The Swiss Courier

by Tricia Goyer

  Eric interrupted her thoughts. “Does this mean—”

  The clackety-clack clamor of a horse-drawn carriage coming toward them drowned out Eric’s voice. Gabi looked up and noticed a Swiss Army private, dressed in an olive uniform and garrison hat, working the reins of a single horse with blinders. The Army private was ferrying a black-bearded young man in a mud-stained black suit and what looked to be his wife clutching an infant to her breast. The fourth passenger was another Swiss Army private with a bolt-action Karabiner 31 rifle lying across his lap.

  Must be Jews. While Gabi hadn’t seen this before, she’d heard the stories. Many Jews had escaped into Switzerland only to be caught by local authorities and escorted back to the German border, where they would be handed over to the Gestapo. It didn’t seem fair.

  Gabi paused her steps and looked into the face of the woman, imagining herself in that position. The woman clutched her child tight, as if to protect her innocent loved one from the fate awaiting them on the other side of the border.

  The mother’s doe-like eyes met Gabi’s and held her gaze. The woman’s plea was clear . . . Isn’t there anything you can do?

  The look caused the muscles in Gabi’s stomach to tighten in a ball, and a wave of emotion rose in her throat. Without warning, a tear escaped and rolled down Gabi’s left cheek, and her knees trembled. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold herself up any longer, a warm arm wrapped around Gabi’s waist, holding her up.

  “That’s got to be the saddest thing I’ve seen in my life.” Eric’s voice broke. And though his voice hinted of sadness, Gabi also noted something else—determination. But determination about what?

  “What do you think will happen to them?” Gabi dabbed at her eyes. She knew the answer but hoped Eric would tell her different.

  “I hear they are taken to relocation camps in the East. The conditions are sure to be brutal. Lack of food, no sanitation. Can you imagine the Germans locking up people like barnyard animals?” Eric’s hand led her forward, encouraging her on.

  Gabi resumed her steps. “Those have to be just stories, right? Things can’t be that bad, can they? I mean look at them.” She nodded her chin toward the couple in the carriage. “They look harmless. What have they done? They can’t help what family they were born into, what blood surges through their veins.”

  Eric patted Gabi’s back. “Yes, but others do not see it that way, and I’m afraid the truth, well, is probably worse than the stories we hear . . .” His voice trailed off, and she knew he wanted to say more.

  The mother glanced one last time at Gabi, and her pained look pierced Gabi’s soul. She made herself look away from the refugee mother. What could she do? How could she help? She was only one person, and any attempt to help these poor people could jeopardize her job—and hinder the greater work she could do for their entire race.

  The carriage moved on, and Gabi focused on her footsteps on the bridge. She glanced at the flowers in her hand, trying to turn her attention back to Eric. With so much happening in the world, a few moments of carefree romance seemed appealing.

  “Eric, I’ve been thinking—”

  Commotion interrupted her words, and shouts filled the air.

  They turned just in time for Gabi to see the bearded husband lurching toward the Army guard. Both toppled out of the carriage and tumbled to the pavement, with the Army guard taking the brunt of the fall and crying out in pain. The horse’s whinny joined the tumult as the driver yanked on the reins and attempted to regain control.

  The husband jumped to his feet, holding out his cuffed hands to catch his wife and child. She leapt, and the baby’s startled cry joined the noise. The horse spooked from the pandemonium, and the driver snapped the reins as the other guard moaned on the pavement.

  “Halt! Stop!” the driver yelled.

  Gabi held her breath, feeling as if she were watching something from a nightmare. Everything moved as if in slow motion.

  “No, don’t!” she pleaded, but it was no more than a whisper.

  What were they doing? The Jewish couple wouldn’t get far. Surely they realized escape was impossible.

  Quickly, the husband lifted his wife and child and set them on the bridge’s ledge. Then he jumped onto the ledge and helped his wife to her feet. The injured guard struggled to aim his rifle at the family, but he was too late. The Jewish couple took one step together and fell into the Rhine ten meters below.

