Eppler looked shocked at the accusation. “Sir, with all due respect, what are you talking about? How could you think such a thing?”
It was a good act. Perhaps the delivery was enhanced by Eppler looking at the end of a pistol pointed at him. But Tiedemann didn’t buy it. The logic fit perfectly now and there was no escaping the conclusion that it laid out.
Tiedemann struggled to keep his voice steady. “You know, there was something about all this that didn’t seem quite right. I think it was the confession. It just didn’t make sense somehow. The old man said he had killed Hoffman when he got too close to the wall hiding the ordnance. I think his words were, ‘I panicked, and struck him on the head without thinking, and he fell to the floor and I ran away’. Yet we found Hoffman’s body on the opposite side of the cellar. Not exactly next to the cache of weapons, yes? Difficult to justify the old man’s explanation, given what we were told, yes?
“And then, while sitting here, it just came to me. The ring. Such a simple thing, in front of my eyes the whole time. The wedding ring from the struggle fits you, not the victim. The ring is yours. The murder is yours.”
Eppler stood frozen. His face was all innocence but his breathing was rapid and shallow, and Tiedemann could sense that the lieutenant’s mind was racing for a way out of the accusation. Tiedemann also knew enough about people to recognize guilt. Again, he silently cursed himself for not seeing it all earlier.
“Sir… this is not…”
“I wonder, Herr Eppler, was the wine stain on your uniform yesterday an accident? Or was it to cover up bloodstains on your tunic after you killed my officer?”
The room was silent. Springer and the others made no motions to distract attention. Tiedemann could feel their uncertainty. He felt it important that they believe him. Even though they would do whatever he told them simply because he was their commanding officer, right down to placing Eppler under arrest, it was still vitally important right now to build the trust and comradeship that they would need when they would all be on the front lines together.
Eppler felt the uncertainty as well, and acted upon it.
“Herr Tiedemann. This ring isn’t mine. Why would I kill Herr Hoffman? I’d never met him before a few days ago. What possible motive would I have to take a fellow comrade’s life?”
All eyes turned back to Tiedemann.
“That’s right,” the SS captain conceded. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I do believe you didn’t know Hoffman personally before joining this unit.
“But your wife did.”
For a brief moment, Eppler stared back in puzzlement. But only for a moment. When the color drained from his face, Tiedemann knew he had him.
“Ah, yes,” Tiedemann continued. “Herr Hoffman was quite the womanizer, wasn’t he? A good number of exploits from what I understand from Herr Gohler. Especially when he was stationed at the work camp at Bad Tölz. You can’t blame him, really. He was a good-looking fellow. A strong build, a noble, Aryan face.
“And it’s tedious, boring work, watching prisoners is. Understandable that a man’s attention might wander in the off hours, perhaps to a poor, lonely hausfrau whose husband has gone off to war. A woman has needs, too, yes? She might have herself an affair and become involved with another man who is there for her in these trying times, physically, emotionally. Sexually.”
Tiedemann reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out the letter Springer had confiscated from the Conti girl. He shook it open without taking his aim off of Eppler’s chest. “Such a woman might even be foolish enough to fall for her lover to the point where she decides to end her marriage with her husband. A bit cold, to do so in a letter, but I suppose there really wouldn’t be another way if her husband was deployed to Africa, now, would there?”
Eppler’s eyes went down to the letter on the oak table. Tiny droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead even though the air was cool. Tiedemann watched the physiological reactions carefully, calculating his next words.
Suddenly, Tiedemann leaned forward and spoke to his captive. “Why, Herr Eppler! You’re from Bad Tölz as well, aren’t you?”
Eppler’s eyes were locked on Tiedemann and his expression had become impassive.
“And what was your wife’s name again, Herr Eppler? You’ve told me before, but please refresh my memory.”
There was a long pause. “Greta.”
“Greta,” Tiedemann repeated. He looked down at the signature on the letter. “Greta. Signs her name with G.”
