The Knife-Edge Path

by Patrick T. Leahy

  Stumpff stood stock still, watching them.

  Obermeyer’s eyes rolled sideways, then back.

  Stumpff’s hand crept onto his holster like a spider feeling for the snap. He tore at it, fumbled out the gun and had it up along his belt when it went off.

  Obermeyer yelped as a bullet strummed a loud, sour chord in the piano, and Stumpff kept firing at Obermeyer’s twisting figure until it jackknifed and crashed into the lamp, eyes locked in a dizzy, searching perplexity.

  The smell of cordite laced the air.

  Stumpff looked at the gun in his hand as if he didn’t know how it got there, his face a plump white apoplectic mask. His eyes found Geli.

  She started to say, “Drop the gun,” when shoes thudded into the kitchen doorway. There was a sound like the quick swish of maracas.

  Stumpff twitched and looked down at the hole in his sleeve. The hiss of another shot bucked in De Vos’s hand, and buckling at the knees Stumpff began to crumple slowly, then pitched onto Geli’s feet, clutching at her ankles. Slowly his hands began to loosen and he rolled over onto his back, and lay there, breathing thinly as he groped at the dark red blood seeping into his coat just above his belt and through his fingers. He struggled to get up, fell back onto his elbow, gasping for air. His eyes fixed on Geli. Blood ran from the side of his mouth, and formless words seemed to splash around, blowing little bubbles as he stared up at her, begging for something. Something she knew then that she had almost felt for him, swimming feebly toward her, going under.

  “Tell me I was right about my boy. Tell me - I never, never wanted -” Gasping for air he blew more bubbles that drained into a red rivulet like a brushstroke down along his mump jowl.

  De Vos stepped sharply to her side, pointing his gun downward. As he fired Stumpff jumped, then suddenly was still.

  Geli looked down at the dying face still looking up at her and her hand clapped over her mouth, muffling the sob she knew should not be there. She dropped her hand and looked up and De Vos stood inches from her, glaring, eyes aflame, gun pointed at her gut. His eyes clenched as they met hers, and fear arched up out of her groin whipping like a live wire. “Now are you going to shoot me?”

  De Vos let the gun drop loosely to his side.

  She stared at him and felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

  “It’s not for me to do what Kurt might regret,” he said.

  Geli caved in. Blood rushed throbbing into her head and, feeling faint, she swallowed back a sob.

  De Vos looked down at Stumpff’s dead eyes, snuffing contemptuously. “Got to know him, did you? How touching.”

  Geli looked at him. Defiance had no words for all he didn’t know. She felt again the swelling in her throat.

  De Vos said, “Funny he didn’t let the flunky shoot you. Like you’d be less dead if somebody else did it.”

  “We’ll never know, will we?”

  De Vos gave her another look that seemed to want to break out into loathing. “I wouldn’t shed a tear for that filth.”

  She stepped a little closer to the body and looked down at the cherubic face, devoid of sight like fish eyes in a basket. Almost more human now, as if life still moved under his gloves, but never had the chance. In his way, she thought, he had loved her, and she could say it only in a whisper, like a requiem he would laugh off, if he could. Obermeyer lay twisted over there, one arm up on the sofa, the carcass of a jackal. She took a step away from Stumpff. “He never could stay clean enough,” she said, “by letting people die but never killing them himself.”

  “Are you all packed?” De Vos said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then dry your tears and let’s get out of here.”

  Part 2

  19

  The American Major leaned on his horn. People with bundles tied to bicycles steered, wobbling, to the sides of the road. The jeep bucked over bumps, careered around a bend. Beside the American the British Major grabbed for the door handle and held on. In the back seat Geli reached for Kurt, then took her hand back as they came out of the curve. He hadn’t sought to hold her, just made a rigid iron handle of his arm for her to hang onto.

