“Do you have ammunition?”
“Only one package of twelve bullets.”
“Can I see it fire?”
“Are you interested in buying it, or are you just curious?”
“If it works properly, and fires like any other gun, I will buy it.”
“Then come to the back. I will show you.”
The shopkeeper led him to the rear of the store, a storage room cluttered with shelves and boxes. There was an archery target lying on the floor, composed of dense hay. He leaned it against the wall and moved about three meters away. He showed York the mechanisms, and fired.
York was surprised by the power. It was loud; there was no disguising that a gun had discharged. The acrid stench of sulfur tinged the nostrils; a puff of gray smoke drifted from the barrel. The bullet pierced the target and imbedded in the stone wall.
“Perfect,” York said, awed by the design. “I’ll take it.”
“Wait,” the man said. “There’s more. If you move this catch and twist, the top handle comes off.” The man showed him, sliding the catch to one side. The stem fell to the floor, revealing a thin stiletto. The shopkeeper smiled wryly. “If the shot misses, you can surely do some damage with this.”
*
A week later, well after dark, York walked towards the Basel rail terminal, two stone towers with an arched dome connecting them, neo-baroque, graceful and balanced, marble statues adorning the roofline. He passed the building and remained in the shadows, studying the surroundings, and then furtively started down the track towards the German border.
He carried one large suitcase, all his belongings packed into it, the linings filled with Reichsmarks. Several one-carat diamonds were sewn into his clothes’ pockets, should he need more cash. He hobbled forward on his cane, carrying a leather satchel with more money tucked in the bottom, covered by books and personal effects.
His documentation was in order, the finest forgeries available, his German perfect, although hinting of an Austrian accent, and his limp genuine but mitigated by the cane, proving his cover as a veteran no longer able to serve. The photograph he always carried was in his shirt pocket, close to his heart. Just where it belonged.
Although most of the city was sleeping, he still had to hide from occasional beams cast by headlamps of approaching cars or trucks. He left the city center, the houses growing sparser, and continued along the tracks until he reached a large linden tree standing sentinel over carefully cultivated farm fields. This was the landmark Max had provided; it was where he would catch the train.
He waited in the darkness, eyeing his watch. It was close to midnight when he heard cowbells, and then the rustling of animals through the fields. A few seconds later a lantern lit the darkness, and two men were seen at the railroad, waving the light back and forth in the night.
The track begun to rumble, a light piercing the darkness, and a train whistle sounded from behind him. Seconds later the train appeared, its brakes squealing in protest, the massive line of cars gradually slowing.
The train halted feet before the cattle crossing. As York moved to the last car in the lengthy train, he could hear the conductor and engineer shouting at the farmer, telling him to get off the tracks. He slid underneath, removed a small flashlight from his pocket, and saw the door handle. He undid the catch, opened the door downward, and pointed the light into the car.
It was just as Max had described: a void among crates and cartons, two meters high and one meter square. He shoved his suitcase and satchel into the car, and then climbed in.
Seven minutes after it had halted, the train began to belch steam and slowly chug forward. Minutes later it was back to full speed, crossing the border into Germany and moving towards Freiburg.
York opened his suitcase and removed the German uniform. He changed clothes, the small flashlight clenched in his teeth, and then settled in for the journey. While he waited, he mulled over the information Max had offered on the Berlin String Quartet, provided by Kent, his predecessor. He had to find a spy among four potentials, one of whom was actually a Gestapo informant.
Amanda Hamilton was the most interesting. A British citizen anchored in Germany, her loyalties could lie anywhere, especially after her husband’s infidelity. Although it seemed their marriage had been saved, their relationship reconciled with a child on the way, York wondered if that was really the case. Was Amanda Hamilton trapped in Berlin, with no past or future? Could she be vulnerable, open to approach, especially if the hint of freedom was attached to it? He didn’t know. But he had to very carefully find out.
Erica Jaeger was also intriguing, primarily due to her need for money, always a strong motivator. She could be either a supplier of information or a Gestapo informant. Both paid well. He wondered what her political beliefs were, especially after losing her husband on the Russian Front.
Gerhard Faber, the patch on his left eye, was an enigma. A note on the back of his photograph claimed he needed money also, just like Erika Jaeger. What drove the need for money? Was it family? Or an addiction: gambling, alcohol, sex. Both Gerhard and Erika had to be approached with caution.
Albert Kaiser, the elderly cello player seemed least likely to betray his country or inform on those who might. He lived within his means, surviving on rental income and his salary as a musician, happily married with grown children. York decided to observe him carefully, but considered him the least dangerous.
Once he evaluated each candidate, he rated Erika Jaeger and Gerhard Faber the most dangerous, Amanda Hamilton the biggest mystery, and Albert Kaiser the one who required the least of his attention.
Two hours later, the train slowed, and then gradually stopped. York quickly slipped out, gathered his luggage, and closed the trap door. He slid out from underneath the train, surveyed the area as he brushed himself off and, after finding no one nearby, scrambled onto the loading dock.
