by Tricia Goyer
Now his shoulders ached from his hands being handcuffed, and the gag in his mouth pulled too tight—not to mention the ache in his legs from being unable to stretch out in the small space. With each breath, questions filled his mind, only matched with thoughts of escape. They hadn’t tortured him . . . yet. But there was no guarantee it wouldn’t happen. No doubt the knowledge he carried within him—information about the wonder weapon and the university’s research—was of value to many.
Joseph breathed in the earthy scent of hay and considered the man’s words, You were about to be taken in by Gestapo, and I can assure you that they wouldn’t have been so kind . . .
Again, more questions. What did the Gestapo want with him? After all, he worked for the government. His work could help their cause.
Joseph’s thoughts journeyed back to his apartment. Aching loss shot through his heart as he considered Jäger’s death.
Surely, if they were trying to help him, they wouldn’t have killed his colleague. No matter what they say, they cannot be trusted. No matter what they do— An aching sob escaped his gag, and his shoulders trembled.
Dear God, are you there? Do you see me even now? Are you with me even here?
His world of relative calm and safety, he feared, was in his past. What kind of future lay in store? He didn’t want to try to guess. Still, he knew that Someone cared for him—Someone who did know exactly where he was.
Lord, show me what to do . . . and whom to trust.
With every worry that filled his mind, he offered it up to the Lord. Actually, “offer” was a weak term. Joseph imagined holding those fears in his hands and casting them at the foot of God’s throne.
And as he lay there, wondering how many hours had passed, and how many still remained until morning, a Scripture came to mind. One his father had taught him as a young boy—2 Timothy 1:7.
God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
He could hear his father’s voice in his thoughts.
A sound mind. It was what he needed most . . .
To know what to do.
To know how to keep his secrets his own.
To know whom to trust.
“Are we ready to transmit?” The Gestapo captain—as he was known on this mission—ran a hand down his dingy white shirt, aware that the recipient at the other end of the short-wave transmission waited anxiously for news about the abduction. Code name for this Swiss contact was “Big Cheese.”
He regarded the message that would be tapped out in Morse code as quickly as his hands would allow. The problem wasn’t his team’s ability to send the information. The problem was not knowing if it would be intercepted in the process—or if they’d be intercepted.
Somewhere out there in the night, the real Gestapo had stationed trucks with listening devices in different Heidelberg neighborhoods. The purpose was to intercept clandestine transmissions and to determine where they were coming from. Was a truck parked around the corner? He had no way of knowing.
Package picked up. Will move in morning. Await instructions for final transfer. He regarded his scribbled words on a piece of paper. Concise, and to the point.
The leader sat down at a table tucked in the corner of the cavernous garage and set to work.
His fingers worked furiously to tap out the message. After the final sentence miraculously shot through the nighttime air, the leader hoped—prayed—that they would not be discovered.
Brauhaus Vetter Restaurant
Heidelberg, Germany
11:47 p.m.
From the restaurant’s rear dining room, Pastor Leo Keller ignored the din of drinking songs that rose in crescendo with the volume of beer imbibed. Instead, he focused on the earnest faces of those gathered around him, yet he still found his mind wandering more often than it should.
The proprietor had warned Pastor Leo that his restaurant had become the Treffpunkt—meeting point—for the local Swiss community. Though these Swiss worked away from home—most were employed in technical positions at the Krupp ball bearing factory and munitions plants in and around Heidelberg—their hearts proved near to their mother country tonight. Apparently, the emotional tug of the First of August, and a longing for their homeland, was a potent combination for letting wartime steam rise to the ceiling where hop wreaths hung in orderly rows from rough-hewn wooden beams.
In the main room, an energetic accordion player moved seamlessly from one Swiss folklore song to another as couples clacked silver spoons to the sprightly music. Numerous heavy-breasted waitresses, in low-cut dirndls, slung liters of thick ale and placed them before the male-dominated crowd, whose cigarette smoke wafted upward and created a blue cloud that seemed to dance and sway with the music.
In a curtained-off dining room tucked away toward the rear of the restaurant, the pastor in his late fifties, with tufts of gray hair atop his dome, wasn’t about to complain. It was here that his underground church had been meeting thrice a week. On nights like this, the raucous music in the Brauhaus Vetter provided a convenient cover for a meeting.
Pastor Leo scanned the private dining room and regarded the three dozen members of his hardy flock. How their bravery touched him! His congregation probably numbered two hundred, but they somehow worked things out as to who would attend the church meetings and Bible study at the Brauhaus Vetter and who would stay home. Several took notes to share with the believers who couldn’t make it.
With midnight fast approaching, Pastor Leo figured the party in the front of the restaurant would break up soon. He cleared his throat and prepared to bring his sermon to a close.
“As this meeting of the saints comes to an end this evening, let me encourage you with what Paul wrote in his letter to the Romans. Turn with me, if you will, to Romans 8:35–39. Beatrice, would you be so good as to read God’s Word for us?”
The young mother, whose husband was listed as officially missing in action by the German Army, took a second to find her place, then located the correct passage.
