“That—where’s that lead to?”
“Closet.” Peching added a shrug.
“Okay, okay,” Harry said, stepping back out and rubbing his face again. “How long has this been empty?”
“Oh, this was always empty,” Peching said, meaning since before he was here and he was here well before Harry.
“And the sign?” Harry rubbed at his sore shoulder.
“Was the standard work order,” Peching said. “It wasn’t due, but you know me—I might be too punctual. Your trade representative on your plaque there is not expected here for some time. Good thing, too.” He stood inside the doorway, eyeing the frame, his hands planted on his hips.
“You’re going to have to fix this door yourself, aren’t you?”
Peching nodded. He didn’t seem the least bit curious. The first war and the Great Depression and the last war and now the Americans simply happened, like the worst nasty weather. A man such as Peching didn’t ask too many questions because he would not like the answers. Maybe he was a wiser fellow than all of them.
Harry sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about this.”
Peching shrugged again.
“I’ll make it worth your while. We clear?”
“Clear.” Peching held up a hand. “And, I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me—mum’s the word.”
Harry marched down the broad sidewalk, his arms cocked so tensely that his briefcase kept banging at his leg and his other hand wouldn’t stay in his pocket. The sun broke through again as he crossed the Königsplatz, and he shielded his eyes from the sheets of sparkle along the wet avenue. He didn’t know where his sunglasses went and did not care. He had no other choice left. He first considered it on the way over with Max as they passed this, the King’s Square, but then forced it from his mind because he’d resolved to try Aubrey Slaipe on his own. But after finding only a void behind that door, he’d bolted back downstairs and told the waiting staff car driver to drop him off on a corner near the Königsplatz and make it quick.
The address was not far from Warren Joyner’s billet. Harry was walking down a tree-lined avenue now. In hindsight, he understood just how cool Slaipe had played it. When Harry noticed Slaipe that one time on his office floor, the man had surely not meant to be seen and was only standing at that door at the end of the hallway with his back to Harry so as to look inconspicuous. Slaipe knew how this would look to a go-getter like Harry. Harry could have sworn Slaipe turned the handle and went inside, he being the supposed new trade rep, but had he really? As Slaipe himself said: Like a con man, he judged and predicted to the point of knowing.
The mansion was less imposing than he expected—no bigger than his or Joyner’s, with a low iron gate and an ivy-covered arch over the front steps.
Maddy Barton answered the door herself, wearing a shiny white bathrobe with more of that fir trim. She gave his meager duds and drawn face a once-over and let him in without a word, as if awaiting his arrival. She led him into a corner sitting room similar to Joyner’s, only the dark tone and the freakish statues were replaced by floral wallpaper, etched mirrors, and clusters of porcelain figurines. She sat Harry next to her on a green leather love seat. Harry noticed she sat upright, and her robe stayed closed.
“Coffee? Tea?” Maddy said.
“No, thanks. Not right now.”
A young woman appeared and Maddy waved her off, saying, “No thanks, honey.”
“You got a maid now?” Harry said.
“You don’t think I have this place all to myself, do I? We let three other gals have rooms.”
“Rough on you?” Harry added a chuckle so she knew he wasn’t here to rehash it all.
“In the Army now. A girl’s gotta make sacrifices.”
They shared a laugh.
“I can see it on you,” Harry said.
“Can you? He does love me, Harry.”
“And you him?”
“I think so. Yes.” Maddy batted eyelids, but it wasn’t at Harry. And Harry thought, for the first time, that he’d witnessed Maddy Barton embarrassed. She added, “He wants to take me back with him, you know—stateside like.”
“That’s good, Madd. I’m happy for you.”
“And not as his mistress, either. His wife, you see, she left him.” Maddy was wearing less makeup, Harry noticed. It didn’t look half bad. He thought she looked younger. Who could’ve guessed her skin had a natural radiance?
“Silberstreifen,” Harry said.
“Say again?”
“Silver lining. Every cloud has one. You know.”
Maddy repeated the German word.