  The bright sun shone on a trampled meadow to their right. They passed a dead horse lying in the ditch, still harnessed to its cart. Flies prowled its dully glistening eyes and clung to the ripped hide bloating under stiffened legs. Out in the full sun a girl lay asleep, her straw hat crumpled against her pink cheek. Sometimes a refugee would wave at them from the side of the road. A weary wave, but with a smile. Rottweil was coming up. Majors Haught and Evans had offered them a lift back on the outskirts of Reutlingen. What was going to happen next, Geli didn’t know. The jeep swung suddenly leftward, Haught drove a few yards up the narrow street, pulled over and stopped. He was a rangy Texan with a big, kindly face and a way of looking at you that seemed to send back into his mind some request for the words that were to follow in his orderly drawl. You had to give him time to think.

  “This must be it,” he said.

  The shingle swinging outside the neat three-story stucco building read, HOTEL MOHREN.

  Major Evans twisted around, smiling at Kurt. “The French commandant’s got his command post here. Chap named Darlan. We’ll introduce you. Not to worry. Just leave it to us. We’ll make sure you don’t get off on the wrong foot.”

  Evans flashed another reassuring smile. He was a slight man with cheerful eyes who looked too young for his rank.

  Kurt nodded.

  Geli kept quiet. It wasn’t her place to say anything. She could be his girlfriend, a relative, they didn’t seem to care. They hadn’t asked her for any proof of her identity. In time she knew somebody would.

  Haught swung his long legs over the side of the jeep, saying, “I see no reason why they shouldn’t put you up here for a while, Langsdorff. Let us do the talking. These frogs are kind of funny about guys like you. You know what I mean?”

  They all walked into the lobby, Kurt in his rumpled uniform, minus a cap, Geli in tan slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. Heads turned as they came in, eyes prowled the tall man in the SS uniform walking with them, not in handcuffs. French voices chattered in the office behind the registration desk. Halfway up the stairway to the first landing two French officers were haggling in heated voices. Haught led the way up to the front desk.

  Behind it a man in the uniform of the French gendarmerie tapped a ledger with a pencil as he watched them. In French he said flintily, “Something I can do for you?” Laying eyes on Kurt, he tightened up on his scowl with a hard squint.

  Haught leaned his elbow on the counter. “No offense, pal, but that went right past me.”

  Kurt stepped forward and in English said, “That’s all right, I speak French.”

  The gendarme glared at Kurt. He looked at Evans, switched to English and said brusquely, “Who is this man? Your prisoner?”

  “Actually, no,” Evans said. “He’s in our custody temporarily. We’re treating him as a prisoner for his own protection. We’d like to get him into one of your rooms if that’s at all possible.”

  The gendarme glowered at Geli. “Who’s she?”

  Haught leaned a little harder on his elbow, sketching spirals with his fingernail on the pitted counter. “What we’d like to do is have a word with Colonel Darlan about this man. How about you tell us where he’s at? Think you can do that for us, partner?”

  The gendarme looked Kurt up and down as if the next thing he was going to do was spit or hold his nose. “You want a room for this chien? This mauvais?”

  Haught pulled back from the counter, eyes flashing indignantly. With a glance at Evans he said, “What is this shit, anyway, Dan?” He pinned a hard look on the gendarme. “For the last time, buddy, this man is in our custody. When you insult him, you insult us.”

  Stepping back, Kurt held onto his forbearing smile. “You can’t blame him, Major. To him I’m a dog. A bad boy. No love lost for the enemy who should be dead.”

  “Oh, yeah? Translate stupi
d shit for me so I can tell this guy where to get off.”

  Kurt made a mildly warning gesture, raising both hands.

  Haught slapped the counter, and looked about to lace into the gendarme when Evans spoke up. “Look here, Constable whatever-your-name-is. Our fellow here has a certificate from the military commandant of Reutlingen. Langsdorff, let’s see that chit we got back there from Colonel Villon.”

  Kurt dug into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled square of paper. He peeled it open and tossed it on the counter where it did a pirouette before the gendarme slammed his hand down on it like a fly had done him the courtesy of coming to a fatal standstill.

  “Read it aloud,” Haught demanded. “Not in French, if you don’t mind straining the gut.”

  Geli almost laughed. She’d had her share of run-ins with the French. Now she felt funny about having to remind herself that she was one of them.

