by James R Benn
First time I ever felt sorry for a Kripo man.
We piled into our Peugeot once the stiff was crammed into the small Renault, where I left Ernst’s Walther in the glove box. Lasho insisted on keeping the Luger. Smart guy. Plenty of GIs would pay top dollar for that particular souvenir. It was a sunny morning, with a slight chill in the air, just right for a walk down a country road. After about two miles, we pulled over, and Ernst shook hands with each one of us. Formally, as if it meant something. I gave him the keys to the Renault, and then he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and walked off, shoulders hunched, head bowed, making his way as best he could.
“This is a strange war,” Lasho said, before I could. “In a strange country.”
“I miss the deprivations of London,” Kaz said, glancing back at Ernst as Lasho drove off. “Rationing, the odd bomb now and then, too many Americans throwing money around in the clubs. Right now I’d gladly trade the ambiguity of this neutral ground for the absolute clarity of wartime England.”
“I wouldn’t mind a meal and nice bottle of wine at the Dorchester myself,” I said. Kaz kept a suite at the Dorchester Hotel, where he let me bunk in with him. It was the last place he’d seen his family, when they visited before the war broke out. It was the same suite they’d occupied, and I think he kept it because he couldn’t bear to break that last connection with them. With all the dough his father had stashed away, money was no object, so why not?
“I have heard of the Dorchester Hotel,” Lasho said, as he turned onto a main road and followed it north toward Wauwilermoos. “Too precious for a Sinti, I think. When we get to London, I will stay somewhere else. A small room is all I need.”
“We need to get your identity papers from Dulles,” I said. “Then we’ll figure out London.”
“Actually, no one has spoken about a plan to get us out of Switzerland,” Kaz observed. “We are surrounded by enemy territory.”
“Hey, we got in, we’ll get out,” I said, with far more conviction than I felt.
First we had to find the POW camp, deal with Henri’s killer, find Victor and the mysterious invoice, and then figure out what the hell that had to do with Safehaven. Maybe nothing, but I doubted it. The only thing that nagged me was why our Gestapo tail had taken potshots at us. If I knew why we’d posed a threat, I might be able to figure out what the big secret was.
I sat back and tried to stop worrying about it. My father always told me the best way to figure out a puzzler was to let your subconscious do the heavy lifting. He’s a homicide detective back in Boston, and a damn good one. He taught me everything I know. Truth be told, he tried to teach me a lot more, but I was a know-it-all kid, a rookie who didn’t always listen to everything his dad had to say, so there was a lot I missed. But that bit of advice stuck with me, since it was a good excuse for a nap now and then. So as the terrain turned to green rolling hills and we left the chilly mountain air behind, I shut my eyes in the backseat and gave my subconscious full throttle.
All I got was a stiff neck.
“We are close,” Kaz said from the front seat as he studied a map. “We just passed through the village of Iberswil, so it should be ahead.”
“Lasho, you want to wait in the village?” I said, not knowing how long we’d be.
“No, I will wait where I can watch the main gate. And where they cannot see me,” he said.
“That might be tough,” I said, scanning the open, flat fields. The ground looked wet and soggy, fields marked off by low stone walls, the dark soil sprouting rows of budding plants.
“There,” Kaz said, as we came upon a sign for Straflager Wauwilermoos.
“What does that mean anyway?” I asked as Lasho turned and slowed to survey the terrain. Trees lined the road, a break in the monotony of the flat wetlands.
“Literally, the prison camp at the swamp of Wauwil, which is the next village,” Kaz said.
“Ernst would say I am clever to stay outside,” Lasho said. He slowed near the drive leading into the camp. The trees gave him some cover and he had a clear line of sight to the main gate. “Good luck.”
“And the same to you if we don’t come out,” Kaz said. I got into the driver’s seat and Lasho vanished into the greenery.
“That’s not very encouraging,” I said, as we jolted down the muddy dirt path, slowing for the guards at the gate.
