chapter five
Ryan held his breath at the approach of the glowing rod, his body tormented by an uncontrollable shaking. The searing wounds were forgotten in anticipation of what was yet to come. At the last second he tried to turn his head aside, but Klaus grabbed him by the hair, pulling back on his scalp, forcing him to watch. The mutilation would be burned into his visual memory as well as his groin. With his focus so intensely riveted, Ryan never heard the gunfire outside.
At the first burst of shots, Horst glanced toward the window. Only fog drifted across the dimly-lit rail tracks between shack and warehouse. “Ah, the final member of your criminal band arrives at last,” he said to the trembling American. “Will he enjoy sharing your lessons, as well?”
Sporadic firing now echoed off the warehouses, but also to the south and from the water, and Horst realized his men had lost control. Such a simple assignment for the dozen SS soldiers and Water Protection Police recruited for the task: stay out of sight and take the Frenchman when he arrives. Either his men had all gone mad, or the new arrival had appeared at the gate with help. And the dockside action suggested that the police patrol boat was also under fire. Clearly not the simple arrest he had foreseen.
“It appears Herr Gesslinger has brought support of his own,” Horst said, and buried the fire poker back in the belly of the stove, stirring the coals to flame.
Klaus and the soldier were peering into the night from the partially-opened door when a brilliant explosion out on the water to their backs rattled the shack, and the lagoon flared in orange light, casting a diffused glow across the warehouse walls beyond the cranes and tracks.
Ryan released his breath. His heart raced. He stared down at his blistered arm and heaving, bloodied chest, grateful for any interruption, fearing what would come next.
“I regret a brief interruption to go greet your clumsy French friend, but don’t concern yourself.” Horst strode to the door. “Do sit tight, and we’ll be right back to pick up where we left off. Make yourself comfortable. You’re my guest.”
Horst drew his Walther P38 and Klaus followed suit, taking off the safety. The three slipped out into the night, closing the door gently behind them. Ryan heard his tormentors move down the ramp in the direction of the main gate as the young soldier headed south toward the patrol boat.
Ryan struggled for composure, the trembling easing but his nerves torn raw. The bleeding from his nose had stilled, and he forced himself to ignore the agonizing pain along his arm. He knew he held in his bound hands one chance to rescue Erika and Leo and get them across the river.
Rocking against his rope ties, he scooted the chair within a hand’s-breadth of the table. The tools remained invitingly close but just beyond reach. In a chair on rollers, he couldn’t gain the traction needed to dislodge a sharp implement, and there was no guarantee anything useful would fall within reach anyway. He considered capsizing his chair in an attempt to overturn the table, but realized the heavy load of tools spread across its surface made that impossible. The sharp blades taunted him. He was no closer to escape.
The obvious choice: the coal stove, glowing once again red at its belly. He scanned the room for other options, well aware that his tormentors could return at any moment. But he found no further choices open to him, and committed himself to the plan. Rocking himself in unsteady increments closer to the stove, he held his face back from the intense heat. For a brief moment he thought the handle of the poker extending from the firebox might be hot enough for his purpose, but regrettably it sat well below his grasp. Instead, he sidled back up to the belly of the stove and inched his left wrist closer.
His teeth clenched as the heat began to crisp the hair on his forearm. The stench of singeing flesh reached through the congealed blood in his nostrils. He worked his wrist closer to the stove, watching intently for the rope to catch fire, cramping his fist toward his body to spare it the worst damage. Sheer force of will suppressed the instinct to retreat.
His breath came in gasps as the skin of his wrist turned fiery red before beginning to buckle and char. But simultaneously the tight coil of rope burst into knots of flame, and Ryan jerked with all his might. An agonizing jolt ran through his arm, and the smoking strands finally gave way. The smoldering cord fell from his tortured wrist.
Ignoring the pain, he scooted the chair back to the table and found a sharp knife to cut the remaining bonds, then rose to his feet. Lightheadedness and nausea nearly felled him, forcing him to brace himself on the table. He afforded himself a moment to recover before dressing, stuffing his belongings and the tobacco pouch into his trouser pockets, abandoning jacket and topcoat as impractical for what he now faced.
