by Bodie Thoene
Josie pressed against the farthest wall, wide-eyed and panting. She clutched her jacket to her like a life preserver.
As Horst examined Müller, he still gripped the brandy bottle by its neck in readiness.
“Well, Frau Marlow.” Horst’s words were calm, but Josie could see his eyes darting around the room, keeping pace with his racing thoughts. “We are very fortunate . . . all things considered. The gun did not go off, the bottle did not break, and we do not have a dead Gestapo agent in your bedroom to explain.”
“But what will we do now?”
Horst uncorked the brandy and splashed some on the recumbent Müller. “I have a car in the alley behind the hotel. With your help I think we can take our drunken friend here for a ride. It is too dangerous for you to remain in Treves until morning,” he warned Josie as he began to sift through Müller’s pockets. He shredded every scrap of identification and proceeded to flush the paper down the toilet. “We must take you directly to Wasserbillig. Do you have the documents for the baby?”
She held up the copy of Faust in reply. “Here.”
“Listen carefully.” He took her arm, and his eyes pierced hers. “You must not take the child back to France.”
“Belgium or Holland then?”
“No!” He emphasized his vehemence by gripping her arm painfully. “Get him off the Continent. To England first. Do it immediately. Do you understand me, Frau Marlow? After tomorrow it will be too late. Take a train from Luxembourg, then a neutral ferry to England from Ostend. Soon there will be no neutrals.”
“But Holland—”
“You witnessed Poland. I need not tell you more. Get him out of Europe!”
His warning was so stern and frightening that Josie knew instantly there was far more at stake here than the life of one child. “Not Holland! Not Belgium! Soon there will be no neutrals!”
Horst checked to see that the corridor was clear. Then, supporting Müller between them, Josie and Horst staggered down the back stairs of the Porta Nigra. A Wehrmacht staff car waited in the alley.
The blackout in Treves facilitated their moves. Horst bound and gagged Müller, then crammed him into the trunk of the vehicle as Josie climbed into the passenger seat.
The soft voice of a woman startled her. “He is a good baby, Frau Marlow. No trouble. You will see.”
Josie gasped and whirled to peer into the dark shadows. She could see only the vague outline of someone directly behind her. “Who are you?”
“I am Katrina von Bockman. The major’s wife. I have brought Yacov to you.”
Josie wished her mastery of German were better. There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions to ask, but the words escaped her. In an instant Horst was behind the wheel, and they were inching through the narrow lanes of Treves.
“There was trouble,” Horst explained to Katrina.
“Gestapo?”
“Yes.”
Katrina was calm. “He is dead?”
“Not yet.”
“What will we do?” If she was worried, the tone of her voice did not betray it.
“It is tragic how many drunks stumble in the dark,” Horst replied. Then to Josie he said, “It is time now to take out the travel documents of your son, Frau Marlow. You have been a delightful guest for me and Katrina. We hate to see you go.”
Josie peeled back the end sheet on the copy of Faust and removed the dated document for infant Daniel John Marlow. They rode in silence for several miles, finally coming to a roadblock guarded by a drowsy sentry who shone his flashlight in through the window at each of the occupants. This was the first glimpse Josie had of the baby who was supposed to be her son. He slept in the arms of Katrina. He was fair-skinned and plump. A blue knit cap covered his head. He sucked his thumb in contentment. A beautiful child.
With seemingly detached boredom, Horst passed their documents to the sentry, who gave them a cursory glance and then waved the vehicle through. A number of rumbling lorries pulled up to the gate behind them. Horst sped up and drove for a while, finally turning onto a side lane beside the berm of a rail line.
Switching off the engine, he sat in silence for a moment. “Herr Müller is about to attempt to stop the train to Luxembourg.” With that he set the hand brake, retrieved a tire iron from beneath the seat, and left the car.
