Her daily shift started at ten. At two in the afternoon a whistle sent the workers to the lunchroom, a modern facility with high glass walls looking out to a garden atrium. Servers in white caps and uniforms ladled food onto their trays and the laborers found places at long tables. Only during the lunch break were they able to exchange a few quiet words. Given the scarcity of good foodstuffs in Paris, Marita was amazed to see the Reich serving all workers, forced or voluntary, a thick lentil or pea soup with sausage, dark bread and real butter. Marita followed the lead of others by using her ration of the precious fat to soothe the burning sores on her arms.
The women received one toilet break during the ten-hour shift, and the overseers allowed few exceptions. Marita pitied the poor girls with dysentery. Accidents brought harsh punishments, often a punch to the suffering gut or withdrawal of all lunch privileges. The supervisors often conscripted nearby workers to help clean up the mess, and occasionally everyone shared the punishment, depending on the mood of the shift overseer. It was not uncommon to note the stench of unreported accidents as the prisoners lined up each evening for the trek home.
Marita heard stories of women and girls impregnated by voluntary workers and guards. She wondered how anyone found a private moment, given the tight controls on the laborers’ movements and time. A veteran worker confided that mothers-to-be continued working until labor pains, then gave birth elsewhere in the facility before returning the following day to the plant floor. Women spoke of a “dying room” where newborns perished in unattended bassinets.
Air raids occurred almost nightly in the region. Marita often startled awake to the distant wail of sirens. From her upper bunk she watched the sheet lightning of bombs smearing the distant horizon and the fine lines of tracer fire piercing the clouds. Explosions rumbled like thunder. Rumors circulated that a few weeks before her arrival bombs had taken out a nearby plant. Every evening, as she and her companions gathered for final roll call before heading to the dormitory, Marita wondered if their shivering march would be interrupted by a direct attack.
The night it actually happened she was too exhausted to care. The huge clock displayed eight p.m., but the overseers ordered the women to remain at their stations and the conveyors continued to roll. After a quiet discussion with his underlings, the head supervisor announced that the current shift would extend for an additional four hours. Obviously, the overnight relief had failed to arrive. Before ordered to silence, the women traded guesses. Some claimed to have heard emergency sirens shortly before the announcement. One surmised that the Allies had finally landed again and were coming to rescue them all. Under threat of the overseers’ cudgels they resumed their labors. Surprisingly, those urgently requesting a toilet break were granted a few moments in the lavatory.
A typical shift on the hard concrete floor was misery enough, but the additional hours now took a further toll. Marita braced herself against the work table, but her shin splints were agonizing. She knew she wasn’t alone in the suffering. Faces all around were set in stone, the drawn cheeks sunken into permanent creases. Even the youngest girls seemed to have aged in the few weeks she had known them. She wondered how they would possibly make it back to the dormitories on foot. Perhaps the factory might provide a bus.
It was not to be. Shortly after midnight a ragged group of replacement workers finally showed up. Marita’s group lined up as usual in the front hallway of the plant. Small fixtures close to the floor cast a dull gleam on the tiles. She found her place near the end of the right-hand column. Wailing sirens in the distance announced another visit from the British “sky-pirates,” as her captors called them. All exterior lights at the plant were already extinguished.
The women were too exhausted to care. They set out at the guards’ commands, some already near collapse, hunched over and stumbling, while others like Marita docilely limped along. The night was brutally cold under clear skies, and she trembled at the thought of a harsh winter approaching. Her body shook relentlessly with chills and she braced her arms to her chest. The girl at her side lost her footing several times and finally dropped to her knees on the pavement. Those following stumbled or pulled up short. Marita helped the fallen girl stand, and a guard, catching the movement in the dull glow of his flashlight, raced forward and ordered her back into her place. “Keep moving, no touching!” he shouted up and down the line. She obeyed. Once the guard turned back, she steadied the sufferer with a hug. She wanted to keep an arm around the poor wretch, as much for the embrace of another human as for the shared body heat. The newcomer was one of the few with a woolen wrap.