  “Stay here!” Eric sprinted toward the horse-drawn carriage as the soldier ran to the wall with his carbine.

  “Don’t shoot!” Eric tackled the soldier to the ground.

  Gabi closed some of the distance and looked over the ledge to the water below. The husband was nowhere to be seen, but the mother—who wasn’t handcuffed—bobbed to the surface, holding the crying baby aloft.

  Eric scrambled to his feet and raced to the wall, just in time to see the woman struggle, then sink beneath the surface with her infant. With one motion, he whipped off both boots and jumped into one of the few placid eddies in a wide, swift-moving river.

  Gabi gasped, losing sight of the mother and child just as Eric’s body knifed into the water and disappeared.

  “Save them!” she screamed. Ten seconds passed, then twenty . . . thirty seconds . . . Finally, Eric resurfaced. His eyes lifted in Gabi’s direction, searching the bridge for her.

  “You couldn’t find them? Aren’t they down there?” she called to him.

  Eric shook his head, then dove toward the murky bottom again. He did this four more times and then finally surfaced for good, shaking his head. Without a word, he quietly stroked to a nearby dock.

  Gabi buried her face in her hands. The Jewish couple wanted to die—together. Maybe they had decided that drowning was a far better fate than whatever awaited them across the border.

  The rumors had to be true.

  8

  Gestapo Regional Headquarters

  Heidelberg, Germany

  5:15 p.m.

  “Read me the last couple of paragraphs, Becker.”

  The young aide-de-camp glanced at his legal pad and cleared his throat. “‘According to my investigation, Engel is a Jew who was raised in a Protestant family that attended a free church in Spandau.’” Becker looked up. “Sounds complicated, sir. Do we need to explain to the Reichsführer what a free church is?”

  Kassler suppressed a flash of annoyance. “My dear Becker. Of course our great leader understands the differences between free churches and state ones.”

  “Then, uh, can you explain it to me?”

  Kassler frowned, wondering just what they taught in Nazi Youth. “The free churches act independently and receive no government funding, and state churches like Lutheranism and the Roman Catholics receive a sizable portion of their budget from tax monies. The former accepts no discipline and has been a thorn in our side, while the latter has acquiesced—even been supportive—of our great cause. The Episcopalians and Catholics haven’t issued a peep of protest regarding our handling of the Jewish problem. I see you still have some things to learn, Corporal.” He cleared his throat. “Carry on.”

  Becker’s Adam’s apple bobbed once again as he slowly read the rest of the letter in a clear and concise monotone. “‘Thus, Engel has two areas of suspicion. One, he is aware of his Jewish ancestry and is acting like a clandestine fifth columnist against the State, waiting for the right moment to show his true nature and fight for his people. Or two, he is a willing dupe of the Zionists, who have successfully planted him in a sensitive military research project. Sooner or later—probably sooner—Jewish interests will see to it that Engel successfully sabotages years of painstaking research by Professor Heisenberg’s team. Furthermore, the fact that Engel was raised by Christian cultists who have not bowed their collective wills to the Führer’s sure hand leads me to believe that Engel is a dangerous mole who must be rooted out.’”

  “I like that,” Kassler interrupted. “Makes our case, if I dare say so myself. And the last para
graph?”

  “Here’s how you ended your letter, Major. ‘Because of the critical nature of Engel’s work with Dr. Heisenberg, I humbly seek the Reichsführer’s direction on how to handle this delicate matter. Until I hear from you, I remain in your service’—signed, Major Bruno Kassler, SS Brigadeführer, Sektor Heidelberg.”

  Kassler smiled at his own devotion and humility, certain it would bring pleasure to the Reichsführer. He left his desk and paced to the window. “What’s the fastest way we can get this letter to Berlin?”

  “We have a courier service on the 7:23 night train. Your letter will be on the Reichsführer’s desk first thing in the morning.”

  “Very well. I would imagine his office will be calling sometime before the afternoon. I want you to be ready for that phone call, Becker. You understand its grave importance to the Reich, ja?”

