Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  There was an audible gasp, and instantly her face drained of color.

  He walked up to her and stuck out his other hand. “Your handbag, please.”

  She fell back another step. “No! Please. I have only a very little money.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he said.

  She understood his meaning exactly. “No, you don’t understand. I am not rich.”

  “Lady,” he said, “just give me the handbag.”

  “Please.” She was pleading now.

  He raised his hand so the bulge in the overcoat was pointing directly at her waist. “If you don’t give me the handbag, I’m going to rip it off your shoulder.”

  That did it. She reached up, removed the handbag and handed it across to him. Then her face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

  He stepped back, unmoved by the tears. Keeping one eye on her, he opened the handbag. It was filled with the normal things you saw in a woman’s handbag—a compact, a brush, a comb, lipstick, two letters, some keys. Ah! And a small woman’s wallet. It was as elegant and expensive as the purse.

  “Well, well,” he said, handing the purse back to her, “and what do we have here?”

  “Please. It’s not what you think.”

  He ignored her, and using his left hand he opened the wallet. And there it was. A whole fistful of marks. He felt a spurt of elation. He thumbed through them and saw that at least four of them were hundred-mark notes. Fantastic! He shot her a hard look. “You should have settled for the ten marks, lady.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes were smoldering now through the tears. There was fear there, too, but anger and defiance along with it. Hans ignored her. He felt like doing a little jig. Only the very wealthy would consider this kind of money to be pocket change. Any guilt he was feeling totally evaporated. This was her definition of having no money? Poor thing.

  Withdrawing his right hand from his pocket, he quickly removed the bills, stuffed them in his pocket, and tossed the wallet back to her. She made no effort to catch it, nor did she look at it when it dropped to the ground.

  Her head came up and her eyes met his. “My husband is dead.”

  That knocked Hans back a little. He leaned in, his eyes boring into hers. “I’m sorry to hear that. So you’re a rich widow. I’m sorry for your loss.” He turned and pointed. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re gonna go sit on that park bench where I was sitting. I’m going to walk away. But know this. I am a crack shot with a pistol. If you move before I disappear into those trees over there . . . Well, let’s just say, it won’t be pretty.”

  “You don’t understand,” she cried, taking a step forward, her fists clenched. “That is not my money. It’s the mortgage payment for my home. I . . . My husband was a captain in the war. He was killed last August in the Battle of the Somme.”

  Eyes narrowing, Hans searched her face. The Battle of the Somme, so named because it was fought near the Somme River in France, was considered to be one of the bloodiest and most costly battles of the war.

  She rushed on. “I haven’t been able to get his pension yet from the government. I finally borrowed enough money from my father-in-law to pay our house payment. It’s all I have.” She buried her face in her hands. “Please. I’ll lose my home.”

  Hans was torn, but then a thought hit him. “Wait. Your house payment is six or seven hundred marks a month? What kind of castle do you live in?”

  His question took her aback. “I . . . I’m trying to sell it. But if I don’t make this payment now, my children and I will be thrown out on the streets. Please. Take your ten marks. Take twenty. Fifty. But leave me the rest.”

  For a long moment, Hans stood there, studying her. One part of him was awash in guilt, but another part of him was sizing her up—the elegance of her clothes, the substantial diamond ring on her finger, the gold necklace at her throat. And the arrogance. Even in her desperation, she kept looking at him with utter disdain.

  It was the diamond ring that made up his mind. “Why don’t you sell some of your jewelry? That will pay your house payment.”

  Anger flared in her. “How dare you tell me what to do? My husband gave me this ring. I could never part with it.”

  Hans shook his head in amazement. “I’m touched. And to show you I’m not totally heartless, I’ll let you keep the ring. And the gold chain. And the fancy purse. And the elegant dress that probably cost you a hundred marks. Do with your life whatever you like, but as I said, you should have given me the ten marks. Now go sit down before I hurt you.”

  Without a word, her face tight with indignation, she picked up her wallet and purse and stepped past him. A moment later she was seated on the bench. She didn’t look at him again, just stared out across the snow-covered lawns. Wary now, not sure if she was going to try something, Hans watched her for several moments. Ignoring the tumult of feelings going on inside him, he called to her again. “Don’t try to run on me. You sit right where you are until I’m past those trees over there. If you move before then, I’ll shoot you down. You hear me?”

  There was no answer, no flicker of movement.

  Swearing to himself—at himself—Hans pushed back the thoughts of Emilee and his mother and the Dutch boy and the dike and structural integrity and took off in his shuffling walk for the stand of trees up ahead of him. He kept glancing over his shoulder, but she never moved. It was as if she had turned to stone.

  The line of trees—maples or lindens or something like that—was about fifty yards from the park bench. He realized that he was still at risk here. If she got up and bolted for the next street, she could have the police looking for him in five or ten minutes.

  Though stricken with guilt, he was nevertheless elated. “Sorry, Mama,” he said as he moved into the trees. “It’s not been a good day.”

  7:52 a.m.

