Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Things are rough for everyone over there.”

  “Yes, can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Comes with the territory, so to speak.”

  “I hope today’s debriefing will aid the Department’s work.”

  “I’m sure it shall, Dr. Lemmon. I just hung up with your brother and he assures me that your groundwork will make our job easier in the coming months. Thank you for your fine service.”

  “Sir, the film I sent you? It’s damning evidence, I know. Has the Secretary, has the President put it to use, yet? Many lives are at stake, and it makes mincemeat of Hitler’s claims to having no further territorial ambitions.”

  “Yes, we do thank you for your efforts there, as well.” Kohl straightened the files lying before him on the desk, lining up the edges to perfection, then slid the pile aside and looked up. “But I’m afraid you overestimate the importance. Undoubtedly just another effort by a subordinate to impress Hitler with his zeal.”

  “Overestimate the importance?” Ryan was stunned. “How do you overestimate intent to conquer all Europe and annihilate millions of innocent people?”

  “Now, Dr. Lemmon, please take it easy. We know you have a special concern—let’s say ‘affinity’—for these people.”

  “By ‘these people,’ you mean the Jews, correct?”

  Kohl’s look bordered on condescension. “Let’s be honest here, Lemmon, shall we? If you hadn’t put your personal inclination for a certain married woman ahead of your government’s needs, you wouldn’t be here now. And you wouldn’t have risked an international incident contrary to your nation’s best interests, now would you?” He left the question hanging and Ryan momentarily at a loss for words, his rage building. “Secretary Hull has bigger fish to fry than dealing with people the rest of the world has shown little use for. America, too, I might add.”

  “You must be kidding; millions of European Jews are small fish?” Eastern Europe doesn’t matter?” Ryan felt the blood rush to his face, his bandaged nose throbbing.

  “Let’s set things straight, Lemmon. The Secretary and the President are well aware that Hitler is always less than candid when it comes to his intentions. But for now our interests—political and certainly financial—lie in Western Europe, and we still have to convince the American people that involvement over there will be necessary. Many prefer that Herr Hitler deal with the Bolsheviks and Eastern Europe first, rather than our having to deal with them later ourselves. These Jews are a secondary matter.”

  Ryan rose abruptly from his chair, steadying himself on the edge of the desk: “Did you even read that document? Those bastards are planning cold-blooded mass murder, town by town, village by village.” His voice was a low hiss.

  Kohl spoke as if comforting a child: “You must have missed hearing about July’s international conference on Lake Geneva. The world’s powers—including our own government and people—simply aren’t willing to radically change immigration quotas just to take a bunch of immaterial Jews off the Germans’ hands.”

  “You have no idea what those people are facing, do you?” Ryan felt his self-control going, his hands trembling. The image of Erika and Leo cowering in the searchlight haunted his mind.

  “We’ll all have to make sacrifices, and right now our concerns lie with what Europe faces as a whole.” Kohl paused. “What the hell, just think about it, Lemmon, with that Jewish thorn in their side the Germans can’t put all their energies into attacking their neighbors, right?”

  Ryan slammed his fist down on the desk and Kohl jerked back in his chair.

  “Dr. Lemmon, I must warn you—”

  “You fucking asshole, you don’t plan to use that evidence at all, do you?”

  Kohl stood to put more distance between himself and Ryan. His hesitation was brief. “Well, come to think of it, I no longer recall what ‘evidence’ you refer to.” He folded the glasses, put them in his breast pocket, and picked up the briefcase. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for a holiday gathering. You may leave my office immediately.”

  Before his fury turned to a physical attack on the director, Ryan stormed from the office. The receptionist looked up in surprise as he grabbed his coat and hat and left the antechamber without a word. He did not look back.

  There was no drink in the bar before taking the train home for the weekend. He told Edward that he had no further interest in government work of any kind, and refused to discuss his meeting with Kohl. The following day he submitted his letter of resignation and made plans to return to the Midwest and teaching.

