Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  A flicker of amusement touched his face as Marshal von Bock suddenly mopped his damp brow.

  “Bah!” the Minister said sharply. “That was an accident.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder and resumed his slow pacing.

  “That was only an accident,” he repeated. “When we have completed our reprisals against these swine they will know better than to try a thing like that again.”

  “Will the reprisals consist simply of murdering more Czechs?” Michael Faber asked.

  Marshal von Bock stopped pacing and regarded Faber thoughtfully.

  “The word, Herr Faber, is not ‘murder’,” he said softly.

  “A slip of the tongue,” Michael said lazily.

  “Your tongue seems to be in the habit of slipping, Herr Faber,” von Bock said. He folded his arms carefully. “You have been helpful to us in numerous ways, but please remember that we could, if necessary, do without you, Herr Faber. In Nazi Germany no one man is important!”

  Michael raised his right arm languidly.

  “Heil Hitler!” he murmured.

  Minister von Bock flushed and glanced nervously about.

  “I did not of course mean to include our Fuehrer in my statement,” he said weakly. “I meant that only the Fuehrer is important in Nazi Germany. It was a slip of the tongue.”

  Michael’s eyes glinted with amusement.

  “Bad habit,” he observed.

  Marshal von Bock glared sharply at him, and then he resumed his pacing, mopping his perspiring brow as he padded back and forth in front of his desk.

  “Let us forget this conversation,” he said. “We were discussing reprisals. What our future policy will be I do not know. That is a matter for the Reich State to decide. I am expecting word from them any day now as to how to proceed. When a man as important as Heydrich is assassinated, the means of reprisal is for the Fuehrer to decide. Do you realize that this assassination has given encouragement to all enemies of the Reich in Europe? If drastic and effective reprisals are not instantly undertaken a wave of this type of revolt might sweep the continent. And our enemies abroad are mocking us. We must show them, too, what happens to all enemies of the Reich, whether in Europe or across the seas.”

  As the marshal finished speaking the heavy double doors of the office opened and an under-officer entered and saluted.

  “Someone to see you, Herr Minister,” he said.

  “Who is it?” Marshal von Bock said. “If he does not have an appointment send him away.”

  “It is a woman, Herr Minister. She asked me to give you this.” The underofficer handed the minister a card.

  Marshal von Bock glanced at the card and his eyes narrowed.

  “Send her in immediately,” he said. When the under-officer left he turned to Michael and his fat oily face was agleam with excitement. “She is from Berlin, from the office of Heinrich Himmler.”

  THE door opened again and a tall, red-haired girl entered the room. Her features were as cold and white as marble, and her cool gray eyes were without expression. She was beautiful, Michael noticed, with an imperious, regal beauty that was without warmth or appeal.

  She walked slowly toward von Bock and her slender legs and body moved in a flowing poem of motion.

  The minister drew in his paunch and snapped to attention. His right arm shot out.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler!” the girl answered.

  “Heil Hitler,” murmured Michael, around the stem of his pipe.

  The girl glanced down, seeing him for the first time. Her cool gray eyes studied him carefully, deliberately, then she turned her gaze back to von Bock.

  “You are Reich’s Minister von Bock?” she asked. Her voice was clear and firm, with just the faintest trace of an accent.

  “That is right,” von Bock answered. “Won’t you be seated?”

  “I prefer to stand. I am Marie Kahn, from the office of Reich’s Deputy, Heinrich Himmler. I have an important communication for you in relation to the assassination of Upper Group Leader Heydrich. Who is this man?” She gestured sharply toward Michael, without looking at him.

  “He is the American, Michael Faber. He has done much to help us in the past two years. You may speak before him.” The girl glanced down at Michael and studied him coolly. A faint sneer touched her thin, finely molded lips.

  “The American renegade, eh?” She turned back to von Bock. “How can you be sure of a man who is a traitor to his country?”

  Michael Faber looked up at the girl and his thin, scholarly face was cynically amused. But as he studied her there was no amusement in swirling depths of his hunter’s eyes.

  “You are an Austrian, are you not?” he asked. His keen ear had placed her faint accent.

  A spot of color appeared in the girl’s marble-white cheeks.

  “What concern is that of yours?” Michael spread his hands in a careless gesture.

  “None at all,” he smiled lazily. “But how, my dear Fratdein, can the Nazis be sure of your fealty, since you are admittedly an Austrian.”

  The girl turned furiously to von Bock. Every line of her slim body was rigid with anger.

  “This I will not stand. He has questioned my loyalty to the Reich, to our Fuehrer. I will make a report of this incident, Herr Minister.”

  “Now, now,” von Bock said soothingly, “we must not lose our tempers and fight among ourselves. The loyalty of both of you is unquestioned.” He rubbed his pudgy hands together. “You have orders for me, Fraulein Kahn, and here we stand, wasting time in bickering.”

  THE girl squared her slim shoulders.

  Her gray eyes were alive against the whiteness of her face.

  “Yes, Herr Minister,” she said. Her voice was even and cold. “You are right. My message to you is this: In reprisal for the cowardly assassination of our beloved Reinhardt Heydrich, the village of Lidice will be reduced to dust. The men will be immediately executed, the women sent to concentration camps and the children will become wards of the Third Reich. That is all. The details and arrangements are completely in your hands, Herr Minister.”

