His eyes were almost black and unreadable in the near darkness, but she sensed his hesitation. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “My roommate is gone until Sunday.” She laughed, trying not to sound too eager. “And my nosey old landlady isn’t home yet either.”
“Uh . . .” His shoulders lifted and fell. “Ah, Katie, I. . . .”
She moved in again, putting her arms around his waist and laying her head against his chest. “I think I’m falling for you, Sergeant Hans Eckhardt.” She gave a diffident laugh. “How’s that for a surprise?”
One hand came up, and with his finger he lifted her chin so she was looking up at him. “Oh, Katya, I cannot express how tempting that is right now. You are beautiful. You are incredibly funny and charming and. . . .”
She stepped back slowly. “But?”
The sigh was long and deep. “But I have to catch the first train in the morning and go up to Pasewalk.”
“How early?” she said, fighting back the hurt.
“Early. And all my stuff is back at the hotel. I. . . .”
“Is there someone else, Hans? Another woman?”
“No,” he blurted. Then, like a flash he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Lies come so easily to you, Hans. So he shook his head. “Not yet. Probably not.” He finally met her gaze. “But I have to find out.”
“I understand.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is that the only reason? Be honest with me, Hans. You owe me that much.”
“Yes, Katya. Yes! I swear.”
“Then, believe it or not, I’m glad. I’m glad you’re that kind of a man, Hans.” Then, before he could see the tears in her eyes, she turned away, getting out her key. At the top of the steps, she stopped, not turning. “Will you let me know?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Either way?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Good night, Hans. And thank you again for a wonderful evening.”
January 3, 1919, 11:22 a.m.—Pasewalk Military Hospital
“Dr. Schnebling?”
The man coming toward him down the hallway looked up in surprise. “Sergeant Eckhardt?”
“Yes, good morning.” He walked up swiftly and shook his hand.
“You’re back again?”
“Yes, sir. I just came by train. I know you’re busy, sir. But could I have just two minutes?”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“About an hour and a half. The receptionist said you were in surgery.”
“Yes, and I have another appointment waiting, and—”
“Two minutes, I swear. Then I won’t be coming back again.”
The older man searched Hans’s face for a long moment and then gestured toward a small alcove off the hallway.
“Okay, two minutes.”
Hans didn’t wait for them to get seated. He quickly summarized what had happened since they had last talked almost a month ago. “I tried to call Nurse Fromme on Monday, but her brother said she was still in Königsberg. Is that possible? When I arrived here about three hours ago, I tried to phone Emilee. No answer. I went to the house. It looked deserted.”
Dr. Schnebling nodded. “Yes, Emilee and Ernst are still in Königsberg. At least, I assume they are. They’ve disconnected the phone there and I haven’t talked to her. But her mother and Heinz-Albert have moved in with my family temporarily while they’re gone.”
Hans rocked back. “No wonder I can’t reach them.”
A shadow passed across the doctor’s face. “Elfriede—Emilee’s mother—is not doing well. The cold and the limited rations are taking a heavy toll on her.”
“Then why doesn’t Emilee come back?” Hans exclaimed. “Can’t selling the house wait?”
Schnebling studied him for a moment, clearly angered by his outburst. “Because they weren’t able to get enough gasoline to return home until yesterday. Because now their truck won’t start. Because gangs of hooligans are stopping cars and trucks and looting them of anything of value. That’s why. So maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”
“The truck? Did Ernst say what it was?”
“He doesn’t know what it is,” he snapped. “They’ve tried to get a mechanic to come look at it, but with it still being the holidays, they can’t get anyone there before Monday. They’re desperate. If Ernst doesn’t have it back by Sunday night, his friend in the butcher business won’t be able to make his deliveries and could be ruined. So, Sergeant,” he said coldly, “as I said. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”
Seeing his mistake, Hans quickly apologized. “You’re right. I’m sorry for sounding angry with them. It’s not their fault. I know that. But that’s why I’m here, Doctor. I’ve been worried because I couldn’t contact Emilee. I’ve come to see if I can help.”
