Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Much obliged, mate.”

  First mate Gunnar Torgerson was a Swede with a thick accent and not a wisp of a smile on his face, which was carved from solid granite. “Never heard of CMB Shipping.”

  Benji nodded. “Small outfit. Two cargos, one tanker, three tramps.”

  “What ports of call did you hit?”

  “Shanghai, Hong Kong, Singapore, Sydney, two in India, Alexandria, and Marseilles.”

  That seemed to impress him. “But not back to the States. Why’s that?”

  “Had a girl in Munich. Stopped off for five weeks with her family.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll be honest with you,” Benji went on. “I’m going back for that same girl. Hope to give her a ring, if she’ll have me. Won’t be going any further than Hamburg with you.”

  “We might not make Hamburg. With all the talk of war by the Krauts, our skipper’s talking about avoiding Germany altogether. But we are stopping at Southampton first.”

  Benji had checked out the European ports before he left. “If Hamburg’s out, then I’ll be getting off in Southampton.”

  “Fair enough. Fifteen dollars a day. We sail with the tide tomorrow morning, 3:10 a.m. Be here an hour early.”

  “Uh . . .” He held up his bag and bedroll, then grinned. “Any chance I could trade an extra day of work—no cost to you—for a place to sleep tonight?”

  The first mate grunted and nodded. “What’s your handle?”

  “Benji. But everyone calls me Rev.”

  “Rev?”

  “Yeah. For Reverend.”

  There was a flicker of surprise, but nothing more. He called to a sailor swabbing the decks near the bow. “Hey, Johnnie! Find this guy a bunk then put him to work.” He turned back to Benji. “Welcome aboard, Rev.”

  November 8, 1938, 8:46 a.m.—

  American Embassy, #4 Grosvenor Gardens, London

  Benji looked up as the sound of voices broke into his thoughts. The line in front of the embassy was now almost to the end of the block. He was about halfway along. But the noise was coming from near the end of the line. He turned to look. Just past the last people, a newspaper boy was surrounded by people and was handing out papers and taking in coins. Benji turned to the guy just behind him and pointed. “What’s going on?”

  “No idea,” he said, obviously not caring.

  “Will you hold my place? I’ll be right back.”

  He nodded, so Benji stepped out and headed down the block. The newsboy saw him coming and started toward him, waving a paper in the air. He looked to be maybe twelve or thirteen. “Extra, extra! Read all about it! German diplomat shot in Paris.”

  “How much?” Benji asked as he walked up.

  “Ten pence.”

  Fishing in his pocket, Benji drew out a handful of coins and held them out for him. The boy examined them and selected one. He held it up for Benji to see. “Ten pence, eh?” Then he grinned. “You a Yank?”

  “Aye,” Benji said, suppressing a smile. “You a Brit?”

  “Not on yer life, mate,” he said with an impudent grin. “Them Brits, they all got their snoots in the air. Me? I’m pure East London Cockney. No relation whatsoever.”

  Laughing, Benji waved, then turned and returned to his place in line. The story was on the front page.

  JEWISH REFUGEE SHOOTS GERMAN DIPLOMAT IN PARIS EMBASSY

  Seventeen-year-old Herschel Grynszpan, a Jewish refugee from Germany, shot and killed Ernst vom Rath, Third Secretary of the German Delegation in Paris. Grynszpan, whose father was recently arrested by the German Gestapo and sent off with thousands of other Jews to an internment camp in Poland, admits to coming to the embassy with the specific intent to kill the ambassador. Eyewitnesses say that Grynszpan entered the embassy and demanded an audience with the ambassador. When Rath come out to see him, Grynszpan opened fire, hitting him three times. Grynszpan then immediately dropped the weapon and surrendered without further resistance. Rath was not killed but is in hospital in critical condition and is not expected to live.

