Heroes

by David Hagberg

  Deland stroked the back of her neck for a while, and then he helped her to her feet, kissed her. When they parted, he forced a smile.

  “It has been a wonderful afternoon, Katy. There will be others. Many others.”

  She just looked at him.

  “Please,” he said, his heart breaking. “I was a lousy lover, but I will get better.”

  “No … oh, no, you were wonderful,” she gushed, and then she had to laugh. “I made a fool of myself, didn’t I?”

  Deland grinned. He nodded. “Yes. But I don’t care. I love you all the more.”

  She reached up and kissed him on the chin. “You must clean up before you leave. If your landlady gets a whiff of you, she’ll know immediately you’ve been a bad boy. In the meantime, I’ll make you a sandwich to eat on the way.”

  She grabbed his sweater and pulled it on. “I’m going to keep this so you will have to come back to me.” She turned and marched back into the kitchen.

  Deland gathered up his clothes from the living room, then went into the bathroom where he cleaned up and got dressed. He was very confused. Images of his school days in Gottingen intermingled with his days in Wisconsin; memories of camaraderie and student pubs mixed with those of family and picnics by the lake. Overriding all of that, his terribly complex feelings about Katrina. He loved her, and yet he knew that such a thing was impossible for them. She was a Nazi, or at least she worked for them, and yet he felt she was an innocent. In many ways she acted like the whores of San Antonio, yet she fit so well with him that it had to be love. This last was causing him a lot of trouble.

  Katrina did not fit the mold, his image of how a girl should behave. He knew he was being terribly naive. In Gottingen they’d laugh at him. In Wisconsin they’d turn away. His loyalties tugged him toward Wisconsin, his heart toward what Gottingen represented.

  He looked at himself in the mirror over the wash basin. His was a baby face. But his eyes were open and honest, or at least he gave that impression. A cowlick in the front jutted up at an odd angle. His mother was still fond of wetting two fingers with her tongue and patting it down. He shook his head. He hated it.

  When he was little, she’d moisten the corner of a handkerchief with her spit and use it to wash off a smudge on his cheek or nose. All mothers did it, and he didn’t know of any kid who liked it.

  He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to stay here, but he knew he could not. He wanted help. Someone to make the decision for him. Someone he trusted. He turned away, unable at that moment even to face himself. They had made the decision for him. GET OUT NOW. That was the message.

  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly to relieve the pressure on his chest, then stepped out of the bathroom. Katrina was there with his coat.

  “I know,” she said, looking at his face. “I feel the same way, too.”

  He smiled. Wouldn’t it be something, he thought, if he did say the hell with it all and just stayed here.

  She helped him with his coat and his scarf, and then she kissed him. “I love you, Edmund Dorfman.”

  “I love you, Katrina Mueller,” he said solemnly.

  She gave him his sandwich wrapped in a piece of newspaper, kissed him again at the door, and then began to cry. “Verdammt,” she swore. “Get out of here.”

  There was nothing left to say. Deland trudged down the stairs, then crossed the street; he hesitated a moment. He looked up at the apartment. Katrina was in the window, looking down at him.

  They waved to each other; then he turned and headed back to his rooming house at a brisk pace, her feel and her odor still lingering with him.

  It was nearly six-thirty by the time Deland made it back to the house. He snuck in the back way and made it up to his room without encountering anyone. Once he was safely inside, he flipped on the light. Almost instantly he knew someone had been here.

  The pillow on his bed was straight! Both doors to his Schrank were closed! And the things on his desk were ever so slightly rearranged!

  Someone had been in here! Either an amateur or someone who did not care that Deland knew about it.

  With shaking hands Deland opened the calculator case, pulled the calculator out, and pressed the correct sequence of numbers and operations so that the bottom cover would drop off. He looked inside, but there was no way of telling if they had found the radio. It did not appear to be tampered with.

  He quickly closed it again and buttoned it up in its leather case. Then he grabbed the smaller of his two bags and stuffed a few items of clothing into it.

  At the door, just before he shut out the light, he looked around the room that had been home for more than nine months. They were on to him. It was not surprising that they had searched his room. Except for the radio, however, there was nothing incriminating here. It was the room of a bachelor mathematician. Nothing else.

  He reached inside his coat to his breast pocket to make sure he still had his train tickets, and at first he thought he was dreaming.

  The tickets were not there.

  He put the calculator and overnight bag down and reached deeply into the pocket. It was empty. He unbuttoned his coat and frantically searched his other pockets. There was nothing!

  His heart was thumping. It was hard to catch his breath. He forced himself to slow down and to carefully search all of his pockets. But the tickets were simply not there.

  Still forcing himself to slow down, he searched his room, inch by inch—the bed, his Schrank, the desk. There was nothing. No tickets. They were gone.

  Christ! He must have lost them on the way here. Somewhere out in the snow … Another thought struck him. Maria Quelle’s apartment. He had taken off his coat and had tossed it on the brown easy chair in the living room. Later, Katrina had picked up his coat.

  They were there. The tickets were there! If Katrina had found them, she’d know he was lying. Or would she? He had bought roundtrip tickets. If she had seen them, she’d think he was coming back tomorrow evening.

