Heroes

by David Hagberg

  “Who will it be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was getting desperate. “If you don’t know, then anyone could come here. The FBI. Anyone.”

  He nodded. “We will have to be very careful. But it may end up that we’ll have to leave.”

  She pulled her hands away from his and shoved him away.

  “I just wanted you to know so that you could prepare yourself,” he said. “We promised that there would be no surprises for each other.”

  “Why can’t you just leave this stupid thing alone?” she cried.

  “The damned war is lost! We’re bombing the living shit out of you …” She cut it off, suddenly realizing what she was saying.

  What she was saying hurt. Mostly because it was true. Germany was losing the war, and the Allies were bombing Berlin and other cities. They had been for some time now. But it was not over yet. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow it.

  He got up and went across to the small wood stove. For the last few nights they had had to make a fire to ward off the mountain chill. It had gone out, though. He contemplated restarting it.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby,” Eva said from the bed.

  He turned back to her. “Don’t worry about it. I have a job to do. In that there can be no discussion. You don’t have to stick around, though. Mexico might be the place, after all.”

  She shoved the covers back and jumped out of bed. Her feet were white and tiny. She ran to him, stopping short.

  “Look,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I mean it.

  Whatever you think is best, I’m with you.”

  He just looked at her.

  “I mean it, damn it, Bobby. I got nowhere to go. You’re it.

  And I love you.”

  He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. Her high cheekbones were accentuated by the poor light which cast hard shadows. Katy had been lovely, beautiful in her own way. But Eva was an exciting woman. Katy had been comfortable; Eva was difficult. At that moment he couldn’t honestly say which he preferred, given the choice. But Eva was here and now, while Katy was simply a dull ache in his memory.

  “I don’t know where I’m going to end up …”

  “I don’t care,” she quickly interjected.

  He put his fingers on her lips. “Listen to me, Eva. You’re right, Germany is losing the war. But it’s possible I will have to return home to help with our defense.”

  “No,” she said in a tiny voice, shaking her head.

  “Yes. If it comes to that, I will.” He sighed. “And it looks as if it will come to that, sooner or later.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” she said.

  He smiled. “I think not. You would not fit in Germany.

  You’re an American. It would be impossible for you.”

  She hesitated a moment, as if she wanted to say something, but wasn’t quite sure of it. Finally, however, she blurted it out.

  “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Catherine.”

  “What are you talking about?” Schey asked. His stomach was sinking.

  “Catherine. Katy. Your wife. She’s dead, but you’re still in love with her.” Tears were coming to Eva’s eyes. “If she were alive, you would take her to Germany with you. You’d take her anywhere.”

  He shook his head in a reflex gesture, unable for the moment to cope with what she was saying. Because she was closer to the truth than she knew, it frightened him. But she took the gesture to mean he disagreed with her, and it gave her some measure of comfort. But only some.

  “You talk about her in your sleep. All the time. But I’ll come with you, Bobby. I love you. Can’t you see that?”

  Schey took her in his arms, a great wave of love for her rising in his breast, forgotten for the moment his rendezvous message, and even Katy, his poor dead wife. Eva was here and now. And she loved him.

  In the afternoon, after chores, Schey would go up to the main house to speak with George Romero about the day’s work, about the next day’s projects, and would collect the Santa Fe and Albuquerque newspapers the Romeros had already read. When he and Eva were finished with them, they’d pass them along to the few old ranch hands in the bunkhouse.

  It was three days after the message when the contact code appeared in the personals column of the Santa Fe classifieds.

  Big Earl Really Understands Henrietta’s Rotten Upbringing.

  N.G. wants you back. Market 4-4510.

  Beruhrung. CONTACT. Except for the last three words, but they were nothing more than fillers. He was certain of it.

  Schey was sitting at the small table by the window. He was drinking a cold beer. Eva was outside taking the laundry off the line. It was just after six-thirty. He memorized the telephone number, then folded the paper and set it aside.

  He had missed the morning and afternoon contact times, which left eight until eight this evening. Less than an hour and a half away. It was a Thursday. A little unusual for him to be going into Jemez Springs on this night, but not dangerously so.

  He got up and went outside, around to the bunkhouse, where he dropped off the newspapers. The four ranch hands inside were playing poker and didn’t pay much attention.

  Back outside, he angled up to the main house where George Romero and his wife Juanita were sitting on the porch.

  “Hey, George,” he called out, pronouncing the name in the Spanish way. “Can I take the pickup into town this evening? Be gone a couple hours.”

  Romero was a short, very stocky Mexican-American who was jolly when he was drunk: He was almost always drunk now that he had Schey and Eva to help out.

  He waved his beer bottle. “Get some gas when you’re in town, old friend. Should be a few coupons in the glove compartment.” Romero got up and staggered to the porch rail.

  He winked, and his wife shook her head. “Stay away from Mama Roseros, you know. You come back with the disease, and the little bugs, and I think Eva will kill you.”

  His Mexican accent was almost comic. Schey grinned and waved, then headed back down the hill to where Eva was just finishing with the clothes.

  She looked up when he came. Almost immediately she knew that something was happening, and she nearly dropped the shirt she had just undipped from the line.