  This act of terrorism has shaken not only Paris but the entire German nation. Preliminary reaction from the German government is one of shock and outrage. “This horrific crime must not go unpunished,” said one high-ranking official who refused to have his name released.

  Hermann Goering, second only to Adolf Hitler in the Nazi hierarchy, hinted that this was not the act of a single deranged gunman but the result of a continuing Jewish conspiracy that seeks to overthrow the legitimate government of the Third Reich. He vowed that the perpetrators will be brought to justice. When pressed for more details, Goering said that in coming days, the world shall see how Germany responds to their enemies. Further details on the response of the government to this heinous act are expected to be forthcoming.

  Benji lowered the paper, shaking his head. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. The fellow that had held his place held out his hand. “Mind if I have a look?”

  “Not at all. I’m done with it.”

  November 8, 1938, 10:46 a.m.—

  American Embassy, London

  Benji forced himself to draw a deep breath, count to three, and give himself a little pep talk.

  It isn’t her, Benji. It’s the system. She’s a young woman trying to be helpful. She may even be a little flirtatious with you, which could work to your advantage. You’re tired. You’re hungry. You’re frustrated. You’re grumpy as a bear coming out of hibernation. You get her mad, and you could be here for another two or three hours.

  So he took another deep breath, put on as bright a smile as he could muster, and started again. “I’m sorry that this is so complicated, Miss Mapleton, so let me see if I can kind of sum it up. I have spent the last three years in Germany. I returned home just six weeks ago and—”

  “And why were you living in Germany for three years?”

  Benji winced. He had skipped that because it tended to make people uncomfortable. It certainly had at the German Embassy the day before. “I was a missionary for my church.”

  Her reaction was no surprise. “A missionary? I thought you had to be married for that.”

  “Not in our church.” He hurried on before she could ask him more. “So anyway, I went home for six weeks, but now I am going back to visit friends in Germany. As I said, I came over on a freighter from New York to Southampton. From there I went straight to the port of Dover, planning to catch a ferry across to Holland, then go on to Germany. But when the Holland authorities looked at my passport, they said my visa was no longer valid and that I had to get a new one from the German Embassy here in London.”

  “Which was wrong. You should have come here first.”

  “Yes, that’s what they said after I had been there for four hours.”

  That won him some sympathy. “I can see why you’re frustrated. But, Mr. Westland, what I don’t understand is, why didn’t you take care of all of this before you left New York? It would have been so much simpler.”

  Another deep breath. “Because I didn’t know that when you leave Germany and they stamp your passport, it cancels your visa. No one told me that. The German Embassy sent me here because they said getting a tourist visa from you would be much simpler and much quicker than trying to get the visa renewed or reinstated with them. So here I am.”

  She smiled, and it was genuine. “I’m sorry that it has been so difficult for you. Unfortunately that’s something I can’t do. But—” She raised her finger as he started to groan. “But I’m going to send you to one of our supervisors who can.” She took a small card from a stack. It had the number 17 on it. “Here is your number. I’ll put your name on the list.”

  “And how long will that take? I’m hoping to catch the train back to Dover before the last ferry leaves.”

  She gave him that enigmatic, noncommital shrug that bureaucratic emplo
yees the world over have mastered since time immemorial, which said, “I don’t know and I don’t care, because it’s not my problem anymore.” She pointed to her left. “The waiting room is down the hall on the right. Have a good day, Mr. Westland.”

  12:23 p.m.

  “Excuse me? May I have your attention please?” Benji groaned and sat up, looking around. He realized that he had dozed off, using his valise as a very uncomfortable pillow. He automatically glanced at the board where a poster was pinned on corkboard. On top it read: “NOW SERVING.” Below, there was a small, plastic pocket taped to it, which held card number 15. He groaned again. An hour and a half and still two to go.

  “Does anyone here speak German?” It was a man who had just come into the waiting room.

  That brought Benji fully awake. He raised his hand. “I do.” No one else in the room moved.

