
The dry wood creaked and groaned as Lasho pushed against it. He waited a few seconds, then tentatively stuck his head out, scanning the ground ahead. There was a clear strip of land, about ten feet wide, beyond the wall. Then rows of grape vines, thick trunks sprouting green shoots and leaves, strung up on wires. Mountains in the distance. It looked peaceful.
Lasho jerked his head back in.
“Swiss border patrol,” he said. “Two men.”
I gave a quick glance outside. They sauntered along the barbed-wire fence, rifles slung over their shoulders. It looked like a routine patrol, two bored soldiers, hardly on high alert. I checked my watch: almost ten. The Kraut patrol would be headed back this way.
“Lasho,” I said, my voice a whisper. “Do the Swiss and German patrols talk to each other?”
“Yes, all the time. Sometimes it seems they are passing the time of day; other times it sounds official, as if they are exchanging information.”
“If the truck stops to chat with these guys, the Germans might decide to stretch their legs and search the seminary,” I said.
“They might see the door,” Kaz said. “We need to hurry these men along.”
“Was ist los?” Hans said. Kaz filled him in on the problem. They went back and forth in German for a minute.
“Hans offered to go out and surrender to them,” Kaz said. “He’s willing to risk an internment camp if it will help us.”
“Tell him thanks, but that could attract too much attention to his route over the border. The Swiss might ask the Germans to check the building,” I said. Still, I liked the idea of a diversion. Kaz and Hans spoke, and I could see they’d hatched a plan. Hans stripped off his civvies and donned his uniform again, snatching up the MP 40.
“He’s going to warn the guards of an attempted crossing, a kilometer down the border, away from the German patrol,” Kaz said. Hans pulled his field cap on tight and adjusted the MP 40’s leather strap across his shoulder.
“Give him bullets,” Lasho said.
“What?” I said, not believing Anton Lasho wanted to give any German a loaded weapon.
“If things go wrong, he will need them. Things always go wrong,” Lasho s
aid, looking Hans straight in the eye. I looked at Kaz, who nodded. I released the empty clip and gave Hans one that was fully loaded. Kaz explained, and Hans’s eyes went wide.
“Mach schnell, Hans,” Lasho said, his voice low and gruff. The kid nodded and sped off.
“I hope you’re right about this,” I said.
“I am,” Lasho said. “He could have killed us in the train. He is more afraid of his own people than any of us, yes?”
“Doesn’t say much about his people,” I said.
“Which makes a decent German all the more important,” Kaz said.
Decent again. I hoped decency and luck went hand in hand.
A couple of minutes later, we heard Hans shouting outside, his voice echoing against the stone wall. He used his best Kraut voice, authoritative, loud, harsh, and demanding.
“He’s telling them about a group of refugees, probably Jews, that his squad has been tracking. Two women and three small children. They found the wire cut a kilometer back,” Kaz said.
“Smart,” Lasho said. “No need for the Swiss to call for reinforcements.”
“There they go,” Kaz said, craning his neck out the window. “They are falling over themselves to be first on the scene.”
“Let’s go,” I said, gathering up the knotted sheets. Lasho opened the window, checking to be sure the Swiss soldiers were out of sight. I tossed the sheets out, grabbing hold of both lengths to stabilize them. Hans burst into the room, laughing, proud of the best prank he’d ever pulled. Lasho grinned and went out the window. I held on, his weight heavy on the sheets. It was three stories down, and it took some time.
Hans was still changing back into the civilian clothes, so Kaz went next. Lasho stood below, gripping both ends, ready and waiting.
An engine growled outside. The truck. The changing of the guard. Fresh troops. Would they be more inquisitive? “Go,” I told Kaz. Hans tossed his uniform and weapon aside as he pulled on the corduroys. Kaz climbed out the window and went down hand over hand, as fast as he could.
Shouts from outside. The engine cut out. Had they spotted the smashed door frame?
“Come on,” I said to Hans, gesturing with my free hand. I checked on Kaz; he was on the ground.
Boots thumped on the stairs. They were coming up. Hans grabbed the MP 40 and pointed toward the window.
“Moment,” he said. Then pointed to himself, the stairs, then the window. I got it. He’d fire to make them take cover, then come back and scale down to join us.
“Okay,” I said. “Mach schnell!” I went down the sheets as two bursts of submachine gun fire echoed from within the seminary. I imagined the Krauts fanning out throughout the building, ducking and taking cover, the gunfire unexpected and damned unnerving. If it bought us a minute, it was worth it.
There wasn’t time to explain. I held tight to the sheets along with Lasho, as Kaz stood ready with his Webley. The shooting was bound to bring the Swiss back, but we’d have a good head start on them.
Hans practically flew out the window, his hands grasping the knots and his feet flailing. He jumped the last couple of yards, hit the ground with a grin on his face, and I tugged the sheets loose, tossing them under a bush. We took off, running along the rows of grape vines, our feet digging into the chalky soil of Switzerland.
A shot rang out. I heard the thrumm of the bullet in the air. Had the Swiss guards gotten back so fast? I turned, zigging and zagging as best I could in the narrow rows of grapes, hemmed in by the staked vines. I saw a rifle at the window. Some pissed-off Kraut, not caring about an international incident.
I saw the muzzle flash and dove for the ground. In the next row, Hans did the same.
I watched the window slam shut, imagining some noncom giving his men hell for firing into neutral territory. I got up.
