by Tricia Goyer
When was the last escape attempt? Bill had to think—yes, Harter and Buchanan made a break for it on the Fourth of July, another holiday occasion. He winced at the memory. Everyone knew the rules: if you stepped over the foot-wide chalk lines laid out north and south of the town, you were considered to be an escapee. The guards were supposed to yell “Halt!” three times before firing—at your legs.
When Harter and Buchanan slipped out of Davos after dusk, a Swiss Army private on patrol spotted them outside Laret, the next town. Fumbling with his K31 rifle, he yelled “Halt-halt-halt” in staccato fashion. Then he immediately triggered several rapid rounds without waiting to see if the two American pilots would become statues and raise their arms in surrender. One bullet shattered Harter’s right shoulder blade, ending his career as a St. Louis Browns pitcher. Buchanan was luckier. He got nicked, where a slug tore into his left leg just above the ankle. After three weeks recuperating in a Zürich hospital, the boys began their ninety-day sentences at Wauwilermoos penitentiary prison. Piles of hay on concrete slabs for their beds, bread and watery stew for their meals.
Bill’s reverie was snapped when the main feature began. Tonight’s film was Casablanca, a movie he’d viewed several times since his arrival. Despite his distracted mindset, Bill found himself lost again in the story of an American expatriate meeting a former lover in exotic Casablanca at the outset of the war.
Early in the film, intrigue filled the smoky, Moorish atmosphere of the nightclub belonging to Rick Blaine, but Bill wasn’t fooled—that was his hero Humphrey Bogart. A stunningly beautiful Ilsa Lund, with husband Victor Laszlo on her arm, found a table inside Rick’s Café Américain, where they believed the hard-bitten expat possessed two transit visas to escape Casablanca for Lisbon and eventually America.
Escape. Was art imitating life, or life imitating art? For nine months, he had been interred in Davos, tucked away high in the Alps, given nothing to do—and nothing to strive for. He and the dozens of other Allied pilots were expected to mind their manners, make no waves, and sit tight—for the duration. Count yourself lucky was the catchphrase around Davos.
Yet, if Bill could escape and eventually return to his Eighth Air Force Bomb Squadron in East Anglia, nothing would make him happier. He had a mission to complete, and with Allies breaking out of the Normandy beachhead, the Krauts were on the run. Bill wanted to be there to personally kick their butts all the way back to Berlin. Or maybe his superior officers would tell him that his dangerous days of bombing German factories were over and they were shipping him Stateside to fly some Air Force desk until the Krauts and Japs were beaten to a pulp. That would work for him too. Then he’d get to hold Katie in his arms again.
So maybe tonight was a good night. After all, there hadn’t been an escape attempt in weeks. And fall was just around the corner, when nature’s elements became your enemy. This might be his only chance.
Bill reined in his swirling thoughts as Hollywood’s magic swept him to another world. Midway through the film, Cap- tain Renault—the wonderfully corrupt Vichy gendarme— blew his whistle, signaling the start of a raid inside Rick’s Café Américain.
“How can you close me up?” Rick pleaded. “On what grounds?”
“I’m shocked, shocked to find that there is gambling going on here!” Renault spoke with an imperious air.
“Your winnings, sir.” The croupier handed Renault a wad of cash.
“Oh, thank you very much,” replied the French captain, surprised.
Would the Swiss authorities be just as shocked that he skedaddled out of Davos? He knew the twins Andreas and Willy Mueller would be surprised.
Bill’s thoughts returned to the screen as the film’s denouement— the airport scene—began. Once again, Bogey was imploring Ingrid Bergman to get on the plane with her husband, Victor. If she didn’t join him on the flight to Lisbon, “You’ll regret it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.”
Watching the cinematic DC-3 lift off in the darkness sealed Bill’s decision. He didn’t want to live a life of regret. He would journey to Geneva. He would rendezvous with the Resistance, where people like Victor Laszlo would help him. He would gulp draughts of freedom into his lungs.
The house lights went up, and Bill stretched his legs, determined more than ever to follow in the footsteps of those fighting tyranny.
