White Rose Black Forest

by Dempsey, Eoin

  She stared out in front as she spoke, aware that though his newspaper was in front of him, he was looking around it at her.

  “I’m going to get up,” he said. “I’ll wait for you at the corner of the street over there. Come in five minutes, and we can walk together.”

  He folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm as he stood. She tried not to check her watch more than a couple of times. The man who’d offered her a cigarette was talking to someone else on the bench now, seemingly oblivious. As soon as she’d counted out the five minutes, she made her way over to Hahn, who greeted her with a handshake.

  “You know who I am, but I don’t know you. What do I call you?”

  “Franka. I’m German.”

  “Do you speak for our Allied friends? Can you make promises on their behalf?”

  “Yes, I can.” John had assured her of that much.

  “You say that your man cannot travel. What exactly is the problem?”

  “He has two broken legs. He’s recovering in a cabin near Freiburg.”

  Hahn waited until they passed a soldier and his girlfriend walking arm in arm.

  “That could be a problem. There’s been a change of plan.”

  “What change of plan would that be?”

  “I want to get my wife out with me.”

  “I thought you were divorced, with a daughter living in exile in Switzerland?”

  “Heidi is in Zurich, yes, but I can’t in good conscience leave my wife behind. The bombing has stepped up in recent weeks. It seems that the Allies have absolute rule over the skies of Germany now. Thousands are being slaughtered, and God help us all if the Soviets come. I can’t leave her to face that fate alone.”

  “I’ll see what we can work out.”

  Hahn stopped. “If she doesn’t come, I don’t either.”

  Franka tried to picture John hobbling on legs barely healed and trying to lead a couple in their fifties through the frozen forest to Switzerland. It didn’t seem plausible.

  “I’ll talk to our friend about it. I have a number of questions for you too.”

  Franka looked around. No one stood within earshot. They walked on.

  “I trust you’ve organized the house I demanded. I want a house on the beach, and two cars, one German and one American.” Hahn smiled to himself. “I want to be the leader of the team I’m working with, and I want control of the study.”

  “Everything has been taken care of,” Franka said. “How is your work progressing?”

  “We’re drawing closer to a breakthrough.”

  “What about the Nazi leadership? Are they beginning to pay attention?”

  “I had a letter from Himmler last week, praising me on the progress that we’ve made. The rumor is that he wants to make us his pet project. He’s going to use our findings to curry favor with Hitler. He’s in the process of scheduling a visit. If Himmler can get Hitler’s approval, then we’ll get all the funding we require, and we’ll be able to develop our weapon.”

  The word “weapon” jarred her, and the questions multiplied, but she remained on task, remembering John’s words. “Is there no way you can stop the progress?”

  “I’m part of a team. If I were to make some kind of deliberate mistake, then the rest of the team would notice. I could be thrown off the project, and in that case, your people would have no one inside. I couldn’t do that—it would harm my reputation, and besides, your masters want me to continue with my progress as far as I can before they steal it for themselves. They don’t believe that the Nazi leadership is going to back us to the necessary extent we’d need to finish the job. They think the war will be over by the time we get to the stage of having something we could actually use.”

  “Are they correct?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s difficult to say. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing.”

  “Could the work continue without you?”

  “Yes, but I am the spearhead and the driving force behind it. I am also the public face. Without me, people like Himmler will lose interest, and the project will be overlooked in favor of the jet-engine development Hitler believes can turn the tide of the war. Our project is one of many claiming to be the savior of Germany. It’s just that I happen to know the true potential of what we’re doing. It’s been difficult to get others to realize it too. This meeting with Himmler could make or break our project.”

  It was hard to tell whether he was anti-Nazi or not. She was beginning to get the impression that if they didn’t steal him away, he would see the project out to its resolution in Germany, and the Nazis would be able to make use of the potential of this weapon he’d mentioned. Perhaps he only wanted to make use of the Americans’ superior facilities and funding. Perhaps the project itself was all that counted, and scientific discovery was all that mattered to him, not to what ends that science would be used. A man with no loyalties other than his work was a dangerous one.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, passing from the Schlossplatz into the streets beyond. Imposing stone buildings surrounded them, and the evening began to set in. Streetlights flicked on, some broken, some working.

  “So what’s your plan from here?”

  “We want you to sit tight for two weeks and then make your way to Freiburg.”

  “And then you will take my wife and me to America so that I can continue my work?”

  “What age is your wife, Dr. Hahn?”

  “Fifty-three.”

  “Bringing another person along, particularly a woman in her fifties, is going to make getting across the border to Switzerland all the more difficult. I’m sure a brilliant man like you can appreciate that.”

  “That’s the only way I’ll go.”

  Franka tried to imagine what John might say. Perhaps John might get them across one by one, taking the wife first and coming back for Hahn. It was remote, but it might be possible.

  “Have you any way of bringing the work with you?”

  “I’ve made microfilm of blueprints and plans. Bringing it along shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “And where is this microfilm?”

  “Stashed safely.”

  She was just about to ask him to elaborate when the shrill sound of the air-raid sirens pierced the air.