“That’s good. You’re getting better.”
“It’s a start.” She gave him a second once-over. “And you? I hear you’ve basically deserted your post. What the hell, Harry? Look at you. You’re all banged up.”
Harry hadn’t thought out how to play this. “I’m all right,” he said, stalling.
“Sure you are. It’s your Silberstreifen.”
“Touché.”
“It wasn’t my one true goal in life, you know. Marrying the brass with prospects. Getting the big house in Virginia or wherever we go. Falling in love.”
“I—”
“Just listen. You think my big MO is conspiring in the bedroom to get ahead. There’s more to a gal than that, Harry. Someday women will be running corporations and even countries, and they’re not going to do it by fucking.”
“That will be a good day.”
“I want more,” Maddy said. She practically shouted it, as if speaking over a loud band.
“Come again?” Harry said.
“I told you. I tried to. I want to do more. Just like you.”
“I didn’t believe you.”
“Well, you can now. So, what is it? You came to me. This is your last chance.”
Harry looked her in the eye. “Do you know how to contact the man I mentioned, this Aubrey Slaipe?”
“You know I don’t. But if you need a man like him, I’m your gal.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Well? It’s down to just you and me. You knew it was or you wouldn’t be here.”
Harry didn’t respond. Something held him back. His knee was bouncing and he slapped a hand on it.
“Geez. Don’t be so goddamn stubborn, Harry. Do I have to give you a lashing? That what you want? Well, then you’re one hell of a dolt. How’s that? If you would’ve gone to more of those to-dos with me, maybe you would know someone special who could help you out better. Sooner.”
“You’re right.”
“You’re lucky to know me, you know.”
“I know.”
“Swell. So why don’t you quit your sorry sidestepping and show me what’s in that wretched briefcase of yours?”
Four hours later, Wednesday, November 7. Harry was back at his mansion billet, down in the cellar kitchen, sitting around the large prep table with Max and Sabine Lieser. He was holding hands with Sabine below the tabletop. Sabine had cried for Irina when hearing the news of her murder but, having seen so much, and knowing how much they had to do, only needed Harry’s hands warm in hers now. Max was pacing the kitchen, a big open area for onetime servants and cooks, all white tile and wood shelving painted a neutral cream color. Harry imagined servants eating at this table, stout women rolling dough on it. Now they had maps out and empty cups of coffee, ashtrays filled. Their gear sat ready in a corner.
Harry had been back here for two hours. He’d told Max and Sabine they would give Maddy Barton four hours. If she didn’t come through by then, they were on their own.
The high and squat kitchen windows showed the last dim charcoal-gray of daylight. More wet snow pelted the glass, oozing down, a white sludge.
“It will be snowing there. We should not rule out freezing rain,” Sabine said, a statement most Americans would’ve taken as pessimism. Harry and Max only nodded.
The doorbell. Voices, footsteps. All three stood, gathering in a line before the table.
The footsteps were coming for them, down the short flight of stairs.
A man stood at the bottom of the stairs, the sopping flakes still sliding off his leather overcoat. The man had dark hair touched with gray at the sideburns, a strong jaw, and bright eyes, much like a businessman in a shaving cream ad.
Harry couldn’t help smiling. Max blew out a breath of relief. Sabine Lieser glared at all of them, including the man, and said in her passable English, “Who in devil’s name are you?”
The man let a smile curl a corner of his mouth. He nodded at Harry. “I’m Maddy Barton’s colonel, that’s who.”
Thirty-Four
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8—4:00 P.M. “Keep down, down,” Harry whispered in broken Russian. Crouched in the mud and rocks, he had an arm tight around two children, a boy and a girl, a weak but icy stream trickling around their feet. They crouched close, grabbing at him. Harry peeked up ahead. The thirty or so women, old men, and children were crouched just as they were down in this deep, narrow ravine, so isolated that little of the snow falling in the Šumava and adjoining Bavarian Forest could penetrate the dense birch trees here, not yet. Harry was checking for too much steam from their breath. He’d told them all, in sign language and German, to cover their mouths or breathe down into their clothing. Only for a second. Only long enough to let the Soviet Army soldiers pass.
