“We are breathing like fish on land,” Larive gasped. And then he realized why — not enough oxygen. They were slowly suffocating!
Steinmetz dragged himself up the rungs toward the lid. Slowly he pushed it open a crack and, careful not to break the glass bolt, propped it up with his pocketknife. He and Larive put their mouths to the opening and drank in the fresh air.
Outside, dusk was turning to darkness. They peered out the narrow opening. No lights, no sounds. It was time. They pushed up the lid, smashing the glass bolt as planned. Steinmetz hopped out and picked up the broken pieces, while Larive fished the real bolt out of his pocket and replaced it on the closed lid.
Quickly scrambling over the fence, they walked and crawled toward the nearest rail station, hoping to catch the first train at dawn. It was a gamble. Police would already be looking for anyone suspicious. They’d have to count on the civilian clothes they had faked and Steinmetz’s perfect German to help them pass as tourists.
Luck stayed with them all the way to Singen — the last train stop before their walk to the Swiss border. As they set out along the dirt road that ran next to the tracks, Larive had an eerie sense of coming home. He had traveled the same road after his last escape — and had landed in front of the Gestapo. In his mind he went over the Gestapo agent’s words: “Did you see where the road split from the tracks? An hour more of walking, a left turn through some fields, and the border would have been straight ahead of you.”
The road veered from the tracks and led into the woods. Remember, Larive told himself, the Bull said there’s no defense line. But he couldn’t shake a feeling of dread as they entered the forest.
Then, rounding a corner, he saw something that turned his blood cold: a German guard up ahead, moving toward them along the same side of the road. Larive and Steinmetz slowed down. What now? If they turned back, he’d suspect them for sure. Maybe he wasn’t there to check papers.
“Let’s cross the road,” Larive whispered. “If he crosses, too, we’ll know he means to check up on us.”
Casually they strolled to the other side of the road.
“He is crossing!” Steinmetz exclaimed under his breath.
A few steps ahead Larive saw a narrow path heading off the road through the trees. But it led away from the border! No choice now. The guard was closing in and picking up his pace. “Turn right up the path — and run,” Larive whispered. The two men bolted.
“Halt!” they heard the guard shout from behind. Larive forced his tired legs to move faster.
A shot was fired, and a bullet whistled past Larive’s head. They dove off the path and kept running through the trees, the leaves and branches whipping their sides and faces. Larive waited for another shot but none came. He slowed a little to look back. No guard. He’s gone back to raise the alarm, thought Larive. The two men slowed down and circled back, creeping from shrub to shrub to the edge of the woods. Crouching deep in a thicket, they watched the road.
Across a field they could see some commotion at a distant guardhouse. The sky grew darker and Larive felt a few drops of rain. Good, he thought. The harder the better. It will make us tough to spot tonight. Soldiers were now leaving the guardhouse and taking up posts along the road. The road they needed to cross to get to Switzerland! Suddenly, rifle shots made Larive jump. Then loud barking. The hunt had started.
“They’re trying to scare us into running, so the dogs will hear us and pick up our trail,” Larive whispered. He and Steinmetz sunk further into the thicket and covered themselves with their blanket. Their best chance was to stay quiet and perfectly still.
The barking grew louder and voices were getting clearer. More shots, closer this time. Larive’s heart was pounding as he willed himself not to move, not to breathe too loudly. The guards’ footsteps were very close now. This is crazy, thought Larive. Even if they don’t see us they’ll step on us! Then slowly the voices became dimmer, the barking moved further off. Soon only the rain falling on the leaves broke the silence.
Darkness came, and the two men crawled slowly out of the woods on their stomachs. Larive looked for some landmark to guide them, but everything looked the same in the pitch-black night. They found another dirt road, but was it the right one? They kept going. In the distance, Larive could make out the shapes of houses. That might be the Swiss village on the other side of the border. Or the town they had just left — were they going in circles? They passed signs but couldn’t read them in the dark. Steinmetz climbed a signpost and struck a match before the words. In a flash, he dropped down. “German Customs!” he hissed.
Half running, half stumbling, they came upon a small group of houses. Were they Swiss or German? It was too dark to tell. Steinmetz leaned against a wall to catch his breath out of the rain. Larive joined him.
They discussed the situation in hoarse whispers. Maybe it was best to stay put and not get more lost. At dawn, they could get their bearings and make a final dash for the border. Larive leaned back. He’d never been so tired. Two and a half days on the run, without sleep and almost nothing to eat. His clothes were soaked and he felt cold and numb. Stay sharp, he told himself. This is when your mind dulls, and you do something stupid.
Suddenly the white beam of a flashlight stung his eyes, blinding him. He and Steinmetz froze, as if pinned to the wall by the light. Larive could hear the sound of boots squishing in the mud, coming closer. But he could see nothing beyond the glare of the light. Then a voice confirmed his worst fears — it spoke in German.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Tears stung Larive’s eyes. Not again! They couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards from the border. Then anger replaced his exhaustion. No, he thought. I won’t go back this time.
The beam of light moved to Steinmetz and back again. Behind it, Larive glimpsed a soldier with a rifle strapped across his back. It would take a few seconds for him to grab his weapon and aim.