The bombers edged closer to town, and for the first time Marita heard the rumble of aircraft engines directly overhead. Those prisoners still strong enough to care searched the sky for the unseen planes. Marita wondered how many of her companions would gladly die, just knowing that the British had destroyed the hated factory. She knew she would. The guards called out for the prisoners to move along faster.
Moments passed before the local siren screamed a warning and a nearby searchlight abruptly pierced the sky. Anti-aircraft shells burst in distant puffs just to the north. She tried in vain to spot the bombers. The gunners appeared to have an equally difficult time, their rounds finding no targets. Air wardens quickly appeared in the streets, blowing whistles and shouting for order. Citizens streamed from houses and apartments to converge on the Rathaus square, dutifully forming up beneath an air shelter sign. Many carried gas masks and some brought baskets, presumably filled with food and drink.
Marita expected the workers to continue on to the dormitories, the prisoners forced to take their chances with falling bombs. The self-interest of the guards appeared to win out and they ordered a halt. Once most the citizens had entered the bunker, the prisoners received orders to find a place in the narrow entrance corridor rather than descend to the fortified cellar. The line slowed to a crawl, then backed up and stopped.
Shuddering from the cold, Marita awaited her turn. She watched the sky in fascination. Flashes brightened the horizon above the rooftops, followed quickly by thunderous booms which shook the ground and rattled the metal shutters of the shops. The order came to advance, and she made the turn from the main street onto the square.
The pop and flash of a gunshot grabbed her attention. A man was barreling toward their column from across the square. He staggered, caught his footing, then headed directly toward her, his ragged shout lost in the din of whistles and cries from the air wardens. To avoid his onrush, Marita leapt to the side, taking the frail girl to the pavement with her. A guard bellowed “Everyone down!” The prisoners complied, as did those few civilians still crossing the square. Three rifle shots exploded and a pistol spit twice more. Marita heard an agonizing cry. Seconds passed before one final shot echoed, then orders came down the line for all to stand again.
Marita stared as the columns reformed. Beneath the halo of a shielded flashlight the first of the men lay face-down, unmoving. A guard nudged the body with one boot, confirming the kill. Another figure lay on his back near the mouth of the far alleyway. The guard sauntered over to check out the second gunshot victim while his partner shouted at the women to get moving.
The worker obeys for the good of the Reich—a slogan on the wall above her dormitory bed.
Marita obeyed. The guards prodded the slower prisoners and everyone entered the shelter in decent order. The first women to reach the cellar had already taken seats on the floor. As their numbers grew, they stood to make room for the new arrivals. One impatient guard slapped a woman who was slow to rise.
Marita found a spot close to the entry, now guarded by the air wardens. They slammed shut the shelter door and moved a crossbeam into place. The overlapping sirens became a muffled drone. The ground shook underfoot from two nearby blasts, and dust and plaster trickled down from overhead. Some prisoners coughed, others covered their eyes. Marita wished to fall asleep and never awaken. She barely registered the murmured prayers in Ukrainian or Polish accompanyin
g the constant pounding from above.
The erratic behavior of the man killed on the square nagged at her exhausted mind. Impossible, of course, but with sleep now dragging her down, she thought she recognized the word he’d shouted before the bullets found him. She would swear forever he’d called out to her by name.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Niedermühlen near Essen, Germany
29-30 September 1941
Ryan took a seat in the office of the munitions plant director. Beyond the smooth metal desk ran a wall of shelves holding colorful binders—a vision of spotless organization in a plant devoted to raining down hellfire on the world. Three highly polished ordnance shells decorated the desktop. The entire room spoke of modern design, its sleek surfaces and metal trim suggestive of the airplanes dropping the plant’s armaments on enemies of the Reich.