Tiedemann was rolling through his exposition now. “What an odd thing this letter was, to find in a French chateaux. I thought it was from the French girl, meant for a lover in the German army. What was her name? Ah, yes. Gabrielle. Springer found the letter on her and confiscated it. Once I read it I thought, what good taste she must have, even if she is hasn’t yet mailed the letter to break off the relationship. But things didn’t make sense. The paper was much too worn for something yet unsent. It’s been read many times, folded again and again, as if by someone who can’t quite bring himself to believe what the words are telling him. Someone who keeps looking at it to see if his eyes are being deceived by the desert heat. Someone who can only feel outrage at being betrayed at home while he is stuck in North Africa, nobly fighting for the Fatherland. Someone who would go so far as to join the SS and orchestrate his transfer in order to track down and take revenge against his wife’s lover.”
He walked around the table, his Luger level.
“The thing is, Herr Eppler, I can’t say I don’t feel your pain in losing your marriage. But you’ve done something far worse than cheat on a spouse. You betrayed your fellow soldiers. You found out who stole your wife, you transferred to the same unit, then you murdered in cold blood a man who would have, without question, given his own life to protect yours on the field of battle. You turned your back on all of us. You joined the SS only to desecrate it.”
Tiedemann felt the pistol grip shift from the sweat of his palms. How easy it would be to put this swine of a traitor on the floor with a neat bullet hole to the chest. Just the faintest squeeze of the finger and justice would be served. The temptation was so overwhelming that Tiedemann could scarcely believe that his pistol hadn’t already gone off, that there was no wisp of smoke already rising in a twirling spiral from the end of the barrel. That such a person could infiltrate the ranks of the Waffen-SS and insidiously gain the confidence of his companions was so disgusting that Tiedemann wanted to puke his guts out. The whole concept of loyalty and honor had been swept away by such an outrageous disregard for the essence of a soldier. The betrayal was complete. The pain was unbearable.
The wind outside howled faintly against the window. Tiedemann suddenly became aware of how still the room was, his loyal officers still waiting for an order. It was time to give them one.
“Herr Gohler,” Tiedemann said.
“Jawohl!”
“Place this… person under arrest and put him with the Englishman. We’ll be taking both of them to Perpignan with us. Our superiors will want to see if the airman has any more intelligence to provide, and I will want to watch this piece of shit here crawl and beg for mercy before he’s executed. That’s something that should be shared with those whom he betrayed.”
The Sturmscharführer walked carefully over to Eppler and removed the lieutenant’s pistol from its holster.
Eppler stiffened. “Herr Hauptsturmführer, I assure you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. These accusations you’re making are simply not true.”
Tiedemann refused to acknowledge the words. “Take him away.”
Gohler gave Eppler a sharp push. The lieutenant stumbled before moving reluctantly, his eyes still on Tiedemann. There was still the look of disbelief, or perhaps incredulity, that he had been caught in his crime. And then they were gone.
Normally Tiedemann would have found great satisfaction in ferreting out the truth. But not this time. As the two men disappeared, Tiedemann placed both hands on the table
top to support his weariness. He hung his head and cursed the day that he and his men had ever come to France.
28
Wilhelm Eppler marched out of the study with Gohler holding him at gunpoint. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. Did he malign the gods in a previous life? How was it that he found himself a prisoner of his own unit?
The circumstances had been perfect. A one-night layover at an unfamiliar location. Plenty of alcohol to dull the senses. A variety of scapegoats nearby, including an enemy soldier hiding contraband ordnance. A private cellar where he could accost Hoffmann. Eppler couldn’t have asked for a better situation to take his revenge, which was why he had seized the opportunity instead of continuing with his original plan. And yet now it had all backfired. He had been accused of murder and was surely headed towards a firing squad. How had that happened?