Larive whispered to Steinmetz, “We must kick hard, both at the same time, then run. I’ll say when.” Steinmetz nodded grimly.
As the soldier came closer, they slowly lifted their right legs and pushed their hands against the wall behind them.
“Where did you come from? Are you prisoners of war?”
Larive took a deep breath. As he opened his mouth to say “Now!” the voice spoke again.
“You are in Switzerland. You’ll have to come with me.”
It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. They were free.
In a corner of the Dutch quarters at Colditz, Vandy frowned as he inspected the two dummy heads from different angles. At last, he stepped back and gave a grunt of satisfaction. They were remarkable! His Polish friend had outdone himself. The amateur sculptor had modeled them out of plaster — obtained from a castle repairman who was always willing to take a bribe. The faces had then been painted by a Dutch lieutenant, who had snuck paints from a prisoners’ art class.
Attached to frames, draped with long Dutch coats, and topped with officers’ caps, the dummies — which the Dutch nicknamed “Max” and “Moritz” — were ready for action. Two more officers were about to escape through the well in the park. While they made their run for the border, Max and Moritz would stand in for them at roll calls, hiding their absence for as long as possible.
Vandy had noticed that the guards now took a shortcut when counting the Dutch prisoners. The orderly Dutch always stood in neat rows of five. The guards simply counted the rows, and so many rows times five gave them the right number. During the noise and confusion before roll call, while the British and French were stalling and goon-baiting, the Dutch walked out in a large group. They tucked Max and Moritz in the center, held by the officers on either side, who slid two extra pairs of boots under the dummies at the last minute.
It worked brilliantly — for a time. Months after the well escapes, a suspicious German guard took a closer look at the Dutch.
He raised his hand. “All from here to the right, move to the
right. All from here to the left, move to the left,” he ordered.
As the prisoners shifted position, one was left alone in the middle. The guard pointed at the prisoner with the blank expression and repeated his order. No response. The guard stormed toward him, and his anger turned to astonishment. Max had been found out. But Vandy didn’t mind — by this time his two escapers had followed Larive and Steinmetz to freedom in Switzerland.
Escape attempts continued at Colditz, some ingenious, some outrageous — through a trapdoor under the theater stage; hidden in garbage; disguised as German officers, workers, women. In a secret attic room, the British even built a glider to carry escapers over the castle’s high walls to the valley below. The glider never had a chance to take flight, however. It was found by the amazed American GIs who liberated the castle in 1945.
Through Traitor’s Gate
London, England, 1716
IT WAS NEARLY EVENING AS A LADY, wrapped in a cloak, her face almost hidden by her riding hood, stepped down from a horse-drawn coach onto the cobblestones. She looked up for a moment at the gray stone walls that rose before her, then lowered her gaze and strode ahead with a determined step. As she passed through the arched gateway, the sentry gave her a fleeting look of sympathy, but his face quickly hardened again into its usual cold stare. He was sorry for her troubles, but her husband was a traitor, after all.
The lady shivered as she made her way forward. Was it her imagination, or was it really colder, the air stiller, now that she had stepped inside the walls of the Tower of London? Ahead, across the small green, rose another stone wall. High above, she could see slits in the stone — tiny windows that lit the cells inside. Silently she counted the slits and found the one that cast its dim light on the room where her husband waited for her. And for the day of his execution.
It was out of family loyalty that William Maxwell, Lord Nithsdale, took up the doomed cause that had brought him here. In 1715 a plot was hatched to replace King George I with the exiled James Stuart. Many nobles, especially Scottish ones such as William, believed that James was the rightful heir to the throne. And the time seemed ripe for swift action — the people were grumbling about the German-speaking King George, who knew little English and showed even less affection for his British subjects. William joined his friends and allies in a march south to England, rallying support along the way.
Their rebellion was over within the year. Surrounded and defeated at Preston by King George’s forces, the rebel lords were led through London’s streets on horseback, their hands tied behind their backs, past the jeers and shouts of the crowds. Soon afterward, the disappointed Stuart prince fled back to France, where he had been living in exile.
Three Scottish lords were found guilty of treason and sentenced to death — their heads to be cut off with an axe. Once sentenced, they were thrown into separate cells inside the Tower of London, the gloomy stone fortress that for centuries had held traitors and notorious criminals within its many dungeons. There the men were to stay until their executions.
In the frozen garden outside the family manor in Terregles, Scotland, Winifred leaned on her spade and surveyed her handiwork. Her palms were blistered from the shovel’s handle, but she paid them no mind. It had been only a few hours since the news of her husband’s death sentence had reached her at home in Scotland. She had choked back her tears. There was too much to do.
Quickly she had buried the deeds to the family lands in the garden. Her son would need them someday to claim his inheritance — without them all their property would be seized by the king. Snow would cover the hiding place soon enough.
Brushing the dirt from her hands, she next took a hard look at the facts. William had pleaded guilty. The date for his execution was set — February 24, only days away. Things looked grim indeed.
But one hope remained. She’d race to London herself, and beg the King for mercy.