Erratic gunfire and an occasional shout echoed along the wharf. Footsteps drummed on gravel to the front of the shack as he opened the window facing the water. The wounds on his arm and wrist fought for attention, but he focused on the job at hand, for any moment von Kredow would return to renew the torment.
He lowered himself feet first to hang three meters above the lagoon, anticipating a drop directly into the frigid water. About to release his grip, he found footing on a narrow ledge running the length of the pier and began to work his way toward the motor launch. His hands drew splinters each time he lost his hold on the weathered shiplap, but pilings every few meters jutted from the water, offering temporary relief to his cramping hands.
As he neared the Gesslinger boat the ghostly image of a much larger vessel loomed out of the fog just beyond. He remembered the heavy thrumming of the engines preceding Horst’s arrival, and now knew where he would find Erika and Leo.
Angry shouts rose from within the shed. Horst had returned. Ryan quickly lowered himself down a piling to chest level in the icy water. He drew in a deep breath and then dropped beneath the oily surface and slipped under the dock.
The intense cold sent a shudder through his body. He lifted his head just above the lapping surface to draw air and tread water. The left arm ached and responded slowly to his mind’s commands. The wash of creosote and fuel oil worked his tortured sinuses, straining his breathing. Once oriented to the murky world beneath the dock, he moved on with a clumsy breast stroke, his progress measured by pilings silhouetted against the fog-shrouded waters of the boat basin.
His advance was broken by a sodden mass which shifted in response to his forward momentum. His arm struck billowing fabric, and a lifeless hand rose up to graze his cheek. Ryan paddled aside abruptly in horror, and the kick of his leg sent the corpse floating outward toward the open water. The head bobbed just above the surface and the arms to either side formed wings of saturated wool rippling on the surface. Facing head down, the dead man appeared to search the floor of the lagoon. Pale, disrupted flesh encircled a dark hole in the back of Hugo Gerson’s balding head.
Erika was worried. As she crawled from beneath the tarp where Leo hid, she spied Ryan emerging feet-first from the window of the shack. She observed his slow progress along the narrow ledge, followed by a rapid descent into the water as coarse shouts went up from within the shack. She then ducked quickly back beneath the tarp as armed men raced toward the gunboat to her rear. When she lifted the flap once again, Ryan was gone.
He had to be in the murky waters beneath the dock, working his way toward the police boat where they had been held. She knew Ryan would come for them. In the process he would pass right by her refuge, unaware that they were already free to escape this nightmare.
She looked for a way to signal Ryan when he swam by only meters away. A boat hook was attached to the wall of the launch, but she saw no way to extend it under the dock with any certainty that he would notice. She thought of tossing a lit flashlight into the water as a beacon, but found none. In desperation, and knowing that he must be very near, she slipped off her topcoat and shoes and prepared to enter the water.
“Mutti?” Leo whispered in amazement from the darkness. “You’re going swimming?”
“Just for a moment, Leo, I need to find Herr Lemm
on.”
“Herr Lemmon’s in the water?”
“Yes, darling,” she said. “He’s looking for us.”
“Why’s he looking in the water? We’re not in the water.”
“He doesn’t want to be seen by the soldiers, or by your father.”
“Wait here.” Leo moved toward the opening in the tarp. “I’ll just call Herr Lemmon over.”
“No, Leo, hush! We mustn’t let anyone else know we’re in here, my love.” She realized he had been through untold hours of inexplicable adult behavior.
“Mutti?”
“Yes, love.”
“I don’t want to be a secret policeman anymore. And neither does Bruno.”
“Neither do I, darling, neither do I. Now sit tight here—no more questions—and I’ll be right back with Herr Lemmon.”
She eased herself into the icy water, shuddering briefly before taking the plunge. Her aching abdominal muscles rebelled and her teeth chattered, but her breast stroke brought her under the dock where she treaded water, hoping against hope that Ryan had not yet passed them by. With relief she heard the gentle wash of his approach and called out to him softly.
