Heroes

by David Hagberg

  “Of course,” Stawitzky said. “And you must have known that the traitor maintained contacts with the Polish Government pigs in Switzerland. You did know that as well?”

  “No, I did not. This has already been addressed, Herr Kriminalrat.”

  “Yes, I know. I think Alien Dulles was an old friend of yours.”

  Canaris again held his silence.

  “You know, the OSS chief in Bern,” Stawitzky said. He leaned forward, tapping the bloody pliers in the palm of his hand.

  “The connections are crystal-clear. From you to Gisevius. And from that stinking traitor directly to Dulles.”

  “No,” Canaris said.

  “You are guilty, you miserable little bastard,” Stawitzky shouted. “Guilty as hell, not only of plotting to assassinate our Fuhrer but of high treason as well.”

  “That is not true,” Canaris shouted, although his voice was very hoarse and weak.

  “You try to topple our government from within, while at the same perfidious moment you treat with our enemies,” Stawitzky screamed. Spittle flew from his mouth.

  “You cannot prove that.”

  Stawitzky advanced menacingly on Canaris, his face puffed up and red, an artery throbbing on the side of his neck, the whites of his eyes crisscrossed with broken veins. “You will hang here, you miserable little traitor. You have stabbed the Fatherland in the back for the very last time. You and your bunch of sneak thieves: Oster and Sack and Bonhoeffer and Gehre. Oh yes, Gehre, too. You will see!”

  “I have done more for Germany than you can imagine.”

  “I think you have done more to Germany than even I can suspect. But it will all come out, Canaris. You shall see. And then you will surely swing at the end of a rope.”

  “It is you who will swing,” Canaris shouted.

  Stawitzky stepped back and laughed. “Oh yes? And for what, might I ask, sailor boy?”

  “The Americans are knocking at our back door. And this is a concentration camp. Those are crematoria in back.”

  Stawitzky’s face screwed up into a grimace. “You little sneaking bastard!” he screamed. He wanted to lash out. It was clear to Canaris. But something stayed his hand. There was something even Stawitzky was frightened of.

  He finally turned and slammed the pliers down on the worktable.

  “Kriiger!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Kriiger, get in here!”

  The door slammed open a second later, and Stawitzky spun around.

  “Yes, sir,” the corporal shouted.

  “Get this bastard back to his cell. Get him his breakfast.”

  “Jawohl, mein Herr,” Kruger snapped.

  Stawitzky looked down at Canaris, then shook his head and left the interrogation room.

  Kruger hurriedly untied Canaris’ hands and legs, yanked him painfully to his feet, and started him toward the door. The other corporal appeared. He smiled.

  “It’s all right, Hans. I will take the prisoner from here.”

  Kriiger hesitated a moment, but then shrugged. “Take the little traitor. The sight of him turns my stomach.” He shoved Canaris aside, then left.

  “I am Corporal Binder, Herr Admiral. I think your treatment will begin to get better now,” the man said reasonably. He looked like some young big-city executive, only with a uniform.

  He took Canaris’ arm and led him out of the interrogation room and down the corridor to his cell.

  This was some sort of a trick, of course. A clever method to make him slip up and perhaps tell this one something the others couldn’t get from him.

  One of his suits, freshly cleaned and pressed, was laid out on his cot along with clean undergarments, a clean white shirt, and a tie. His shoes had been cleaned and were aligned neatly at the foot of his cot.

  “There is fresh warm water for you. As soon as you have cleaned yourself and gotten dressed, I will bring your meal.”

  The corporal turned and left the cell, locking the steel door behind him. |

  Canaris stood in the middle of the tiny room for a long time, staring at the clean clothes. Gradually he realized that his cell had been cleaned as well. There were fresh bedclothes on his cot.

  He went to the water bucket. There was a small piece of soap in the warm water. Beside the bucket was a towel and washcloth as well as his shaving things and a small mirror on a stand.

  He turned and glanced toward the door. Were they watching him? Were Stawitzky and Kruger having their little laugh now?

  What were they trying to do to him?

  Of course, if he was going to be tried soon, they’d want to keep up the sham that he had been treated well here, especially if they were uncertain as to how the trial might come out. If he actually was acquitted and was set free, with apologies, there would be hell to pay. He’d make damned sure of it.

  He peeled off his shirt and began to wash, the soap and water sensuous on his emaciated frame.

  Lunding tapped.

  Canaris glanced toward the wall. It would wait, he told himself as he continued with his bath. Lunding would understand.

  His hands shook, so he did a poor job of shaving, nicking himself twice in the process, but he did feel much better. Much fresher. He got dressed in his clean clothing and then tapped for Lunding.

  “Interrogation easy. Breakfast coming. No leg irons or handcuffs. Talk later.”

  “Be careful,” Lunding signaled.

  Canaris climbed up on his bunk and sat there, his knees together, waiting for his promised meal. His stomach was so empty it was hard to sit still. He almost always felt nauseous these days from the lack of food. But this morning he felt worse than he ever had.