Winifred set out at once to hire a stagecoach, but none dared to travel in the heavy snowstorm that blocked all the roads. If she would just wait for the storm to pass, the drivers offered. But Winifred knew that every day was crucial. Very well, she decided, her jaw set stubbornly. I’ll ride on my own.
Winifred and her trusted maid, Evans, mounted their horses and set off at a gallop for London — hundreds of miles away. Through the day and past nightfall they rode south, stopping to rest only when they were too exhausted to go on. The weather grew worse, and the horses shied from the sharp winds and deep snow ahead. With grim determination, Winifred dismounted and called to Evans to do the same. Together they walked through the waist-high snow, pulling their frightened horses forward by the reigns.
At last they staggered into London and found lodgings for the night. There, sympathetic friends tried to reason with Winifred. It was hopeless. She must accept it: William and the others would have to die as an example to all traitors. But Winifred shook her head.
The next day she asked for an audience with the king, but was turned away. Unwilling to give up, she dressed in black mourning clothes and went to St. James’s Palace, planting herself in a corridor where she knew the king would pass. There she waited. And waited.
After what seemed like an eternity, a bustle of activity made her look up. There he was — the king! — striding in her direction, surrounded by attendants. Winifred wasted no time. Blocking his way, she knelt before him, and began to plead her cause. But he just brushed her aside and kept walking.
Winifred struggled up and followed him — in a moment he would be gone, taking her hopes with him. Squeezing through the attendants, she tried to push her written petition into his pocket, but it fell to the floor. Tears began to blind her, but this was no time to worry about dignity. Just before he moved out of reach, she lunged forward and grabbed his coattails. The angry king strode on, dragging her behind.
Gasps could be heard all around as horrified royal attendants rushed toward her. No one could touch the king! Soon firm hands were pulling her away. She stood up and shook them off, but it was too late. The king was gone. And with him goes any hope of a pardon, thought Winifred.
Which left only one other way.
As Winifred passed under the Tower archway, walking toward the stone Lieutenant’s Lodgings where her husband was locked up, her eyes took in everything — the sentries along the green and at the entrance, the two flights of stairs, and at the top the grand Council Chamber full of warders, the Tower guards. Across the guardroom was the heavy door to William’s cell.
Before it stood a warder armed with a halberd. With a nod, he opened the door for Winifred. She smiled sweetly and slipped a generous tip into his hand.
Inside, William rose swiftly from his seat and stepped forward, grasping Winifred’s hands in his. After their heartfelt reunion, Winifred listened patiently as William paced the floor and spoke his mind. He was resigned to his fate and was ready to face execution with dignity, without flinching, so his family could be proud of him. He had even written his final words.
Winifred, however, had other ideas. She began unfolding her plan. William’s room was high in a stone tower, its door well guarded, its only window a mere slit in the stone 40 feet above the ground. What’s more, the cell door opened onto a crowded guardroom. There was no hope of sneaking out or jumping.
“But there is another way...” Winifred paused. She’d have to lead up carefully to the crucial part. “You could walk out in plain view of the guards, disguised — only for a few moments mind you — as a visitor... a lady visitor —”
William raised a hand to silence her.
He was a proud man. To face the axe was one thing. Walk up the scaffold with a steady step, looking bravely ahead — yes, he believed he could do it. He would do it for honor’s sake. But to be caught sneaking out of the Tower in a dress!
“Can you imagine the laughter, the sneers? No,” he said, folding his arms. “My family would never live down the shame. No.”
“But that is if we fail, and we won’t!” Winifred c
ried. She spoke passionately, quickly explaining the rest of her scheme.
William listened in silence. She’d thought of everything, there was no doubt. It was clever, he admitted. And it was one last chance for life.
When Winifred had used up all her arguments, she sat back, waiting breathlessly for his answer. William stood for a while with a hand on the stone wall, looking down. When he looked at her again his eyes were gleaming. He would do it.
Winifred poured the afternoon tea into porcelain cups, her movements calm and delicate. She waited a moment before raising her eyes. When she did, her maid and their landlady, Mrs. Mills, were both looking at her expectantly. Winifred took a breath, silently running through the phrases she had rehearsed in her head all morning. She prayed they would be persuasive enough.
Then in a flood of words she told the ladies everything. Her husband was not going to be pardoned. Tomorrow he would be executed. There was only one chance left — to help him escape, tonight. Everything was ready. But she needed their help. Would they do it?
Evans readily agreed. Winifred smiled and squeezed her hand. Then she turned to Mrs. Mills. Winifred knew she was loyal to the Stuart cause. But would that be enough?
Their landlady was dumbstruck, clearly astonished. Winifred bit her tongue as she waited for her answer. Had she been right to spring the idea at the last minute like this? She had hoped that the surprise and urgency would keep the women from considering the danger. At last Mrs. Mills nodded mutely.
They would need one more helper. Who else could they trust? Evans quickly sent for her friend Miss Hilton, and Winifred’s dramatic pleas won her over as well.
Her accomplices in hand, Winifred moved fast. She ushered the three women outside and into a waiting coach, which she had arranged beforehand. Throughout the ride she kept chatting — that way no one would have a chance for second thoughts.
Escapes! Page 4