The baby sighed in Katrina’s arms. The sweet scent of flowers drifted in through the window. Josie heard the trunk lid open and the moan of Müller through the gag. This was followed by what sounded like a metallic clank against a ripe melon. Then there was silence. Horst von Bockman had left nothing to chance.
Josie felt ill.
Katrina von Bockman defended her husband in a hoarse whisper. “He has done what he must, Frau Marlow.”
The vehicle swayed a bit as the major pulled the heavy body of Müller out of the trunk. And then above the calls of the night birds was the sound of the body being dragged through the gravel and up the berm to be deposited on the tracks.
How cool von Bockman seemed! He returned to the car. His demeanor was as unruffled as if he had just stepped on a cockroach instead of killing a man! Josie was not sure she liked him. She knew she should thank him for saving her life. She should admire him for rescuing the baby.
“I-I am . . . grateful,” she stammered unconvincingly.
“Do not waste pity on a creature like Müller,” Horst said flatly.
“You are efficient,” she replied. It was his efficiency that disturbed her most about all of this.
He replied to her unspoken question. “I know it is hard for you to understand, Frau Marlow. Perhaps later you will see it is necessary. When an unpleasant task is necessary, then emotion is a waste of energy. Perhaps even dangerous. You will be safe now. And this baby will be out of reach of a man like Müller for the time being. That is what matters.”
He turned the key in the ignition and pulled away. “The train to Luxembourg is due to pass here in ten minutes. Chances are the authorities will never know who he was. Better for us. The offensive begins immediately, so who will even think of a drunk on the railroad tracks after that?”
Minutes later they were back on the main highway, driving through the darkness toward Wasserbillig Bridge.
8
Upon What Small Hinges . . .
The sky was backlit with the glow of predawn pastels by the time Horst, Katrina, Josie, and the baby reached Wasserbillig Bridge. Across the river the hilly outline of Luxembourg appeared peaceful as Horst and Katrina escorted Josie into the customshouse.
Perhaps it was the sight of the Knight’s Cross on the uniform of Horst von Bockman that made the customs officials and sentries step aside as Josie and the baby were waved through the barrier. Yacov Lubetkin, who had been well dosed with cough medicine beforehand, slept through the inspection.
Continuing the charade, Josie embraced Katrina von Bockman as if she were a family member. She kissed the major awkwardly on his cheek and thanked him for the enjoyable time.
In an exuberant voice Horst explained to the early morning shift that Frau Marlow was an American cousin and that the trip with her small son was their very first into the Reich. “She has seen the miracle of National Socialism,” he announced solemnly, “and she will carry the good report back to America.”
The officials nodded with pleasure. They did not doubt that National Socialism was the eighth wonder of the world. They simply wanted the world to agree with them.
What Josie had to recount upon her return, however, was far more sobering than a glowing account of the Nazi miracle. The details of the Wehrmacht’s plan she was carrying back, along with the contraband baby, were enough to have her executed a hundred times. She knew it. Horst von Bockman knew it. The weight of it made her resent the cheerful conversation and the too-long good-byes on the German side of the barrier on Wasserbillig. But for the sake of authenticity, they acted out their family farewell to the last detail.
“Take care of the little one.” Horst touched the ch
eek of the sleeping child. Then he lowered his voice as he leaned close to her ear. “Remember. Do as I told you.”
There were tears in Katrina’s eyes as she stooped to kiss Yacov. “He will not remember me,” she whispered quickly against Josie’s hair. “Such a good baby. Mention us to his grandfather, will you, Josephine? Tell him . . . I pray for the baby’s mother. I wonder . . .” Then, “Pray for us.” The words were no mere scene being played for the Nazi onlookers.
“I will.” Josie nodded stiffly. “Danke.” She knew she should say something kind—leave some good word with them. But she could think of nothing but the car parked at the Bierstube on the other side of the bridge. She wanted nothing except to put as much distance between her and the miracle of National Socialism as possible.
It was as if she could feel the earth already rumbling from the rolling tracks of thousands of German tanks. What would this place look like by the next dawn?