Harry kept his head down. He could hear the soldiers crunching through the snow and underbrush above the ravine. Far away he could hear the idling drone of a military vehicle, possibly a light tank or armored car, waiting for the men to work their way along this thick and dark stretch of the forest. No vehicle was going to pass through here.
Harry and Max had taken two groups through already. As they returned to shepherd another, other groups passed them heading west escorted by Cossack scouts. It was a constant chain, following the stream that snaked through the ravine.
It had been over twenty-four hours since Harry showed Maddy Barton the photos. Maddy fought back tears imagining those poor people being shipped back to the Soviet Union to die in labor camps or be shot outright, and for what? For belonging to a family? For being loving mothers of men? Less than twenty-four hours since a Colonel Bill Partland, boyfriend of Maddy, showed up in Harry’s kitchen to offer his services. Colonel Partland was involved in earlier repatriations, he told Harry, Max, and Sabine. One of the largest was the previous winter at a camp in nearby Plattling, the former concentration camp. They sent the Cossacks detained there back at bayonet point, forcing them from bunks in the middle of the night, using force and fear. The Cossacks resisted.
“I saw these Cossack men bash their heads into windows and slit their throats with the glass,” Colonel Partland began. “Others started fires in their barracks and threw themselves onto their own goddamn pyres. Meantime, men were hanging themselves from rafters. We couldn’t reign them in. We had to deploy tear gas. The delivery was worse. They threw themselves from our trucks. Had one man scream at my horrified translator that we are condemning them—and their children—to die by sending them back, all while stabbing himself in the chest with a railroad tie, a rusty goddamn railroad tie.” The colonel paused a moment, his stare blank, distant. “And that was before the Russians got their hands on them. The lynching started before I could even get my men out of there. Through the trees, my boys had to see the poor bastards they’d just handed over already hanging from branches.”
Shameful to the core, Colonel Partland called it. It made them all, from the lowliest grunt to Partland himself, feel too much like those SS camp guards they had liberated so many from. Never, ever again, the colonel told them. Max poured him a Scotch.
“The McNarney-Clark Directive, it’s just cover for the politicians, the diplomats, the brassy desk generals,” Partland declared. “An officer—a good soldier—should never obey an order he believes to be immoral. If nothing else, hasn’t this war proved that much?”
“We should be so lucky,” Max replied.
“I’m going to help you,” Colonel Partland told him. “I have a regiment at my disposal. All I need is one good unit. You give me the details, I’ll be there for you and your refugees.”
Colonel Partland could keep the Constabulary Corps clear of that sector of the border for just long enough. The colonel also understood the Cossacks might not trust another American involved, especially not a military officer after what had happened at Plattling, so he typed a letter for Max and Harry to carry to the Cossacks—a personal assurance that they would be met and transported to safety. But Partland’s plan only safeguarded the people so far; it depended on Harry, Max, and Sabine having a solid plan. He demanded it.
Harry and Max assured him. “I have my end all worked out, Colonel,” Sabine told him.
Partland wanted Harry to stay with him on the US side of the frontier. He could not help if Harry were caught on the Soviet side.
“You’re already helping enough,” Harry told him.
Harry and Max had reentered the Šumava overnight. They had found the Cossacks huddling in groups clutching their few bags, some crying, others arguing. They had traded away the last of their beloved horses for food and for assurances from the few smugglers and farmers who knew of them that they would keep their mouths shut.
Then Max found young Alex, off on his own with his back to them. Harry followed at a respectable distance. Alex was holding onto a skinny birch trunk as if keeping it from tipping.
Max got on his knees and whispered to Alex in his language. Harry’s chest squeezing up like he was holding his breath. Eventually, Alex nodded. He turned and looked up to Harry, this time not smiling, his little square jaw set hard. Harry nodded back to him, and with that Max walked Alex over to join a group of women who gathered around him, enveloping him.