She stood and lifted her chin, her voice carrying over the music drifting through the thick, velvet curtain that separated the rooms. “‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, for thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter. Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”
Pastor Leo allowed the Scripture passage to sink into the hearts of his flock. Then he nodded to Beatrice, who sat, seemingly unashamed of the tears that filled her eyes.
“Thank you, Beatrice.” The pastor sought to restrain his emotion. His eyes scanned the group as he composed himself. “The verb separate is a translation of the Greek word chorizo, which is only used thirteen times in the entire Bible. The root of this noun—choro—carries the idea of putting space, or room, between two things. What Paul is saying is that no one can put any ‘room’ between you and your Lord. No one can ‘distance’ you from his love—the love that sent Jesus to die on a cross to save sinners like you and me.”
Several believers murmured their agreement until he lowered his hands, asking for silence. “Liebe Gemeinde,” Leo intoned to the community of believers, “we are living in the midst of a horrible global war, the belly of the beast as it were, and followers of Christ who stand up for righteousness are enemies of the State. Be not afraid, however. Paul reminds that nothing can separate us from Christ, no matter how difficult our lives become or how much fear we live in.” He felt his chest tense as he preached these words.
Then the pastor dropped his head before continuing, this time with a voice thick with emotion. “And I have to tell you, personally, I live in great fear,”
he confided, glancing from face to face. “I fear for the sound of jackboots approaching my apartment door in the middle of the night. I fear that I will be stopped while walking on the street, minding my own business, and be taken in for questioning. I fear our meetings here at the Brauhaus will be betrayed to the Gestapo.”
Again, his statements—not only as their pastor but also as their friend—elicited grunts of acknowledgment. The men stared at their shoes, and Pastor Leo knew their thoughts were not unlike his. Each German man, woman, and child found themselves contemplating their mortality with each passing day, especially as the Allies pressed in from all fronts. Though not all expressed their fears, he could read it on their faces. They could die today . . . or tomorrow . . . or next week.
“Excuse me, Pastor.”
Pastor Leo looked up to see the restaurant’s owner peeking his head through a velvet curtain hiding a French door. The genial owner, a fourth-generation proprietor of the Brauhaus Vetter, had prayed for Jesus Christ to come into his life a year earlier. Within two months after that life-changing event, he offered Pastor Leo a place for his flock to meet.
“Yes, Rudiger. I know we have to go.”
“It’s not that, Pastor. You can take your time tonight. I don’t think my rowdy customers are going anywhere soon. The Swiss are duller than dishwater, but when they start singing those songs they learned in school, they can make a fest half the night and still show up ready for work on time.” He laughed at his own humor. Then, as if remembering the true purpose for his interruption, his face fell. “Actually, Pastor, I’ve come here to inform you that I received a phone call.”
“Is everything all right?” Pastor Leo’s shoulders tightened, as if bracing them for another burden of bad news.
“Everything is fine. Someone would like to speak with one of your church members. Is Herr Becker here tonight?”
Benjamin Becker raised his right hand. “Present, sir.” He stood and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as if it hung on a string.
“Your mother is on the line. If you will follow me.” The proprietor motioned to the front room.
Becker stood, his eyes meeting Pastor Leo’s gaze. Yet he didn’t blink, didn’t show any hint of alarm.
As he strode out, others in the room offered him best wishes.
The pastor suppressed a smile. Benjamin Becker, he knew, was in a unique position, and his true identity needed to be protected at all costs. He and others had told Benjamin that . . . more than once: “Never let Kassler ever doubt your allegiance to him. Never. Many lives are at stake if you do.”
Pastor Leo knew what the phone call was all about. No doubt Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler had called Becker’s home, stating the matter was urgent.
How Becker had come up with the uniforms, Pastor Leo didn’t want to know.
15
Migros Market
Basel, Switzerland
Wednesday, August 2, 1944
8:08 a.m.
Dieter Baumann cradled the twined shopping basket and briskly walked to the rear of the grocery store where yogurt and other dairy products were stacked with smart precision in a refrigeration case. He peered at several of the plain yogurts, packaged in brown glass containers, then placed one in his basket.
“Shopping light, I see.”
Dieter turned toward the voice he’d been expecting to hear, then looked over the man’s shoulders to see if anyone else in the store had noticed their presence. The Migros Market was quiet this early in the morning.
“Just picking up something for breakfast. Guten Morgen, Ludwig,” Dieter said, using the code name for his contact. Dieter, of course, knew his German counterpart’s real name was Karl Rundstedt, but he would never let on that he’d uncovered such privileged information.
“What did you hear about Patton?”
Dieter knew all sorts of rumors regarding the Allied breakout of Normandy floated around the streets and offices of the city—no doubt fueled by BBC Radio. Dieter cleared his throat. “If I understood my American source right, the radio reports are true: the Americans have broken out of hedgerow country. Patton’s Third Army will not race for Paris, though. They will circle around and attack the German Seventh Army from the rear, attempting to surprise your military forces pinning Montgomery’s troops at Caen. It’s called Operation Cobra.” He could see from Ludwig’s gaze that he was digesting the information, which he had given without taking sides, as befitting the “neutral” Swiss.