  It was well after ten before Corporal Binder returned with a small stool which he set down in front of Canaris. He went back out into the corridor and returned, bearing a large tray laden with a bottle of wine, a large iron pot filled with a thick, rich stew, and a small loaf of heavy dark bread.

  Canaris’ mouth filled with saliva as he smelled the wonderful odors.

  “I am sorry there is no butter in the camp at the moment. Even the commandant has none for his table,” Binder said.

  Canaris tore his eyes away from the food and looked up. He was shaking. Binder smiled.

  “Take your time, Herr Admiral. The Kriminalrat wishes to speak with you later this afternoon. But until then, you will be left alone. When you are finished, you may signal, if you wish, and go out to the exercise yard.”

  “Why … why …”

  Binder smiled again. “I only follow my orders, Herr Admiral.

  But the stew is very good. I promise you. I had some myself.”

  He turned and left the cell.

  Canaris looked at the door. Were they watching him now?

  Watching to see if he would attack his food like an animal?

  He turned back to his tray, poured a glass of the red wine, which was surprisingly good, and then tore off a small piece of bread, dipped it in the stew, and slowly ate it, the wine hammering his stomach, nearly making him vomit.

  He looked up at the door again and smiled. He would not give the bastards the satisfaction of watching him get sick.

  Slowly he ate the stew and most of the bread, and he drank more than half the bottle of wine. His stomach finally settled down somewhat, and although the food and drink were far too rich for him in his present condition, he managed to hold the meal down.

  For a long time after he was finished, he sat back, his mind, as well as his body, numb. But then he had the urge to be outside, and he got up and rattled his door.

  Binder came almost immediately, “May I go out for a few minutes?” Canaris asked.

  “Of course, Herr Admiral,” the corporal said.

  Canaris got his overcoat, then went with Binder down the corridor and outside, two SS guards coming out with him.

  He stood just outside the doorway for a moment or two. One of the guards lit a cigarette; he offered it to Canaris, who started to refuse, but then shrugged and took it. />
  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral,” the guard said respectfully.

  Canaris looked at him in amazement. It had to be the trial. If he were to be acquitted, Stawitzky would have this good treatment to fall back on.

  He turned and slowly headed across the exercise yard. The morning was gray and overcast. There was still something of the winter chill in the air. Canaris shivered.

  The cigarette made him light-headed. It was the first he had had in months.

  He stopped well outside the five-meter zone away from the fence and stared out at the forest. A mist curled through the trees.

  The scene, if he ignored the fence and the guard towers, seemed so peaceful, as if the war had never occurred.

  A great yearning for peace welled up within his breast, and the pain it caused was almost physical when he thought about his missed opportunities.

  But even now, he had to admit to himself, if he were free, he would not run to Algeciras. He would remain here to help rebuild his country for the second time in less than thirty years.

  He had his memories, though. Of Spain, before the war, when he was a young man looking for submarine bases. Dona Marielle Alicia was the daughter of the wealthiest man in Algeciras. Don Rico was a friend of Germany, and he had taken Senor Guillermo into his home.

  Whenever he came to Spain, and that was often in those days, he would manage to stay at least a few days with Don Rico.

  He remembered those times so vividly now. He could even see the colors: the marvelous blue-green of the ocean, the striking red of the roses, and Dona Marielle in her yellow gown on the evening that he realized he loved her—and that he would always love her.

  They had danced, but they had barely talked that night. Every time he touched her, she shivered, her tiny milk-white shoulders rising up, her large, dark, liquid eyes looking into his, her bosom heaving.

  Much later they had had their long talks. It was impossible for them ever to consider marriage. Daughters of wealthy Spanish aristocrats did not marry German spymasters. It simply was unheard of.

  But for that evening their disappointments were still in the future. That evening they both knew what they wished to have, in absolute defrance of every code of ethics that existed in Spain or Germany.

  Canaris slept in the east wing of the huge villa overlooking the sea. The Rico family slept in the west wing.

  She came to him in the middle of the night, across the courtyard, through the gardens, and up from the path that led to the sea.

  They stood in front of the doors open to the gentle sea breeze as they undressed and then gazed wonderingly at each other’s body.

  Even now, standing within the exercise yard of Flossenbiirg concentration camp on a chill spring morning, he could feel the gentle caresses of the summer’s breeze, feel the incredible softness of her skin, remember her lovely breasts crushed against his chest, and most of all he could sharply recall the unbelievable feeling of wholeness and pleasure while they made love.

  “Herr Admiral,” someone called from the bunker. “Admiral Canaris.”

  He turned as Corporal Binder came across the exercise yard.

  “It is time to come in, sir. You have been out here for nearly three hours now. It is lunchtime.”

  Dieter Schey came slowly awake, a sickness deep inside of him welling to the surface and threatening to make him vomit. He felt frighteningly weak, and even the effort of sitting up in the bed was almost too much for him.

  He figured it was late afternoon. The bedroom door was open, and he could see the last rays of the sun through the living room windows in Marlene’s basement apartment.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, and hung his head, and closed his eyes. It had been … how many days, since he had been shot? He could not remember clearly. But it had been at least two nightmarish days of pain, of strange, feverish dreams, of reliving the shooting over an dover again.

