by Mark Donahue
As the train slowly gathered speed, Rolle tried to stay awake even though he needed rest badly. But after thirty minutes. the sound of steel wheels on the steel tracks created a soothing background noise, and despite his efforts to stay awake, Rolle drifted off into a vivid dream. He was on a similar train ride with his parents from years before. “Father, I heard a man on the street…”
“You mean the house painter? He’s a fool. Don’t listen to such trash. He and his scum will make things worse not better. They will ruin Germany if we let them.”
A young man in a seat across the aisle from Rolle’s father heard his warning to his son. He had a warning of his own. “Herr Professor, I am returning from the Bamberg Conference and heard our leaders describe our glorious and exciting future. You would be wise to keep such derogatory comments to yourself, and not pollute your son’s mind with untruths.”
Looking across the aisle at the young man, Rolle’s father said, “Untruths? Hitler is a buffoon who uses fear and lies to infect the minds of the uneducated and unstable. Thank God our country is too wise to allow such a dolt to rise to meaningful power.”
As the train pulled into a stop, the young man rose and glowered down at Rolle’s father then hissed a response close to his ear. “There will be a day, and that day is soon, that men like you will learn painful lessons. You will learn, my friend, that such vile as you speak, will not be tolerated.”
Rising to face the young man, Rolle’s father said, “Then that is a day I hope I shall not live to see.”
“As you wish, professor. As you wish.”
Less than six months later, sixteen-year-old Kurtis Rolle turned his parents over to the Gestapo for “undermining the efforts of the Reich.” On the day his parents were led away, he attended a rally demanding Jews pay higher taxes. On his return home, Rachel silently served Rolle the strudel his mother had baked that morning that was still on the cooling rack. He had his strudel with milk after eating a cold roast beef sandwich and went to bed after he found the uniform his mother had hidden from his father. He was glad to see it had been ironed before she left.
Chapter 12
Arizona Minimum Security Prison—2012
At six foot eight and 250 pounds, with shoulder-length hair he usually wore in a 1970s ponytail, Tom Patrick was a large, powerful, and at times, intimidating physical specimen. He was also a contradiction.
Able to quote Shakespeare, Franklin (Aretha and Ben), John Adams, and Lenny Bruce when appropriate—or even not appropriate, depending on the social setting—he was also extremely valuable to have on your side in a bar fight, which, in Tom’s case, was not an infrequent occurrence.
A brilliant student with a double major in English literature and history, Tom not only completed his undergraduate studies at Princeton, but he later returned to campus after a knee injury ruined a promising NBA career and obtained his master’s in American history. Of course he did get to keep the $12,000,000 signing bonus he had gotten from the Philadelphia 76’ers...for a while. But after taxes, some unwise investments, his agent’s 8%, and three years of serious partying in Manhattan, the money had disappeared. Unfortunately, his desire for partying and dating New York models did not. He always said he just liked having fun and liked tall women, and models happened to be tall.
It also didn’t help Tom’s net worth that he liked to gamble, an avocation he was not very good at. His problems began when he started gambling with other people’s money and lost that as well. That was why he had been approached in a New York City strip joint by four men representing the best interests of two New York bookies who offered him an interesting proposal. He could repay them the $225,000 he owed them, at that very moment, or they would kill him. Or worse, shoot off his dick. Or, he could help them reach many of the East Coast college basketball players he knew in New York’s no-nonsense summer leagues and convince them that “point shaving” was an easy way to earn that always hard to find extra spending money. If he would be kind enough to reach out those players, they wouldn’t kill him or shoot off his dick.
Tom listened extra hard to the not killing him/keeping his dick option, which made a whole lot more sense than the killing him/shooting off his dick option. After all, he had attended Princeton. Tom decided to give crime a chance.
He proved to be a failure at crime. Within six months of the first few games he tried but failed to fix, he was arrested. Though he cooperated with police in their investigation of organized gambling, he was still sent to prison in California for five years.
At their first meeting, Tom and Jon became friends. It wasn’t something they talked about or had to work at…they just became friends, it was easy. They talked about the financial world, history, politics, analyzed various poets, overstated and embellished sexual conquests, even connived ways to be assigned together on various work details.
Their friendship, despite their similar educational backgrounds, was in reality, the coming together of opposites. Jon had always had a plan for his life, goals he wanted to reach even if upon reflection late at night those goals now seemed shallow and childish.
Tom had no goals. His epicurean approach to life was based on both his supreme confidence in his intellectual ability and a firm conviction that having fun today was a way better idea than maybe having fun tomorrow.
Jon and Tom both had Ivy League smarts, but their intellects were in fields the other could respect but not relate to. Yet, they saw things in each other that probably would have been overlooked in the outside world. They each had fully developed, some called bizarre, senses of humor, and they made each other laugh. Both, despite their bravado to others, grew to hate what had become of their lives and how they had wasted some of their best years by being immature, short-sighted, and unappreciative of their gifts and abilities. Each had plans for when they got out of prison, and neither wanted to repeat the mistakes of their past. Yet both men, despite the jokes, were embarrassed by their pasts and afraid of their futures.
