Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

“Remember. No matter what. Don’t fight back. Act scared.”

  There was a soft, sarcastic grunt. “I’ll try.” That was followed by a quick intake of breath. “There they are. Up ahead. Just like before. And the same truck is parked behind them.” Anatoly let off the gas pedal, and the truck began to slow.

  “How many?”

  “Five. Three of them are armed. Two rifles. One pistol.”

  “In uniform?”

  “Yes.”

  Hans felt the anger surge up inside him. Men like these absolutely disgusted him.

  “Here we go,” Anatoly hissed as the truck came to a stop.

  Halten Sie!” a gruff voice barked. “Out of the truck. Now! Now!”

  Anatoly set the brake and shut off the engine. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he cried. It was a pretty good imitation of someone scared out of his wits.

  “Out! Out!” another voice barked.

  Hans felt the vehicle rock a little as Anatoly climbed out and shut the door behind him.

  The first voice growled again. “Kaspar, if that guy so much as blinks, shoot him.”

  There was a harsh hoot of laughter. “With pleasure, boss.”

  Heavy boots scraped briefly on pavement and then stopped. Through the window, Hans saw a man come up to Kharkov, a rifle pointed at his gut. Then the boss started barking orders. “Werner, go down the street a ways. Make sure those stupid cops don’t let anyone turn this way. Horst, you do the same up ahead of us.” As footsteps sounded, Hans watched through the slit in the canvas. A moment later a uniformed man sauntered past carrying a rifle. Werner, he guessed. Hans tensed as he heard the sound of boots on pavement coming closer to him.

  “Let’s see what our fat little friend has for us today,” the boss said. He gave a raspy laugh.

  Perfect! Hans had hoped the leader would be the one to come back and check out their haul. He pressed himself into the corner and raised the pistol. A moment later, the canvas was jerked back and the man stuck his head in. He didn’t look up but bent over the nearest tub and pulled it toward him. Grunting in satisfaction, he transferred the pistol to his left hand and leaned on the floor of the truck as he reached in with his right hand to push aside the ice that covered the meat. “Fresh pork, boys,” he called out. “And plenty of it.”

  Hans did two things simultaneously. He stomped down hard on the man’s left hand, knocking the pistol from his grasp. At the same instant, he jammed his own pistol into the man’s cheek bone and ground it down hard. The man yelped and tried to jerk away. Hans pressed harder with the pistol. “Don’t move!” he cried.

  “Karl?” It was another man’s voice. Karl tried to jerk free but could only scream as Hans dug the heel of his boot into the man’s forearm and leaned even harder into the pistol. “Tell them to stay back, maggot, or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “Karl?” Footsteps started moving toward them.

  Quick as a cat, Hans swooped down and grabbed Karl’s Luger and then leaned over him. “I’ve got a forty-five caliber Colt revolver pointed at your brain, you piece of garbage, so I suggest you tell your men to stand back, drop their weapons, and put their hands up.”

  From the faint light of the nearest street lamp Hans could see the man’s jaw set and his eyes were calculating his odds. He twisted the muzzle of the pistol back and forth against the man’s flesh hard enough that the gunsight on the barrel drew blood. “Now!” Hans screamed into his ear. “Do it now.”

  “Drop your weapons! Drop your weapons!” Karl shrieked, his eyes bulging out like marbles.

  Hans heard a rifle clatter to the pavement.

  “Step back!” Anatoly shouted. “Step back from your weapons.”

  Hans risked a quick glance down the street. Werner had heard the commotion and was sprinting toward them, his rifle up. Like lightning, Hans jumped down from the truck, spun Karl around to form a shield in front of him, and transferred the forty-five from Karl’s face to the nape of his neck. “Tell Werner to drop his rifle. Now!”

  Their leader screamed the order. Werner stopped short, wavering, and then laid his rifle on the sidewalk.

  “Tell everyone to get over there on the sidewalk where I can see them.” Then he raised his voice. “Get their weapons, driver.”

  “You heard him,” Karl shouted at them. When they just stared at him, he screamed at them. “Idiots! Over on the sidewalk. Now! Don’t try anything.” He reached up with the back of his hand and wiped at his cheek, leaving an ugly red smear across the flesh.