  “I’m going into town for a little while,” he said.

  She looked into his eyes. “Has it come?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh Christ,” she said, looking away. “Oh Jesus …”

  “It’s all right, Eva. I haven’t committed us yet. I’m just going to make a telephone call. We’ll see what happens after that.”

  “Where are you going, Jemez Springs?”

  “Too dangerous,” he said. “I’ll get down to Jemez Pueblo, or even San Ysidro. I’m just going to make a telephone call.

  Nothing more than that.”

  “Then you’ll come right back?”

  “Promise,” he said.

  The battered Dodge pickup truck was parked in the barn. Eva was standing in front of the bunkhouse when he went by and headed down the dirt road to Highway 4. She waved, and he waved back, but then he was down the hill and out of sight.

  It took him less than half an hour to make it the ten or twelve miles through Jemez Springs and the rest of the way down to Jemez Pueblo, which was a town of about eight or nine hundred.

  There were several taverns, a few Catholic churches, one farm implement dealer, a blacksmith, and two gas stations, one of them combined with a diner.

  Schey stopped at the diner, had the attendant put in five gallons of gasoline—he had to give the farm ration coupons first—and then he went inside where he ordered a beer.

  He took a deep drink, then went over to the phone booth in the corner. He plugged in his nickel and dialed for the operator.

  “Number, please,” she said.

  No one knew him here in Jemez Pueblo. No one would be able to say who it was
who had used the phone. At least he didn’t think so.

  “I’d like a Santa Fe number, MArket 4-4510,” he told the operator.

  “That will be seventy-five cents for the first three minutes, sir.”

  He had gotten enough change with his beer. He plugged the money into the phone. Moments later the Santa Fe number was ringing. Once, twice, and then it was answered by a man.

  “Big Earl.”

  “I have something for you,” Schey said softly.

  “What?” the man snapped.

  *?&

  “Where can it be delivered?”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Where can we meet?” Schey countered.

  “You’re calling long-distance. Can you get into Santa Fe?”

  Schey said nothing. He held his breath as he pressed the receiver close to his ear. He could hear something in the background on the other end of the line. Something he knew.

  “Hello?” the man said. “Hello?”

  Then Schey had it. He was hearing a radio. Like a police radio in the background. A police radio! At a police station.

  “Hello …” the man shouted, but Schey hung up.

  The lovely white Polish-Arabian mare contentedly crunched the sugar cube, then nuzzled Canaris’ hand for more.

  “No, Motte, you have had enough,” he laughed, patting her broad, sleek neck.

  She reared back and shook her head, as if to disagree. Canaris laughed again. At that moment he felt a surge both of pride and of bittersweet happiness. Forgotten for the moment, at least, was the disturbing news that Schrader and Freytag-Loringhoven had brought him earlier in the month. Had it really been two weeks ago?

  The Arabian, which was often given the run of the property adjacent to Canaris’ home at 14 Betazeile, backed off, turned, and imperiously headed off at a gallop, frisky now that she had gotten attention, that she had been given a treat, and that the weather was so splendid.

  Canaris had to shake his head. He looked at his watch. It was just a bit after two. Rely on the goodness of animals. It was the one certain thing remaining in this very uncertain world, he thought.

  Although it was only a Thursday, he did not feel guilty about being away from his office. Bender had turned out to be a fine, if unimaginative, aide. The office, by and large, ran itself these days. No one on the high command gave a damn, in any event.

  So why should he?

  He started back up toward the house, when an open Mercedes staff car came up the drive. Canaris recognized Werner Schrader in the back seat. He was dressed in civilian clothes. He seemed very agitated.

  Canaris angled down toward the road, the car slowing to meet him.

  “Hello, Werner,” Canaris called from the fence.

  Schrader jumped out of the car and came across the road. He was sweating furiously. His face was flushed.

  “I tried to get you at your office! That fool, Bender, was there. He didn’t want to tell me a thing!”

  “What has happened?” Canaris asked. He could feel his heart pounding. Everything Schrader and Freytag-Loringhoven told him at the beginning of the month came back. “Is it Stauffenberg?”

  “I think so,” Schrader said breathlessly. “I’ve had three Valkyrie calls, but just as many denials.”

  Valkyrie was the code name for the assassination of Hitler.

  Freytag had given Stauffenberg a package of captured British plastique explosives. That had been weeks ago. They all assumed the man would assassinate the Fiihrer. But exactly when or where, no one had been sure. Valkyrie was the code word that was to go out to every Army unit within the Reich, signaling the immediate takeover of political key points, such as town halls, as well as all police stations. The rationale to be presented to all the troops was that civil war was imminent. The safety of the Reich was at stake.

  “Well, what is it then, yes or no?” Canaris demanded. “Has the fool actually done it?”

  “I don’t know, Admiral. I came here hoping that you had heard something.”

  “I have heard nothing,” Canaris snapped. He looked back down the road toward the main avenue. If the Gestapo was there, they were well hidden.

  He had told them all that Stauffenberg was a fool. The man had contacted the KPD, for God’s sake. He wanted an alliance with the Communists! And he was the one with whom they entrusted the coup d’etat? It made no sense, less than that, it was criminal.