  He had to stop about thirty yards into the trees. There was a slight rise of ground and it was too much for him. Turning, he looked back, peering through the trees at the park bench. He couldn’t tell if the woman was looking his way or not, but he was pleased to see that she was still taking him at his word. She hadn’t moved.

  He hunched over, pressing his left arm and elbow against the ribs to help ease the fiery pain there. And it was right then that he heard the voice speak. Not heard. More like felt it speak.

  “Peter.”

  He jerked up. The hair on the back of his neck was standing straight up and chills were coursing through his body. No one was anywhere in sight. He wasn’t even sure if he had heard it at all. It was like it was in his head. No, not in his head. It was just there.

  “Peter!” More emphatic this time.

  He realized that it wasn’t a woman’s voice. Nor a man’s either. It was just an eerie, chilling voice speaking at him.

  “Peter!” Louder. More demanding. More urgent.

  “What?” he cried in exasperation. “I’m not Peter. Who are you? What do you want?”

  He was answered by silence. His whole body was tingling—like when someone jumps out at you unexpectedly in the darkness. But there was nothing.

  Thoroughly spooked, Hans pulled his overcoat around him and started forward again. “I’m not Peter,” he muttered again, looking up through the bare branches of the trees.

  Then, out of the blue, he understood. It was the DTs. Delerium tremens. Latin for “shaking frenzy.” A violent but very real physiological reaction involving bodily tremors or seizures, mental confusion, and vivid hallucinations. Caused when one drinks too much alcohol in a short period of time, especially on an empty stomach. He and Franck had learned that from an army doctor after going on a binge during a weekend leave early on in their friendship.

  The relief was so immense that he threw back his head and laughed up at the sky. “Good one. You nearly had me,” he cried.

  Hans straightened, glancing back at Lady Glitz one last time to make sure she hadn’t moved—she hadn’t—and then started forward again. He go
t another ten steps before it hit him. In one flash of perfect clarity, he knew who Peter was. His words to his mother on that last morning in Graswang hit like a physical blow. “His name wasn’t Peter, Mutti.” At which she had shot right back, “Peter’s a pretty common name in Holland, you know.”

  Hans stood there for what seemed like several minutes, and then he turned around and painfully started back down the hill toward the bench.

  January 15, 1919, 7:55 a.m.—Volkspark Friedrichshain, Berlin

  When the woman saw Hans coming out of the trees again, she got slowly to her feet. As he got closer, he saw that she was rigid with fright. Afraid that she might bolt, Hans called out to her. “It’s all right, Frau.” He pulled both hands out of his pockets and held them up. “I don’t really have a pistol. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to give your money back to you.”

  Skittish as a baby fawn, she poised there looking around nervously. There were pedestrians passing by on the street that bordered the park, and that seemed to bolster her courage, even though they were fifty or sixty yards away. Finally, she turned slowly to face him.

  As Hans shuffled up to her, he pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She didn’t move to take it. “I don’t understand.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m not a thief and a robber.”

  She stared at him in utter disbelief, still not taking the money. Then he saw her nose wrinkle a little and she pulled back. He suspected that she had just caught a whiff of his tunic and the residue of his two-day binge.

  Anxious to be out of her presence, he reached out and tucked the money in her coat pocket. “I deeply regret my actions. I was desperate and lost my head.” He stared at the ground. “And if my mother were here right now, she would be crimson with shame.”

  He started to back up and turn away.

  “Wait!” she cried. She was clearly having trouble believing this was actually happening.

  He turned back. Withdrawing the money from her pocket, she peeled off one of the bills. “Don’t,” he said. “That’s not why I came back.”

  It was a twenty-mark note—which looked like a small fortune to him at the moment. “I wish I could give you more, but . . . The bank, you know.”

  Too desperate to let his pride speak for him, Hans took the money from her and shoved it into his overcoat pocket. “That is very generous of you, Frau. . . .”

  “Von Schiller,” she said.

  Of course, he thought. He should have known that her name would have a “von” in it. It was the designator of noble, wealthy, and powerful families.

  “Countess Monika von Schiller,” she said, seemingly amused by his reaction.

  His jaw went slack. He had just committed armed robbery on a countess?

  “Of the Leipzig von Schillers,” she went on, pulling a face. “Who have recently fallen on hard times.”

  “I . . .” Hans was awed in spite of himself. “I dated a countess once.”

  The woman was instantly skeptical. “Truthfully?”

  “Yes. Lady Magdalena Margitte Maria von Kruger.”

  Her mouth fell open a little. “Of the Munich von Krugers?”

  “Yes. I was a student at the Von Kruger Academy.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “My name is Sergeant Hans Otto Eckhardt. I am from Bavaria.”

  “What family in Bavaria?” There was new respect in her voice.

  He laughed. “I doubt that you would know them. My father is a milchbauer.”

  She visibly recoiled.

  “Yes. And like you, I too have fallen on hard times.” When the woman said nothing, Hans straightened, suddenly feeling the vastness of the social gap between them. “I’ll be going now. And, again, please forgive me for the wrong I have done you.”

  She turned her head, looking toward the street. A long, black car had pulled up to the curb. A man in a uniform got out. He shouted and started waving. The countess gave a little cry of joy.