  Nudging him a little, Hans leaned in. “That’s better, Karl. We don’t want anyone hurt today, now do we?”

  He called to Anatoly again. “Put the weapons in the back of the truck.”

  As Karl started to move forward toward his men, Hans grabbed his arm. “Oh, no. Not so fast, maggot.”

  “I’ve got them,” Anatoly called as he appeared with a rifle. Hans handed him Karl’s pistol. After he put them in the truck, Hans nodded toward Werner’s rifle. “That one, too.”

  Karl half turned, trying to see their faces. “Masks, even? You think that’s going to stop us from coming after you?” he hissed.

  Hans flipped the forty-five from his right hand to his left, doubled up his fist, and drove it into the man’s side, aiming for the right kidney. Karl screamed with pain and dropped to his knees. Hans leaned down and spoke in his ear. “You talk when I tell you to talk, swine! Other than that, keep your mouth shut.”

  Anatoly’s eyes were wide as he came trotting up with the other rifle. “Keep the others covered,” Hans told him. Then he moved around to face Karl, who was still bent over, groaning with pain. Holding the pistol’s muzzle just inches from his face, Hans spoke quietly. “Empty your pockets.”

  Glowering at him, eyes glittering with hatred, Karl complied. Out came his identity card, a ration book, a wallet with a few bills in it. From another pocket he brought out a handful of coins and half a dozen bullets for the Luger. And a set of keys. Hans scooped up the wallet, the bullets, and the keys.

  “No,” Karl blurted. “Not the truck.”

  Hans lifted the pistol high, butt first, and Karl shrank back but didn’t look away. “It’s an army truck,” he said.

  “Not anymore,” Anatoly chortled.

  Karl ignored that, still looking at Hans.

  “You take that vehicle and they’ll hunt you down. If you’re a soldier, you know that’s true.”

  There was no question that it was a military vehicle. After a moment, Hans pocketed the keys, deciding that stealing an army truck was probably not a good idea. “All right,” he said. “We’re turning right on Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse. I’ll leave the keys behind the first fire hydrant we find on our side of the street.” Then he turned to the other men. “Take your boots off!”

  “In this cold?” Karl yelped. But he quickly started unlacing his army boots before Hans could hit him again. The others, muttering and swearing under their breath, did the same. “Driver,” Hans said to Anatoly, “collect their boots and put them in the back of the truck. We’re going to make a donation to the old soldiers’ home tomorrow.”

  Then, without warning, Hans reached down and patted the breast pocket of Karl’s tunic, which had a noticeable bulge in it. “I meant all of your pockets, Dummkopf.”

  “No!”

  Hans shook his head and pulled the hammer of the forty-five back until it clicked. Then he touched the muzzle against the tip of Karl’s nose. “What did you say?”

  Fumbling clumsily, hands shaking violently, Karl finally got the top button of his tunic undone and reached inside. He withdrew a sheaf of bills. As he handed it up, Hans nearly gasped aloud. The top bill was a hundred-mark note. Without a word he pocketed it and then grabbed Karl’s arm and dragged him to his feet, kicking his boots to one side. “Get out of here, scum,” he snarled. “And take that pack of curs with you.”

  As they stumbled away, Hans called out. “Not that way.” They were headed for the police station. “The other way.”
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  They whirled and broke into a stumbling run. He watched them until they were about a hundred feet away, and then Hans spoke to Anatoly. “Get the rest of the boots and start the engine. I’ll be right there.” He walked swiftly over to the other truck and pulled the canvas back. A moment later he came back with his arms loaded. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  Anatoly, as gleeful as a child at Christmas, turned to him. “Incredible, Hans. Absolutely incredible.”

  Hans, suddenly struggling to calm the tremors running up and down his body, threw back his head and laughed. “You think that’s incredible? Look at this!”

  He held up the sheaf of bills and waved it under his nose.

  January 11, 1919, 10:29 a.m.—Bayerischer Biergarten, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin

  Fritz Kharkov lifted his stein of ale high in the air. The foam head and some of the golden liquid sloshed over the rim and spilled down his arm. He gave it no mind. “To Hans!”