  Franka could see the fear in his eyes. “An air raid,” he said. “We’ve got to get to a shelter.”

  “How long do we have before the bombs begin?”

  “It’s hard to say with the valley we’re built into, and the foggy conditions. The planes could be right on top of us. Are you coming with me?”

  “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  People began running, and mothers dragged children along by the arm.

  “There’s a shelter a few minutes’ walk away,” Hahn said. A shrill whistle cut him off, and a loud explosion rocked the street behind them. A storefront several hundred yards away exploded, showering the street with rubble and debris. A burglar alarm sounded. The sirens still howled. People scattered. Franka looked back and saw bodies on the asphalt. Hahn grabbed at her wrist as the whistle of bombs came again. A hundred people or more were running down the street now. It was impossible to know how far away the bomb shelter was. She couldn’t see it, could only see the scattered figures of people running. Hahn was slow. She was almost dragging him as another bomb struck, landing a hundred feet behind them. A man was flung into the side of a building as if swatted to the side by some giant hand, his corpse falling in an untidy heap. Another bomb, and then another, collided with the houses on either side of the street. Glass and debris sprayed out. Franka turned around and saw a man running behind her, his entire body consumed in yellow flames. He fell. People sprinted past, the sound of screaming left in their wake. Blind panic. Another bomb fell, and the building just in front of them exploded into the street, showering their path ahead with dust and rubble. There were dead all over the road in front and behind. And still the whistling of bombs filled her ears. Hahn slowed.

  “Ho
w far are we from the shelter?” she screamed.

  “Half a mile perhaps. Usually, there is more warning. The clouds.”

  Another explosion rocked the air around them, and Franka could see that the street they’d just run down was now a trail of fire. Several bodies lay burning like torches in the dimming light. The sky above was blackening. The planes were invisible. She saw a bomb, caught sight of the flare of black before it hit the ground, obliterating a grocer’s shop, scattering glass and wooden boxes of vegetables like confetti. Another bomb fell, and the mutilated body of an old woman skidded to the asphalt a few feet in front of them. Her clothes were burned away, her skin charred black underneath, her jaw sheared off. Franka ran around her as another bomb exploded behind them. She lost Hahn for a few seconds in the haze of smoke and then picked him out about fifty feet to her left. She made for him just as another bomb hit, scattering debris. Dozens of people were lying broken all around her, screaming. Dozens more ran on. Franka stopped, rubbing at her eyes. She lost Hahn again, scanned the ground for him.

  Another explosion almost blew out her eardrum, knocking her off her feet. The buildings all around her were a sea of flames sending black smoke billowing into the air. She wiped grit out of her eyes, tried to focus despite the ringing in her ears. She checked her body. No blood. She could move. Only a little pain. She rose to her feet, falling behind most of the crowd now.

  Another bomb exploded, but several hundred yards away this time. The thought emerged from the swamp of her mind that she was alone and still had to get to a bomb shelter. The crowd in front of her was still running toward the air-raid shelter, which she could now see was a few blocks away. Where was Hahn? She felt a warmth flowing down the side of her face, and her hand came back stained with her own blood. The cacophony of the sirens was changed now, mixed with the agonized moans of the wounded. She stumbled across rubble and broken glass, searching for Hahn. She counted seven dead within fifty feet of where she was standing, some missing arms and legs, others crushed under bricks and mortar. The whistling of the bombs came again, farther away now. The bombers had passed over, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come again. She still needed to get to a shelter. Staying out in the open meant death.

  Franka screamed as she saw him. Hahn was on the other side of the street, lying on his side in a pool of thick crimson. She stumbled to him and passed the outstretched hands of several wounded and begging for her help. It was against every instinct in her to ignore them, but she did. A faint voice inside her head reminded her to focus on the mission.

  “Hahn,” she said. Her voice seemed to echo within her, as if inside a deep black cavern. More explosions rocked the earth as she bent down to him. People were still running past. A young man shouted at her to come, tried to grab at her, but she shrugged him off. Hahn opened his eyes and lifted his head. Blood oozed out the sides of his mouth. He coughed, brought his eyes to hers. His clothes were wet with blood, the pool in front of him thickening by the second. His eyes implored her to help, though she knew there was nothing to be done. A loose piece of masonry lay on his legs, pinning him to the ground. She thought to drop him, to keep running toward the shelter. She remembered John, waiting for her in the cabin.

  “Where is the microfilm, Hahn?”

  His eyes flickered, and he managed nothing more than a grunt.

  “Don’t let your research die on this street. You said that the Nazis didn’t value your work. Let the Americans finish what you started.” He opened his eyes and was looking at her as she spoke now. “Where is the microfilm? Let me safeguard the work you’ve dedicated your life to.”

  Hahn tried to turn over, tried to move the concrete block off his legs. Franka reached under the block and strained as she attempted to lift it. It didn’t budge, and Hahn, resigned to his fate, fell back to his original position. His breathing was getting shallower, the color running from his face. Franka knew he had only seconds now.

  “Dr. Hahn? Don’t let your work fall into Nazi hands. Let the Americans do something good with it.”