As he walked into the terminal, he passed an elderly janitor pushing a broom across the floor. The man glanced at his German uniform and continued sweeping. York saw a policeman standing against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee, observing the few dozen people that wandered the terminal. York watched their reactions closely, but neither showed any suspicion.
He purchased a ticket for Berlin, via Stuttgart, sat in the terminal waiting room, and tried to relax. His train departed at five a.m., almost three hours away. His first test would come shortly; his identity papers must be flawless, and he must speak German with no accent.
Shortly after four a.m., he boarded the train with a handful of others. He chose a seat at the end of a car, with no one nearby. He put his luggage in the rack, keeping his satchel beside him.
He sat patiently, waiting with the other passengers. Five minutes later, the car doors opened and a Gestapo officer entered, his black uniform accented with a Nazi band on the left bicep. He moved down the aisle, inspecting passengers’ documentation, spending seconds with some, minutes with others.
The closer he came, the more anxious York felt. His mouth was dry, his heart beat faster, his stomach felt queasy. He took a deep breath, annoyed. How would he ever function in Berlin, the Nazi capital, if he couldn’t maintain his composure talking to a Gestapo agent that had no reason to suspect him of anything?
He forced himself to relax, looking out the window at the suburban landscape. A stone wall flanked the rail, with houses scattered beyond. A field lay on the opposite side, rising to a hill on the horizon, its peak purple against the rising sun. For a moment he was lost in thought, watching a black grouse, a red patch just above his eyes, sitting on the wall, studying the train.
“Papers, please,” the Gestapo officer said.
CHAPTER 6
York handed his papers to the officer, ensuring he made eye contact, and offered a polite nod.
The officer ignored the greeting, took the documents, and studied York for a moment, no expression on his face. He looked at the papers, squinted, and removed his spectacles, polishing them with a handkerchief. He then took the
documents between his thumb and index finger, rubbing them tenderly, checking the texture and ensuring the minutest details were correct.
“Why were you in Freiburg?” he asked.
“I was visiting family, sir,” York replied cautiously.
If he found York’s accent unusual, or his pronunciation strained, he didn’t show it. He continued to review the documentation, now checking the seal. He brushed his finger across it, lifted it to his nose to smell it, and then lowered it, seeming satisfied.
“What family?”
“An aunt and uncle.”
“On your mother’s or father’s side?”
York hesitated. He wasn’t prepared for the question. “Mother’s,” he said haltingly.
The officer’s eyes left the papers and zeroed in on his. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Dietrich,” York said, trying to think quickly, giving the first name that came to his mind.
“Just like the movie star,” the man said sarcastically. “How convenient.”
York felt beads of cold sweat on the back of his neck. How could he be so stupid? He couldn’t invent a better name than that?
The officer’s gaze was intense. His eyes wandered, searching for anything suspicious.
York maintained a puzzled look, as if surprised he was being questioned.
“You were stationed in Africa?” the officer continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you returning to duty?”
“Not at this time.”
“Why not? Any good soldier wants to return to duty.”
“And I do, also, sir,” he replied, pointing to the cane. “But I was badly wounded.”
“Where are you traveling to?”
“Berlin.”
The officer looked at York’s clothing, the buttons primarily, to ensure they were cross-stitched, which was different than the English and American style. He studied the bag in the overhead compartment, York’s shoes, the crease in his trousers. When satisfied all were German, he returned the papers and started down the aisle.
York exhaled slowly. It had been harder than he thought, the officer smarter than expected. He sat rigid, cautious and alert, while the officer checked the remaining passengers. A few moments later he walked briskly down the aisle and left.
It was another five minutes before the doors closed and the train began to pull away from the station. York relaxed and read a newspaper, idly passing the time while occasionally gazing out the window at the rural landscape.
He changed trains when he reached Stuttgart, using the same tactics, blending in and keeping a modest profile. No one sat beside him, which he preferred. He didn’t want to be bothered with conversation. He opened a book, Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, and started reading.
When the train was thirty minutes from Berlin, a German colonel came down the aisle, returning from the dining area. Strutting through the car, his posture ramrod-straight, he arrogantly eyed each passenger, as if they shouldn’t occupy the same space that he did. He stopped in front of York.
“What are you reading?” he asked sternly.
York tensed, sensing danger. He held the book up, showing the cover, and cast an innocent glace at the colonel.
“Did you know that author’s books are banned?”
“No, sir, I didn’t,” York said uneasily. He didn’t need trouble. But now he didn’t know how to avoid it.
“His wife is a Jew,” the colonel said with disgust, as if the mere pronunciation of the word was distasteful. “The Reich has a new policy. Even Jewish vermin married to good Germans have been identified for resettlement. Greater Germany will finally be free of all Jews, regardless of who they’re related to.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware. I bought the book in Freiburg while visiting family.”
There was an awkward silence as York observed him. He didn’t seem to care where the book was purchased. Trying to appeal to his sympathies, York added, “After recovering from my war wounds.”
The colonel’s expression changed. “Where were you wounded?” he asked, his tone softening.
“North Africa, sir.”
“And you’re fully recovered and ready to serve the Fatherland?”
York sighed, showing disappointment. He raised and lowered his right arm. “Bullet to the shoulder, but fully recovered.” He extended his left leg, pain mirrored on his face. “Machine gun. The bullets ran right up my leg. It will never be the same.”