It had been a frustrating weekend. In Geneva he had to wait for the documents for Marita’s release to arrive. The courier finally turned up on Sunday morning. Next had come six hours on the train once he cleared the German border, followed by an interminable evening in Essen waiting for Monday when the plant owner would be in his office. The short train ride from the city that morning had taken him past signs of recent aerial bombardment, and the small town of Niedermühlen had recently taken several hits. Laborers were clearing rubble beside the train station when he exited the local. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found Marita’s munitions plant untouched.
A wall of glass separated the director’s aerie from a vast hall where hundreds toiled at long assembly lines. Ryan watched racks of upright metallic canisters move from station to station as workers measured, filled and capped the cartridges, fabricating incendiary bombs by the thousands. Signs warned of the caustic nature of the white phosphorus they handled. The workers’ scruffy dress contrasted sharply with the spotless workspace. Despite the white gloves and eye-guards, many worked with forearms exposed. At each station, fire-fighting equipment hung from racks. Guards stood at the ends of the assembly lines, while neatly smocked overseers paced the rows, watching for errors in assembly or handling.
Director Obermeyer entered his office and cordially greeted Ryan. The industrialist with the jovial pig eyes appeared better suited to hefting liters of Oktoberfest beer than running such a fastidious munitions complex. Ryan’s visit was clearly expected, and the porcine Obermeyer seemed eager to please. Taking his place behind the desk, the director reviewed Ryan’s documents. A frown settled over his face and he took a moment to wipe perspiration from his brow. The power and influence of Canaris, Ryan suspected.
“It’s to be our Fräulein Lesney, then?” He had quickly rediscovered his friendly manner. “She will be missed, but what can one do?” Obermeyer’s shrug strained his well-cut suit and added an extra chin to the double roll at the collar. Ryan was at first surprised the director knew an individual forced laborer by name among many hundreds laboring in his plant, but Marita’s charms came to mind and he understood perfectly.
“I wish to see her immediately,” Ryan retrieved the documents from the desk.
“My staff will need a few minutes to prepare the release papers, so I beg your indulgence.” The director rose with some difficulty from his deep leather chair. “Meanwhile, may I offer you some coffee, sir? Real beans, not that ersatz brew.” His teeth were remarkably white compared to Berliners’. Perhaps a man of his wealth could afford a private dentist.
“No to the coffee, but thank you. I’ll speak first with Mademoiselle Lesney, and then we’re off.” Affluence built on the backs of slave labor sickened him, and he wanted Marita out of here as quickly as possible. Cordiality was a strain.
“Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll have her brought up immediately.” Obermeyer was already at the door. “And should you change your mind about coffee, just tell my girl outside. Real coffee from beans is quite a treat these days, you know.” The door shut behind him. The man was obviously anxious to distance himself from any matter deserving of Canaris’ personal attention.
Ten minutes later Ryan sprang to his feet as Marita entered. He forced himself to put on a good face despite her changed appearance. Captivity had transformed her. Always slender, she was now rail-thin. Her arms were covered in raw welts and crusting scabs. Once-splendid hair was bobbed and dull, and dark circles rimmed her eyes. He was shocked and infuriated as he drew her into his arms. “Here I am, as promised!” he whispered.
Then she smiled, and the warmth and beauty he had known for years emerged. She buried her face to his chest. “You shouldn’t see me like this, mon Chéri. I’ve had no time to prepare!”
He hugged her more tightly, feeling the fragility beneath the smock. “It’s all over now, darling. We’re getting you out of here, out of Germany altogether. Before you know it, you’ll feel yourself again.” She was trembling and he insisted they sit. She wiped away tears, her once-lacquered nails worn to the quick. Determined to say nothing about her appearance, he focused on her imminent freedom. “We can leave immediately. I’ve valid travel papers for you—a Swiss passport and German exit visa. We head directly to Basel.”
“Switzerland?” Her voice weak, tentative. “Not Paris?”
