Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “You’ll be a correspondent at large, doing stringer work as you’ve done before. With the necessary identity papers, of course. Feel free to file a few stories, to keep up the appearances, but your primary task will be identifying anti-Nazis still active behind the scenes, or willing to step up if and when the time comes.”

  Ryan took a few moments to consider. He sensed Edward’s eyes on him. “I don’t see any difficulties with that, I’m still in touch with a few of my old friends and acquaintances.”

  “We can offer them assurances of support—primarily financial at this point—but we’ll intervene in other ways where we can. Committed contacts, that’s what we really need, clandestine agents over there should Johnny march off to war again.”

  “Wouldn’t trustworthy, German-born Americans handle this better?”

  “We’ve a few in training, others already in place, but you yourself know what it’s like. Having a family can be a detriment. Plenty of denunciations going on, and it’s way too easy for the Gestapo to use parents or grandparents as collateral and turn our agents. We prefer Americans who can pass for European without the familial ties.” Kohl paused to light his pipe. “And you qualify.”

  The proposed undertaking was exciting, but he recognized the potential danger. He knew how the Nazis worked: Isabel’s disappearance, René’s near-fatal beating, and his own close-call in Marburg. But to return to Europe, to actually spy for his country, was more than intriguing compared to the humdrum life on campus. “Are we talking months, or longer? I’ve commitments at Baker.”

  “No worries there. You’re almost free of this semester’s classes, and we can make a leave of absence easy.” He smiled and set down the pipe. “We’re government, you know. A few weeks of training before we fly you over, and then you’re basically on your own. An open-ended summer vacation, paid by Uncle Sam himself. Ed here tells me you’re fond of airplanes?”

  “I’ve flown a number of times within Europe, but never across the Atlantic. Plus a few glider lessons in Marburg. It’s beautiful up there.”

  “Tried it once, came down sicker than a dog. But we need our people in place quickly, so you fly.”

  “No problem there.”

  “Once in Europe, we’ll keep you on the ground—forgive the pun—indefinitely, mostly in the Reich, but France, as well. It’s anybody’s guess how long the French will hold out if Hitler turns west once he’s finished with the east. Things are moving at a rapid pace, and if we wait too long, getting this type of information will become seriously problematic.”

  “At least a year abroad then. And the financial arrangements?”

  “I’ll let the accounting boys handle specifics. Suffice to say that travel and living expenses will be covered, including incidentals, here and abroad. And extra for inducements, you know, bar tab one day, grease a palm the next. Still a lot of guesswork on our part, we’re just now getting a good handle on all this. But you’ll be living much better than a college professor.”

  “And specific assignments?”

  “Occasional requests from here, information from outside sources to verify, some special piece of intelligence needed, perhaps. But for the most part, just track down your own contacts and material. Ed here will be your control. Your shared family background should make things easier with codes, that sort of thing.”

  Ed finally spoke up: “We might use some of the Cherokee we picked up as kids when Mother took us out to the reservation for her charity work.”

  “By the way, Dr. Lemmon, you’ve done some acting at—” Kohl glanced again at the papers, “Kansas University?”

  “A little.”

  “Good, because solid acting skills will help if you run into trouble, and we can’t promise to be there to help.” Kohl closed the file and leaned back in his chair. “So, are you in our little game?”

  Edward watched his brother expectantly. Despite Ryan’s determination to take his time, to instill a bit of doubt in Ed’s conviction, his decision was already made. A broad grin spread across his face as he reached to shake Kohl’s hand.

  “I’m in,” he said, and Edward smiled.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The secluded farm lay in rich, rolling country outside Alexandria, Virginia. It consisted of a large white farmhouse, several former stables converted to relatively comfortable dorms, and a vast horse barn, now equipped for classroom training without an animal in sight.