  “To Hans!” everyone in the restaurant roared back. Then they all drank deeply. Hans smiled. Only part of their merriment was for him. Most of it was because Fritzie was buying a second round of beer for everyone.

  “To der Donner and der Blitz Mann,” Uncle Anatoly yelled, wiping his mouth with his hand.

  “To the Thunder and Lightning Man,” everyone shouted back, tipping their mugs to Hans before taking another deep swig.

  “Enough!” Hans called “Let’s drink to Uncle Anatoly, who set the trap with perfect calm.”

  Fritzie Kharkov set his stein down and threw his arms around Anatoly in a crushing bear hug. “To Onkel Anatoly. Our brave driver.” Though his stein was drained by a third now, he still sloshed it over the top as he grabbed it up again and jerked it to his lips.

  The toasting went on like that for another several minutes, but when it became clear that Fritzie wasn’t going to offer any more steins of free beer, the celebration quickly died and the customers soon filed out. In five minutes, it was just Uncle Anatoly, Fritzie, Fritzie’s wife, Liliya, and Hans. Fortunately, their three children were all at school. Fritzie looked at his wife. “Schatzi, pull blinds down and put up closed sign. I want to hear it all again, and I don’t want interruptions.”

  “But, Fritzie, it will be time for the lunch crowd soon.”

  “Do it,” he said with an affectionate nudge. “We open again in few minutes, but I want to hear it again. This is a day of celebration.” He pointed to a table and they all sat down.

  “Okay,” he said, slapping the wood sharply in his enthusiasm. “From beginning.”

  Hans and Anatoly took turns going through it all again. When they finished, Fritzie turned to Hans. “And tell me again what you got from them.”

  Hans pointed to the corner, where two rifles were leaning against the wall. “Well, we now have two army-issue rifles and about a hundred rounds of ammunition for them. Also, our friend Karl contributed another pistol, and we found a box of shells for that.”

  “Contributed,” Liliya smiled. “I like that word.” She was a small woman with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. She was about the size of Hans’s mother, but next to Fritzie’s bearish mass she seemed like a child.

  “And one of them is yours, Hans,” Fritzie exclaimed. “Which one you like? You like rifle?”

  “No rifle. I can’t be lugging one of those around.” Hans reached in his pocket and withdrew the Colt revolver, waving it back and forth. “And I’m happy with this, if you’ll let me keep it.”

  “Of course, of course,” Fritzie roared. “What else you get?”

  Hans deferred to Anatoly with a nod, who gleefully responded.

  “We have five pairs of army boots, several cartons of cigarettes, and . . .” He slapped the table with his good hand. “And just under”—he paused for effect—“forty-five hundred marks!” He took a little bow. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen. You heard me right. Forty-five hundred!”

  Even though they already knew the amount, they exploded with applause, shouting and stomping their feet on the floor.

  Raising his stein of beer, Hans acknowledged the praise. “For a moment, I thought about making them take off their socks, too, but then I decided that the smell might spoil the meat.”

  Everyone roared.

  Fritzie snatched up his stein again. “To the boots.”

  “To the boots!” came the response.

  Hans sat back, feeling a little lightheaded. It was obvious that they were all a bit drunk. Across from him, Fritzie sobered. “Four thousand five hundred marks. Can you believe?”

  Fritzie reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He counted out several of them and slid them across the table to Hans. “And, dear Hans, rider of shotgun, two thousand of marks are yours.”

  Rocking back, Hans stared at the money. Finally, he looked up. “No, Fritzie. That’s way too much. I was just doing my job.”

  Liliya, who was sitting next to Hans, poked him. “Take it quickly. You will not see such generosity from this husband of mine again.”

  “Amen,” Anatoly cried.

  Fritzie was laughing too. “Be thankful I am drunk.” Then he went very serious. “It’s yours, Hans. We have great debt of gratitude. And this only small token.” He raised his stein again. “And I am raising wages to twenty-five marks per week. We call it ‘riding shotgun wages.’”

  Hans bowed solemnly. “Danke. Thank you very much.”

  Hans took the money and put it in the pocket of his overcoat along with his pistol. “Fritzie, we need to talk about the consequences of what happened this morning.”