  “Yes, and thank you for your confidence in me.” Becker’s lips curled up with a hint of a smile.

  Kassler glanced down at the people hurrying along the boulevard, realizing they had no idea how their fate rested in his hands. His chest swelled with well-deserved pride. He wouldn’t be surprised if Herr Himmler himself called.

  The pleasure of receiving such a response paled only in comparison to another truth: Engel was in for the surprise of his life.

  Basel, Switzerland

  5:24 p.m.

  Dieter Baumann cocked the bill of his tweed hat and joined dozens of Baslers crossing the busy Thunerstrasse, weaving amongst the confluence of streetcar and bus lines. Without looking up, he darted into the entrance of the Globus department store.

  This line of work never ceased to amaze him, he thought, as he energetically took the stairs two-by-two to the fourth floor. Gabi Mueller had a boyfriend? The strait-laced church girl whose idea of a wild night on the town was playing a game of jass with three girlfriends? And that was no peck-and-go embrace, either.

  Dieter didn’t recognize the guy holding the flowers like an embarrassed grade-school suitor. From his vantage point across the street, Dieter could smell the manure oozing from the skin of the poor sap. What was she doing with a simple farmhand who stood in cow dung up to his ankles all day long? He made himself a mental note to find out more about this cheese farmer after the First of August holiday.

  Dieter reached the fourth floor landing and turned to his right, walking through the glass doors leading to the Globus coffee shop. The restaurant, which overlooked Basel’s main shopping district, was lightly populated this late afternoon. That was fine with Dieter, who took a good look at the half-dozen patrons sipping their café au laits or nibbling their slices of Aprikosen Torte.

  That’s right, apricots were in season . . . for those who could afford them, that is. Everything for a price.

  He settled into a two-person table next to the window, and a waitress took his order for Aprikosen Torte—with a dollop of whipped cream—and a cappuccino. “Please hurry.” He drummed his fingers on the table, as if shooing her away.

  Within three minutes, the waitress set the late-afternoon snack and cup of coffee before him, along with a bill for two francs. The apricot pie, coated with syrupy glaze, would hold him over until dinner. After the last forkful, he set a two-franc piece on the table and regarded his watch. Two minutes to go.

  At precisely 5:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before closing, Dieter set his hat on his head and departed the restaurant. Instead of turning left to return to the elevator, he continued straight and strolled into the men’s restroom.

  An older gentleman was scrubbing his hands at the washbasin. Dieter ignored him and kicked open the first stall. Satisfied no one was there, he slammed the next door with his right boot and peered inside. When Dieter had finished checking all four toilets, he directed his attention to the older man, who was drying his hands with a pull-down towel.

  “You had me scared with that tire iron.” The older man smirked as he extended his right hand in greeting.

  “Sorry to be so dramatic.” Dieter shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I wanted to impress the girl.”

  “I’m sure you did.” The man gave a low chuckle. “Then again, you’ve always had a weakness for the skirts.”

  Dieter ignored the mild rebuke and plowed into business. “Those code words she found in the safe really gummed up the works in Bern. The cryptologists are pulling their hair out trying to match those codes with the latest intercepts.”

  “Good. That’ll keep them busy for a while. But your girl has a good set of fingers. I didn’t think she’d be able to crack the safe.”

  “Gabi Mueller is a young woman of many talents. For all her naïveté, she cannot be discounted.” Dieter glanced at his watch. They only had a few moments left. “You have something for me?”

  “Yes, and it’s important. It’s been nearly two months since the Allies stormed the beaches in France, but Panzer divisions have managed to keep the American and British invaders bottled up on their beachheads. A few days ago, though, Patton’s Third Army broke out west of St. Lô. Berlin wants to know where the Americans are headed.”

  “And you think I can find out that easy? As if a simple snap of the fingers can present this closely guarded information?” Dieter glanced at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, pleased with his comeback—pleased that they needed him more than he needed them.

  “No, but you usually manage to find a way. That’s why that Swiss bank account of yours is so healthy. A numbered account out of a bank in Zug, right?”

