Heroes

by David Hagberg

  “Any of your passengers seem to be unsure of themselves?

  Any of them make a mistake about tickets, or destinations, or tipping?”

  Schey felt a glow of well-being, although he was terribly tired and understood that the most difficult part of their escape would come in New York City. But he and Eva had had a lovely dinner in the dining car, and later, back in their compartment, the surprise the porter had promised them was a bottle of champagne.

  A token for the honeymooners. The champagne was out of the porter’s private stock. He was a pro, and probably made more in tips than in salary because of the extra niceties.

  Schey lay on his back, his eyes closed, feeling the steady rhythm of the moving train, listening to the soothing clatter of the wheels on the tracks.

  They had leisurely finished the wine while they talked, mostly about Eva’s past in Wisconsin. She had been raised by her German immigrant grandparents who were fishermen on Lake Michigan. It had been an idealistic life for her, and there were times, she admitted, when she was truly sorry she had grown up.

  Schey listened to her with one part of his mind, the gentle words flowing around him, while with another he thought about his own childhood that had begun with hatred for what the Allies had done to Germany after the First World War, then with idealistic hope and expectation for what the future would bring under the leadership of their Fiinrer.

  Where had it all gone wrong for them, he wondered now, lying in bed. Eva was washing her face at the little sink. Only the single light over the mirror was on.

  For her, the downward path came with the deaths of her grandparents. To fill the gap they left behind, she had joined the Bund in Milwaukee.

  For him. it came on the day he joined the Nazi party and began his training at Park Zorgvliet for his infiltration into the United

  States. His father wanted him to be a soldier. A moderate. He shook his head.

  “What are you smiling about?” Eva asked.

  Schey opened his eyes. She switched the light out, but there was enough coming from the open curtains at the window to see that she was nude.

  “I was thinking about my father,” he said softly. Eva was lovely. Her breasts were large and well-formed, her legs long and straight, and the tuft of hair at her pubis very blonde.

  “I never rode first-class on a train like this,” she said.

  Schey lay on the top bunk. He threw the covers back. Eva grinned, came across the tiny compartment, and climbed up with him, her skin soft and a lovely, clean odor coming from her.

  He held her close.

  “We’ve got this night, at least,” she said, her voice husky.

  He looked into her large, liquid eyes. Her nostrils were flared, her lips wet. Her face was slightly tanned from the New Mexican sun. It contrasted nicely with her blonde hair.

  “I love you,” he said to her.

  Her eyes filled. “I love you, too, Bobby, but I’m frightened.”

  He stroked her hair. “It’ll be hard, getting back. But the war will be over pretty soon. Then we’ll be able to settle down.”

  She wanted to believe him. It was obvious from her expression.

  But it was also clear that she was very frightened. She shivered, and he pulled her close again, her breasts crushed against his chest, her legs entwined with his.

  “Oh … Christ … I don’t want this to end,” she cried.

  She was kissing him, her mouth exploring his, her hands fluttering over his shoulders and his back, drawing him even closer, holding him so tightly that at times he could feel her heart beating.

  Later, he gently pushed her back, kissed her chin, her neck, then her breasts, taking each nipple between his lips, his tongue making a circular pattern on the areola.

  She moaned and arched her back as he slid lower, kissing the gentle rise of her belly, his tongue flicking suggestively in and out of her navel.

  “Bobby?” she called softly. She reached down and took his head in her hands, and raised him away so that she could look into his eyes.

  He smiled at her. This was so good he never wanted to stop.

  “I can’t wait. I love you. I love you …”

  He turned and kissed the palm of her right hand, then slid down lower, his lips brushing her inner thighs, and she flinched.

  Then his tongue was inside her, parting her lips, making circular motions around her clitoris. She wanted to jump out of her skin. The pleasure was so intense it was nearly painful. But then he took the tiny organ in his lips and drew it in, her entire body rising off the bed, the sensation was so intense.

  “Bobby …“the involuntary cry escaped from her throat.

  He slid it slowly back and forth between his lips, even the tiniest of motions causing wave after wave of pleasure to course through her body. She was coming again and again, each time not quite completely, but each wave more intensely pleasurable than the last.

  Suddenly he was on top of her, and inside her, deep inside.

  Eva looked up into Schey’s open eyes. She could see that he was lost in his pleasure. It was the first time that he had lost himself so completely, and her love for him rose like a huge ocean wave—a tidal wave that could not possibly leave her unchanged. And he was coming; she could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the thrum of his body, and she could sense it between her legs. He did love her, and it was all she needed.

  It was cold and raining in Chicago when they arrived. They were an hour and a half late because of some delay in Iowa during the night. Instead of a two and a half hour layover for the Twentieth Century, they now had slightly less than an hour.

  Their porter helped them with their bags. Schey slipped him fifty dollars. He knew it was far too much, but the man had shown them kindness. At the moment, in the present world situation, it was rare.

  They transferred over to the Twentieth Century, a sleek, long train with silver Pullman cars and brisk, efficient, even somewhat haughty porters who installed them in their spacious first-class compartment.