“Neither is this,” Kaz said as I hit the brakes. Helmeted Swiss soldiers advanced, one on each side of the car, while two others blocked the entrance, fixed bayonets pointed at us. I rolled down the window, keeping my hands in view, and let Kaz do the talking.
He handed the letter Dulles had given us to the guard, who then demanded our Ausweispapiere, which I knew meant identity papers. I opened my jacket to take mine out, and I saw the guard on Kaz’s side eyeing me.
“Pistole!” he yelled, catching a glimpse of the revolver in my shoulder holster. Things were not getting off to a good start at the prison camp in the swamp of Wauwil.
We were hauled out of the vehicle and spread-eagled over the fender, feet kicked apart and faces pressed against the hood, relieved of guns, wallets, and probably some loose change I’d forgotten about. These guys were no novices at conducting a search. It was over quickly, done with enough roughness to show they meant business.
I kept my mouth shut. We’d brought two pistols and a letter. They had four rifles with bayonets; the odds were on their side. Prodded by rifle butts, we made our way into the camp. The ground was soggy, water squishing up under foot. The sun was out, but it was impossible to shake the damp chill that rose from the ground. Hard to blame the guards for being in a bad mood.
The place wasn’t much to look at. Wooden shacks in rows faced each other across muddy tracks, surrounded by barbed wire. I could see guards, their rifles slung, patrolling outside the fence with dogs barking and straining at their leashes. Prisoners in nondescript filthy clothing looked away as we approached a row of wooden buildings with fresh paint and wood plank sidewalks built over the marshy ground. Officer country.
Our guards pushed us up steps leading into the largest of the buildings, slapping our legs with the flat side of their bayonets, and having a good laugh over it. Suddenly they were at attention, grins vanquished, rifle butts slammed on the ground, eyes forward. What got their attention, and mine, was an officer on horseback, coming down the lane at a canter, mud flying as the horse’s hooves churned up the black, wet earth. The officer wore riding jodhpurs and polished black boots with spurs. He was stocky, his face round and puffy, a hatchet nose at odds with his baby face.
At that moment the door opened and another officer appeared, this one tall and severe, a pencil-thin mustache seated above narrow lips. His nose had a sharp edge as well, but it fit with the rest of his face. He took our papers from one of the guards and looked through them as the other officer dismounted and handed the reins off to a guard.
“I am Lieutenant Johann Wurz,” the sharp-nosed guy said. “What business do you have here?”
“We’ve come on behalf of Allen Dulles of the American Embassy,” I said. “To see Captain Walter Bowman and determine the legal basis of his imprisonment.”
“Ah, yes. We received word of Herr Dulles and his interest,” Wurz said. “We did not expect his delegates to arrive armed.” The stocky officer brushed by us. Wurz stood aside and saluted as he entered the building.
“There’s a war on, Lieutenant,” I said. “The Gestapo tried to kill us in Bern a few days ago, so we armed ourselves out of caution.”
“You will be safe enough here, Mr. Boyle and Mr. Kazimierz,” he said, reading from our identity papers. “Captain Béguin, our camp commandant, regrets he does not speak English and asked me to attend to you.”
“Was that Béguin?” Kaz asked. Wurz nodded. “I speak German as well as French, so we have no need of English.”
“No,” Wurz said. “Ca
ptain Béguin prefers not to meet with you. He dislikes Americans. You will fare better with me. Come inside.”
We were brought into an austere room, decorated with a Swiss flag, the white cross set on a bloodred banner. Wurz dropped our papers on a table and took a seat. There weren’t any other chairs. A soldier came in and set down the box of food we’d brought for Bowman.
“There’s a letter from the embassy,” I said. “Asking for information about Captain Bowman’s detention.”
“Yes, a letter from Dulles,” Wurz said. “Who is a spy. All of Switzerland knows this. Who is Captain Bowman to him? And to you?”
“Walter Bowman is an evadee, who was attending a reception at the invitation of Max Huber of the Red Cross. The next morning, he was picked up by the police and sent here. We demand to know why,” I said.