  Dieter turned on his heels without answering.

  University of Heidelberg Apartments

  7:14 p.m.

  Joseph Engel dropped his leather satchel on the tiny dining table and slumped into a well-worn settee.

  “Back so soon from work?” a male voice in the kitchen called.

  Joseph couldn’t decide whether his roommate was being combative or good-humored.

  “I still have some things to do tonight.” Joseph stood and took several paces toward the kitchen. “But admit it, Hannes. You can’t turn off your brain at the end of the day any more than I can.”

  “That’s why I unwind with a beer.” Hannes Jäger raised his pewter mug in a mock toast before imbibing a long draught of Pilsner. “I’ve got to salute you, though. Impressive display of chalk work this afternoon.” Jäger glanced at him with sincerity.

  Now Joseph was really confused. Jäger was usually so sarcastic. If Joseph asked a simple question, such as “What time is it?” Jäger was apt to reply with “Do I look like a watch?”

  “Seriously,” Jäger said again. “I was impressed.”

  “Thank you,” Joseph mumbled. “That’s not really necessary—

  ” “This is no time for false modesty. Unless you have a great desire to live in Siberia the rest of your life, writing equations for the Russians. What you described today about isotope separation may help the Reich stave off the Mongolian hordes. I also thought your mathematical insights regarding the perplexing problem of separating U-235 were brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” Jäger’s voice rose with excitement. “If Heisenberg can get even a small-scale reactor built in time, we could generate enough plutonium to build a bomb without parallel in man’s history—and you’d be famous.”

  Joseph’s chest filled with warmth at the flattery from his usually cynical colleague, who was pouring on praise like uncorked champagne at a wedding party. “Famous? You really think so?”

  “Listen to me.” Jäger settled into the loveseat, leaning forward. “You’ll go down in the history books as the man who correctly theorized how the world’s first atomic bomb could work. But before we can level Moscow or London, the bomb has to be tested. Maybe we could pack all the Jews in Warsaw and send a Messerschmitt in their direction. Wouldn’t that be a surprise? The joke would be on them, ja?” Jäger slapped his thigh and took another swig of beer.

  Joseph forced a laugh, but he failed to see anything funny about incinerating tens of thousands of innocent people, even if they were
Jews. As a youngster—before Hitler came into power—he had several Jewish friends in school, including his best buddy, Caleb. It was Caleb who had worked as his lab partner in his first physics class when he was fifteen years old. After that, when the Austrian corporal was elected German chancellor, things changed . . . nearly overnight. Joseph never forgot how the newly installed Führer declared that Jews were Untermenschen—“sub-humans”—at one of his first rallies. Caleb had moved away after that, never to be seen again.

  Joseph bit his lip, refusing to argue. But still, his silence didn’t mean he agreed. The Jews he’d grown up with weren’t sub-humans. In fact, it was his parents who taught him the Jews were “God’s chosen people.”

  That seemed so long ago.

  “Yes, some joke,” Joseph finally conceded, glancing out the window to the cobblestone street below the second-story apartment. Like he had every day since Hitler took power, Joseph stuffed down Jäger’s words—and his true sentiments. Papi and Mami hadn’t raised a fool. To say anything deemed supportive of the Jews could cost him his job—or his life. He wouldn’t put it past his roommate to denounce him before the Gestapo, even if he did make the history books.

  Joseph forced a smile. “So, are you going to offer me a beer?”

  9

  En Route to Davos

  Tuesday, August 1

  12:32 p.m.

  The compact train, with a green locomotive and a half-dozen red passenger cars, had previously been known in tourist brochures as the Rhaetian Railway. That, of course, was before the war, when the popular line ferried English and German tourists high into Switzerland’s Graubünden country for holiday. That was no longer the case.

  As her body swayed with the train’s rocking, Gabi reflected on the fact that England and Germany were now dire enemies focused on each other’s destruction. All because of a madman bent on global conquest. When would the world return to normal again? Would it ever?