  Upon his arrival Ryan wore a distinctive ring he had purchased on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. Now he had to surrender the gold band to the indoctrination officer, along with any other personal belongings. They disappeared into a sealed pouch for the duration of training. He was issued a simple uniform of khaki. The recruits were to know nothing of the fellow participants’ former lives, and each trainee received a code name. Personal information in the wrong hands could put both agent and classmates at risk. His heavy gold ring bearing an onyx cameo of a gladiator did however inspire Ryan’s code name, “Firenze.” Ryan did not tell the officer about the ring’s finely-crafted compartment, ostensibly a replica of a Roman original designed to carry poison. Ideal for a spy, he thought, and laughed at the absurdity.

  He quickly mastered the tradecraft—shortwave radio communication and simple codes, couriers and drops, hand-to-hand fighting and small weapons use. He was familiar with shotguns from shooting skeet on a cousin’s farm in Missouri, but the handling of pistols was new, and he practiced his aim—both short- and long-distance—on the firing range and in a section of the barn fitted out to resemble a German alley and hotel room. The more complex code work proved challenging, and he hoped never to rely on it.

  Yet boredom occasionally set in when their instructors devoted long hours to aspects of German daily life already familiar to Ryan from his years in the Reich. He had to force himself to pay close attention. The instructors, just back from Germany, were fluent in the up-to-date vocabulary and behavior required in the police state, where any deviation from the norm was immediate cause for suspicion.

  The trainees learned what to expect when showing identity papers to authorities, what publications were acceptable to read in public, and how to spot the secret police on sight. When you believe yourself observed by a Gestapo agent, approach the observer directly and request directions; a guilty person always looks the other way or tries to evade detection. Checking over one’s shoulder, the so-called “German glance,” was a dead give-away that could leave you dead.

  Edward came out to the farm to meet him in private and work on personal communication codes. He, too, was required to don the khakis. Once close as youngsters, the brothers had spent little time together since Ryan’s move to Europe. Now together again for days, the two reconnected. They reviewed a list of Ryan’s European acquaintances, identifying those who might prove willing to help undermine the Nazi machine. With maps spread out on a drafting table, they agreed on potential contact points as Ryan followed a pre-planned itinerary across eastern France and into the Reich. Normal communications with Ed would be through contacts at American embassies or consulates, although cables or phones were always available in an emergency. Since lines were uniformly tapped, the code language would come in handy in such cases. His cover as a correspondent for the Washington Post provided a drop point at their offices in Paris and Berlin. Ryan memorized names and numbers which might prove useful, and he and Ed agreed on a few Cherokee words to express special needs or verbally alert the other to danger.

  It felt good to exercise strenuously again. He hadn’t noticed how years of sedentary teaching had robbed him of the stamina taken for granted when he had walked and bicycled throughout Europe and swum at every opportunity. He and the other recruits ran several miles a day and did demanding calisthenics, and he left the training camp in peak physical condition, feeling himself once again the college athlete.

  At a final dinner with Edward and Grace, they announced that a niece or nephew would arrive in the coming year. Ryan found himself pleased, but als
o envious. Over his years at Baker his dating had been a constant search for the spirit and passion he had found in Isabel and Erika. As the day of his departure approached, the idea of settling down suddenly became appealing. He realized the dangers he would face made any promise of stability in an unstable world all the more tempting. But Europe was in his blood, and he knew it was time to revisit Germany, time to reconnect with his past.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The North Atlantic, always challenging for ships due to its fierce seas, storms and icebergs, was now putting their large aircraft to the test. The Sikorsky Clipper III was the world’s largest passenger plane and it bucked and shuddered in the face of severe and shifting winds. Pan American was running survey flights from Newfoundland to Ireland in anticipation of setting up a new passenger route, and a small group of unidentified guests was along for the bumpy ride.

  Someone in The Group had pulled serious strings to get the five unrecorded passengers onboard, each of whom had anticipated taking the established southern route via Jamaica, the Azores and Lisbon. Ryan and his companions were experiencing what Pan Am hoped to offer wealthy paying passengers soon—shorter transatlantic flights at speeds far superior to the sluggish dirigibles. But instead of the luxurious trappings planned for commercial application, the passengers were roughing it without stewardesses or cocktails. They probably would not have kept the drinks down, anyway, as evidenced by the widespread use of airsickness bags. Ryan, however, reveled in the flight, and as the seaplane approached the British Isles the clouds below opened to welcome him back to Europe under bright rays of sun.