  Michael Faber lit his pipe thoughtfully and his lean fingers were as steady as rocks.

  “Why Lidice?” he asked, squinting upwards through the smoke at the girl. “It’s such a pleasant little town, I’ve always rather liked it.”

  “Our Intelligence has discovered that the assassins took refuge there,” the girl answered coldly. “They may still be hiding in the village.”

  “They might at that,” Michael said thoughtfully.

  “This is delightful,” von Bock said musingly. “This is a fitting reprisal. We will erase the name of Lidice from the rolls of history and from the memory of man. Our dive bombers will leave nothing but a black scar in the earth as a reminder to our enemies of the fate of those who would stand against us. You may take back my message, Fraulein. I will carry out the orders of my Fuehrer to the last detail. Lidice shall avenge the death of Heydrich.”

  “Heil Hitler!” Marie Kahn said.

  “Heil Hitler!” barked von Bock.

  Michael Faber tapped his pipe thoughtfully against his teeth. There was no expression on his lean face but there was a chilling light in the depths of his smouldering, yellow-green eyes.

  “Heil Lidice!” he murmured softly under his breath.

  CHAPTER III

  ON JUNE tenth a strong motorized column roared along the concrete strip of road leading to the village of Lidice. In the lorries were scores of expectantly grinning Nazi storm troopers. Several light tanks brought up the rear of the procession. Above, a V-shaped flight of planes circled lazily against the blue of the late afternoon sky.

  At the head of the swiftly moving column in the tonneau of an armored car rode Marshal von Bock and Michael Faber.

  “You will see today a practical example of Nazi reprisals,” von Bock said to Michael. “You will see what we can do when our anger is aroused.” The marshal’s hands were clasped comfortably over his protruding
stomach and he surveyed the passing countryside with placid, contented eyes. “I think it would be a good idea, Herr Faber, if you would broadcast to the people of America what you will see today. Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.” He turned to the young party Leader seated to his right. “Do you not think that would be a good idea, Captain Mueller?”

  Captain Mueller was a heavily built young man with stone-hard features and cropped blond hair. He sat forward on the edge of the seat, his strong brown fingers gripped tightly together.

  “Why tell them about it?” he said harshly. His voice was thickly guttural. “They will have first hand experience with our methods very soon.”

  “You disagree with me then?” von Bock said mildly.

  “And what is your opinion, Herr Faber? After all you are the propaganda expert.”

  Michael glanced sideways at the tensely set face of the young captain. There was an amused glint in his eyes.

  “I’m afraid I must disagree with our young Captain,” he said. “A thing like the annihilation of Lidice will make a deep impression on our enemies. They will never, never forget it, you may count on that.”

  “That is good,” Captain Mueller said.

  “That is wonderful,” Michael said quietly.

  The motorized column reached the quiet village of Lidice within the half hour. Marshal von Bock’s car rolled through the single main street scattering chickens and occasional live-stock. The remainder of the column stopped at intervals along the dusty road and grim-jawed, heavily armed storm troopers spilled out eagerly.

  A child ran screaming into a small cottage and the door was hastily slammed. Frightened, despairing faces were visible occasionally at windows of homes and shops.

  “It will soon be over,” von Bock said. He was picking his teeth contentedly. “The roastbrauten was underdone today,” he observed thoughtfully.

  Captain Mueller clambered from the car and soon his young strident voice could be heard bawling orders down the line of stopped vehicles.

  “I think I’ll take a look,” Michael said. “If I’m to tell the American public about this I shall want to be accurate.”

  Von Bock chuckled appreciatively.

  MICHAEL stepped from the car and glanced swiftly down the line of lorries. The troopers were entering the houses at the far end of the village; already he could hear the tortured screams of women and children and occasionally the hoarse tragic shout of a man.

  His lean face hardened and a merciless light flickered in his strange eyes. This was one more score to settle, one more crime to avenge.

  With quick strides he crossed the dusty street and ducked between two buildings. The storm troopers were at the opposite end of the street, working down in his direction.

  He ran along the path between the buildings. When he reached the rear of the building he vaulted a fence and climbed the rickety stairs built against the back of the filmsy wooden structure.

  At the second landing he paused before a weather-beaten door and knocked rapidly three times. He paused and then knocked twice slowly.

  There was silence beyond the door, then a cautious, shuffling step and the door opened a crack. The door was flung open then and Michael stepped quickly into a small room fitted as a laboratory.

  A bent, white-haired man sat at a table littered with papers on which designs and mathematical symbols were scrawled. There was dazed, pathetic bewilderment in his mild blue eyes.

  The man who had opened the door gripped Michael by the arm. Hot black eyes blazed in his tense face.

  “For God’s sake, Michael,” he said, “what is it? The shouts, the screams, the truck loads of troopers. What are the devils up to, now?”

  “Their usual trade,” Michael said bitterly. “Murder.” He took the man’s arm. “Paul, I have failed you. I wasn’t able to get here to warn you. Von Bock has stuck to me like a postage stamp this last week. The Nazis are here now to annihilate Lidice in retaliation for that bomb that blew Reinhardt Heydrich to hell.”