The Arizona State Penal Farm (ASPF) outside Phoenix was a minimum-security prison that most of the inmates had “graduated” to by demonstrating in other facilities that they were neither dangerous to themselves or others nor likely to try and escape.
In the prison world, places like ASPF were considered “soft time.” That was because inmates, even though they worked six nine-hour days per week, had large amounts of free time for reading in the library, watching TV, working out, playing basketball, or even being allowed to leave the facility on work details.
While Jon had a financial nest egg waiting for him since he had hidden away over $250,000 from the IRS in cash in two Cayman Island banks, his thoughts were of more than money. Bankruptcy, a failed marriage, a fortune earned and lost, eight years in jail, and he wasn’t even forty yet. He had been thinking about what had gone wrong with his life. In short, what was wrong with him?
While there were always people who apparently cared about him, he never seemed to be able to keep friends or family close. With his looks and wit, women were also available, but his relationships were vague and shallow. Even when he found his wife on her knees servicing the landscaper, he realized he had only been mildly annoyed by the event. He wondered why he had not felt hurt, betrayal, or even rage. The answer was simple; he never truly loved his wife, or for that matter, anyone else. But why? Was he incapable? So motivated by the urge or need to make money that he was oblivious to anything else? His answers to his own questions did little to allay his fears about the kind of person he had become.
Chapter 13
Brandenburg Train—1943
After being jolted awake by the train as it moved over a rough section of track, Rolle looked out the window as the Brandenburg slowed. In the distance, he could see the vague outline of the Eiffel Tower in the “City of Lights” only eight miles away in the fading sunlight.
He rose from his seat and went to the train’s forw
ard bathroom, relieved himself, and splashed water on his face. He looked in the mirror, which reflected a weary man whose biggest challenges lay ahead of him. He wondered if he had the strength to carry out his task.
When he moved from the front of the train toward the cars that held the gold, Rolle spoke briefly to two guards who told him the pallets and barrels were not shifting and the reinforced steel girded floorboards were holding up well.
Rolle knew that as long as the train maintained its slow speed, there would be little chance of a pallet tipping over or falling through the floor of the car and sending millions in gold over the German countryside.
Over the previous weeks, Rolle had kept his distance from the guards. First of all, it was his fundamental philosophy to always maintain a strictly professional relationship with subordinates. No idle chatter, no small talk about the weather, or families. There was no time or need for that.
Second, he didn’t trust any of them and wondered which one had already been given the responsibility to kill him when he had served his purpose. For that matter, how would they kill him? Gun? Knife? Garrote? Poison? Or would they just throw him off one of the many high bridges they would cross in the next two days? All effective, yet it may be too soon for any.
For the time being Rolle felt a certain security based on the fact he knew he was needed. The further they moved from Germany, the better chance he had to execute his own plan or even escape, if that failed.
As per Rolle’s instructions to the engineer of the Brandenburg, the train pulled onto a side rail outside of Paris and waited for total darkness. The guards assigned to Operation Rebirth were nervous. They realized the part of their trip that would take them through Paris on the way to the port of Brest in southern France would be the most dangerous. The French Underground had been active the last several weeks, and the men on the day-watch reacted to each movement and sound with raised rifles and tensed jaws. Rolle’s orders were clear; if anyone approached the train from any direction, they were to be shot. As daylight waned, the guard’s nervousness increased as sound replaced sight as the means of detecting potential enemies, and every bird and cricket caught their attention. The day guards were replaced by the night watch at 8:00 p.m., but Rolle ordered all twenty-four men to remain on duty as they began their trip into Paris.
Expecting the arrival of the gold as per Rolle’s plan, Becker had ordered German sentries be posted along the route east of Paris and invoked a 9:00 p.m. curfew throughout the City. But such actions alerted all Parisians that something important was happening, including the French Underground, which was trying to organize some havoc they could unleash on short notice. But unlike other German activities that could be ferreted out via bribe, spy, wiretap, or decoding of messages, whatever was happening that night was a surprise even to Germany’s own occupation troops, let alone the French Underground.
The train started to move again from its position at 10:45 p.m. and reached only twenty miles per hour as it headed toward the industrial section of the City eight miles away. From that point, it would turn southeast for the final leg of the trip that would take them to Brest the next day.
Rolle stood in the area between the last two cars of the train and looked out into the darkness. For the first time since Operation Rebirth had been thrust upon him, he began to doubt himself and his plan. He agonized over the possibility that he had overlooked something. A detail so small that he would curse himself for its insignificance as he lay dying from a bullet in the brain, a knife slicing through his throat, or as he was falling from the train to his death. He cursed his own negative thoughts and tried to reassure himself that at least for now, he was neither fool nor patsy, and his famed attention to detail would serve him well when he needed it most.