  They had coffee, and before they were finished, the train was pulling out for the long sweep around Lake Michigan, then east toward New York, the western hospitality they had enjoyed on the Denver train now replaced with an eastern efficiency that would brook no delays.

  Last night they had been tired and had been glad of the inactivity. But as they rolled across the Illinois and Indiana farmlands, Schey was impatient to get on with it.

  “How long will it take for us to make contact in New York?” Eva asked at one point.

  Schey had been smoking and staring out the window. “That depends,” he said absently.

  “On what?”

  He looked at her. “On whether or not he’s been compromised.”

  “What if he has been … compromised? Or what if the FBI has somehow traced us to this train? What then?”

  Schey resisted the urge to snap at her. He counted three before he answered. “I don’t know, Eva. We’ll just have to see.” 1 “Play it by ear?”

  He smiled. “Play it by ear.” He looked again out the window at the flat and, to him, mostly featureless land. A little farther to the east and they would be passing through the heart of industrial America. It was not so concentrated as the factories and mills in the Ruhr, but it was large, powerful, and considering the vast forces the U.S. had sent into the field, seemingly unlimited.

  The train stopped in South Bend for about ten minutes, then headed out again.

  Schey was becoming uncomfortable. In the west there had been wide open spaces. Places for them to run, if the need arose.

  Here, the closer they came to New York City, the more he began to feel a sense of claustrophobia.

  It was possible, he told himself, that the FBI had gotten on the train at South Bend. It was an unscheduled stop.

  It was even possible that they would wait until New York City.

  They’d wait until he and Eva got off the train and then take them.

  After lunch he lay down for a
while to try to get some sleep while Eva read some of the magazines the porter had brought around. But he could not calm down. Every few minutes he would turn his head so that he could see out the window to make sure they were not slowing down again.

  He went over an dover in his mind the possibilities of escape from here. Actually, they were much nearer to Canada at this point than they would be in New York City. But Canada was not the safety zone. There’d be an airstrip somewhere in Newfoundland, and a plane waiting to take them home. Until they got to Germany, they would be enemies in a foreign country.

  Schey got up after a while and went down to the club car where he had a couple of drinks and a cigarette. But some salesmen from Chicago were arguing loudly about the Chicago Cubs versus the Brooklyn Dodgers. They were drunk, and when they tried to involve him in their discussion about batting averages, he left.

  He and Eva had dinner early. Although the meal was excellent, Schey had no taste for it. He was extremely jumpy, and Eva picked up on his mood. She too became very tense and nervous.

  Back in their compartment, they got ready for bed, but neither of them could sleep, and after a couple of hours, Schey got up, got dressed, and made sure their bags were packed.

  “Are they going to be waiting for us?” Eva asked from where she lay on the top bunk.

  The compartment was dark. Schey sat by the window, smoking as he watched the lights of the towns pass them.

  “I don’t know …” he started to say, but then he turned toward her, suddenly realizing what he was doing. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’ll trace us to the train sooner or later. But not this quickly. It’ll take them time to cover that much territory. It’s a long way from Albuquerque to Denver. And then they have to question all the ticket agents.” He shook his head again. “It’s not even likely anyone will remember us.”

  “Are you sure, Bobby?” Eva asked.

  He wanted to shout that no, he wasn’t sure. Instead he nodded in the darkness. “Of course. Now try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  She was quiet then, and after a bit he put out his cigarette and laid his forehead on the cool window glass. He was asleep almost immediately.

  Something was terribly wrong. Schey woke with a start, his mouth gummy, his neck stiff, his head throbbing. They had stopped. There were a lot of people just outside his window. He could hear a public address system blaring something. And there was the smell of a big city.

  He realized finally that they had arrived. This was Perm Station.

  “Are we here?” Eva asked sleepily from the top bunk.

  Schey got up. There were a lot of red caps and porters on the platform, but every second person seemed to be a serviceman. So far as Schey could see, there were no cops, but a battalion of them could have been out there; there was such a crowd on the platform it was impossible to pick out anyone.

  “We have to get out of here now,” he said.

  Eva hopped down from the bunk, splashed some cold water on her face, ran a comb through her hair, and then tossed the rest of her things in her bag.

  Schey had opened the door. Their porter came and he slipped the man a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Need some help with your bags, folks?”

  “No, thanks,” Schey said.

  Eva was ready, and he took her arm and led her down the corridor and out onto the crowded platform. They headed toward the stairs that led up to the main hall and the exits. As they walked, Schey half expected to feel a hand on his shoulder, hear a stern voice ordering them to stop. But nothing happened, and soon they were upstairs in the main hall.

  The station was very busy this morning, although it was a Sunday. Another train besides the Twentieth Century had come in, and one transcontinental train was apparently about to leave.

  There were soldiers everywhere, and military policemen were stationed, it seemed, at every column.

  They stood off to one side for a moment or two, watching the activity, listening to the din of announcements and a thousand conversations all going on at the same time.