  “I threw that bomb,” the man said simply. “I am sorry that innocents must suffer, but throwing that bomb was the finest thing I have ever done. My bomb and Henri’s bullets sent a monster out of this world. For that I am proud.”

  “Where is Henri?” Michael asked. “He went to the other end of the village to get some tobacco.” Swift alarm flickered in his eyes. “Is he—”

  “I’m afraid he is in their hands,” Michael said. “They started at the opposite end of the street. They will be here in a very short while. I am afraid that this is the end, Paul. There is no escape.”

  Paul glanced at the white-haired man sitting at the table.

  “Doctor Schultz and I are ready to go,” he said, “but you must not be found here. Go back and join von Bock. There is work yet for you to do. And you must remain alive to do that work. It is the most important work in the world. Go, quickly. When they find us—it will be all over in an instant.”

  “WAIT,” the white-haired man said quietly. He stood up slowly and his knees trembled under the burden of his frail, undernourished frame. There were grooved lines of suffering in the doctors’ face but there was a dignity and nobility in his eyes that was as clear as a beacon light over lashing waves.

  “What is it, Doctor Schultz?” Michael asked gently.

  “I can save one of you. In my last experiments with electrical dissemination of matter. I developed a device which renders opaque substances practically invisible to the naked eye.” The old doctor paused thoughtfully. “I did not disclose the results of my experiments because I knew the Nazi regime would subvert my invention and use it for their own brutal ends.”

  “Do you mean,” Michael asked tensely, “that you have a device that will make a physical substance invisible? Such as a human body?”

  “Precisely,” the doctor nodded.

  “It seems incredible,” Michael breathed.

  The doctor peered over his spectacles.

  “There was a time,” he said, “when I was considered as a rather good scientist, you know. That seems a long time ago.”

  “Not long enough for the world to have forgotten your work in electrotherapy, Doctor,” Michael said. “Crippled children who have been restored to health through your genius will never forget you.”

  “I am glad,” the doctor said simply. “But there is not time to talk of such things now. We must work quickly.”

  “But you?” Paul said. “You could save yourself with this device.”

  “Save myself for what?” the doctor smiled gently. “There is no place for me in Nazi Germany. I am a healer. In Nazi Europe we need bomb-throwers, pistol-shooters, men of courage and strength. You two are such men.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Michael said simply. He turned to Paul. “There is no time to lose. You must take this chance.”

  A sudden stacatto burst of machine gun fire sounded from the street. A woman’s scream, clear and terrible, pierced through the ugly roar of coughing death.

  “They will soon be here,” the doctor said quietly.

  The eyes of Paul were boiling pools of rage and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

  “I must live,” he whispered. “I must live. I must strike again and again at these swaggering swine. Nothing must stop me. That, I swear by my mother’s cross.”

  The doctor hurried to a small closet and returned in an instant with a small compact device to which a metal headband was attached. He slipped it down over Paul’s head, adjusted the band firmly. There were two dials on the face of the small mechanism.

  “The operation is simple, but there are not a half dozen men in the world today who could understand the principle,” the doctor said quietly. “The dial on the left turns the mechanism on, the right turns it off.”

  The tumult in the street was growing louder by the second.

  “There is little time left,” Michael said.

  The doctor snapped the left dial into position and a faint humming noise grad
ually sounded in the room.

  MICHAEL watched tensely but there was no visible change in Paul’s appearance. He forced his nerves into calmness. His ears heard the shouts and running steps of men alongside the building. There was so little time left . . .

  Suddenly the faint humming noise stopped. Michael looked sharply at the doctor. Had something gone wrong?

  He swung about to Paul and an electric thrill shot through him.

  Paul had disappeared!

  No! His straining eyes made out a faint outline, a shadowy suggestion of a human form where Paul had stood.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes,” Paul answered. “I feel no change.”

  Michael tensed suddenly as he heard booted feet pounding on the steps at the back of the building.

  “Back into the corner,” he hissed to Paul. “If I can I will get rid of them.”

  “There is no chance,” the doctor said. Michael saw that the doctor was holding a small revolver in his hands. There was a sad, slow smile on his seamed face.

  “How a man lives is not always important,” the doctor murmured, “but how a man dies is always important. Au revoir, my friend. The world is in your hands. May God give you strength and wisdom.”

  Without haste the white-haired doctor placed the gun against his side and pulled the trigger. He was smiling as he fell to the floor.

  An instant later there was a clamor outside and a heavy fist pounded mightily against the door.

  “Open, dogs!” a guttural voice snarled. “Open in the name of the Fuehrer.”

  Michael bent and took the gun from the doctor’s hand. He wheeled toward the corner where Paul crouched, a faint, barely discernible shadow in the gloom of the room.

  “Paul!” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “The underground pass-word has been changed. It is now ‘The time is near at hand.’ Do you hear?”

  “Yes. ‘The time is near at hand.’ I will not forget.”

  The door was trembling under the shattering impact of a heavy fist. A hoarse, bestial voice cried:

  “Smash it down!”