“And, of course,” Dieter added, “the French resistance is also doing their part to harass the occupiers.”
“Good work. The knowledge is useful.” Ludwig picked up a small jar of milk and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “Now can you find out what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours?”
Dieter knew he’d pressed Dulles as hard as he could. But perhaps the American colonel with the legation in Bern would share some battlefield gossip. They’d become friendly when Dieter helped two American pilots who’d escaped from Davos meet up with French contacts in Geneva.
“Well, information is hard to obtain . . . unless I could propose a swap.” Dieter let his voice fall, as if he were uncertain his idea would work. He’d discovered over time that the more unsure he acted, the greater the reward he was given for his work. “Unless . . . I could tell the Americans that one of my contacts in the Swiss Army wants information on Patton’s movements in exchange for—” Dieter shrugged his shoulders. “You got anything worthwhile?”
“Well, there is something.” Ludwig looked around the grocery store to see if anyone was within earshot. Then Ludwig pursed his lips. “I saw an urgent flash pass throughout the network this morning. Came out of the Gestapo regional office in Heidelberg. A prisoner has escaped. The Gestapo telegraph gave a physical description of the missing man. They mentioned a bonus of 1,000 Reichsmarks for help in finding him, so he must be someone the Americans would love to get their hands on.”
“Why would the Yanks be interested in him?”
“Sorry.” The German held his palms up. “The traffic didn’t say. But since Heidelberg is around 250 kilometers from the Swiss border, they must be worried that he could escape into Switzerland, where he could contact the Allies.”
Dieter adjusted his shopping basket from the crook of his left arm to that of his right. “Maybe the American colonel will play ball with me, as they like to say in the States. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Fair enough.”
Dieter spotted an older woman strolling in their direction. He quickened his words. “You’ll have to give me a day or so,” he said as he guided the German toward the bread aisle. “I’ll be in contact.” Dieter reached for a hazel-brown loaf of dunkel Brot off the shelf.
“Not so fast.” Ludwig grabbed his arm. “There’s something else that’s come up. Something on the side that could mean a lot of francs for our pocketbooks.”
“Oh?” Dieter cocked an eyebrow and studied the man’s face. It was clear that Ludwig toyed with him, just as he toyed with Ludwig—both with their own interests in mind.
Ludwig looked both ways to be sure they weren’t being overheard. “A high-level contact I’ve been developing just across the border told me they just picked up a Jew family who’d been hidden away in Weil am Rhein for the better part of a year. They apparently had heard about the—how can I politely say this?—unreceptive attitude from the Swiss authorities about Jewish refugees. The boat is full and all that.”
“So they didn’t want to chance sneaking into Switzerland.”
Ludwig shrugged his shoulders. “You know how well-patrolled both sides of the border are. Listen. This contact of mine, who works for the local Polizei, said that he went back to search this villa where they picked up the Jews as well as the family hiding them. Behind an antique sideboard in the main bedroom, he found a safe—a heavy safe.”
Dieter knew where this was headed. “And now you want to borrow the little safecracker in my office. Her
skill . . . well, I’ll only risk it if you believe the reward will be worth our while.”
“I know, I know. You want to protect the little beauty.” Ludwig held his hands up. “But listen to this. Apparently the patriarch of this Jewish family was a diamond dealer in Berlin. He’d been able to avoid authorities because he paid people to hide them for years—like this winegrower in Weil am Rhein. Now that this Jew jeweler has been caught, his diamonds cannot help him or his family. A pity.”
From the sarcastic tone Ludwig used, Dieter knew that he felt anything but sympathy for this Juden family destined for the work camps.
The Swiss operative checked once more over his shoulder. “I’m not sold on this. This would be a highly dangerous operation, Ludwig. We rarely operate in Germany because of the Gestapo’s pervasiveness—”
“Dieter, please.” Ludwig waved off his concern. “I’ll provide you with valid work permits to cross the border. It’s fairly routine, you know, since thousands of Swiss cross the border each day to work in our textile and war matériel plants. What’s two more Swiss? You can cross the border in the morning, do the job, and return with the rest of the Swiss toting their lunch pails.”
Usually Dieter would have jumped at the opportunity— after all, who knew how many diamonds a safe like that could hold? But he had to admit that while he valued Ludwig’s help, he didn’t completely trust him. No one, in fact, could be completely trusted, especially in their business. Furthermore, his concerns centered on Gabi. She was valuable—too valuable to risk.
The more time he spent with her, Dieter found his heart warming to her innocent trust . . . and her beauty didn’t hurt things either. It was nice to have her around and would be even nicer to get to know her better. Dieter shrugged. “I’m still not convinced. I’ll have to think about this one.”
“Life’s a risk, ja? But my contact and I agreed you would get half the diamonds because you’re supplying the expertise. We’ll split the other half.”
“Honor among thieves?” Dieter chuckled.
“You could say that, my friend.”