“Thank God, you’re still here!”
He paddled over to her. “Where’s Leo?”
“He’s safe, just above us in the motorboat. I came for you.”
The soldier responsible for binding the American and the guard who had left the Jewess unattended were already in custody and would suffer suitable punishment. That would come later. For the moment Horst focused on the damaged ignition switch of the patrol boat.
Only moments before, the small craft moored at their bow had sprung to life with a harsh roar. By the time he and Klaus arrived forward, the smaller boat was merely a blemish on the fog, carving a broad turn toward open water. Carbine shots fired by the men on deck had no apparent effect on the fugitive craft. “After them, now!” he had ordered the captain of the patrol boat. It was then they had discovered the sabotage.
“The ignition is kaputt, sir,” reported the captain.
A livid Horst was in no mood for incompetence. “Then you damned well better fix it,” he growled.
His uncompromising glare made clear no excuse would be tolerated. The captain grabbed tools and opened the console panel. The sounds of battle outside had diminished to a desultory exchange of fire. As long seconds ticked by, the nervous water police officer buried his head in the control panel, pliers and wire cutters in hand. Finally emerging with a look of satisfaction, he drew out the choke and brought together two extended wires in his hand. A spark preceded a deep, throaty rumble from the bowels of the vessel as the engines roared to life.
“Get us out of here, and now!” Horst commanded.
Two men freed the lines and the vessel swung out from the wharf into the fog-shrouded basin. The pilot gunned the throbbing engines and the patrol boat gathered speed in pursuit of the Gesslinger launch.
chapter six
Ryan shuddered, as much from the cold as from the pure terror of the moment. Soaked to the skin, his tortured arm and swollen face restricting movement, and exhausted by hours of struggle, he now knew with certainty that the larger boat would soon overtake them. His boating skills were no match for those of the professional seamen gaining on his launch with every second.
Near the mouth of the estuary they had decelerated in passing the overturned hull of a boat identical to their own, its shattered keel bobbing in the current. Erika told him of the destructive explosion and the bodies thrown free by the blast. An orange-black-white flag drifted on the surface near the charred wreckage, and he was forced to accept that Rene’s best efforts at rescue had gone up in flames.
Reaching the lamps marking the confluence with the Rhine, they had been relieved that no lights were yet in pursuit, but they both knew Horst would never give up the chase. Their boat cut a channel through the shifting bank of fog as they entered the river. There was little traffic other than an occasional smear of light out on the water. But Ryan found it daunting to steer a course toward a goal he could not see, navigating solely by instinct. Hoping to lose his pursuers, he switched off their running lights, acknowledging increased vulnerability to any vessels that were challenging the fog-bound shipping lanes.
Only the soft glow from the dash panel allowed him to see his companions on the seat beside him. Erika and Leo huddled from the frigid wind under the canvas tarp. Erika was as soaked as Ryan, but had donned her topcoat for additional warmth. She held Leo on her lap and rocked him in her arms as the launch pounded the choppy surface of the river. They heard nothing but the thrum of their engine and the thump of the hull.
Searchlights suddenly blinded them in a luminous wash. “Heave to,” boomed a loudspeaker, and Ryan and Erika turned in despair. The fervent hope of the last twenty-four hours was dissolving in that all-encompassing glare. “Heave to,” repeated the command, now clearly audible over the beat of their hull against the turbulent river.
The futility of further effort drained Ryan’s will. Looking back at the hull now towering over his pitiful boat, he spotted the machine gun mounted atop the pursuing craft. At any moment Horst could order them blown from the water. He thought of the smoldering remains of the Gesslinger launch. Alive, they clung to a slim possibility of survival. Ryan eased back on the throttle and allowed the boat to drift in the forceful current. Despite several good battles he feared they had lost the war.
“No!” Erika’s guttural cry of protest came from deep within, and Leo burst out in sobs at his mother’s anguish.
“There’s no choice, Erika,” Ryan said. “We have to play this out.”
