The station was sprinkled with civilians, most traveling on business, but was dominated by German soldiers. Transferred by railroad, some troops from the west were going on leave before reassignment to the Eastern Front. They were replaced by new recruits from Germany’s conquered territories, usually Poland or the Ukraine. To the residents it didn’t make much difference. They didn’t care where they came from. It was still an occupation force.
The musicians paused, an isle in an ocean of uniforms, and studied the hectic terminal. Large boards hung from the walls, identifying arrivals and departures to and from major cities: Paris, Brussels, Copenhagen, and Berlin. Germans swarmed into the station and around the trains, stopping at kiosks to buy newspapers and coffee.
“Our train doesn’t depart until 7:40,” Captain Klein said. He glanced at the tickets, and then his watch. It was 5:55.
“You’re early,” the porter said. “There’s a train at 6:25. You should try to make that.”
The string quartet, two women violinists, an elderly cello player, and a dashing viola player, waited for Klein to exchange their tickets. They were tired, having given six performances in two days at the Concertgebouw Orchestra. They wanted to go home, the sooner, the better.
Amanda Hamilton stood beside Erika Jaeger. She absentmindedly rubbed her belly and then jumped with a start.
“What’s the matter?” Erica asked, concerned.
“It’s the baby,” she said. “I felt her move.”
Erica smiled. “Her? Are we certain?”
Amanda laughed “It feels like a girl. And I will spoil her for the rest of my life.” She paused, looking a little guilty. “But I’ll do the same for a boy.”
“Have you settled on names?”
“If we have a boy, Manfred insists we name the baby after him. He’s still upset he named my stepson Kurt.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
She rolled her eyes. “He prefers Wilfrieda, after his grandmother.”
Erika cringed. “And what does the mother-to-be prefer?”
“I like Elisabeth.”
“A beautiful name. It sings like a bird. Appropriate for a third generation violinist.”
Amanda thought of her father, a violinist for the London Symphony Orchestra. She wished he were still alive; they had left so many things unsaid. Although she knew he tried, he really wasn’t a very good parent, even to his only child. He was cold and distant, a brooding loner, more of a shadow than a man. But he might have done better with a grandchild.
Captain Klein approached. “I was able to change our tickets, but we must hurry. Come with me. Quickly.”
They rushed through the terminal and stepped on the train. Amanda and Erika moved to the front of the car, sitting just past the door. The three men turned in the opposite direction, moving towards the rear, near the baggage rack. Kaiser and Klein sat together while Gerhard Faber, the newest member of the group, sat in front of them.
They were barely seated when the doors closed. The train began to pull away from the station, moving very slowly, the engine struggling to pull the cars behind it. But the speed gradually increased from a crawl to a run, and soon the buildings of Amsterdam moved past in a swirling sea of colors, the narrow townhouses wrapped in beige, mauve, amber, and crimson, separated from interlaced canals and narrow bridges that spanned them by cobblestone lanes.
Amanda looked out the window as the train gained momentum, watching the city of Amsterdam glide by. She put her camera to her eye and snapped a series of photos, capturing the houseboats that lined a canal and six bicycles stacked against a lamp post, secured with a single lock and chain.
“I’m glad we got the earlier train,” Erika said. “I can get to the War Ministry on time in the morning.”
Amanda lowered the camera and turned to her friend. “I wish you didn’t have to work so hard.”
Erika shrugged. “I don’t have much choice. I need the money. You know how sick my mother is. And I have other relatives I care for, too.”
“I would be glad to help you,” Amanda said.
Erika smiled. “I know you would. But I can’t let you. It’s my family, and my responsibility. The work keeps me busy. I don’t think about Wilhelm as much.”
Amanda covered Erika’s hand with hers and gently squeezed it. Wilhelm was Erika’s husband, killed in Russia the year before. He was an artist, a woodworker who made beautiful cabinets, a craftsman with talents few could mimic. A uniform never fit him, mentally or physically; he looked out of place. A man with a big heart, a ready smile and a gentle soul, he was better suited for heaven than the Third Reich.
“Maybe I can help with your mother,” Amanda suggested. “I could spend some time with her while you’re working.”
Erika considered the offer. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” she said reluctantly.
“You’re not imposing. Ask your mother. She might like having some company.”
Erika motioned to the camera hanging from Amanda’s neck. “But then you wouldn’t have time for photographs. Or your violin.”
“I can spare a few hours. It’ll be nice to get out of the house. Manfred is rarely home, the war keeps him so busy. Kurt is growing up. He’s always with his friends.”
The train increased its speed as the last of the townhouses yielded to scattered homes and then forest and fields. The steady motion, and rhythmic sound of the train’s engines, lulled Erika to sleep, her head resting on Amanda’s shoulder. Amanda’s eyes closed a few minutes later.
They awakened with a start, the train screeching along the rails, the wheels screaming in protest, brakes fully applied. The sheer weight of the cars prevented an abrupt stop, momentum pushing the train forward.
Amanda gasped and grabbed Erika’s arm. Cars hurtled down the tracks, their speed barely impacted by the squealing brakes, the offensive shriek sending shivers through their bodies.