  “Are we going to get a hotel?” Eva asked. “I’d like to take a proper bath.”

  “I don’t think so,” Schey said. He started across the big hall.

  “I want to be out of the city by noon.”

  “What? … So soon?” Eva sputtered, keeping up with him.

  On the far side of the hall, Schey set his bag down in front of a phone box and dug in his pocket for a nickel.

  “Are you going to call from here? Right now?” Eva asked, looking around.

  “The sooner, the better,” Schey said. He slipped inside, dropped the nickel in the slot, and dialed a number he had learned by heart years ago. It rang three times before a man answered.

  “Yeah?” There was a lot of background noise; it sounded like a factory.

  “Is this Frankel Importing/Exporting?”

  The speaker hesitated. “Who wants to know?”

  “Uncle Willi asked me to call and say hello.”

  Again the man hesitated.

  “We need help,” Schey said. “There are two of us.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Never mind. We’ll come to you.”

  “Is your phone secure?”

  “I’m in a booth. It’s secure. Can you help us?”

  “We’re leaving this afternoon.”

  “For where?”

  “Home,” the speaker said, and Schey’s stomach flopped. He looked up at Eva waiting outside the booth for him. He would have to get her to Switzerland, somehow. He wouldn’t leave if that wasn’t possible.

  “We’re coming with you, but there may be a complication,” Schey said.

  “What are you talking about? Are they after you?”

  “The second person is … not going home.”

  “I said, what are you talking about?”

  “The second person has to get to Switzerland. Do you understand?”

  Schey could hear relief in the speaker’s voice. “Is that all? No problem. But your friend will have to cross himself. Sweden first, and from there to Switzerland. I’m not running a courier service there.”

  “I understand,” Schey said.

  “How soon can you be in front of St. Bartholomew’s?”

  “I don’t know where it is?”

  “Park Avenue and 50th.”

  It wasn’t far. “About twenty minutes. Maybe sooner,” Schey replied.

  “A brown delivery van with RCA markings will pull up from the south on Park Avenue. You’ll have to cross the street.”

  “RCA, the radio company?”

  “RCA … the Royal Canadian Army.”

  “We’ll be there …” Schey said when Eva suddenly rapped on the window glass. She was highly agitated. Schey hung up and got out of the phone box.

  He spotted the men before she had to point them out. A dozen of them in civilian clothes had rushed in the Eighth Avenue doors, and they were spreading out across the main hall. They obviously were in a big hurry, and just as obviously looking for someone. Four of them ran for the stairs to the trains.

  Someone in Colorado had gotten to the train station and had discovered that he and Eva were scheduled to arrive here in New York on the Twentieth Century.

  “Are they after us?” Eva asked fearfully.

  “I think so,” Schey said. He took her by the elbow and steered her away from the phone booths, leaving their bags behind. They would no longer matter. They would only slow them down.

  He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the .38 he had carried with him ever since he had taken it from the FBI agent in Eva’s Washington apartment; it seemed like years ago.

  They hurried across the main hall, directly toward the Seventh Avenue exits, keeping within the heavier concentrations of people as much as possible. If they could make it out of the building within the next minute or so, Schey figured they might have a chance of getting free: Much longer than that and the FBI or whoever it was would have
had a chance to settle their people into place.

  Two men came through the Seventh Avenue doors at the same moment Schey and Eva had reached them. They had nowhere to go now.

  For a split second the agents looked from Schey to Eva and back again, the expression on their faces changing from one of curiosity to surprise, and then to fear. They both started to reach inside their coats.

  Schey shoved Eva aside, pulled out the .38, and fired two shots, the first hitting the agent to his right in the chest, driving him backward, and the second hitting the other agent in the abdomen, doubling him over.

  Someone screamed.

  Schey leaped forward, shoving the wounded agent out of the way, and as he hit the doors, he half turned to make sure Eva was coming..__

  But she had shrunk back. Her mouth was opening and closing, but no sounds were coming out.

  “Eva …” Schey shouted, halfway out the door, when the side of her head exploded in a mass of blood and bone. She was thrown violently to the left, her legs flying out from under her.

  Schey brought the .38 around as a bullet smashed the glass door just to the right of his shoulder. He fired three shots in quick succession. One man went down, and two others fell back as pandemonium raged in the crowded station.

  “Eva!” he shouted again. But she was lying in a bloody heap on the floor, her eyes open. She was dead! There was no question about it!

  Schey fired his last shot; the second time he pulled the trigger, the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  He turned, stepped the rest of the way outside, let the pistol fall to the pavement at his side, and hurried across Seventh Avenue, dodging traffic.

  “Stop!” someone shouted behind him. Horns were blaring, and someone was screaming; in the distance he could hear sirens.

  But he did not turn around and look back.

  Seconds later he was around the corner, and he ducked into the Statler Hotel, calmly walked across the lobby as if he belonged there, and stepped out the West 32nd Street exit where he got directly into a cab.

  “St. Bartholomew’s Church,” he told the driver, and he sat back so that he could not easily be seen from outside, as the driver took off away from the station area.