“Because obviously he violated the terms of his parole,” Wurz said. “That is a matter for courts to decide. We run a penal camp. We do not decide who our guests are. The government is responsible for that.”
“Was Captain Bowman brought before a court?” Kaz asked. “According to the Geneva Convention, there are requirements for charging a prisoner of war with additional punishments. No more than thirty days’ confinement for trying to escape, for example.”
“We are some distance from Geneva, gentlemen. This is a prison, not a normal prisoner of war camp. Your Captain Bowman is here until a military tribunal can be convened to review the charges against him,” Wurz said, lighting a cigarette and smiling as he blew smoke in our faces.
“When will that be?” I asked, working to contain my anger, since he had bayonets on call in the hallway.
“These things take time,” he said. “We will notify the American Embassy when arrangements are made. Now, I can take you to see Captain Bowman if you wish. Then, you will leave.”
“We brought this food for him,” Kaz said, moving to take the box on the table in front of Wurz.
“We will check it for contraband, then it will be distributed. You have my word,” Wurz said, placing his hand on the box and drawing it out of Kaz’s reach. I believed him, too, since he left out who was going to be on the receiving end of the distribution.
Wurz led us into the compound, two guards trailing our little party. The path between the shabby barracks was thick with muddy ruts. Wood planks set on either side of the lane were already partially submerged, water oozing over our shoes with every step. Wurz gave us a lecture about how this area had been underwater until the lake was drained and the area turned into farmland.
“All this water must be good for crops,” Kaz said. “Less so for men to live in.”
“I quite agree,” Wurz said, flicking his cigarette into a pool of brown water. Prisoners gazed out of windows, dull looks of fatigue and hunger on their faces. “If our American guests would simply stay within their designated areas, they would never need to be sent here. We only house criminals and repeat offenders. Not a pleasant group, take my word for it. Poles, Russians, German deserters, the worst Europe has to offer. I advise you to tell your comrades to stay in their hotels and not try to rejoin their forces. A ski vacation in Davos, what better way to sit out the war?”
“Not everyone likes to ski,” I said, leaping from one wood plank to another. “Tell me, why does Captain Béguin dislike Americans?”
“He does not like the English, either. He admires Adolf Hitler and what he has done for Germany. He likes discipline and obedience. It is our experience that Americans practice neither. The English at least act with politeness, but are little better.”
All around us, prisoners edged away from Wurz and the guards, taking to their barracks and crowding around open windows. Their clothing was filthy, barely recognizable as the flight suits and khaki uniforms worn as they left on their last mission. The odor of decay hung heavy in the air, as if the wooden barracks were rotting into the ooze.
One prisoner scurried by, his feet bare and caked with mud. He clutched a worn coat to his chest, his head cast down to avoid making eye contact with the guards.
“And you?” Kaz asked, his nose wrinkled against the smell. “Do you admire the Nazis?”
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Wurz said, at the second-to-last barracks. “You have ten minutes.” He gestured for us to enter, not answering the question except with a sly, superior smile.
We opened the side door, a couple of steps up from the muck surrounding the barracks. The stench was like a fist in the face.
“Billy,” a voice gasped from a bunk. Well, not a bunk at all, I saw. Two wooden platforms strewn with straw ran the length of the interior. POWs sat glassy-eyed, staring at us like visions in a dream. “You’ve got to get me out of here.” It was Bowman. Two days in this dump had already changed him. His clothes were caked with mud, his face was bruised, and his eyes wild with desperation.
“We’re working on it,” I said as he jumped down from the top platform. Then I took notice of where the awful smell came from. The latrines were in the same room, a squat wooden bench paralleling the sleeping area, with holes gaping over the open sewage pit below.
“Work harder,” Bowman said. “This place is a hellhole. They beat up on me as soon as I arrived, and dumped me in here. Worst barrack in the place.”
“Punishment barrack,” another prisoner said. He was sprawled out on the hay, a handkerchief over his nose. “Thing is, Bowman didn’t do anything wrong.”