After he finally regained control of his emotions, he involuntarily jumped when a volley of shots rang out from the left side of the train two cars ahead. Within seconds, hundreds of rounds were being aimed at a clearing thirty to forty yards in front of the moving train. As quickly as the shots began, they ended, and Rolle ran to the platform between the last two cars and looked into the darkness.
As it approached a gentle curve to the left, the train’s headlights and the handheld lanterns of the guards focused on the targets of the earlier gunfire. Three young boys and their dogs had been cut to ribbons by the machine gun fire. One dog dying in agony was wailing, his back arched and jaws snapping at air as it flopped and gyrated on the mutilated bodies of the young boys and other dogs. A final burst of gunfire cut the dog in half, and the only sound left was that of the train as it clattered past the small mound of death.
It was not the viciousness of the attack that surprised Rolle; it was clear that no chances could be taken at that point. It was the fact that no one said a word about the boys and their dogs. It was if it had never happened. He was pleased with the professionalism of the troops that had been assigned to him.
The plan to put the train into the Paris station by 11:00 p.m. had worked flawlessly. That gave the crew one hour under the cover of darkness to add fuel, water, food, and leave Paris by midnight to continue their trip to Brest.
Rolle’s orders were that no one was to leave the train for any reason except the guards who would bring on supplies. He ordered guards to man each door preventing anyone from entering the train while it was stopped in Paris. This included any nosey SS or Vichy officers.
At 11:54 p.m., the Brandenburg departed a deserted Paris train station and began its six-hour journey to the southern coast of France. Rolle moved to his sleeping berth and realized he needed his rest to be able to perform at his peak. He was also comforted that only a few young boys and dogs had died on the trip from Berlin. A small price to pay, he thought, for the chance to save his country.
As he was about to drift off to a comalike sleep, his last cognitive thought was, “It has been a good day.”
Chapter 14
Arizona Minimum Security Prison Yard—2012
Armed with breaking news, Jon interrupted Tom while he read a three-day-old newspaper on a picnic table in the prison yard.
“Guess what?” Jon asked.
“You grew a real dick?”
“Your penis envy is endearing. No, this is better.”
“You grew a vagina?” There was hope in Tom’s voice.
“Not yet, but I do think my voice is getting higher. No, they want me to be a trustee.”
Finally, Tom looked up from the paper and asked, “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been planning an escape every day for five years.”
“I love irony. That’s how fucked up they are. Good news is as a trustee I can be assigned off-site work details and can select my crew.”
“Off-site?”
“Yeah, you know, working in parks, roadwork, picking up trash, that kind of crap.”
Returning to the sports section, Tom said, “Wow, you are one lucky bastard.”
“There’s that jealousy thing again. But I won’t hold it against you. In fact, I’ve already put you on a list along with those two gay accountants to do some road work.”
Tom finally put down the paper and said, “Roadwork? In August? Are you fucking nuts? It’ll be a 110 out there. Think I’ll just stay here and wash more underwear.”
“Too late. You’re on my list big boy. Come tomorrow we’ll be out in the real world.”
“Fuck me.”
“I’ll pass, but you are a very handsome man” Jon said as he smiled and batted his eyes at Tom.
Normally any job that meant the inmates got to leave ASPF, for even a day, was a plum assignment. There were no full-time guards, there was a break in the boring routine, and there would be different scenery. But six days of spraying oil on a dusty road in oven-like temperatures was no day at the beach. Plus, they would be working with two boring, morose, middle-aged bean counters, who had been convicted for various forms of embezzlement
and were guests of the state of Arizona for six more years.
For the four years Anderson and Baker had been in prison together, not a day went by that one did not blame the other for the two of them getting caught. While they constantly bickered, it was generally accepted that they were lovers and had probably been so before being arrested at their desks at a large Denver manufacturing firm.
What was weird about Baker and Anderson, and there were lots of weird things, was they looked alike. They were both about five foot six and weighed about 140 pounds. They both wore black-rimmed glasses and had incredibly pale skin. The only real difference was Anderson was bald as a cue ball and Baker had thick brown hair.
Of all the things Tom and Jon hated about prison, and it was indeed a long list, getting up at 5:30 a.m. was near the top. But that day, knowing they faced hours in the hot sun, they were anxious to get to the site and get as much work done as possible before the temperatures soared.
When prisoners worked off site, they would be taken by a van to the location and given the equipment and supplies they needed for their specific jobs. In addition to food and water, they would also be given detailed work orders for the week. In this case, the four men were to spray oil on a twelve-mile section of dirt road—two miles per day—that would then be tarred the following week by another crew.
But the men’s secret plan for this assignment was to bust their asses in the cool of morning, get most of the work done, then take a break for lunch and have two of them work for half an hour, while the other two rested.
The four men wanted to be sure they completed their assignment exactly at 4:00 p.m. The last thing they wanted was to have the guard see them resting and the job completed. The next day he might want three miles.