Bill gathered up his leather jacket and fell into the small crowd exiting the theater. He kept his head down to avoid starting a conversation, then looked up and met the gaze of Jimmy, another B-24 Liberator pilot from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, who was also quartered in the Hotel Palace.
Bill flashed a smile of recognition. “Like the film?”
“Isn’t Bogart the best? When he told Renault that this was the start of a beautiful friendship—”
“Yeah, there’s some great lines in that film, no doubt.”
Bill stopped for a moment in front of the Davos Kino to put on his jacket. A light eastern breeze gave the moonlit night a cool bite. At 5,000 feet above sea level, summer nights in Davos often dipped into the forties.
“See ya, Jimmy.” Bill took a step toward the north part of the village.
“Aren’t you headed to the Palace?” Jimmy pointed the other direction toward their prominent hotel, which resembled a chalet fortress with its imposing block superstructure and colonnades.
“I told J.J. I’d drop by before turning in.”
“The Park Hotel is that way.” Jimmy jerked his head in the same direction as the Hotel Palace.
“Yeah, uh, right. He said he’d buy me a dunkle at the Yodler.” Bill made another move in the opposite direction.
“Mind if I join you? Seeing Rick’s Café Américain has wet my whistle.”
Bill shrugged. “Actually, can you give me a rain check? J.J.’s having some girlfriend troubles. Said he needed someone to talk to—”
“I hear that Miss Schweiz has broken more hearts than Hedy Lamarr. Wait a minute—isn’t the Yodler buttoned up? It’s nearing midnight.”
This scout doesn’t give up. “They’re still celebrating the First of August. I think a few tourists are making it a long weekend.”
Jimmy seemed satisfied. “Maybe tomorrow. Tell J.J. I hope things work out with the beauty queen. She’s no chunk of lead.”
Bill waved goodbye and started down the sidewalk, hands thrust in his jacket. As the downtown square gave way to a series of gingerbread chalets with gabled rooflines, he found himself in an alleyway behind Heiz Bakery where J.J. and his buddy Sam paced back and forth under an amber-hued streetlamp.
“There you are,” J.J. said. “I told you he’d make it, didn’t I, Sam?”
“Yeah, and you also said if Palmer didn’t get here in five minutes, we were out of here,” Sam added.
“Shaddup, you moron.” J.J. grinned. “Bill, here’s your travel kit.” He tossed a knapsack toward Bill, who deftly cradled it into his arms. “You’ll find a change of civilian clothes, some rolls from Heiz, two apples, and a few toiletry items.”
“Great. So what’s the plan?”
“We’ll follow the ‘Heidi Express’ rail line all the way to Landquart in the Rhine Valley,” J.J. said. “Then we’ll change into civilian clothes and hop on a train to Zurich and then Geneva. Getting caught out of uniform doubles your sentence, but we ain’t getting caught.”
J.J. looked at his watch. “It’s a few minutes before midnight. Could be a patrol at this hour, but we’re committed, right?”
Bill nodded, as did Sam.
J.J. continued laying out his plan, whispering low. “We’ll go one at a time, sticking to the woods west of the rail line. Once you pass the chalk line, there’s a rail spur about half a mile away—we’ll meet there. After we reconnoiter, we’ll make our way to Klosters. It’s twelve kilometers or a little more than seven miles. I’m thinking a good three hours. From there, I’d like to make it as far as Küblis or Lunden before sunup. Maybe we’ll go find some ha
y barn and get some shut-eye before one last push to Landquart tomorrow night. Any questions?”
When there weren’t any, J.J. departed into the darkness, followed two minutes later by Sam. Waiting under the streetlamp, Bill suddenly felt exposed, even though within Davos proper, the Allied internees had freedom of movement—no curfew, no hassles—as long as they minded their p’s and q’s.
Bill reminded himself that he had nothing to worry about . . . until he crossed the chalk line.
He slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed toward the base of the mighty Schatzalp, the ski station where a half-dozen Allied pilots had busted their legs last winter. He followed the alleyway until he reached the Guggenbachstrasse. Man, just saying the street names will break your jaw.