“Auf Wiedersehen.”
The striped barrier pole was raised. The young sentry saluted Horst. Eyes flitted to the Knight’s Cross. Then the young Aryan chucked the Jewish baby on the chin as Josie passed by and strode the few paces into Luxembourg.
She tried to control her urge to jog the remaining length of the bridge onto the soil of the Grand Duchy. She heard the clunk of the barrier falling into place behind her. Turning to look back, she saw Horst and Katrina von Bockman gazing after her wistfully. Soon enough the major would be crossing some other neutral border, Josie knew. She did not want to be there to greet him when he arrived.
They waved. The sentry waved. And Josie waved.
***
Richard Lewinski stared at Gustave Bertrand with disdain.
“What do you mean, you can’t read them anymore?” Bertrand snapped.
Lewinski shook a bony finger in Bertrand’s face. “Was I not speaking plainly enough, Colonel Bertrand? I mean, the pattern for setting the wheels has changed. It no longer follows the formula I deduced on the first of May, over a week ago.”
“Could you have miscalculated?”
Lewinski gave Bertrand a withering look. “I never miscalculate. I never miscalculate! What this must mean is that the invasion is really on for tomorrow. It makes sense to change the pattern when strategic orders are about to be replaced by tactical ones. You know, when a division commander calls for help or some such operation, if your enemy has even the slightest clue about what you are up to, then it would be disastrous.”
“I know!” Bertrand exploded. “Like this alteration is disastrous for us! How long will it take to uncover the new procedure?”
Lewinski’s look changed to one of pity. “I suppose that depends on what they changed it to; now doesn’t it?”
“Could this mean that they know we’ve cracked the first setting?”
“Possibly, or perhaps they had always planned this change to occur simultaneously with the invasion. But there is one sure way to tell.”
“What is that?” Bertrand asked, desperate for a ray of hope.
“If they know that we know, they’ll change the routine so drastically that it may be months—even years—before we crack the new one.”
***
“Tell me everything you saw, ma chèrie! Everything the major said!” Andre gripped the hands of Josie as she recited the details of what lay beyond the West Wall.
“Thousands of soldiers . . . and he told me I must not go back to Paris.”
“They mean to bomb Paris then.”
“He told me to take the baby right on to England. The train from Luxembourg to Ostend today and then the ferry across the Channel tomorrow.”
Andre glanced at his watch. “We’ve missed the train. The next is not until tomorrow.” He raised his gaze through the double doors of the suite in the Brasseur Hotel, to where Juliette played on the floor beside the baby boy. She was happy for the first time since they had left the home of Abraham Snow yesterday. Had he found her only to let her go so soon?
Josie must have recognized the anguish in his eyes. “Come with us, Andre,” she whispered urgently. “Come with us to England.”
Considering her with a sad smile, he shook his head. “It was you who spoke of courage, chèrie. Could I run away for the sake of love?”
“Yes!” Her vehemence surprised him. “Please, Andre! There is Juliette to consider now . . . and me! I don’t want to say good-bye again! You once said you had found something worth living for—someone worth living for. We can marry. Go to America and—”
The telephone rang. Andre picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. Who would be calling him here? He recognized the voice of Bertrand instantly.
“We have passed Lewinski’s information to the Belgian king in Brussels. German fifth columnists disguised as tourists are pouring across the borders of Belgium and Holland. They are being mobilized at this instant. You are needed at our embassy in Brussels tonight.”
Did Bertrand not realize that the telephone lines might be tapped? Andre wondered. That to mention the name of Richard Lewinski was not only foolish but dangerous?
Bertrand did not wait for Andre to respond. “Do you understand?”
“Oui.”
“Go now. Tomorrow will be too late. Good luck.”
The line clicked dead. What additional news had Lewinski gleaned from the dispatches that had made the always careful Gustave Bertrand throw caution to the wind? Andre replaced the receiver in its cradle.