Max trudged back to Harry, his eyes wide but unseeing, holding out a hand clawed as if feeling for something to hold onto. Harry wrapped an arm around Max’s shoulder to steady him.
“I told him she is there waiting for him,” Max said, a tear running down and off his chin. “It was the only way. The only way …”
The Soviet patrol passed and it kept going. Harry looked up ahead again. Max was there at the front clutching two children just as Harry was. One was Alex, huddled so close he was inside Max’s coat. A young Cossack man—their scout—clattered up the ravine and peered out over the plateau of forest, making sure the patrol was gone. He took a while. Making double sure. Then he clattered back down and they moved on, a chain of hunched backs.
They were higher up than it seemed down in the long ravine. The mountains around them brought fog along with the powdery snow, which helped cover them. Yet they were dressed lighter, for fleeing, so they could never stop long. If one of those Soviet patrols stopped to make a fire, hunt, or wait for a vehicle broken down? They could freeze to death hovering in hiding.
Harry pushed them along, holding hands, patting backs, whispering encouragements. Ahead as behind, as all around, the narrow birch trees loomed, all but the tops having lost their leaves like an army of giant fish skeletons standing in wait. The group skirted a small meadow, passed through more forest, and moved along a larger clearing, a high valley dusted with snow. They stood at the tree line huddling, looking across.
Harry looked to Max, who said, “Listen, everyone. We have just crossed over into Germany—into the American Zone of Occupation.”
There came no excited talk, hugs, or tears of joy. The people only stared, wide-eyed, expecting more instructions.
“Look across that valley. Look very hard. You see those objects just beyond the trees? Those dark shapes? Those are the soldiers of the American Army. They are here to help you. The refugee official is also there.” Harry looked down the line. All were holding hands, the women, children, men, some propping each other up. The line ended at Max.
“You are all very brave,” he told them. “Now, come along.”
They walked through the trees now, huddling no more. They talked openly, and Harry e
ven heard joy in their voices. But they were so tired, and the steam pumped out of them. In the wood on the other side of the valley, American GIs waited, standing about in little groups, smoking. They kept their guns out of sight. Harry and Max had been clear about that—the Cossacks didn’t need to see more guns. Two troop trucks stood inside the wood. Colonel Partland sat in a command car with Sabine Lieser and two assistants from her DP camp. As Harry and Max led the group of Cossacks in, Sabine rushed out and watched from the hood of the car so that they could see her, a civilian. “They should see a woman,” she had told Harry.
Alex was wandering the clearing looking for his mother. Max followed him as a parent would a toddler walking for the first time. Eventually, he took Alex’s hand and walked him over to Sabine. She smiled for Alex, crouched down low to him. He stared up at her, his face blank. “Tell him, like we talked about,” she said to Max. “Do it.”
Max spoke a few words in his ear. Alex nodded. He went away with Sabine.
“I told him that his mother is a great hero. Sabine will take care of the rest. I fear that boy will hate me forever,” Max muttered to Harry.
“He will not. Just look at me—I did not,” Harry said, patting his chest.
They shared a grim smile.
Farther back, Sabine had a tent set up with a little table inside where she took their names—and gave new ones. A trunk had stacks of passports, most the so-called Nansen passports, created in 1921 by the League of Nations largely for Russians left stateless by the Russian Revolution and the ensuing Soviet Union. To obtain them, Sabine had gone to consulates, used up all her favors, wheeled and dealed, and in the end, accepted many she knew could not be real. The rest of the passports were a mix of nationalities, some of these also fake. Yet they were good enough to get these people where they needed to go.
The Cossacks wandered into the clearing that held the trucks, Sabine’s tent, and Partland’s command car—this was the way it went down every time, with every group. Like cats in a new home, they were allowed to simply sniff things out, look around, get used to their surroundings. No one touched them until they were ready. The trucks were open, but no one called them up into them. In the trucks waited those from previous groups. They stared down, a few calling out a weary welcome. Then they exchanged words, questions, demands. They whispered.
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