  He grabbed his bag and the calculator, shut out his light, and managed to get out of the house without anyone seeing him.

  He lingered in the shadows at the back of the large house for a minute or two until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There were no strange cars parked on the road. There was no one here. No one watching for him, yet he hesitated still another moment. He was frightened. They knew about him. They had searched his room. If they talked to Katrina, they’d know he was on his way to Berlin. They shot spies, or hanged them. But he just couldn’t close his eyes and make it go away. He couldn’t turn around, go back up to his room, get a good night’s sleep, and show up at work tomorrow. It just didn’t work that way. He was here; it was up to him to get out.

  Mindless of the cold now, Deland hurried down the street. He had to leave his bicycle. He could not park it at the railroad station. It would be a dead giveaway.

  An Army truck passed him, but then turned at the corner before the square. The town was alive. He could hear the sounds of laughter from the Hansa Haus, but there were no lights. It was another blackout.

  He hurried around the square, then out the opposite direction from the railroad station. It was going to be complicated, coming back to her like this. She’d be thinking all sorts of things. But it would be less complicated if she hadn’t found the tickets. If somehow he could distract her and find them. He could say he just came back … to see her again.

  Christ. He knew he was fantasizing. It was possible, though. It was even possible that the tickets weren’t there, after all. They could be lost in the snow. It wouldn’t matter then. No one would connect the tickets to him. At least not until it was too late. He could return to the station, buy another ticket, and be off.

  The thought stopped him in his tracks. He looked back toward the square. It was tempting. Yet if the tickets were up in Maria’s apartment, he’d have to get them.

  He hurried the last few blocks to the apartment, left his suitcase and radio in these shadows, then tramped up the
stairs and knocked loudly on the door.

  “Katrina,” he called. “It’s me. Edmund …” His voice died in his throat as the door opened and Rudy Schlechter stood there, smiling, a Luger in his right hand, the tickets in his other. He held them up.

  “I believe you are looking for these?”

  Without thinking it out, Deland batted the Luger out of Schlechter’s hand, and it hit the door frame and went sliding across the living room floor. He charged forward like a bull, knocking the unsuspecting German off his feet.

  Deland got the briefest of images of Katrina and Maria by the kitchen door, but Schlechter had gotten his balance and was pounding his fists into the side of Deland’s neck and head.

  Schlechter had more experience, but Deland was younger and much stronger so that he was able to roll over. He brought his right knee up into Schlechter’s groin.

  The breath whooshed out of the German. Deland reared back and slammed a right hook into the man’s face, breaking his nose, blood gushing everywhere.

  Still Schlechter would not give up. With a powerful thrust of his body, he managed to shove Deland aside; then they both went crashing into the coffee table.

  Deland twisted around and managed to get his fingers around Schlechter’s throat. He began to squeeze, his powerful hands crushing Schlechter’s windpipe.

  The German’s face began to turn blue as he continued to pummel Deland’s ribs with blows that quickly lost their strength.

  Katrina and Maria were both screaming something, but Deland hung on, even after Schlechter’s body went limp. A few seconds later, the German shuddered, and then he lay totally still, his eyes open.

  Slowly Deland ‘released his grip and got off the man. He started to get to his feet, when Maria snatched up the Luger and started to swing around.

  Deland lunged toward her, the distance impossible, when Katrina raced out of the kitchen, holding a large butcher knife over her head.

  “No,” Deland shouted, but it was too late. Katrina swung downward, her face screwed up in a grimace, and she buried the blade to the handle in Maria’s back.

  The woman fell forward without a sound, and lay absolutely still.

  Katrina stepped back. “Oh, my God,” she cried. “Oh, God … oh, what have I done?”

  /* N Schey went back to the bedroom and looked at Montisier’s body. He had been a big man. Six feet or better, and something over two hundred pounds, with a gut.

  “We’re going to have to get him out of here,” Eva said.

  Schey turned to her. Their faces were inches apart. “How many people know that you two were … together?”

  “In this building tonight or in the city?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “A lot of people. Hell, he told everyone we were going to get married.”

  It was curious, Schey thought. But she didn’t seem worried about any of this. If anything, she seemed merely vexed, perhaps inconvenienced. “Were you and he … in love?”

  “What do you take me for?” she said indignantly. “He was nothing but a big Palooka.”

  “You’ll have to leave as well,” Schey said. “They’ll find his body sooner or later. And even if they don’t, you will be the first person the Missing Persons Bureau will ask questions of.”

  She shook her head. “I knew this was going to come sooner or later. But it’s just been a big game to me, until now.” She looked at Schey. “I got nowhere to go.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Milwaukee. Jones Island, actually. My grandfather was a fisherman.”

  “Go back there.”

  She shook her head. “My name really is Eva Braun. If they start looking for me, they’ll trace me there easy,” she said.

  “Besides, my folks and relatives are all dead or gone. There’s no one back there.”

  “The Bund here in Washington?”

  “Was dissolved more than a year ago,” she said. “Where the hell have you been? In isolation?” She shook her head again.