  Like a silly schoolboy he had remained a perfect target at the tunnel mouth. But something had made him lose all of his training in a flash. The Russians were there in the tunnel, were being given the American atomic secrets by the Reich’s own scientists. By good Germans. Everything he had gone through— the years of deep cover in the United States, the Idllings, the murders of Katy and Eva—all of it had culminated in one instant of mindless revenge when all thoughs of self-preservation went out the window.

  Fortunately, he had not been stopped on the way out of the area, and somehow he had made it here, to Charlottenburg and Marlene.

  He lifted his head and opened his eyes. Marlene, dressed to go out, stood in the bedroom doorway.

  “What are you doing, Dieter?” she asked. Her voice sounded hollow.

  Suddenly she loomed over him and laid him back in the bed.

  “Where are you going?” he asked. His voice was very weak.

  It did not sound like him to his own ears. He reached up to touch his face. There was stubble on his chin.

  “Listen to me, Dieter; you are too weak to try to get up,” she said. She sat with him on the bed and looked into his eyes. She was frightened. He could read it there.

  “How long …“he croaked.

  “Four days.”

  He could not believe it. Impossible.

  “It’s Sunday, Dieter,” she said. Her eyes were filling with tears. “They’re looking for you. They think you’ve deserted.”

  “The SS has been here?”

  “Not yet, darling,” she said, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “They don’t know about this place. Remember?”

  But he hadn’t deserted, god damnit. He had killed at least one of the traitors. They’d have to understand.

  He thought he had given voice to that, but he had not because Marlene pulled the covers back over him. “Don’t try to talk,” she said. She reached down and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “Sleep,” she said. “I’m going to try to get us something to eat.

  I’ll be back soon.”

  “Marlene?” he asked.

  “It’s all right; the SS won’t find you, my darling,” she said.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Was he going to die, he wondered? Was that why she was crying? He felt so terribly weak. And then there was that something else at the back of his mind. Something he had resolved on the way out here from the subway station laboratory. She didn’t know about it, and he had to keep it from her. She would worry too much.

  When Marlene left the apartment, tears were pouring from her eyes. She went out the front way, careful not to bang the iron gate at the top. It was dusk. It would be dark very soon.

  She stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street.

  Very few bombs had hit this street, so she could almost pretend that there was no war, that the city around her was not mostly destroyed. She could pretend that her man was back in their apartment, sleeping after a hard day’s work. She could pretend that she was simply on her way to the market to pick up some fresh meat, perhaps some potatoes, a little lettuce, a few freshly baked rolls … Why had it turned out this way? How in God’s name had she been reduced to this?

  Stiffling a sob, she headed up toward Konigs Allee, the heels of her last decent pair of shoes clattering on the pavement, her heart hammering in her chest.

  She had only two choices. Certainly, remaining in the apartment with Dieter until the end for them came was not a viable option. It left her only the Resistance or the SS. She had had no problem with her choice.

  The big man whom she knew only as Bernard suddenly appeared from the doorway of a partially bombed-out ruin of a building.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Her hand went to her mouth.

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  “You have found him for us, Fraulein?” the man said. He had a pleasant voice. But it was obvious he was weary.

  She had done a lot of work for the Resistance over the past months. She had associated herself w
ith any SS or Wehrmacht officer she could get close to, reporting back to Bernard whenever she had learned something. It was why she had sought out and attached herself to Schey. Until now, though, she had not had the courage to tell the Resistance about him. Somehow, despite herself, she had fallen in love with him.

  “Yes,” she said timidly. She kept walking. The man had taken her arm. It looked as if they were husband and wife, out for a stroll during the lull in the bombing. It was not an uncommon sight.

  “Yes, where is he?”

  God help her …“In my apartment,” she said. “He is wounded.”

  The man stopped her, a play of emotions across his face. “Do not go back to your apartment, Fraulein. Find someplace else to live. There are plenty of apartments empty in Berlin now. The war will be over in a matter of days, in any event.”

  “What are you going to do? …”

  The man pulled out a package from his coat pocket and handed it to her. They were captured American C rations. A lot of SS officers would have paid in gold for the food.

  “The SS are looking for him,” she blurted, taking the food.

  She felt so damned guilty.

  “What for?”

  “They think he has deserted.”

  The man smiled. “Just go away now, Fraulein. If we need you, we will find you.” He turned and walked off in the opposite direction.

  Marlene watched him go, and then she held the C ration package tightly against her breasts, and her mouth began to water. God help her, she was so hungry.

  The Westland Lysander’s big Bristol Mercury engine made all normal talk impossible. Deland, dressed in olive drab coveralls over his SS colonel’s uniform, sat back in his seat, his eyes closed, although he was far from sleep. He wore a headset which connected him to the pilot. There was no one else with them.

  It had been a fairly routine flight over the channel, then across Holland and into Germany. There weren’t many Luftwaffe planes up in the air any longer. There had been reports of a new-type, very fast German aircraft called a jet. But there weren’t many of them, and in the two days he’d spent in England, waiting for the weather to clear, Deland had heard that Allied bombers had taken care of the factories that made the special fuel the new jets required.