The colonel grimaced, watching the limited movement of the limb. “See a good doctor in Berlin. They may be able to help. And give me that book. Before the wrong person sees it.”
*
York caught a taxi at the Berlin terminal, sickened by the Nazi flags draped from buildings, hanging from streetlamps, and affixed to the bumpers of government vehicles. He went to Charlottenburg, to the west of the city center, and found a family-owned hotel in an old building on the Kurfürstendamm. Known locally as the Ku'damm, it was a broad avenue, fifty meters wide, lined with towering plane trees, some as high as forty meters; it was Berlin’s Champs-Élysées.
The architecture was distinctive, blocks of five and six story buildings with ornate cornice and fascia, decorative brick and stone facings adorned with cherubs and gargoyles, balconies and overhanging bay windows and walls. Flower boxes hung from upper story windows, blotting the buildings with splashes of color − lavender, gold, crimson and blue. The ground floors contained cafes, antique shops, boutiques and restaurants, ensuring the pavements were filled with pedestrians, regardless of the time of day. The boulevard, which ran for over three kilometers, was crowned by the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, a towering structure of Romanesque Revival design, with a steeple that stretched almost to heaven.
York registered, planning for an indefinite stay, and brought his bags to the room. It was sparsely furnished, a bed and nightstands, an oval table with chairs under a window, and a worn couch beside a bureau against the far wall. The drapes were dated, the plaster on the wall chipped near the crown molding, but it was functional and would easily meet his needs. He unpacked, leaving the money hidden in the baggage lining, and then went to a café around the corner and had some soup and sauerbraten.
The following morning, he took a taxi to the cemetery. It was in a beautiful location, thick with trees, and sprawled around the Sausuhlensee, a small lake named for wild boar. It sat in the shadow of the site used for the 1936 Summer Olympics, on the western edge of the city. York followed the directions given by Max and was soon standing before the tomb assigned as the drop. He studied the landscape, looking for places where someone might be hiding, watching. When satisfied it was safe he studied the lane and those that crossed it, but saw no one visiting tombs. He waited for an older woman, walking from a grave, to pass from sight, and then removed the cap from the newel, as directed. He reached into the cavity. Empty.
He retraced his steps and made sure he was in the right place. He was. Disappointed, he returned to the hotel, purchased a newspaper, and went to the same café to order lunch. He opened the paper and read the headline: Berlin String Quartet Injured in Train Wreck.
CHAPTER 7
The mood in the hospital room was somber and sad, the gloom not impacted by bright arrangements of carnations and chrysanthemums. Baskets and vases lined the ledge along the window; displays on metal stands were scattered around the room. A huge array containing a hundred roses stood on an ornate pedestal that looked like lace, the placard boldly stating: My thoughts are with you and your speedy recovery, Adolph Hitler.
Amanda Hamilton lay in bed, pillows propped under her head, staring listlessly at the white ceilings and walls. She saw no future, could envision no time when a smile would ever appear on her face, and only focused on what could have been, the life she might have had.
A curtain was drawn beside her, providing separation and privacy from the neighboring bed, which was sandwiched into a slender area by the door. Amanda had far more space,
which had grown by the hour as more floral arrangements arrived. But it seemed dismal, the drapes partially drawn, even though a twelve-pane window allowed sunlight to bathe the room.
Behind the curtain, Erika Jaeger sat up in bed, her nose in a book of poetry. Although bruised and battered, she was recovering. Musical scores were scattered about, along with two books sitting on her nightstand. A vase of flowers was perched beside the books, sent by her mother, while a large arrangement stood next to the bed. It was from the Richters − Amanda, Manfred and Kurt. There were no other flowers, just as there were no visitors.
Erika wasn’t offended by the privacy curtain; she knew it wasn’t personal. Nothing had been more important to Amanda than having a child. It would have been the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, the family intimacy that she had never known, a new beginning with Manfred. And now, because of a sadistic saboteur, and being on the wrong train at the wrong time, she had lost her baby.
She knew Amanda needed time alone, just as Erika had when her husband Wilhelm died. And even though her friend’s sobs broke her heart, she didn’t interfere, only offering kind words to comfort her. She knew the time would come when Amanda needed her. It just wasn’t now.
The door opened and a handsome man entered, black hair graying at the temples. A boy was with him, sixteen years of age, resembling the father but tall and lanky, like a faltering colt.
“Manfred, how are you? And Kurt,” Erika said, her eyes showing deep compassion. “I’m so sorry about the baby.”
Manfred moved to the bed and gave her a hug. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s hard to accept, especially after months of elation. And then it’s shattered, gone in an instant.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help,” Erika said.
“Thank you, I appreciate that. You’re a good friend.” He smiled weakly, showing his appreciation. “And how are you? Not hurt too badly, I hope. You look well, for the most part.”
“A bit bruised and sore, but otherwise all right. Very fortunate, I suppose.” She glanced at the drawn curtain. “Amanda was awake a few minutes ago. I think she’s been waiting for you.”
In Satan's Shadow Page 4