  His career in espionage had reached a disillusioning end, and the memories of wasted lives and the prospect of millions of innocents yet to die tormented his soul.

  epilogue

  Stockton, California

  4 June 1941

  The spring semester at the College of the Pacific was drawing to a close, the campus at its most beautiful and students’ enthusiasm heightened by the end of exams and the imminent summer break. Ryan set the phone back in its cradle, pivoted away from his desk toward the sycamores which filled the tall windows of the Admin Building, and pondered what had brought Edward to California unannounced.

  His brother’s arrival awakened memories better left buried. It dredged up that burden of guilt which now only marred the predictable passage of the days when his mind was unfocused, or interrupted his sleep, leaving him struggling for air, drowning in the sweat-soaked sheets. Phone calls on special occasions such as birthdays had reconnected the brothers from time to time. Edward would speak of his son’s growth, and Ryan would think only of Leo. He had told no one of his connection to the boy, his shame and self-loathing too high a hurdle. Instead he would discuss the warm California climate and the fine city of San Francisco a short drive distant. Both brothers avoided mention of Washington and the war in Europe, and of Ryan’s brief stint in espionage.

  His nose had healed well, with only the slightest crook and occasional sinus problem to suggest what he had endured. The scars on his left arm and the larger pallid area on his wrist were explained away as souvenirs of a fraternity hazing initiation. He shared with no one the true story of that night with all its tragic detail, but it was never far from his mind.

  He dated from time to time, but no woman he had met could compete with the memories of Isabel and Erika, the two he had lost. And he feared no woman could live with the depression he masked so expertly with a ready smile and confident demeanor in both classroom and faculty circle.

  The staircase just outside his office creaked with a new arrival and the boards beyond his closed door groaned at the approach of a visitor. Ryan rose to welcome and embrace Edward. “What a pleasant surprise, brother.”

  “Baby brother, you look your old self once again, thank God. California’s climate must be good for you.” Edward looked fit in a stylish seersucker suit. He tossed his hat on the coatrack and took command of the chair in front of Ryan’s desk. “No complaints about living so far afield from the East Coast and real life?”

  “Not a one,” said Ryan. “Long time no see, Ed. So what brings you out west of all places, and without your lovely wife and boys?” The warmth was projected, not truly felt.

  “Business—” Edward’s face darkened, “and the war in Europe. It’s coming our way, as you well know, and very soon now.” He leaned forward.

  “Of course,” Ryan’s smile had also faded, “we’ve both known that for years. Bound to happen. Something new you can share?”

  “Sadly, not right now, no. But—and hear me out on this, Ryan— I’m here to recruit you back east, back to Washington. And to Europe.”

  Ryan sat back involuntarily. “No chance. I came here to put as much distance as possible between me and that self-serving bunch in Washington.”

  “Look, Ryan, I understand your bitterness, but just listen to what I have to say and then consider any decision carefully. I do know how hard this is for you, whether you accept it or not. It’s hard for me to even bring this up, but things ha
ve changed, and they’re changing faster as we speak, so you at least owe me a listen.”

  “I’m listening,” said Ryan, wishing for all his worth that he did not have to. He reached for his pipe, but set it back immediately on the ashtray.

  “The Department needs men like you, now more than ever what with Belgium and France under Hitler’s heel. We have some important people stuck in the Occupied Zone, a few in Vichy France, and we’re desperate for trained people who can help them gather intelligence or even get them out…safely.”

  That final ill-chosen word weighed heavily, demanding acknowledgment. Ryan sensed that his brother regretted his phrasing, and he took a moment before he replied. “I’m not one of those you’re seeking. I’m a German professor making ends meet at a small valley college, that’s all. The school’s admired, the students bright, the campus a rival to any out east, and I’m comfortable with this life.” He swiveled in his chair and faced the trees beyond the window. “I was never cut out for espionage, and I’m certainly not now.”