“I will drive you as far as Brussels,” he told Josie. “Then you must take both children to Ostend by train. Then the ferry across to England—”
“But, Andre!” she protested.
He cupped her chin in his hand. “My sweet hypocrite. I cannot go with you. I do not know if I am honored by your request for my desertion or insulted that you really thought I might go.”
“Then I’ll stay with you,” Josie insisted. “Stay in Paris. The Nazis will never get as far as Paris.”
Andre directed her gaze to the children. “Have you forgotten Warsaw, chèrie? Warsaw, where perhaps the parents of that baby have been murdered. Paris will be bombed. Look at them. They are your duty. Yacov. Juliette.”
She embraced him. Tears stung her eyes. “But to leave you, Andre! Knowing that maybe . . .”
“To think of maybe will make us both cowards. The hour has come for France. Some to fight. Some to say farewell. I will not say which is harder. But as for us, we will follow whatever course is charted for us.”
***
Nazi Gestapo agent, Russian-born Nicholi Federov, nodded and tapped his patent-leather shoe in time to the tune. Mozart was one of his favorites, and the Paris student ensemble performed most credibly.
Having offered to cater the light refreshments for the noontime recital, the supposed wine merchant was naturally offered a seat in the front row. The Église de la Sorbonne, where the concert was being held, was a pleasant setting, especially with the white marble tomb of Cardinal Richelieu providing the backdrop for the string quartet.
The midday gathering was well attended, despite the restrictions imposed by the war. Federov was certain that since the majority of those in attendance were either poor students or underpaid instructors, perhaps the refreshments were as big a draw as the music. Sugar for fancy baked goods and German Rhine wines to accompany them were almost impossible to obtain at any price. Several of the university officials made a particular point of thanking Federov personally.
“Completely my pleasure,” Federov acknowledged to Professor Argo of the mathematics department. “But tell me, are we missing a few familiar faces?”
“Ah yes,” Argo agreed, smoothing back his white hair and stroking his pointed white beard. “The Americans have all gone home, as have the Swiss and the Belgians. It seems that our colleagues of the neutral nations have scurried away.”
“Well, it has happened all over because of blighted politics,” Federov pointed out. “Fascist beliefs and intellectual life cannot coexist, it seems. Of course, some
consequences are more drastic than others. Look at what happened to university life in Warsaw.” He shook his head. “Tragic.” Then as if a thought struck him, he snapped his fingers. “Say, I wonder whatever happened to that eccentric genius who was Polish. You know the one I mean . . . what is his name? His father was a professor here, and he is a wizard at numbers.”
Professor Argo thought a moment. “You must mean the Lewinskis.”
“That is it, exactly. What do you suppose happened to him?”
“It is odd you should mention him,” Argo said. “A promising advanced-level student of mine—female, great mind for numbers theory, higher order equations, that sort of thing—where was I?”
“Lewinski,” Federov encouraged, trying not to let his impatience show.
“Yes, well, this student, who had heard Lewinski lecture on his arcane theory some years ago—something about a universal machine that can speak to other machines—anyway, this student thought she encountered Lewinski and mentioned it to me.”
“Encountered him where?”
“Here—that is, in Paris somewhere.”
“What did she mean, she thought she met him?”
Argo held the tuft of his beard as if squeezing the recollection out of it. “It has been some time ago now, but I think she said hello to a man, thinking it was he, and this fellow denied it. Still, she mentioned the shock of red hair. He is rather unique looking, you know.”
“Did she mention where this occurred?”
“No . . . that is, I cannot remember. Is it important?”
Argo, for all his bumbling ways, had a sharp mind. Federov was concerned that he not make the issue seem significant.
“Not at all,” Federov said. “Curious how people pop into your mind at odd times, is it not?”
***
“I can only spare a moment, gentlemen,” Winston Churchill intoned in his office in the Admiralty Building on the afternoon of May 9. “I am dining at eight o’clock with Mr. Eden and Mr. Sinclair.”