They were flung forward, bodies slamming into the seat in front of them, their eyes wide, faces pale. They screamed and braced themselves, grasping the arm rests, their feet planted firmly on the floor.
The car leaned to the side, pulling away from those behind it. With an ear-shattering screech, it skimmed off the rail, tilting heavily. It hurtled into space, branches brushing the windows, as it sped down the embankment, sliding through dirt and stones.
Amanda flew over the seat in front of her, banging her head on the ceiling. As the car twisted she was flung to the side, slamming into the doorway, and then hurtled backwards as it fought to right itself.
With a final lunge the car careened off a tree, its wheels grinding into the ground. But as it slid to a stop it leaned precariously and then toppled over, trampling trees and shrubs beneath it.
Amanda flipped and slid, beaten by luggage hurtling through the car. As she rolled and turned, fighting and falling, her mind was overcome with a jumble of images: her mother’s smile, Edinburgh in the rain, her first violin, her favorite photographs, the child in her womb.
*
The violin was her life. It always had been. She was a child protégé who went to the most famous music schools in England and, from there, to the grand stages of Europe. She could make the violin sing, the bow massaging the strings as her fingers caressed the neck. The instrument was an extension of her being; it could feel, connect, and communicate. She made the listener laugh or cry, mourn or rejoice. Or she clenched their hearts and pulled, coaxing emotions so deep that they didn’t know they existed. She made every cell yearn to hear more, anxious, anticipating, uplifted in appreciation.
But even though the violin was her life, the camera was her love. Seldom seen without it, she took pictures of people and places, buildings and birds, having an innate ability to catch living things in natural states, or people posing without knowing they were observed. She captured the ordinary, but expressed the extraordinary.
Rarely was one so gifted in two artistic pursuits.
“Doctor, her eyes are opening,” said a voice, dwarfed
and distant.
Amanda saw the light above her, a halo wrapped around it. She closed her eyes a moment, and then reopened them, her vision focused on two faces that looked at her curiously. There was a sterile smell, like alcohol, and the walls and ceiling were white. She tried to rise but couldn’t, her body wracked with pain.
“Keep still,” a man whispered soothingly. “You’re in the hospital. You were in a train accident.”
She realized he was the doctor, and that the woman beside him was a nurse. She was exhausted, and struggled to keep her eyes open. When she tried to speak, to ask a question, she couldn’t. Her mouth was too dry. She turned her head to the adjacent bed and saw Erika, sleeping, a purple bruise spreading from cheek to temple. Then her eyes fluttered closed and, as much as she wanted to open them, she couldn’t.
The doctor turned to the nurse. “Try to contact her husband again. She may not live through the night.”
CHAPTER 4
Manfred Richter was a handsome man, black hair graying at the temples, a bright smile, and a charming personality, which he usually leveraged to get his way. If unsuccessful, and his patience waned, a quick temper produced an evil, sadistic man who took pleasure in others’ pain. Given that combination, he almost always got what he wanted.
Guided by a Prussian father who was disciplined and domineering, critical and condemning, Manfred was an early devotee of Hitler. A persuasive speaker, he ensured the Fuhrer’s interests were always protected, his ideas developed, his visions created − no matter how demented they seemed. His devotion had not gone unnoticed, and his responsibilities had grown as the years passed. As Vice Chairman of the Nazi Party, he was a very public and powerful man. Yet few knew what functions he actually performed, which is exactly what he wanted. He was sinister and secretive, and one of Hitler’s most trusted disciples.
His suite at Hotel Abendstern was tasteful, but not elegant. The floral wallpaper was defined by crisp white crown molding, the parlor functional with a pleated leather couch and an oak coffee table, the feet made of hand-carved lion’s paws. A bottle of wine and two half-empty glasses, the first marred by lipstick, sat on the table beside a vase of roses, one of which was wilting.
He had only been there thirty minutes when the telephone rang. He ignored it.
Now he wondered if he should have taken it. Few people knew where he was: one of his aides, a friend who served as his alibi for the evening, and the hotel clerk, who was always discreet. But he was paid to be discreet.
The call could have been important. Maybe there was an emergency that needed his attention. He had tremendous responsibilities, and he shouldn’t ignore them. Why should he risk angering the Fuhrer, or those around him, just for a few hours of pleasure?
A briefcase leaned against the table leg, and he opened it, withdrawing a typewritten paper from a manila folder. Three columns, neatly spaced, provided dates, names and telephone numbers. It was a list of the aides in his office and who was on duty. He looked at the date and corresponding name. The man listed had earned his respect. If he was the caller, the message was important. Manfred considered calling him, but then decided not to.
He shrugged, and put the paper away. If it was that important, they would call again. He would answer the next time. His mind wandered to other issues, for a moment drifting to maps of the world with unusual routes and locations, the path that money takes in international transactions.
A nagging doubt prevented him from returning the briefcase to the floor. He withdrew one of the maps and unfolded it, muttering to himself. He grabbed a pencil and scribbled a note in the margin, capturing his thought.