  He caught an Imperial Airways flight from Foynes to London where he found a modest hotel near Victoria Station. July was ending, the weather hot and muggy. Escaping the confines of his room, took an evening stroll and noted anti-Semitic graffiti scrawled on walls and sidewalks, British Fascists and Nazi sympathizers making their opinions clear. The next morning, hungry and rested, he hurriedly downed eggs and sausage with Earl Grey at his hotel before boarding the first available train to Dover.

  The Channel crossing was uneventful, and by late afternoon he was in Paris. The streets were somber. A palpable tension filled the air as if all Parisians held a collective breath. Ryan missed the joie de vivre he remembered so well. Newsboys shouted reports of violent protests in the city and pro-Nazi demonstrations in Alsace and Lorraine.

  He found a small table at a sidewalk café on Saint-Germain-des-Prés and read Le Monde over an espresso. He scanned a long article on recently passed anti-Semitic legislation in Germany. Jews could no longer work in the stock market, real estate, lending, and most commercial fields, and must declare their assets and sell their businesses. All Jews would now carry police-issued identification cards. A related news report followed up on the July 5th international conference convened by Roosevelt at Evian on Lake Geneva. Most of the participants, including the United States, indicated a desire to further restrict Jewish immigration. Where will Jews forced out of the Reich go? He set the paper aside.

  His covert game was finally in play, and it was time to link up with old friends in Paris, Burgundy and Alsace. Ryan mentally reviewed the list of people he planned to contact in eastern France before crossing the Rhine. He already dreaded entering Germany, not from fear, but simply because he knew it would erode the last cherished memories of a country that had won his devotion nearly a decade earlier.

  His first phone call was to a small night club in Montmartre and he arranged to drop in that evening at eleven. Ryan had first seen Marita Lesney in 1929 when she brightened the stage at the Folies Bergère. He had waited outside the stage door for three nights in a row before she had consented to go out with him. Their affair was brief, but over the years she had written him regular updates on her life. His old Berlin address served as poste restante, and the Old Major had forwarded her letters and cards on to America, usually with a suggestive comment of his own. Ryan had only responded once or twice. But upon learning he would return to Europe in the summer, he had sent an air mail letter suggesting this rendezvous.

  Two years before, Marita and her sister Marie, herself a former dancer, pooled their savings to open La Chatte bottée in a converted movie theater. The burly doorman with shaved head led Ryan across the lobby toward a narrow staircase. Beyond the red velvet curtain a musical revue was in progress as scantily-clad young women danced to the raucous accompaniment of a small band. Couples occupied tiny tables with room for little more than small shaded lamps, ashtrays, and beverages. The lively flurry of feathers and bare flesh turned Ryan’s thoughts to happier days in Paris.

  Her office—obviously the former projection room of the theater—overlooked the crowded club floor. Marita had barely aged in nearly ten years, though a hint of sadness in her eyes suggested significant changes in her life. She welcomed him in a lacy red dress and pearls, her dark hair pinned up off her shoulders. Her high heels were crimson.

  He’d forgotten how petite she was; he remembered the perfume. She offered only her cheeks for a kiss, held him for several seconds, then stepped back to look him over. “You hardly answered my letters or postcards,” she said. “What’s a girl to do to get your attention, dance naked for you?” Her pout turned to a wry smile. “Oh yes, I’ve tried that already. It used to work.” She turned to close both the door and the shutters at the projection window. The emcee’s amplified patter dropped sufficiently in volume to allow conversation.

  “I have but one excuse,” Ryan said, his expression serious. “Your letters only made me miss you more, and I couldn’t afford to spend all my time thinking of you.” He broke into a grin. In truth, once he had left Paris years before and her letters became more serious, he realized how much emotion she had invested in their casual affair, and he had not felt it fair to prolong the correspondence.