  The gendarme shot them all a hot glance before he held the paper under his nose and started to read in a wooden, stingy tone, “The bearer is not a genuine member of the SS and is not to be treated as such. On the contrary, he is to be treated with every consideration.” The gendarme shrugged and flicked the paper back onto the counter. His English became raw, defiant. “I have no authority to give this man a room. To me, he belongs in prison.”

  Shaking his head slowly, Haught turned woeful eyes on Evans. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Dan. Did we just come off a cakewalk at Normandy and start picking up German hitchhikers because we were bored?” Haught leaned his full attention across the counter toward the gendarme. In his face pain cranked up disbelief. “Find Darlan for us, or else when we find him ourselves we’ll have to tell him how helpful you’ve been. Then maybe he’ll let you carry our friend’s bag up to his room. How does that grab you, partner?”

  In a soothing yet still crisp voice Evans said, “Yes, if you’d be good enough to point us in the direction of Colonel Darlan, we’ll just go on up and have a word with him.”

  “Room 202,” the gendarme said through clenched teeth. “Take the stairs. The elevator is out of order.”

  Colonel Darlan sat behind a desk in a room that commanded a sweeping view across Rottweil in the direction of the advancing front. He was a stocky man of about sixty with worry carved into his forehead like a Boxer dog’s. He was listening to another French officer who was pointing at a map spread out on the desk. He cradled the overwrought furrows of his forehead in one hand, sighed and nodded as the officer’s finger shot here and there, pressing on various locations. Awareness of the group of strangers finally brought Darlan’s eyes up. “Gentlemen? What can I do for you?”

  Evans stepped forward, saluting. “Colonel Darlan?”

  “At your service.”

  “Major Evans, sir. My colleague and I, here – Major Haught – we’re attached to the U.S. Third Army. We have a person here we think you’ll be quite interested in. Allow me to introduce Kurt Langsdorff. He surrendered to the French commandant in Reutlingen this morning. That would be Colonel Villon. We’re doing Villon a bit of a favor by bringing Langsdorff here to you. He had rather a rough go dodging the fanatics on the lookout for deserters to shoot, that’s why he hasn’t ditched his uniform, you see. He thought we might discuss his being employed in the army security service. We were thinking of the anti-Werewolf force, that sort of thing. Major Haught and I, we’ve had rather a long chat with him ourselves. To make a long story short, we’re convinced that he’s as much an enemy of the Nazis as we are. He’s got some very important things to tell you about what happened in the Nazi concentration camps. He stands ready to serve as a material witness to bring the guilty parties to justice.”

  “Guilty parties,” Darlan mused. “That’s all well and good, Major -”

  “Evans, sir.”

  “Yes, Evans. As you can see, I’ve got my hands full with the occupation of this area.”

  “Of course, sir. The thing is, our fellow here is quite worn out, and he has some very important information to discuss with you. We have no authorization to keep him. Our people told us to hand him over to yours. Now if you don’t want him -”

  Darlan’s eyes found Geli. “And the woman? To whom does she belong?”

  Haught stepped forward. “Mlle Miroux was with him when we picked them up. They’re – as far as we know, quite good friends.”

  “I see. In no way related, I take it.” He looked straight at Geli.

  “We have been together since Berlin,” she said.

  “You’re French?”

  Beside her, Kurt moved uneasily. He’d been so reticent, almost hostile, since Ubbink and De Vos had left them off, and they had got in with the mobs of refugees moving westward.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Your name?”

  “Miroux,” Geli said. “Simone Miroux.”

  “And you have papers to prove that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re from -?”

  “Provence. I’ve lived in Germany for some time. My sister, Maxine, lives in Paris. Would you -?”

  Darlan waved his hand. “We’ll look into that later, if necessary.” Darlan turned a sober look on Haught. “We’d like to take this man off your hands, but I really don’t know where we’re going to put him.”

  “Let me point out, sir,” Haught said, “that like a lot of other Germans in uniform, he could have tried to disappear into the woodwork. The fact that he hasn’t means he’s taking a pretty damn big risk, here, and I think we ought to respect that.”