Bill’s senses immediately soared as the reality of attempting escape fell heavily on his shoulders. He could see his way fine—a full moon illuminated the stores and businesses lining the Guggenbachstrasse. He paused when a fluffy cat jumped from the window ledge of the tailor shop, startling him. When he heard only silence again, Bill continued past Davos’s only gas station, which doled out its weekly ration of gas in drips to favored clients.
Bill strode along Guggenbachstrasse until he reached the Landwasser River, which was more like a bubbling brook as it meandered inside a concrete-lined channel between the town and the Schatzalp ski area. His feet left the asphalt and crossed a wooden bridge erected over the river. Once across, he made a right-hand turn onto a summer road cut through a forest of Norway spruce and silver trees.
The road lifted in elevation as it ran parallel to the Land-wasser and the only rail line in and out of Davos. After several minutes along the road, Bill heard a branch snap. He turned and looked behind him, but he couldn’t make out any human forms in the nocturnal landscape. He retreated several steps and peered around several large trunks. Again, nothing.
Bill resumed his walk along the dirt road, which made a slight right-hand turn and began descending toward the river. He traversed another wooden bridge—the last one across the Landwasser in the northern part of town. He could see the rail line, which paralleled a meadow, a little more than 100 yards away in the moonlight. The closed shutters on several chalets subdued any lights that might have still been on at this late hour. Behind those shutters, families slept soundly—and safely.
Was he risking it all? Should he turn back?
Bill had walked this area many times and knew that the streak of chalk—that precise line of demarcation—lay just ahead. He entered another woodsy area when he heard several footsteps gain on him. He stopped—and heard nothing. He took a few more steps . . . but the sound of trampled tree needles were audible again. Someone had to be following him. He immediately swung around—
“Isn’t it late to be out for a walk?” a voice whispered.
Willy Mueller, dressed in Swiss Army uniform and topped with bucket helmet, allowed his rifle to remain shouldered. “And that wouldn’t be a knapsack you’re carrying, right?”
“Listen, Willy, I—” Bill stopped there. He hadn’t prepared an excuse.
“Not so loud,” Willy whispered. “It wouldn’t be good for either of us to be caught. I’m here to let you know that you don’t want to be crossing the chalk line tonight. There’s an ambush waiting.”
“How did you know?”
“Corinne Busslinger blabbed.”
“Miss Schweiz? J.J.’s girl?”
“You got it. Late this afternoon, she was crying and carrying on at dinner, and her parents pried it out of her that her J.J. was escaping. She was worried sick that she’d never see him again. Amazing the lengths that love will follow.”
“Thanks, Shakespeare.”
“Actually, that’s Willy Mueller and not Willy Shakespeare.” Bill forced a smile and glanced around. “So how come you’re here?”
Willy leaned in close. “Because Andreas and I didn’t want to see any harm come to you. That and the fact that if you left, we’d miss taking your poker chips every Friday night.”
“What about my friends?” Bill looked in the direction they’d gone.
“Don’t worry. Andreas is trying to catch J.J. and Sam before they cross the—”
The distant scream of “Halt!” punctuated the air, followed by another “Halt!” and another. Then a volley of rifle shots and yelps.
Bill felt his heart pound and his stomach lurch with fear for his friends.
Willy’s eyes widened. “He didn’t get to them in time. Rats. Looks like Miss Schweiz will see her beau again—in ninety days.”
“Listen, comedian, those are my buddies out there—”
“Sorry. You’re right, this is no joking matter.” Willy grabbed Bill’s arm and moved him back toward town. “Listen, if you really want to escape, I’ve got a deal for you. You’ll have to sing for your supper, though.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Meaning someone needs your expertise. Perform the favor, and you can write yourself a ticket home.”
“Who’s asking?”
“I can’t tell you, but people in the know call him the Big Cheese. From what I hear, he can make just about anything happen in Switzerland. A driver will arrive in Davos sometime tomorrow afternoon, and you’ll be told exactly what’s expected of you. You can take the offer, or you can decide to stay.”