  The man peered at him, frowning. “How good is your German?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Come with me, then. Bring your things.”

  “What about my number?” He held up his card.

  “Bring it with you.”

  12:26 p.m.

  Benji held up both hands to halt the flood of words. “Ja, ja, Herr Schultzke. I understand all of that now.” That had taken several minutes to accomplish. The man had been so agitated that he barely made sense. “Please. Give me a moment to explain to them what’s happening.”

  “Ah, ja, ja. Sorry. But I am so worried about my Hulda.”

  “Hold on.” Benji turned to the woman at the desk. “Okay, here is the problem. His name is Artur Schultzke. He’s from Saxony, Germany. He and his wife are Jewish and are on their way to America. They have a daughter and her family who live here.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Then he is in the wrong place. He needs to be in room—”

  Benji cut her off. “Sorry, but the reason he is so agitated is because his wife is ill, but she is still outside the embassy in the line. He pushed his way to the front of the line to see if he could get help in getting her inside.”

  The woman jumped to her feet. “Oh, my. Of course, of course. I’ll call for someone immediately.”

  “I can go out with you and translate if you’d like.”

  Just then someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Joseph Wilkinson, the supervisor who had brought him there. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Westland. We found one of our translators, and he’s coming now. If you could just tell Mr. Schultzke to wait a moment or two longer, we will have someone here to help him and his wife.” He turned to the secretary. “Jeanette, translation is sending someone. Have them get Mrs. Schultzke inside and take her to the infirmary. Then I’ll be back to help you from there.”

  Benji turned and quickly explained things to Herr Schultzke, who thanked him profusely. As the clerk led him to a chair, Benji turned to the supervisor, fishing his number out of his pocket. “I hope this doesn’t mean I have to go to the end of the line again,” he said ruefully.

  Wilkinson smiled and took the card from him. “Actually, Mr. Westland, no. We appreciate your willingness to help. So while you were talking to Mr. Schultzke, I took your papers to one of the clerks. She is processing them now. They will be ready in about ten minutes.”

  Benji’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

  Wilkinson chuckled. “Yes, startling as that may be. But . . . uh. . . .” He took Benji by the elbow and led him over to the corner, turned his back to the room, and lowered his voice. “Mr. Westland, would you be willing to spend another hour or two with us if—”

  “What? No! What now?”

  He smiled. “We know that is a serious inconvenience for you, so what if I told you that in exchange for that inconvenience, we will pay for a taxi to take you to the train station and also purchase your train ticket to Dover?”

  Benji was stunned. “Uh. . . .”

  “And in addition, we will contact the emigration officials there at the port and assure that you will have no problems getting approval to enter Holland and Germany.”

  “But . . . why would you do that?”

  “Well, first of all, we know that you are anxious to be on your way and that this will delay you further. Second, you were very helpful to us just now, and we’re grateful for that.” His smile broadened. “And third, because we have someone who would like to meet you before you leave.” Though Benji’s mind was whirling, this was not a difficult question. A free ride to Dover and greasing the skids when he got there? “All right. I accept.”

  “Good, come with me.”

  The door they stopped at after passing through several hallways had a plaque attached to it that read British Liaison Office. Wilkinson knocked twice.

  “Come in,” a male voice called from within.

  3:25 p.m.—County Kent, England

  Out the window, the lush countryside of Southeast England rushed past in a blur. Benji stared out at it, but his thoughts were not on what he was seeing. Not in any way. What he was seeing in his mind was the image of Nigel McKensie, Head of the British Liaison Office attached to the American embassy. And he was still trying to sort out why he had been taken there at all.

  Nigel McKensie was the picture of British aristocracy, though Benji had no way of knowing if he really was an aristocrat. He was probably in his early fifties. His hair looked as though he had come directly from the barbershop. It was silver-grey and combed back, with a part on the left side. Not a single hair was out of place. He was clean-shaven except for a pencil-thin mustache that perfectly matched his hair. Light green eyes seemed alive to everything around him, but his hands rested motionless on his lap.