Hans didn’t. His cheek was buried in the dirt, his eyes open, and a terrible red stain spreading below his shoulder blade. Lasho ran back, turned him over, checked for a pulse. He shook his head, slowly at first, grinding knuckles into his eyes as he gritted his teeth.
He leaped up, screaming, a deep-throated cry of anguish, horror, curses, and disbelief. His fists shook at his side, his face red and stained with tears. Kaz and I each took an arm, guiding him away from Hans and the demarcation between war and peace, not that a line on the map had made any difference at all.
Chapter Nine
We had to hide. The border guards were sure to investigate the shots and find Hans in the vineyard. Then there’d be more soldiers, along with police, government officials, and maybe even a German from the Nazi embassy to claim the body and apologize for the understandable enthusiasm of his countrymen in stopping a common deserter.
Maybe he wouldn’t want to claim the body. Which might be a good thing. Hans didn’t deserve to be buried under the swastika flag that he’d tried to leave behind. Maybe the Swiss would give him his own plot of free ground.
Right now, we had our own problems above ground. I doubted the German patrol would stick around to take responsibility for firing into neutral ground, so at least we didn’t have to worry about them ratting us out. But we’d left footprints in the loose soil between the rows of grape vines. Unless the guards got all excited and ran to the road to call for help, it would be obvious there were more than one of us. Once they put two and two together, they’d start searching.
The only good news was that they’d probably assume we were all deserters. Fortunately, we were attired in coats, jackets, and ties, and we had a substantial stash of cash. Unfortunately, we looked like well-dressed bums who’d been sleeping rough. That’s one reason we needed to hide, at least until nightfall, when we might pass for good Swiss citizens out for a stroll.
The other reason was Lasho. He looked shell-shocked. Even under the cover of darkness, he’d draw unwanted attention. Seeing Hans killed had done something to him. Odd, after he’d killed so many Germans, but maybe that was the trouble. He’d let go of his hatred and saw this kid as what he was: another person trying to do the right thing in the worst of circumstances. I think it made him feel good, maybe restored a bit of his faith in humanity. Hans taking a slug in the back destroyed all that.
Or maybe Hans had reminded him of his own son; Damian would have been only a few years younger.
Whatever the reason, we needed to hide and figure out our next move. We filtered through the vineyard, skirting buildings that were sure to be searched. A wailing siren came closer, the first of many vehicles we could expect to converge on the scene.
“We’ve got to get beyond the perimeter,” I said, guiding Lasho into a grove of apple trees.
“How far is that?” Kaz asked.
“See that road ahead? It looks like it encloses this orchard, maybe the vineyard too. They’ll search this whole area up to the road. After that, they might figure we hopped a ride.”
I didn’t like being in the orchard. The neat rows of trees made concealment difficult. But time wasn’t on our side, so we ran straight for the road, hustling Lasho between us. He didn’t complain or resist, but he didn’t exactly break any records for the hundred-yard dash either.
I think he didn’t much care.
We made it to the end of the row, crouching at a rusted barbed-wire fence a few feet high, the kind of fence meant to keep out animals and apple-hunting children. I watched the road, still hearing the siren. It sounded like it was behind us, pulling into the vineyards. No vehicles were in sight, so we stepped over the fence and darted across.
We began walking west, as far as I could tell. Geneva was thataway, maybe ten or twelve miles. We hugged the edge of the road, ready to dive for cover if a vehicle approached. We were still in farm country, nothing near us but a herd of grazing sheep. At a bend in the road, I moved off into the shrubbery with Lasho while Kaz trotted ahead to check things out.
“A garage,” Kaz said, after running back and joi
ning us. “There are a lot of vehicles. Automobiles, farm machinery, and trucks.”
“Maybe we could steal one,” I said.
“Or at least hide,” Kaz said. “There seem to be a number of abandoned vehicles in the back.”
We worked our way to the rear, staying off the road so they wouldn’t see us coming. It was a big, squat building, with an old gas pump out front. It looked like any shop in the States, only with different model automobiles. Rusted wrecks in the back, a scattering of newer cars in the front. Metal clanged from inside, and an engine fired up. One fellow strolled outside, his blue coveralls stained and dirty. He lit up a smoke and stretched. Hard work, keeping vehicles in repair during wartime.
He turned, shouting and pointing at someone inside.
“What’s he saying?” I asked Kaz.
“Basically, ‘I don’t pay you to talk, I pay you to work.’”
“So he’s the boss?”
“Yes. Does that help us?”
“Maybe,” I said. “It means he’s a businessman. Maybe instead of hiding, we could make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“A cash deal,” I said. “We’ve got a lot of Swiss francs.”
“We could easily buy a brand-new automobile for each of us,” Kaz said. “I will go and speak to him. One stranger is less intimidating than three.”
“Lasho, how does that sound? We’ll ride into town,” I said, trying to sound cheery and hoping for a lucid response.
He looked at me and sighed, with a slight nod. At least he heard the question.
“Watch the garage,” Kaz said. “There’s a chance he could be pro-German. If he attempts to restrain me, you may need to come to my rescue.”
“Shout out if you need me,” I said.
I watched as Kaz strolled in and began chatting with the owner. It didn’t take long before they went inside. I wanted to get closer, but we were well hidden, and I didn’t want to risk being seen. I waited, giving Lasho a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He didn’t look especially reassured.