Ryan let the engine idle and raised his hands in defeat. Under the wash of the spotlight he spotted Horst and his lieutenant up on deck. An SS man in green uniform stood to the aft with a line, and as the police vessel pulled alongside he tossed down the rope and ordered Ryan to secure their launch. The gun boat reversed engines to slow their movement in the heavy current.
“I’ll find a way—” he said to Erika, “trust me, I’ll find us a way out of this.” He ached to believe his own words. “Believe me—I will save you.”
The water policeman lowered a short rope ladder and joined the fugitives in the motorboat.
“Bring him up to me now!” Horst’s voice was edged with fury. “We’ve unfinished business, Herr Doktor Lemmon and I.”
At the prodding of the policeman’s gun, Ryan climbed the rope ladder, his movements agonizingly clumsy as the two linked craft bobbed on the choppy waters and his damaged arm failed to respond. Topside someone grabbed him roughly by the collar and slammed him face down onto the deck, and Klaus forcefully pinned Ryan’s neck with his foot. The policeman gestured to Erika to follow Ryan up the ladder, and reached down to take Leo.
“No!” Horst commanded. “Woman and child stay in the boat. You, sailor, get back up here, now!” The man appeared surprised by the order but complied, and skillfully ascended the ladder. Horst turned to shout to the men on deck. “Now cut them loose.”
“Horst!” Erika’s voice shrill in the damp air. “Horst, you don’t want to do this!”
“Oh, but I do, I actually do.” Horst turned to the crewman. “Cut them loose, tell your captain to back off, then send that Jewish scum to the bottom. Either ram the boat, or use the gun on top. Enough of this shit—I want them gone, and now.”
“But, sir—” The man hesitated.
Erika fired twice in rapid succession, the first shot wide and striking the cabin. The second—by chance well aimed—entered just below Horst’s chin, shattering both his jaw and teeth as it tunneled up to exit just above his pale scar of honor. His head thrown back by the impact, the long-damaged nerve reacted violently to the insult, sending him into a paroxysm of agony. Horst jerked to the left, and his mangled jaw hung loose as he crumpled to the deck. He twitched violently, hands at his shattered face.
The policeman dropped to the deck below Erika’s sights. She crouched low, her left
arm around Leo, her gun hand zeroing in on Klaus.
“You fucking Jew-bitch,” he screamed, then drew his weapon and raced to the railing, extending his arm to fire on Erika and Leo.
The roll of the boat sent her next two shots wide.
Ryan sprang from a crouched position, putting full momentum into a body block to hit the Nazi before he could fire. Unprepared for the side attack, Klaus lost balance upon Ryan’s impact and the two men tumbled overboard.
Erika screamed as the two men hit the water and slipped beyond the circle of the light. With Leo cowering at her feet, she turned, desperately seeking to sever the lines linking the two vessels. Instead she found the water policeman at her side again, wrenching the pistol from her grasp. Disarmed, she settled beside Leo on the deck of the launch and cradled him once again in her arms.
“I don’t know your crime, madam, but you’ve just assaulted an SS officer in the performance of his duties,” said the man, “and you are under arrest.”
Erika remained mute. With her face held high, tears of fury and resignation streaming down her cheeks, she buried Leo’s head at her breast.
“But you needn’t worry, madam, your son will be well cared-for by the Reich.”
chapter seven
There comes a moment in drowning when survival loses its appeal. Muscles in thighs and calves cramp mercilessly, but pain becomes immaterial. The wrenching cold no longer sucks away the breath and the water no longer chokes, but rather soothes as it finds its way into tortured lungs. Mind and body yield to a calm acceptance that winning the battle is not worth further struggle, and the focus shifts from the life now receding to whatever comes next. Ryan was nearing that realization.
He had hit the water with Klaus Pabst flailing at his side and immediately fought the current which drew them relentlessly beyond the reach of the searchlight. He struggled back toward Erika and Leo, the halo surrounding the patrol boat a radiant target, but the powerful river and the sodden clothes hampered his best efforts, his damaged arm made him half the swimmer he once was, and he made no progress toward his goal.
Corridor of Darkness Page 32