  “You’re as handsome as ever, so I assume life treats you well?” Marita indented his chin with the tip of her finger, eliciting his full smile. “Ah, that’s the Ryan Lemmon I remember, all flashing teeth and irresistible charm.”

  “My only complaint is my failing memory. I’d forgotten how damned beautiful you are.” Ryan caressed her cheek.

  “Non, non, et non! We won’t start all that nonsense over again. I’ve finally gotten over you.”

  Ryan was relieved to recognize her former sense of humor. She offered him the small chair next to her writing desk. Its surface lay half hidden by neat stacks of invoices, a crystal ashtray, and a pack of Gitanes. “Champagne? We do offer some bubbly worth drinking, but only for favored guests.”

  “Let’s drink to our reunion.”

  She opened the shutters and extended her head out the tiny window, her hips toward him and swaying to the rhythm of the band. She shouted down to the bartender below, “Laurent-Perrier, s’il-vous-plaît!” She caught him smiling appreciatively as she turned around. “You never lose the urge to dance,” she said with a wink.

  Within moments a waiter arrived with a tray and withdrew just as quickly. Ryan popped the cork, filled the flutes and toasted her. Marita laid a hand on his knee. “You said in your last letter—I’m having it framed since it’s probably the last from you I’ll ever see—that we’ve something important to discuss. Since I’m obviously not pregnant,” she straightened her back and ran a hand over her flat belly, “and you’re obviously not here to propose marriage, tell me what brings you back to me?”

  Ryan had thought broaching the subject would be easier. Instead he was hesitant to abandon flirtation and move on to serious matters. “It has to do with my work.”

  “A professor of history now, I believe?”

  “French and German, actually. My doctorate’s in history. But I’m here to report on European politics and to do some research.”

  “And…?”

  “And I need to know a little more about what you’re up to before I dare ask for your help.” His own nervousness surprised him. “I recall your mother’s Jewish?”

  Marita stiffened slightly, but d
idn’t drop her smile. “Yes, you guard my great secret, and please don’t tell me you’ve become one of those nauseating anti-Semites after spending all that time in Germany. I’m not sure I could deal with that.”

  “Moi non plus. But I do know France has its share of home-grown anti-Semites. Have you had troubles here? Have your parents?”

  “Ah, my parents.” A shadow passed over her face. “Well, I seldom see my mother; I guess she just doesn’t approve of dance.” Marita gave a sad half-grin. “But I’ve stayed in touch with my father, and his health could be better.” The grin was gone.

  “They’re here in the city?”

  “Le Marais, in the quatrième. Why?”

  “I couldn’t recall, that’s all. Are you concerned about the plight of the German Jews?”

  “Concerned? Yes, but what of it? Does anyone know exactly what will happen? There or here?”

  She offered him a Gitanes. He shook his head. She nervously tamped hers against the desktop, waiting for his match. The acrid smoke escaped her lips and curled to the ceiling.

  “It’s clear another war’s coming, and you must hear what’s going on in the Reich.” Ryan bent forward. “The Nazis are looking east now, but who really thinks—given history—they won’t turn west again when it suits them, despite all their protests of peaceful intentions?”

  “C’est juste, of course, it’s the talk of the town.”

  “I’ve only just arrived and hear nothing else. My God, your prime minister can now govern by decree in case of war. And from what I’m reading, the generals bluster as usual but don’t prepare. They think the Maginot Line’s the ultimate solution to everything.” He laid his hand over hers to still the incessant tapping of her fingers. “You and your family need a plan.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette, still barely smoked, and raised her hands in resignation. “Marie and I plan to keep our little business going, and if the Germans make it here, we’ll find a way to keep them entertained. Mon Dieu, I deal with them almost every night anyway. They can’t keep their hands off our dancers.” She mimicked an obnoxious drunk, squeezing her breasts as she rocked her head back and forth. “Oompah-pah, oompah-pah. But these Boches throw around the francs and drink our cheap booze, so they’re welcome to come here to make fools of themselves.”