“What’d you do to get tossed in here?” I asked the other POW.
“Refused a work detail,” he said. “I was sick of them stealing our Red Cross parcels and then sending us out to do heavy labor. They got us digging peat out in the fields every day.”
“You’ve got to do something, Billy. Tell our people at the embassy. I can’t believe they know what’s going on here,” Bowman said, his voice catching in his throat.
“Those pencilpushers have to know,” his fellow prisoner said. “They probably think we all landed here on purpose to sit out the war. Me, I tried to escape, going for our lines in Italy. Swiss cops pulled me off a train in Locarno. That’s what got me put in this camp in the first place.”
“Allen Dulles sent us here,” Kaz explained. “He wants a full report, and will pass it on to the embassy. We will tell him everything.”
“And we brought a carton of food,” I said. “But Wurz confiscated it. Said he was checking for contraband.”
“We’ll never see it,” Bowman said. “Wurz is a sadist. He loves to tell us how good the food in the Red Cross parcels are, not to mention taunting guys with letters from home.”
“Do you think Wurz or the commandant can be bribed?” Kaz asked in a low voice, glancing at the door.
“I doubt it,” Bowman said. “They’re both die-hard Nazis. Béguin even has a German uniform he parades around in. And Wurz has too much fun setting the dogs on prisoners to ease up on anyone. Try to bribe him, and you’ll end up in here with us with teeth marks on your ass.”
“Get out while you’re still in one piece,” the other prisoner said. “And tell the world what the Swiss are really up to, okay?”
“We will,” I said, hoping that Dulles had the juice to do something about what these guys were enduring. “But right now, we only have a few minutes, and I need to ask you something. You and Maureen Conaty went back to your hotel after the reception. Did you notice anyone following you? Or watching you at the bar?”
“No, but I wasn’t watching my six. All my attention was focused on Maureen, you know?”
“Yeah, she has that effect,” I said, smiling at the pilot’s jargon. Six o’clock is what lies behind you. “We were followed after we left Huber’s place. I wanted to know if the SVV boys were tailing you as well. What about when Maureen left?”
“Uh, Billy, that’s kind of personal,” Bowman said. “Maureen’s terrific, and I don’t want to tell tales out of school, you know?”<
br />
“What are you talking about?” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with having a drink or two at the bar. You are an officer and a gentleman, after all.”
“That’s just it. I’m trying to be a gentleman,” Bowman said, leaning in to whisper. “We didn’t go to the bar. We went right up to my room. She left around six o’clock. Said the morning light didn’t do a girl any favors, and she had to get to work. She’s not in trouble, is she?”
“Not at all, don’t worry about it,” I said, giving Kaz a quick glance. We were the ones who had to worry. Maureen had lied to us.
There wasn’t time to think that one through. A guard rapped on the door, and we left promising to do our best for Bowman and the other prisoners. Wurz brought us to his office, dismissing the two goons. He’d made his point, and this time there were even chairs for us to sit in. The absence of bayonets made it almost cozy.
“I don’t suppose an official protest from the American Embassy would do any good?” I said.
“None at all,” Wurz answered, lighting another cigarette. “The International Red Cross has inspected this facility only recently. I have taken the liberty of providing an English-language digest of their report for you to bring back to Herr Dulles.”
He withdrew a folder from his drawer and tossed it on the desk. I took it and scanned the sheets, which contained excerpts from the Red Cross inspectors.
If iron discipline is the norm, there is also a certain sense of justice and understanding that helps with the re-education and improvement of the difficult elements sent there.
Camp conditions are satisfactory.
The complaints concerning the treatment of internees at Wauwilermoos are not justified and are exaggerated for the most part. The regime of Wauwilermoos is stricter than an ordinary camp, but this is necessary all the same since this is a penitentiary and disciplinary camp.
The general methods there left me with an excellent impression of this camp. Captain Béguin is a man made to direct a camp of this type.