  “I’ve got nowhere to go, except maybe South America.”

  “How about back home … to Germany?”

  She laughed. “We’re losing the war, in case you hadn’t heard.”

  “You can’t stay here,” Schey said, raising his voice in frustration.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Eva said. She looked down at the body.

  “Why’d you have to hit him, anyway? Why didn’t you stay in the closet like I told you?”

  There was a nagging thought at the back of Schey’s mind. He didn’t want to dwell on it, but he knew he was going to have to deal with the issue now. She had seen his face. She knew him.

  What’s more, she would be providing him with a new identification.

  If and when she was picked up for the murder of Montisier, she might cave in. It was only a game to her, she had admitted.

  “You’d better pack a bag,” he said.

  She looked sharply at him. “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “With me.”

  “And where’s that?”

  Schey bent down and flipped the big man’s topcoat open.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” he said without looking up.

  “Now go pack a bag. We’ll pull his body out around midnight.

  Everyone in the building should be pretty well settled down by then.” He glanced up at her. “Don’t forget to pack the ration books and anything else that might be incriminating here.”

  Eva hesitated a moment.

  Schey unbuttoned Montisier’s suit coat and flipped it open. He was wearing a gun. A .38 Police Special in a well-worn shoulder holster. Instantly a dozen grim possibilities crossed through his mind.

  Eva sucked her breath. “Jesus …”

  Schey pulled out the man’s wallet and opened it. A driver’s license in the name of Bernard Montisier, a few business cards with notes scribbled on the back, a couple of newspaper clippings about a World Series game six years ago, and about sixty dollars in cash.

  There was a soiled handkerchief in another pocket, a package of Lucky Strikes and a battered Zippo lighter in another, and in one of his side pockets a small leather wallet. The moment Schey pulled it out he knew what it was.

  “What’s that?” Eva asked looking over his shoulder.

  Schey flipped it open. Inside was a shield and an identification card signed by J. Edgar Hoover. FBI.

  “He knew,” Eva said, stunned. “All this time …”

  They either knew or suspected that she would be making contact with someone. Otherwise they would have arrested her by now. Schey did not think the agent had had time to report seeing Schey here. He had merely gone downstairs, thought it over, and then had come back up.

  But it was just possible that the man had looked through the apartment and had found the spare identifications that Eva was keeping. It was possible his cover was ruined.

  Schey stuffed the wallet back in the dead man’s pocket and started to close his coat, but then hesitated a moment. They were on to him down in Tennessee, and they were on to Eva here in Washington.

  He’d been lucky to get free from Oak Ridge and lucky here with Montisier. His luck would not hold out forever.

  He pulled the pistol from Montisier’s holster and pocketed it.

  Then he got up. “We’ve got to get out of here immediately.”

  “But where can we go?”

  “Leave that to me. But first I have to see where you’ve kept the spare identifications.”

  Eva’s gaze went immediately to the dead government man.

  Her hand went to her mouth. “Do you think he … found them?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Eva turned, hurried down the hall, and went into the bathroom.

  Schey was right behind her. She got down on her knees, grabbed the toilet bowl in both hands, and started to shove it to the left.

  “Wait.” Schey stopped her. He too got down on his hands and knees. “The things are under here?”

  “Yes,�
� she said.

  He looked closer, his nose inches from the floor. “Who taught you this?”

  “The Bund in Milwaukee, then later in Chicago. It used to be a game.”

  There was a line of talcum powder and dirt around the base of the toilet bowl. It had not been slid aside for a long time. He looked up. “How long have you known Montisier?”

  “A few months.”

  Schey nodded. Carefully he eased the toilet bowl to the left. It swiveled on the soil pipe. Beneath it a hole had been cut in the floor, opening into the space between the floor joists. A large package wrapped in yellow oil cloth with a flower pattern, tied with some old brown twine, lay just beneath. Schey looked very closely at it. Dirt lay around the package. There were mouse droppings littered on and around it.

  “When was the last time you were in here?”

  Eva shrugged. “I’ve never been in it. I put the stuff in there a couple of years ago, and I haven’t opened it since.”

  Schey breathed a sigh of relief. Montisier had not found this.

  Sooner or later he might have, but it was still safe. He pulled the package out, careful to make sure all the dirt fell into the opening, then carefully shoved the toilet back in place. He cleaned up the skid mark across the floor with his handkerchief, then got up, helping Eva to her feet.

  “Pack a bag; we’re going to leave right now. With any luck we can be out of the city before they miss your friend.”

  “We’re just going to leave him here?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He worked with the FBI. They knew about you.”

  “We’re not going to make it, are we?” Eva said. Her composure was starting to crumble.

  “They haven’t got us yet.”

  “I mean, the war is lost. There’s nowhere for us to go. It’s all so useless.”

  Schey took her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Eva. The war isn’t lost until the armistice is signed. And our Fuhrer will never sign such a thing. Do not forget the humiliation of Versailles.

  The German people will never go through that again.”

  “But they’re bombing Berlin, for God’s sake …”

  Schey shook her once, hard, and she hiccoughed. “There’s more to do. But you must hold yourself together.”