  “Like what?” Liliya asked.

  Hans took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We outwitted five violent and lawless men this morning. We sent them home on a cold winter’s morning, without their boots, without their weapons, without their cigarettes, and without their money. A whole lot of money! But most of all, we absolutely humiliated them. Rubbed their noses in the mud. They’re not going to forget that.”

  Fritzie blinked twice, looking confused. “What you saying?”

  “I’m saying that we have to be prepared for retaliation.” He quickly held up his hand. “I think there’s very little chance of that. They have no idea who we were. And there are hundreds of trucks in Berlin. Thousands. And I really doubt they’ll want to tackle us a second time. But. . . .”

  The mood around the table had quickly soured. Anatoly murmered, “Ja, ja. Hans is right.”

  A stab of guilt hit Hans as he saw a dark shadow pass across Liliya’s face. She turned and looked at her husband, her eyes questioning. After a moment, he nodded. “Ja, I agree. We must be ready. Fight if we must. I am ready. What you think we do, Hans?”

  “Well, first, we stay away from the Zentralmarkthalle for a few weeks. It won’t be as close, but we’ll use the other markets for a while. Second, we’ll put one of the rifles in the truck. I’ll go with Anatoly on every run for a while. And Anatoly, I want you to keep one of the pistols with you at all times. Fritzie, you keep the other one where it’s in easy reach at all times.”

  “I keep it behind the bar,” Fritzie said.

  “Gut. And leave one of the rifles out in plain sight.” Hans looked around the table. “Word is going to spread rapidly among your regular customers about what happened today. And that’s good. Talk it up. Exaggerate the story a little. Let people know that the Kharkovs are armed and ready for any trouble. Having the rifle in plain sight will help.”

  Another thought came. “Are you still all right with me going up to Pasewalk tomorrow?”

  “Ja, ja, Sunday is always a slow day. We are fine.”

  “Thank you. When I get back, maybe I’ll sleep in the wine cellar for a few days so we can keep a guard posted at night.”

  Liliya reached out and touched Hans’s arm. “I could go to my mother’s for a time. Take the children out of school.”

  Hans nodded. “I think that’s a good idea, Liliya. We’re probably being overly cautious, but we don�
�t want to take any chances with the children.” He gave Fritzie a questioning look. “What do you think of that?”

  “Ja. Is good idea.”

  Liliya was visibly relieved. She stood up. “I’ll start packing.” Bending down, she kissed Hans on the cheek. “Danke,” she whispered. Then she left them.

  Hans waited until she started up the stairs before speaking again. “If you think it is better that I don’t go to Pasewalk, I can postpone that for a week.”

  Anatoly was shaking his head. “If they do find out who did it, it is you that they’ll be after. Maybe they will think you skipped town.”

  “I drink to that,” Fritzie Kharkov said quietly, raising his mug. Hans and Anatoly raised their mugs. Leaning in, they touched their rims together with a soft clink and then drank deeply.

  When they finished, Fritzie looked at the two of them. “All right. It’s time to open up for lunch.”

  “If you can do without me,” Hans said, “I’m going to go set up some trip wires around the grounds. Make sure the locks on the doors are in good condition. Then, if it’s all right, I think I will go pack my stuff and head for Pasewalk this afternoon. Make a weekend of it.”

  Fritizie waved him away. “You are free to do whatever you want this weekend, my friend. Anatoly and I owe you very much.”

  Anatoly tipped his glass to him. “Amen,” he said again. “Amen to that.”

  January 12, 1919, 6:50 p.m.—Fromme home, Pasewalk

  Hans got to his feet as Emilee came down the stairs, crossed the entryway, and entered the small drawing room, where he was waiting for her.

  “Is she asleep?”

  Emilee smiled briefly. “Oh, no. It’s too early still. She’ll read for a while. Probably drop off about eight o’clock or so.”

  “And then what time does she wake up?”

  “Usually not until seven o’clock or so. Sometimes even eight.”

  That took him aback. “She sleeps for eleven or twelve hours? Is that every night?”

  There were sudden tears. “Yes. Dr. Schnebling says that she’s gradually getting worse. Part of that is being aggravated by poor diet and not enough food.”