“Well, you can’t,” the doctor muttered, obviously not mollified by Hans’s apology.
“Tell me where she is. Tell me how to find them in Königsberg.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“What can you do? Go up and hold her hand? Tell her you’ve missed her? I hate to be blunt, Sergeant Eckhardt, but you are just one more complication in Emilee’s life right now.”
Hans wanted to grab him and shake him, but instead he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What can I do? I’ll tell you.” He fished in his breast pocket and retrieved his railway pass. “In the first place, thanks to a kind and generous hospital administrator I once knew, I have this.” He waved it in front of the doctor’s face. “Which means I can be Königsberg by tonight.”
That startled Schnebling for a moment, but then he started to shake his head again. Hans rushed on. “And, sir, as you may remember from my personnel file, I spent the first two years of my army service in the transportation corps driving trucks. And to qualify as a truck driver you also have to know how to repair engines of all kinds.”
Dr. Schnebling was staring at him. “So you think you might be able to fix the truck?”
“Not might, sir. I can fix it. From what you’ve said, I think I already know what the problem is.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“Come on, Doctor. I checked the train schedule when I got in. There’s a train going north in just under an hour. We can sit here and debate my credentials, or I can be on that train. What’ll it be?”
Schnebling’s eyes probed Hans’s for several seconds. Then he reached in his pocket and withdrew a small pad.
A prescription? Hans was incredulous. He’s going to write me a prescription?
Schnebling ripped off the top sheet, retrieved a pen from his pocket, and stepped to the wall. He turned the prescription paper over and quickly scribbled something on the back and handed it to Hans. He had written “Küblerstrasse 17, Königsberg, East Prussia.” “I’m sorry I doubted you, Sergeant. Go! And tell Emilee to call me tonight and let me know what is happening.”
Taking the paper, Hans snapped off a salute, spun on his heel, and took off down the hallway. By noon, he was on a train headed north.
January 3, 1919, 8:43 p.m.—Küblerstrasse 17, Königsberg
As soon as he saw the truck, he knew he’d found the right address. It was parked out front of a small framed home with a slat fence and large iron gate. What gave it away was that the hood was propped open—a definite sign that something was kaputt. Crossing the street, he stopped and peered at the engine. Diesel or regular engine? That was the first question.
He wasn’t surprised to see that there were spark plug wires. So it wasn’t a diesel. He had guessed that. Diesels were not yet common in trucks, especially the bigger ones.
“Hey! Get away from that truck.”
Hans jerked up, cracking his head on the underside of the hood. A tall, very solidly built man in shirtsleeves was coming out of the gate in long strides. Judging from the look on his face in the light of the street lamp, he wasn’t coming out to introduce himself. Hans quickly stepped away from the vehi
cle, raising his hands in the air so the man could see that he wasn’t armed in any way. Then he remembered what Schnebling had said about the social chaos spreading across Königsberg, and he realized he had just made a very foolish mistake.
He raised his hands even higher. “It’s all right,” he cried. “I was just looking.” The man swore at him, and as he got closer, Hans saw that he was carrying a short length of shovel handle. “I heard you needed a mechanic,” he blurted, backing up three or four more steps.
That finally slowed the man, and he came to a stop on the sidewalk. “Who told you that?”
“Dr. Artur Schnebling.”
The man blinked and then blinked again. “You’re from Pasewalk?”
“Most recently, but I’m from the south of Germany originally.” He was glad to see the shovel handle drop into a vertical position and rest against his pant leg. Hans slowly lowered his hands. “My name is Hans Otto Eckhardt. I’m a friend of Emilee’s.”
The man blinked yet again, as if this was a little more than his brain could take in at one time. Then finally he spoke. “What are you doing here?”
Hans smiled. “You must be Ernst, am I right?” When he nodded, Hans continued, “Well, Ernst, like I said, I heard that you were in need of a mechanic.”