He took her hands in his. “France is out of the question for now, darling. You’re sure to remain a Gestapo target for some time, but Switzerland is another world—you’ll love it! You’d never know there’s a war on. The streets are well-lit at night, and the people sit outside in the day and enjoy the lovely surroundings—and I’ll see you’re well looked after.” He saw the doubt in her eyes. “We can be together whenever I’m there,” he added.
She took back her hands, trying to hide the damaged nails. “With Florian gone, who will look after his family?”
“Florian didn’t die—he’s doing fine! Argent and I got him to the American Hospital and he’s recovered splendidly. The man’s a beast—takes more than a couple of bullets to bring him down. And Rolf von Haldheim helps the family out with expenses, so you can forget that worry.”
Her eyes appeared vacant, retrieving a memory. “Where’s Argent?”
Ryan knew any reply would be upsetting. “I wish I knew. We planned to be here together but it took some time to locate you and he hasn’t checked in yet. Rolf is also in the dark for now.” She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Marita, but he’s just out of touch for the moment. We’re certain to hear back from him soon. It’s quite common in undercover work to be out-of-touch.”
She remained silent, eyes shut. Was she coming to terms with a lover who might have given up on her? Ryan tracked the minute hand on the wall clock. At last Marita looked up and spoke, now decisively. “Argent won’t be coming—I’m certain of that.” She sighed deeply. “It’s just the way things are.”
“What nonsense! He’ll check in soon, and your worry will have been for nothing. But now, we forget everything except getting you out of this damned place. If we hurry, we can be leave for Basel by noon.”
Marita’s face suddenly filled with resolve. “My dear Ryan, I can’t go with you to Switzerland.” She paused as he tried to make sense of her words. “Men are always like that with women, believing they can swoop in and make everything right. You want to rescue us and make us happy. But it doesn’t work that way, despite your best intentions, despite your love—and I know that at some level you do love me.” She placed a finger to his lips to force his silence. “No, hear me out, darling, this decision is final.” She kissed him lightly, her lips dry and cracked. “I’m so very grateful for all you’ve done, and I’m sure it’s cost you and your friends a great deal. But now there’s something I must tell you. Since that moment I unwittingly sent my family to their death, I’ve found only one satisfying purpose in life—helping others where I can. That’s why I’m here in this place—that’s why I must stay.”
“Let all that go for now. You’re clearly exhausted. Things will look much better once you’re out of this hell.” He gestured toward the work hall below. “Come on! We�
��ll find new ways you can help. Thanks to this damned war there’s no shortage of those in need.” He tried to help her to her feet. “You can rely on me.”
“No! You’re not hearing what I’m saying.” She took his hands in hers. “I can’t leave. There are girls here, young girls who’ll never see their loved ones again. They’re enslaved and forced to do unimaginable things, all for the pleasure of the Reich! They look to me to help them through this horror, so how can I leave them for some easy life, knowing they still suffer and die? How can I?” She was in tears. “Could you?”
Dumbfounded, Ryan was still unwilling to give in. “But you’ll die here, Marita! Anyone can see how hard this has already been on you!” He silently cursed himself for mentioning her appearance. “No one survives long under these circumstances—you must understand that!”
Despite the tears, a faint smile grew into quiet laughter, as if she were finally releasing a burden. “You should have seen me a few days ago, a crone with mismatched wooden clogs. This,” she gestured to the drab gray of her costume, “this is haute couture.” She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “No, Ryan. I can’t leave them—not now, not ever. They’re only children, and they’re my new family.”
“But look at your arms—the chemicals are eating away the skin, poisoning your body!”
“That’s just it—things have changed here. The director has offered me a new position which I’ve accepted. Having owned a night club could serve me well and benefit his business interests, so I’m to oversee the brothel used by his foreign workers.”
He was stunned. “You’re to run a whorehouse?”
Fulcrum of Malice Page 31