  Hahn curled his lips back in a bloody, macabre smile. “Like they’ve done here today? Do you even realize what I’m working on?”

  “Nuclear fission? I don’t know what that is. I know it could change the tide of the—”

  “It’s a bomb—the most powerful bomb in history. A bomb that could level an entire city.”

  “One bomb that could destroy a city?”

  “That could incinerate thousands in seconds.”

  “Don’t let it fall into the Nazis’ hands. Think of what they did to your Jewish friends and colleagues. Think of what they could do with that power.”

  Hahn closed his eyes for a second and then opened them again for what Franka knew could be the last time. “It’s in my apartment, 433 Kronenstrasse. It’s close.” He coughed again. “Make sure they complete it. It’s all there. Go now, while the raid is on and the police are in the bomb shelter.”

  “Where is it hidden?” More bombs went off, only a few hundred yards away. Franka knew she had to move. The bombers would come again.

  “The picture of my mother,” he said, his voice weakening. “Look into it . . .”

  His head fell back, his mustache coated in blood, his eyes open, staring into nothing.

  People flashed past. Franka was the only person not running who was able. Hahn’s apartment was being watched. Why else would he have told her to go there now while the Allied bombers rained death on the city below? This could be Franka’s only chance to resurrect the mission, to do her part to defeat the evil that had killed Hans, and Fredi, and her father.

  It took a few grisly seconds to rifle through his pockets for the keys. No one was watching. She left him lying there and ran with the others, the safety of the reinforced-concrete air-raid shelter coming into view at the end of the street. A haze of smoke and dust hovered in the air. The sirens were still blaring, and several of the buildings around her were ablaze. Dead bodies littered the way. She saw the name come into view—Kronenstrasse. The street was empty. No police. No soldiers. No Gestapo, and surely no Frau Hahn waiting for her ex-husband to come home. She’d never get another opportunity like this. She stopped for a second, her breath thundering in and out of her lungs, her hair wet with blood. The safety of the air-raid shelter was two hundred yards away. It could wait.

  She ran down Kronenstrasse, glancing up at the numbers of the buildings as she went. The bombs came again, and several explosions rocked the ground behind her. Smoking hulks, which had been buildings just moments before, lurched over her, ready to collapse into the street. The mission. The mission. She followed the numbers 411, 413. A bomb fell to her right, hurling glass and concrete onto the road in front of her. She cowered down for a few seconds until she was sure there wasn’t another one coming. She saw the apartment block and ran to the glass door, which was still untouched, and fumbled for the keys. She tried one—the wrong key—and then another, and the key turned. The door opened to a marble staircase. The elevator was a few feet away but would be far too dangerous to use. The postbox on her right told her that Hahn lived, or had lived, in apartment 2b. She made for the deserted staircase as the entire building shook with the concussion from a nearby bomb. Survival would be pure chance. She crouched on the stairs, waiting for the sound to pass, and then continued up. Red-faced and panting, she made it to apartment 2b. The key slid into the lock, and she pushed the door open. The thought arose that his wife may have still been there, but there was no time for hesitation. She ran into the living room, repeating the words he’d said over and over.

  “A picture of his mother,” she said, scanning the room. Old black-and-white photos filled frames on every table, and several hung on the wall. Who was his mother? And where would he hide the microfilm on a tiny frame like these? A closed door beckoned, and she ran to it. She pushed into the bedroom and saw above the bed the framed portrait of a traditionally dressed, stern-faced woman. Franka pulled it off the wall and placed it facedown
on the mattress. More explosions tore through the air, and now she could hear the sound of flak biting back at the airplanes above. The back of the picture was covered in brown paper, level with the sides, raised an inch off the picture itself. Franka dug her hand into the brown paper and tore it away. A small black object was taped to the inside of the frame in the bottom-left corner. It couldn’t have been anything else but the microfilm. Franka ripped it off and rammed it into her pocket.

  The bombs came again as she made for the stairs, and she waited until the noise stopped before continuing down. She burst out the door of the apartment block onto the ruined street. A man who’d been calling out for her help minutes before was now dead. It was hard not to look at him as she ran past. She kept her hand in her pocket as she went, her fingers coiled around the microfilm. The front door of the air-raid shelter was shut, and she hammered on it with a closed fist and shouted to let her in. The door opened, and—panting, covered in dust and blood—she fell inside. Hundreds of people turned to stare at her, her hand stuck in her pocket as if cast in iron.

  Hours passed. The bombing finally ended. The bandage the medic had placed on her head was itchy. He’d assured her that the gash was superficial, and that head wounds almost always looked worse than they were. She played dumb, nodding and smiling as he finished. The man beside her offered her his coat. She refused and asked directions to the hotel she’d booked into, hoping it was still intact. She thought of the Allied airmen dropping the bombs, wondered if they knew what they were doing, who their bombs were killing. Were they war criminals, as most of the people in the air-raid shelter would testify? Or were things like accountability for war crimes decided by the victors? She doubted that most of the criminals of this war would ever see justice. Those on the side that emerged victorious would likely be lauded as heroes, their crimes remembered as exemplary actions. Streets and railway stations all over the world were named after people who some would hold up as war criminals.