  Edward sat back and lit a cigarette. “Look, I’m not here to make your life miserable, Ryan.” He expelled a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. “But we need you back in Washington, and we need you even more in Europe. We’ll be in this war for good within a year; all Washington knows it, despite protests from the ‘keep us out’ crowd and those who fool themselves into thinking we still have a choice. It’s inevitable. Roosevelt now has a solid spy operation going, so The Group’s out of business, and State’s involvement in that area is far less direct. But we need knowledgeable operatives, trained assets who can repatriate both the people and the information we need. You’re one of them, whether you recognize it yet or not.”

  Ryan turned back to his brother. “I’m sorry, Ed, but, as I said before, I’m simply not your man. I was an amateur who made major errors and it cost me more than you’ll ever know. I live with it every day, and only fresh air and the absence of crowds keep me sane. Let’s just drop this. We’ll have dinner and wine tonight, you can visit San Francisco tomorrow, and then you can get back to saving the world without me.”

  “Listen, Ryan, I’ll tell you what we’re talking here and then you tell me to go to hell if you want, and I won’t take offense, okay? We have our sights on important people who can help us win this coming war, but they’re trapped in Nazi territory. And we have certain people here in the States and elsewhere they want their hands on. Right now we’re still a neutral party, and we can make these trades happen with the right operatives who know their way around. We’re setting up a program to deal with all this and it’s tailor-made for you.”

  Ryan felt obliged to ask: “How’s that?”

  “We need diplomatic and language skills, plus geographical and cultural knowledge, as well. And above all else, State’s looking for people who can think on their feet. You’ve demonstrated all those talents.”

  “Have you forgotten that I’m persona non grata in the Reich? The Gestapo and I didn’t part on the best of terms.”

  Edward ignored the bitterness. “In the Reich perhaps, but Paris and the Nazi-occupied zone are still a different story, and Vichy France is quite independent in its dealings with us, even if the collaborationists are running the show. This time around you’ll be on official State Department business, not undercover and off on your own. And you’ll have specific assignments—closely monitored, of course.”

  “Ed, come on, I’m pretty much at peace with my life here now. And you know well enough I’ve never been one to be ‘monitored.’ You’ve been trying that without success since we were kids.”

  “Face it, Ryan, when this war comes, you’ll be drafted along with all the able-bodied. It won’t be just the young guys this time around. Sure, with your education and abilities you’ll make junior officer, but would you rather slog it out with ground troops on the front, or use your wits behind the scenes? I don’t say this lightly, but we both know it’s only a matter of time.”

  Ryan stared out again through the canopy of trees. A magpie swooped down as two students abandoned a picnic site on the lawn below. He thought of his teaching. He thought of Erika and Leo, of René and Isabel, of the Old Major. As Ryan faced his own fears and regrets, Edward lit a new cigarette and said nothing.

  At last Ryan turned back, his decision made. “Ed, I know you mean well…for me and for this country. But I had a good look behind the scenes. Your people trashed intelligence my friends died for, and I nearly died, as well. I swore I would never work for a bastard like Kohl again, and I meant it.” He closed the test booklet he was grading when Edward called, effectively closing the discussion, as well.

  Edward stubbed out his cigarette, and silence hung heavily in the still air of the office.

  Finally Ryan spoke again: “You knew nothing would be done with the film I sent back, didn’t you?”

  “My duty was to pass along the cartridge. But Kohl did mention it, said it had no real value for our mission. It was up to him to send it up the ladder, and I was under orders not to speak of it further. Sorry, brother, my hands were tied—the job, you know.”

  “That didn’t make it any easier. Or more wrong.”

  “In retrospect, I agree, but Kohl’s gone now. Turns out your ‘bastard’ was a bit too close to the German-American Bund, and there’s been quite a shake-up in our division. I hate to say it, but rumor has it he may have compromised contacts we served him up on a platter.”