He was blessed with a fabulous memory, and easily remembered rivers and routes, cities and sanctuaries, battles and ballistics. He never forgot names or faces; he catalogued strengths and weakness, and he could exploit any adversary, making them do what he wanted with minimal persuasion. He remembered all of his enemies, knowing there was little likelihood they would ever be friends.
“Is everything all right, darling?” asked Anna Schneider, a local cabaret singer. Blond with a hint of darker roots and lavishly made up, most would consider her attractive, even if a bit too salacious for Berlin, especially given the current environment.
“Yes,” he muttered, putting the map back in his briefcase and returning it to the floor. “I just wanted to make some notes.”
“Can’t you forget about that for a few hours?” she asked, miffed that she didn’t have his attention.
“I’m sorry,” he said, casting her a smile. “How could I possible think about maps with such a beautiful woman sitting beside me?”
“What was the map of?” she asked, curious.
“South America.”
She looked at him strangely. “All of Berlin is talking about the Russian Front, but you’re making notes on a map of South America.”
“It’s a military issue,” he said tersely. “I’m sure the details would bore you.” He smiled again, his eyes twinkling, his hand moving to stroke her hair.
She gave him a quick kiss, unable to resist his charm, then sipped her wine. “Who do you think was calling?”
“I’m not sure,” he said tentatively. “But I probably should have answered. Not many people know I’m here. Now I wonder who it was. I keep thinking about it.”
“I can distract you,” she said with an alluring pout. “It won’t take much effort.”
He smiled, kissed her lightly on the cheek and then moved his lips to the lobe of her right ear, gently taking it into his mouth. He traveled to her neck, planting tiny kisses, drinking the scent of her perfume. His fingers caressed her shoulder, trailed to her breast, and lightly teased her nipple though the fabric of her dress. He was interrupted by the phone ringing.
“Don’t answer it,” she said.
He hesitated. “I had better. That’s the second time.”
“It can’t be that important. I’m sure the world isn’t ending.”
“It could be something for the Fuhrer. I have to answer.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Manfred, it’s just as hard for me to get away as it is for you. Let’s not waste the evening on the telephone.” To punctuate her statement, she brushed her fingernails across his chest, down his torso, and lightly across his thigh.
He sighed and leaned back on the couch just as the ringing stopped. “You’re right,” he said. “Why waste an opportunity?”
He turned to face her, his lips finding hers. He kissed her, lightly at first and then hungrily, his hand roaming her body, caressing her tenderly before finding a home on her thigh, just below the hem of her dress.
The telephone rang again.
Anna pulled away from him, frowned, and glanced at her watch. “You may as well answer it. It won’t stop ringing until you do.”
“It must be important,” he said firmly.
He rose from the couch and walked to an octagonal table against the wall. He picked up the phone, looking out the window at Stuttgarter Platz, cobblestone streets, the trees lining the road, tiny buds on branches hinting of spring. Taxis and sedans passed below, merging with busses, a dozen bicycles, and a streetcar, while a handful of pedestrians strolled along the pavement, some pausing to look in shop windows.
“Yes,” Richter asked, the receiver in his ear.
He listened, not speaking, his face firming, the muscles of his cheeks tightening. “Yes, yes of course. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
He put the phone in the cradle and turned to Anna Schneider. “I’m sorry, darling. I have to go. It’s an emergency.”
CHAPTER 5
Basel sat on the Swiss border, the Rhine separating both the city and its neighbors, France and Germany. Michael York wandered through the city streets after winter turned to spring, walking to Marktplatz where he enjoyed the Swiss architecture: brick and stone arches, French doors that led to baroque balconies, and an onion-shaped dome hinting of Russia in the shadow of the Alps. It was a beautiful city and, wi
th the weather warming, the square was alive with people enjoying the sun, regardless of how weak it might be. They stopped at vendors’ carts for books and pastries and vegetables, or stared in shop windows at clothing, housewares, and cuckoo clocks.
He stopped at an antique shop and looked in the window, studying a cane that leaned against a roll-top desk. It was oak, the hand-carved stem depicting a vine that traveled the length. Topped with a gnarled, tee-shaped handle, one side longer than the other, it was designed for a hand to comfortably hold.
Although he could manage without a crutch or cane, limping severely and leaning to his right, he was intrigued. The cane was unusual. And it was something he could use, something he needed. More interesting, he had never seen anything like it before.
He walked into the store, finding an elderly man with a broom-bristle moustache sitting behind the counter, his head bowed, focused on a woodcarving that sat before him. York walked in, waited politely until he looked up, and then nodded.
“Excuse me,” he said, the soft German accent influenced by his Austrian mother. “I’m interested in the cane in the window. Is it really a weapon?”
The man rose, briefly stretching a back that ached from stooping and rubbing eyes strained from tedious work. “Yes, it is. It’s unique. A pistol and a knife. It’s English, actually. Decades old.”
As they walked to the display, he first noticed York’s limp. “And it’s functional,” he added. “Oak. Very strong.”
He took the cane from the window display. “It’s ingenious. The barrel is the longer side of the tee. Underneath the handle, you’ll find a metal lever, the trigger, and a tiny brass latch, the safety. Move the latch, point the handle, pull the lever, and the shot is fired. It only holds one bullet at a time. The new round is loaded from the other end.”
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