  “What?” Hans cried.

  “My . . . uh . . . neighbor has taken pity on me,” she said. “That is his chauffeur.”

  “Well then, I shall bid you farewell.”

  She swung back around and to his utter surprise grabbed his hand. “No, wait. You are having difficulty walking. We will take you home.”

  Hans was stunned. “No, I. . . .”

  “Please. Since I cannot give you more money, let me do this for you.”

  Another man had gotten out of the car, and he and the chauffeur were walking swiftly toward them. Hans started as he realized the second man was in the uniform of an Imperial Army officer. “Uh . . .” He started to back away. Tempting as it was to have a ride to the hotel, he wasn’t about to get into that car and let an officer see—and smell—the state he was in.

  She grabbed his elbow and hung on. “Please, Sergeant. I feel so awful for treating you so badly. Don’t go. That’s our neighbor and good friend, Captain Wilhelm Ballif. He is a good man. He will gladly take you anywhere you want.”

  By this point the two men had broken into a trot and were approaching rapidly. Had it not been for Hans’s battered body, he might have turned and sprinted for the trees. Instead, he accepted what he could not change. With a sigh, he nodded and turned to face the approaching men.

  The officer was in the lead now. He was solidly built, with a square face and strikingly handsome features. He did not have his cap on, and Hans noted that his dark hair was streaked with grey. He looked to be in his early forties. Then he noticed something odd. The insignias on the man’s greatcoat were not those of a captain, but of a colonel.

  The man rushed up to her and reached out, grabbed her hands, and pulled her close. “Darling, are you all right?”

  Darling?

  The countess laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, Stefan, I am fine.”

  Wait. Stefan? But she had just called him Wilhelm.

  “I can’t believe you decided to walk,” he said, sternly now.

  She gave a little toss of her head. “It’s all right, Schatzi.” She went up and kissed him, not on the cheek but on the lips.

  Before Hans could process that, she turned to face him. He was shocked to see that those flawless features were now an ugly mask of fury. “Stefan, this beast, this hateful man, tried to rob me at gunpoint.”

  “What?!” Even as the colonel cried out, he snatched the Luger from the holster in his belt. Hans lunged to one side, but the chauffeur was on him and drove him to his knees. A millisecond later he felt the cold steel of the Luger’s muzzle grinding into the flesh just behind his ear.

  “Move and you die,” a voice hissed in his ear. Then a moment later, “Alfred, go find a policeman.”

  10:55 a.m.—Hotel Lindenberg, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin

  “Is this it, Fräulein?”

  Emilee looked out the window of the taxi at the three-story building with the dilapidated sign over the entrance. “Just a moment.” She opened her purse and extracted the paper. “Yes. The Hotel Lindenberg. This is it. How much is the fare?”

  “Seventy-eight Pfennige.”

  Emilee took a one-mark note from her purse and handed it up to the driver. “Keep the change.”

  “Danke.” He half turned in his seat. “Don’t know what your plans are, Fräulein, but it’s best if you don’t go into the central part of the city today.”

  She smiled. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. I know about the general strike.”

  “Good. There have already been clashes between the Socialists and the government.”

  That raised a question in Emilee’s mind. “But taxi drivers are not joining the general strike?”

  The driver frowned. “Many are, but some, such as myself, do not stand with them.”

  As the taxi drove away, Emilee stood there for a moment, eyeing the building across the street. Hans had called it a “flophouse.” She saw now that it was a pretty accurate description. The building had to be eighty years old
. The bricks were dark with accumulated soot and smoke. Several of the windows had visible cracks in them. Two or three sported cardboard patches over broken-out segments.

  Emilee took a quick breath, clutched her purse tightly to her side, and darted across the street. A moment later, she was inside the lobby. She took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light and then turned as a movement in the far corner caught her eye. A man in dark pants and a white undershirt was getting up from a large overstuffed chair. From the expression on his face, she guessed that she had awakened him from a nap.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  He was an older man with a day’s growth of whiskers, a bald head, and tufts of black hair on his chest poking out from beneath his undershirt. His eyes were small and close-set, giving him a bit of a feral look. They were staring at her with unabashed interest. Then he spoke again. “If you’re looking for a room, this is a men-only hotel.”

  “I’m not.”

  He walked across the lobby and went through a half door that put him behind the main desk. She saw him glance at her hands, checking for a ring. “Then how can I help you, Fräulein?”

  “I am looking for one of your tenants. At least, I was told that he is staying here.”

  “I see. And what is his name, bitte?”

  “Hans Otto Eckhardt. Sergeant Hans Otto Eckhardt.”

  His eyebrows lifted momentarily, as if he found that hard to believe. “And are you a relative of his?”

  “You might say that. We are engaged to be married.”

  That clearly startled him. “I . . . I don’t believe he’s in at the moment.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  He shook his head. “My son works the night shift. He said Sergeant Eckhardt left at about ten thirty. According to Georg, he was just going to find something to eat.”

  “At that time of night?” Emilee asked skeptically.