  “What do we do?” Schrader pressed.

  “Get out of here. Leave me alone. You did not want me included in your plans in the first place; do not bother me now that you do not know what to do next. I cannot answer it for you.”

  “But what will you do?”

  Canaris answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Friends are coming over. We shall listen to the piano and talk. Such as we often do in the afternoon. I suggest you return to your office, Werner, where there will be witnesses to your loyal behavior.”

  “But what if it is true …”

  “That Hitler is dead?”

  Schrader nodded, afraid even here to utter the words.

  “Then he is dead, and your Valkyrie shall proceed. But be careful, Wemer. Be very careful.” Canaris shook his head. He was tired, suddenly. “Now get out of here. It would not do for us to be seen together.”

  Schrader practically jumped out of his skin when he realized the implications of what Canaris was saying to him. He turned to go back to the car.

  “And Wemer,” Canaris said.

  Schrader looked back.

  “Don’t return here.”

  Schrader’s lips pursed; Canaris turned and continued up the paddock toward the house without looking back. He heard the car door slam and then the sound of the big car turning around and heading back out to the avenue.

  Helmut Maurer, his next-door neighbor, was just coming up the walk when Canaris came around from the side. The older man’s eyes lit up.

  “Willi,” he said. “Coffee?”

  “Uncle Mau, yes, of course,” Canaris said, greeting his old friend. They had known each other for years. Canaris had gotten Maurer a civilian job with the Abwehr III, which these days was under the aegis of the RSHA. He in turn provided Canaris with a lot of day-to-day information about the goings-on downtown.

  They shook hands. “What is it, Wilhelm?” Maurer asked, lowering his voice.

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Yes, of course you are.”

  Canaris took a moment to answer. When he did, it was with the greatest of care. “I could tell you what is bothering me, Helmut, and you would be suitably impressed. But from that moment on, should any questions be asked, you would not be able to plead ignorance.”

  Maurer regarded him through widened eyes. “Is ignorance so dear?”

  Canaris nodded. “Just now it is.” Maurer sighed. “Then, Willi, we shall go inside and I shall play the piano for us. Perhaps Vladi will join us this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps,” Canaris said, and he and Maurer went inside.

  *< ?^

  Mohammed, Canaris’ manservant, met them at the door with a huge grin.

  “Herr Kaulbars is here, sir,” he said, bowing deeply.

  “Thank you,” Canaris said. He went into the conservatory, Maurer directly behind him. Baron Vladimir Kaulbars was there, gazing out the French doors.

  Canaris had known the old Russian since the early twenties when the former staff captain in the Russian Imperial Army had first surfaced in Berlin.

  Kaulbars had worked, on and off, as an interpreter in the Abwehr, and from time to time he played at giving Canaris Russian language lessons. His real usefulness, though, were his British and East European contacts which he maintained through Colonel Juhlinn-Dannfeld, the Swedish military attache in Berlin.

  He was much taller than Canaris, and huskier, too. He turned when he heard the two men enter.

  “Ah, Willi, I wondered if you hadn’t climbed on your horse and, like a good Cossack, gone for the hills,” Kaulbars sai
d. His German was deep and rich, with a marvelous courtly accent.

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Canaris said, lightly.

  “Can you stay for coffee?”

  Kaulbars nodded. “Of course. If Helmut will play a little Tchaikovsky instead of Mozart, today.”

  “Oh, I think that can be managed,” Maurer said.

  Mohammed brought in the silver coffee service as they were settling down; Canaris sat in the large overstuffed easy chair across from the French doors, while Kaulbars perched, as usual, on the edge of the couch and Maurer sat at the baby grand piano.

  When the coffee had been poured and small snifters of cognac had been passed around, Maurer began to play a cutting from Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto in D, and Canaris slid back into his own thoughts.

  For a time now he had thought it possible that he could ease into a state of semiretirement. He had almost, but not quite, divorced himself from the day-to-day events of the Reich, except what he came directly into contact with through his office.

  Maurer still brought his tidbits of gossip from time to time.

  And Major Meitner (his friend had recently been promoted—only through attrition, he claimed) brought him news from Zossen.

  Still, one part of his mind was able to shunt such details into a netherworld in which, although he was conscious of the facts, they were no cause for reaction.

  In the mornings he went down to Eiche where he presided over his fools’ court. He had gotten through, finally, to Lieutenant Bender on three counts: The man no longer shouted as if everyone around him were deaf; the man made sure the office was tidy; and he had rapidly become very facile at coming up with lengthy reports on the barest of data.

  Four mornings a week he presented his departmental briefings.

  At first his presence caused quite a stir. But in the incredibly short period of only a couple of weeks, a torpor had seemed to settle on anyone who listened to him.

  It was exactly the effect he had worked toward. He was more successful than he had hoped he could be.

  That left him the entire weekend, as well as every afternoon, free. It was as close to retirement as he could be and yet still have a hand in the war effort.

  Tomorrow, the 21st, he would have been at it exactly three weeks. And already he was beginning to get bored.