As they headed to the kitchen, a wave of memories and emotion flooded into Eppler’s mind. He thought back to Bad Tölz and the SS men that streamed through the work camp there as they rotated back from the Front. He thought of Greta, the love of his life whom he had known since grammar school. How lonely she must have been, with me gone for so long. The temptation was easy to imagine, particularly with a good-looking fellow like Hoffmann. How cruel that this man had drawn a duty station near his home? Did their relationship begin innocently, a random meeting at some club? Or had it been lusty and banal from the start? Her parents were gone. Eppler was far away. She was lonely. She had needs.
But what about him? Hadn’t he been just as lonely huddling behind sandbags while under British shellfire? Hadn’t he been through his share of suffering as his Kompanie struggled with supply lines stretched perilously across the desert? Where was his comfort? He hadn’t asked for the life thrust upon him. And while he could perhaps reconcile a temporary refuge in the arms of another, he could never condone the complete and utter abandonment Greta had sent him in that fateful letter.
I am leaving you.
I am in love with him.
It is not your fault.
No, it wasn’t his fault. It was Hoffmann’s.
What Hoffmann hadn’t counted on, however, was being found out by one of Eppler’s friends. The administrator of the SS camp in Bad Tölz could write letters too—ones that not only supplied the identity of the cuckold, but also the names of allies who could orchestrate a transfer to that same Waffen-SS unit. It paid off to have friends in high places.
Unfortunately, the tables had now turned. One of Hoffman’s was holding the gun.
“Be careful, Sturmscharführer. That pistol was given to me by General Rommel himself.” Eppler spoke carefully as they walked. “You’d best take care of it until this mess gets fixed and my name is cleared. I’ll be wanting it back.”
“Quiet. Keep moving,” Gohler replied, unimpressed.
The kitchen was deserted, with copper pots and pans strewn all across the oak countertops. Gohler motioned to the iron staircase for Eppler to climb down. Eppler slowed his pace, testing his escort to see what he would do. A heavy shove was the answer. Gohler was being careful in his control of his prisoner, not getting too close and keeping his Luger out of arm’s reach. Any sudden moves to grapple would undoubtedly be disastrous. Eppler grabbed the handrail and descended around the helix of the rickety stairs towards the cellar.
The well-maintained corridors of the manor gave way to cracked plaster and exposed brick of the underground. Eppler again walked slowly and continued his probing.
“Do you really believe that concocted explanation, Herr Sturmscharführer? I realize you have orders, of course, but I want to know on a personal level. Man to man. Do you really think I would do such a terrible thing?”
Silence.
“It seems to me,” Eppler continued, “that Herr Tiedemann is discounting the obvious, here. A downed Allied airman overseeing a cache of weapons for the Maquis? A murder in the same room as where the contraband was hidden? How do you feel that stacks up against an absurd accusation of lost love and jealousy?”
Another shove was the response. The two men continued walking. Maybe he was just obeying orders, or maybe he was busy sorting through a torrent of emotions around discovering his friend’s killer, but Gohler wasn’t letting on.
Eppler walked slowly through the brick archway of the wine cellar and stopped abruptly.
“Where’s the Englishman?” he said.
There was no sign of Cartwright except for a dried puddle of blood. Still keeping his hands out to his side, Eppler started to scan the room. Both of them saw the body in the far corner at the same time. The uniform was the charcoal gray of the Waffen-SS, not the brown of the Royal Air Force.
“Peterson! Scheisse!”
Gohler dashed across the room and knelt by the motionless body. Eppler followed slowly behind, temporarily forgotten by his captor. As he got closer he saw that the body was indeed that of SS-Schütze Peterson, who if not for wartime would have been an athletic, good-looking young lad of eighteen. Now he was a corpse. The body was deathly pale, with a bright red gash cut horizontally across his throat and blood all over his uniform. Had Cartwright done it, perhaps surprised him from behind?
Attacked from behind.