  The moment Wilkinson finished introducing them and closed the door behind them, McKensie had switched to German. Perfect, fluent German with a Berlin accent. They had not spoken English again until Wilkinson had returned to escort Benji out to Grosvenor Square and put him in a taxi.

  As he thought back on it now, it seemed less of a conversation and more of an interrogation. Nigel, as he insisted Benji call him, was curious about how Benji had acquired such excellent German. “If I had met you on the streets of Germany, I would never have taken you for a Yank,” he had said.

  So Benji told him about how his mother came from German stock and how they had brought his grandmother to live with them, which led to them speaking German in their home. Benji explained that he personally had never known his Grandmother Zimmer, because she had died before he was born, but with both of his parents and his older siblings speaking German, he had naturally picked it up. Nigel frequently interrupted to pepper him with questions. How long had she lived with them? About twenty years. Did your family speak German daily or just from time to time? Daily until he was ten or older. Not so much anymore. He was especially interested when Benji told him that his father had been called as a missionary to Germany before the war and then returned afterward on a humanitarian mission.

  It was at about that point that Nigel had abruptly stood up, said he’d be right back, and left the office. Two minutes later he was back with a woman, also a Brit, who was somewhat plump, in her early thirties, wore a simple gold wedding band, and spoke German every bit as fluently as he did, only with a different accent that he could not place. Nigel introduced her only as Cassandra, but then always called her Cassie.

  When Benji then explained how he had followed in his father’s footsteps and also served a mission in Germany for “his church,” the questions began again, this time coming from both of them. What church? The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Ah, the Mormons. Which totally surprised Benji. Nigel hadn’t heard of them, but Cassie said she had a neighbor and good friend who was a Mormon.

  An inkling of what this was all about came when Nigel asked Benji if he had had any run-ins with the law. He hesitated on that one. Would that change their mind about giving him the visa? Was that what was going on here? But he decide
d to be honest and told them about his incarceration in the Sacramento City jail, including the details about Mose and his death. That didn’t seem to concern them much, and he began to relax.

  But then Cassie had leaned in and asked, “And what about Germany? Any problems with the law there?” Again he hesitated; again he decided to be completely honest. If this was going to be a problem for him in Germany, better that he know it now. So he told them about being arrested by the Gestapo in Dresden and being held for several hours before being released.

  Cassie jumped on that like a frog going after a fly, pressing him for every detail. When he finished, she asked one last question. “Did you ever, in the remaining two years of your mission, have that issue come up again in any way?” When he assured her that nothing more had come of it, she sat back and nodded at Nigel.

  And that had ended the conversation. Nigel had abruptly stood up, thanked Benji for his time, handed him a business card, scribbled his phone extension on the back, told him to call him if he had any problems in Germany, and called for Wilkinson to come and get him. As they were about to leave, Cassie had smiled at him warmly and said that she hoped to meet Lisa someday and that if that worked out, to let them know when the wedding would be.

  And now here he was on his way to Dover. Soon he would be in Munich and with the Eckhardts. He closed his eyes and sighed. Finally!

  November 9, 1938, 7:10 p.m.—Eckhardt Home

  When the knock on the door sounded, everyone turned, but Hans Otto reacted the quickest. He was out of his chair and left the kitchen on the run. Hans started to get up but then sank back down again. “Another solicitor,” he guessed.

  “Not this late,” Emilee said, shaking her head.

  But a moment later, Hans Otto opened the door and poked his head in. “It’s a man, Papa,” he whispered. “He says it is urgent that he talks to you.”

  Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Hans gave Emilee a puzzled look and got up. As he went through the door, Hans Otto started after him. “No, Hans Otto,” he said. “Go back and finish your supper.” When Hans Otto started to protest, Hans stamped his foot and pointed. “Now!”