  Darlan picked up a pencil, let it flop onto the desk under his hand. “The best we can do is to keep him here in, shall we say, honorable captivity, until my security officer catches up to me from Constance. Other accommodations will have to be found for the woman.”

  “The woman’ smarted on Geli’s pride. She swallowed and said, “I don’t expect to be given special consideration, Colonel.”

  Darlan raised his eyebrows. “Ah, but special consideration is due. We’ll find someplace for you. I’ll see to it personally. You won’t be left out in the cold.”

  She lowered her eyes, in silence telling him the cold would be all right with her if that was all there was.

  Haught laid his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Sounds pretty reasonable to me, Langsdorff. Whatta you think?”

  Kurt searched Haught’s face but didn’t speak, as if he was ashamed to.

  Evans said in a patient voice, “Keeping you here for a few days will give you a chance to finish that report you showed us, Langsdorff. They’ll want some sort of testament in black and white, I’m sure, when the time comes.”

  Kurt’s eyes clung to Haught. “Yes, my report. That’s all I have except -” He glanced at Geli, then as if mistaken left her standing there, looking more alone himself.

  Darlan pulled a pad of paper under the pencil in his left hand and wrote on it. “Very well, take this downstairs and show it to the gendarme. He’ll assign a room to Herr Langsdorff.” He wrote some more on the pad, tore the paper off and handed it to Evans. “Wait in the lobby, Madame, until I find some temporary place for you to stay.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Haught said, “but that guy down there behind the desk is not the friendliest cuss in the world.”

  “He’ll obey orders, regardless of his manners. Otherwise he’ll answer to me.”

  “That’s good enough for us, sir,” Evans said. “Thank you.”

  Haught blurted in a flighty tone, “I see you’re left-handed, sir. I didn’t think you folks had any lefties.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” Darlan said. “We’ve got dwarf painters.”

  Haught hacked out a burst of laughter. “Hey, that’s good, sir! You got me there!”

  Darlan said to Geli, “Once you’ve finished downstairs, Madame, come back up here to me.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said.

  Out in the corridor near the head of the stairway Haught hesitated before stepping off. “So far, Dan, I haven’t seen one frog that eats wi
th his left fucking hand. So Colonel know-it-all gives me an art lesson like I just got off the turnip truck from Del Rio.”

  “You have to do your homework on the French before you criticize them, John. They can’t bear playing second fiddle.”

  Haught took Kurt’s arm. “Okay now, Langsdorff. Going on the premise that not all frogs are assholes, we’ll see if we can’t get you a bath and a change of clothes before we take off. You’ve got two strikes against you in those boots and pants.”

  Geli heard them talking like she didn’t exist, and maybe she didn’t, she thought.

  Evans chimed in, “Darlan’s not a bad chap, actually. Let your report do the talking for you. That’s your ace in the hole. Do that and I don’t see why they won’t see things your way, precisely as we have.”

  Kurt didn’t smile. Geli felt his coolness, some wedge driven between them. He didn’t touch her, make any sign that they were in this thing together, or that, when the time came, she’d be there for him to call upon. He’d been so distant toward her on the long road from Berlin. How often had she got the feeling that love, after all, was too much to ask. She didn’t question him. She was afraid to know. Was it his wife? She’d thought of that. The woman he had sued for divorce to protect her, left behind. She’d tried to write it off, seeing the pain in his face, the enormities lost in the life now descending toward the littleness of begging for a room from people who detested Germans. And she was not the bad girl anymore, the spy, but still the person she knew least of all – herself.

  The gendarme behind the desk read with pursed lips Darlan’s note. He assigned a room to Kurt on the third floor, number 313, told him that he was to report here to the Gendarmerie three times a day. He would have to wait his turn to bathe on the ground floor. The plumbing upstairs was not in working order. No visitors allowed, without permission.

  Geli swallowed, leaving the lump in her throat. They were to be kept apart. She had to find a way around that. But how? Could she risk asking Darlan upstairs?