  Ryan felt a trembling in his hands and slowly released his breath. “I should have thrown the son-of-a-bitch out one of those arched windows when I had the chance.” He shook his head in revulsion and regret. “I nearly did.”

  “At any rate, as I said, he’s gone now. A good man is in. You’d work in the new division that’s just coming together, and we’d be a team again. Obviously on a tighter leash this time around, since the clock is ticking. We have to tread lightly, but we both would be doing what we must to fight this tyranny. Come on, Ryan, if we lose Europe, we’ve lost it all.”

  Ryan shut his eyes for a moment and shook his head. “I can’t.” His mouth felt dry. He forced back the vivid memories of the escape, the pain, the terror, the loss. “I simply can’t.”

  Edward looked at him with a strange mixture of compassion and the smugness of a card player unlikely to be trumped. “I expected you to say that, so look here. I’ve something to show you.” From his jacket pocket came a slender stack of envelopes bound with a rubber band. “These were found in Kohl’s office when he was asked to leave last week. The new director passed them along to me, and I thought you should see them in person.” He slid the thin packet across the desk.

  Ryan hesitated, then slipped off the band and read the cover of the first flimsy. The postmark was Paris, 14 January 1939, the letter addressed to “Dr. Ryan Lemmon, Department of State, Washington, D.C., USA.” The sender: “Gesslinger, poste restante, Lyon, France.” It had been opened.

  Ryan paused, the reality sinking in, then hastily shuffled through the remaining letters. The next two were now a year and a half old. It was the last cover that held his eye, not a flimsy but a small, travel-worn envelope. Postmarked in Gurs, France, stamped by the Vichy government, and dated 3 May 1941, just one month earlier, with no sender indicated.

  “Gurs?” He held his breath, staring at the envelope, waiting for his brother’s response.

  “I needed an atlas. Basque region in the south of France, near Pau in the Pyrénées, close to the Spanish border.”

  The flap was loose. “You’ve already read it?”

  “I had to know if it was worth the trip here to see you.”

  Ryan slid out a folded piece of cheap paper. The smudged French script was in pencil and appeared hastily written, a troubled hand at work:

  My very dear Ryan,

  We have heard nothing from you in response to past letters. I can only hope you are well and this reaches you in a timely manner. Know that mother and boy are alive and in my care, but our time here appears short.
Please do what you can.

  With lasting affection, The Lone Ranger

  Emotion blurred his vision as he looked up to his brother. “Gurs—” he said, “Tell me everything you know.”

  “There’s little to tell. A Vichy holding camp for foreign Jews and ‘political undesirables.’ Low-level security. Pretty miserable place with lots of deaths due to living conditions, we hear.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “We don’t know how long detainees will be interned and where they’ll go from there, but a concentration camp in the Reich is best guess.”

  Ryan sat stunned, silent in the face of a new reality. Is Horst’s protocol already in place, in practice? He stared at the postmarks before unfolding each of the letters and reading them through in sequence, line by line. He ignored Edward, who smoked patiently as long minutes dragged by.

  A quarter hour passed before Ryan finally spoke, his mind filled with his last promise to Erika, his decision carrying the burden of hope and the threat of nightmare.

  “Get me in.”

  afterword

  In the fall of 1929 a young New York banker arrived in Germany to spend a year studying finance in Berlin. With the collapse of Wall Street and the onset of the Great Depression, he chose to remain in Europe and pursue academic goals. As the Weimar Republic buckled and Hitler and the National Socialists rose to power, the American became a favored guest of the old monarchist aristocracy, reported on Communist street fights and Nazi rallies, instigated a duel fought with sabers, earned a doctorate at a German university, and pursued the rescue of friends from under the eyes of the Gestapo. Later he performed wartime espionage on behalf of his government. And he kept a daily journal. That young man was the author’s father, Leonard L. O’Bryon.