Ernst’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Emilee never said anything about you being a mechanic.”
“We didn’t talk about it much,” he said easily, relaxing now. “But I was with the Fourth Transport Brigade, Third Division, Fifth Army. Two years driving trucks and that much fixing them.”
Hans fell back as Ernst came at him, right hand extended, and smiling like a man who had just won a gold medal in the Olympics. “Ernst Fromme,” he boomed. He pumped Hans’s hand so hard that Hans felt his teeth click together. Then, just as abruptly, he spun around, cupped one hand to his mouth, and bellowed, “Emilee! Emilee! Come out here.”
They heard the front door open. “Who is it, Ernst?”
Now it was Hans who was grinning.
“Come and see.”
A moment later, a figure appeared at the front gate. She stopped, peering out through the wrought iron. Then, with a squeal, she flung open the gate and came flying at him. “Hans?”
He laughed as she threw herself at him, nearly bowling him over. He swung her up, twirling her around and around. When he finally set her down, she stepped back, breathless with excitement. “Is it really you? I can’t believe my eyes.”
He glanced at Ernst to see how he had taken such an enthusiastic welcome, but he was beaming almost as much as she was. “Guten Abend, Nurse Fromme,” he chuckled. “Yes, it’s me, and I’m here to fix your truck. And. . . .” He stepped back. “Look at you. You look wonderful.”
She did a half twirl. “I’m on a new diet. It’s all the rage in Germany now, I understand. It is called the food-rationing diet. Very effective, don’t you think?”
Ernst wasn’t amused with this banter. “Can you fix it or not?” he said.
“Of course,” Hans said. “That’s why I came.”
Emilee stopped dead. “Do you really think you can? Oh, Hans. That would be wonderful.”
“Think I can,” he scoffed. “I beg your pardon, Fräulein. I know I can. Do you happen to have some rubbing alcohol?”
11:08 p.m.—Outskirts of Königsberg
“Hans?”
“Yeah, I see it, Ernst. Have you still got that shovel handle?”
“I do.” He reached down and then held it up.
Emilee’s hand shot out. She grabbed Hans’s arm, her fingers digging into his flesh even through his uniform sleeve.
“It’s all right, Emilee,” he said softly. “Stay calm.”
“But there are five of them. And one has a rifle.”
“Yes, I see that.” He let off the gas and shifted down one gear. The vehicle slowed dramatically.
The five men were in uniform, just as Hans was. One was waving his arms. The one with the rifle raised it and pointed it directly at them. They were standing beneath a street lamp, behind a low barricade of what looked like wooden apple and cabbage boxes that blocked the road. Hans glanced in the side mirror. There were no lights behind them. And no lights ahead of them. The road was deserted. As he shifted down again, he felt Emilee’s fingers tighten even more.
He reached across with his other hand and patted it. “Steady. Steady.”
“What are we going to do?” Ernst asked in a strained voice.
“We’re going to stop, of course.”
“No, Hans. They’ll steal the truck and everything in it.”
“No one is going to steal anything. Just listen. When I say ‘down,’ you both duck down as low as you can, all right?”
“Hans?”
“It’s all right, Emilee. These guys are a bunch of pigs and dumber than a pile of rocks. Like an apple box is going to stop a one-ton truck? So, again, when I say ‘down,’ you get down.” He looked at Ernst. “You shield Emilee as much as possible with your body. Okay?”
Ernst gave a curt nod, and Hans was pleased to see that the tightness in his face was more from anger than fear.
Hans shifted into the lowest gear and rolled down his side window. They were now just thirty or forty feet away from the barricade and moving at only about two miles an hour. The one man was still waving at them to stop. The one with the rifle stepped into the middle of the road, the muzzle of his weapon trained on Hans. Sticking his head out the window, Hans called, “Is there a problem?”
Ja, ja,” the man called back. “Halten Sie! Halten Sie!”