“What about escaping Davos? Isn’t that going to be a problem? I don’t think I’ll be able to wave to the guards as I’m chauffeured out of here, do you?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s all been arranged.”
25
Basel, Switzerland
Thursday, August 3, 1944
7:18 a.m.
Gabi alighted from the BVB #6 tram—painted the same spearmint green as other Basel streetcars—after it rumbled to a stop in front of the Badischer Bahnhof. Although the #6 had taken only fifteen minutes to complete the journey from the Barfüsserplatz downtown depot, Basel’s “other” train station felt as foreign as dirndl and lederhosen to her.
Six years had passed since Gabi had last stepped through the imposing limestone edifice that resembled an elongated Noah’s Ark. She was in high school when her parents took the family via train to the Schloss Neuschwanstein in Bavaria. Gabi chuckled at the schoolgirl memory of begging her parents to visit the fairytale castle after viewing the Disney movie, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
She wished she could recapture those carefree days before the war, but on this particular morning she couldn’t shake the feeling that all eyes were on her—as if she were wearing Snow White’s satiny yellow skirt and navy blue bodice with puffy red-and-white sleeves. Today, instead of the princess’s tiara, a plain felt hat hid most of her pinned-up blonde hair. With a sigh, she adjusted the broad brim of the unstylish headdress and ran her right hand down the front of her dowdy, gray two-piece wool suit to smooth any wrinkles. She had refrained from patting her cheeks with foundation and rouge that morning, hoping her plain face indicated that she was ready to punch a time clock and put in an honest day’s work.
Gabi took a deep breath and refocused her thoughts. She reminded herself that when she walked through the German Kontrolle, she would be just another frumpy seamstress reporting for work at H&M Textiles, a Swiss-owned factory where two hundred employees—mostly her countrywomen— stitched military uniforms and wove army blankets for the German front lines and rear guard. At least that’s what Dieter’s forged work permit in her black leather handbag indicated.
Her shaky fingers tucked the handbag under her arm. You can do this. She struggled to control her nerves. You need to do this. They are depending on you . . . and if Dieter Baumann turns out to be a lying, two-timing scoundrel, you can handle that.
Gabi fell in with the early morning exodus marching into the Badischer Bahnhof station hall, which was architecturally punctuated by a five-story clock tower. Thanks to a longstanding treaty signed between Germany and Switzerland in 1852, the Basel train station was planted literally on the borde
r between the two countries, placing the ticket booths, shops, and Three Corners Café on Swiss soil while the train platforms belonged to Germany.
Swiss commuters had to traverse a fifty-meter tunnel linking the Swiss station hall and the German rail platforms. Baslers working in German factories and businesses negotiated this no-man’s-land by passing through separate identification and work permit checks performed first by the Swiss Border Control, followed by the Wehrmacht. Once in German territory, Swiss commuters exited the rail station and boarded buses and trams for Weil am Rhein and Haltingen.
The border arrangement was not reciprocal, however. The Swiss military had to approve all transit passes for Germans entering Switzerland, so there was very little foot traffic in the other direction, at least this early in the morning. Only Swiss citizens with proper identity cards—and a Basler dialect, as Gabi’s friends joked—were allowed to reenter the Motherland.
Gabi joined the single-file queue descending into the tunnel beneath the station. The pungent odors of perspiring bodies nearly gagged her in the crammed space. She knew too many Swiss who believed bathing was reserved for Saturday nights only. For nearly a quarter of an hour, the line of people drew her along until Gabi finally reached an inspection table where three men dressed in olive Swiss Border Control uniforms perfunctorily checked official documents.
“Work permit, please.” The youngest member of the checkpoint detail held out his hand while the other two Swiss border guards watched over his shoulder. “Along with your identity card.”
Gabi reached into her handbag and produced the necessary identification. “You should find everything in order.” She cast a warm smile but nothing remotely flirtatious. The Swiss border guard, a blond-haired, smooth-skinned Basler with glistening eyes, looked the same age as her twin brothers.