Gohler was down low next to the body, his fingers pressed against the boy’s neck for a pulse. Eppler quietly pulled a dusty wine bottle from the iron rack nearby. In one smooth motion, he brought it down with as much force as he could muster against the sergeant’s neck. There was a muffled thud as the bottle connected. Gohler lurched forward across Peterson’s shoulder and onto the hard floor. Almost simultaneously there was a loud crack as Gohler’s pistol fired from a last, semi-conscious jerk of nerves. The bullet flew into the limestone and showered the air with thick yellow dust that quickly covered Eppler, Gohler, and the corpse.
Eppler stood over the bodies and stared curiously at the heavy bottle he was holding. It was fully intact. Not the outcome he had expected. The one he had clubbed Hoffman with had exploded into a thousand shards of green glass and showered them both with wine. Perhaps this one would have broken if he had aimed at Gohler’s skull instead of his neck? No matter. Eppler had temporarily bought his freedom with it. And since he was now inexorably committed to a path of desertion, he would need a weapon more lethal than a bottle. Eppler let it slip to the limestone floor and retrieved the pistol from the sergeant’s motionless fist.
There was no reaction from Gohler. Eppler didn’t bother to check whether the sergeant was alive. He turned and walked to the archway, pressed tightly against the red brick, and listened. He heard only silence.
Most of the troops would be outside near the vehicles in preparation for moving out. If any of the officers had heard that gunshot, they’d be running down to see what had happened and their footsteps would announce them. But there was nothing—at least, not yet. Perhaps the earth that surrounded the room had muffled the sound.
Time was of the essence now. Eppler had to get as far away from the manor as possible before anyone discovered his escape. He didn’t know where he would go, or what he would do once he got there, but he was a fugitive now just as surely as that downed airman from across the Channel. And it was even odds whom Tiedemann would try to hunt down first.
Without dwelling any more on his future, Eppler walked around the corner and headed to the cave with the barrels.
29
Krauss stopped the reassurances of his navigation skills in mid-sentence. “What was that?”
Tiedemann leaned forward in his chair and held up his hand for silence. The noise had been very faint. But it certainly sounded like a gunshot.
Springer was looking at him. Tiedemann saw his junior officer was thinking the same thing.
“Scheisse,” Springer muttered.
Without further hesitation, Tiedemann flung himself out of his chair and pulled his pistol out on his way to the door. He yelled for the others to come with him and then was out in the corridor making a mad dash for the front foyer.
At the grand staircase in the manor’s entryway, Tiedemann skidded to a halt and paused to listen again. “Where did the shot come from?”
Two young soldiers appeared at the top of the stairs, the ones who had been guarding the Contis.
“Achtung! Did you hear that?” Tiedemann said.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer. It sounded like it came from down there.”
Down there. The cellar? Surely Eppler had not been able to overpower someone like Gohler.
“Are the prisoners secure?”
“Yes, sir. We haven’t had any trouble with them.”
“Are you sure?” Tiedemann shouted.
The soldiers got the message and disappeared into the hallway. The SS captain stroked his thumb against the knurled pommel of his Luger while he waited. After a few moments, urgent footsteps thundered back at the top of the stairs.
One of the men reappeared. “Sir, they’re gone!”
Tiedemann heard the words but struggled to accept them. “What do you mean, gone?”
“The prisoners aren’t in their room! The floorboards are torn up inside… they must have snuck out through the floor… we didn’t….” The soldier panicked at the realization of having failed in his duty.
Tiedemann was at a loss. His mind raced to process all the information and come up with orders to give his men. The entire family had disappeared from under the noses of a double guard? With a cripple, and a little boy? Somehow they had managed it. How far had they gotten? And did they have a weapon?
He realized he was squeezing the grip of his pistol so tightly that his knuckles had turned bright white.
Follow the gunfire.
Tiedemann barked out his orders. “Krauss, get the men loading the truck. Bring them up here with rifles ready. Put sentries around the grounds and fan out—the courtyard, the wine barn, everything. Then come down with the rest through the ramp in the barn to seal off any escape.”
The Hazards of War Page 19