Lifting his foot off the gas pedal, Hans let the truck slow to a crawl. His right hand was on the knob of the gear shift. “Ready?” he whispered, glancing at Emilee.
Her face what white in the glow of the street lamp, but her head bobbed up and down once.
“Then here . . . we . . . go.” They were now just twenty feet from the first soldier. “Down!” he shouted. As Emilee and Ernst ducked down, Hans jammed his foot down on the gas pedal and jerked the wheel sharply to the left. For an instant the man’s eyes were startled, but then with a yell he dove to one side. Barely missing him, Hans jerked the wheel hard to the right. The truck careened wildly, but now it was bearing down on the rifleman. The man snapped off a shot, but it was high and wide. Then he too threw himself to one side as the truck hurtled past him. The other three men gaped in astonishment as the truck smashed through two of the wooden crates, blasting them into smithereens.
“Stay down!” Hans yelled as he rammed the gear shift into second gear and punched the gas pedal to the floor. Behind them the rifle cracked again. And once more. Then the rapidly diminishing band of thugs disappeared into the darkness.
Hans reached out and laid a hand on Emilee’s back. “It’s all right. You can get up now.”
Emilee and Ernst straightened. Ernst looked into his side view mirror. “Do you think they hit anything?” he said.
Hans grinned. “You may have a bullet hole in your sofa.” He reached out and found Emilee’s hand. “But now you’ve got something to tell your grandchildren.”
She managed a shaky smile as she gripped his hand tightly, but she said nothing. She was trembling too hard to speak.
January 4, 1918, 3:45 a.m.—Königsberg/Berlin Highway
“Ernst,” Hans asked in a low tone, “are you asleep?”
Emilee turned her head to look at her brother too, but the only discernible sound above the steady drumming of the engine was a low, sonorous rumble that sounded very much like someone snoring. Emilee turned back, smiling at Hans. “I think the answer is yes.”
“You’re sure?”
She reached over and poked his shoulder. “Ernst?”
He didn’t stir.
With two fairly large men, the cab of the truck was pretty full, and Emilee was squeezed in between Hans and her brother. But as she turned back, she slid even closer to Hans. When he looked at her in surprise, she ducked her head. “I think he needs a little more room.�
� And she slid another inch toward him.
“Totally agree,” Hans said. “He’s a big man.”
“Yes, he is.”
Hans chuckled. “In fact, when the engine finally kicked into life, I thought he was going to crush me. I’m six feet two inches, and he picked me up like I was a child.”
Emilee nodded soberly. “I’m not sure of this, because he would never admit it to me, but I think he actually threw up when the truck wouldn’t start. He was so sick with worry about not getting it back in time.”
“I understand. Ernst seems to be the kind of a man who keeps his word.”
“With great exactness. And when you said that it was a simple thing to fix the engine, that all you needed was some rubbing alcohol, he pretty well decided you were some kind of a crank, or just plain loony.”
“And was I right?”
“Yes, but you were pretty cocky about it up front, which didn’t do much for his confidence. To be honest, I had my doubts about your sanity too there for a minute. I mean, really? Rubbing alcohol? That you keep in the medicine cabinet?”
“So you were a skeptic too?”
She ignored his question. “So when it actually worked, Ernst was so elated, so relieved, of course he picked you up and nearly crushed you. I nearly did the same thing.”
“Now that I would have welcomed.”
She slugged him. “Be serious.”
“I was being serious.”
She slugged him again. “So how did you know that water in the gasoline was the problem? And how did you know that rubbing alcohol would help? Did they teach you that in the army?”
“About the water part, yes. Using isopropyl, or rubbing, alcohol, no. That’s an old truck driver’s trick that some of the old-timers taught us. So the diagnosis part was easy. Dr. Schnebling happened to mention that you had bought some gasoline. When I asked you and Ernst what was happening to the engine before it died, do you remember what you told me?”
“Yes. The engine was vibrating noticeably. There was a definite loss of power, an occasional backfire.”
Fire and Steel, Volume 2 Page 15
