Winter's Bullet

by William Osborne

  Hurrying up the stairs to the ground floor, he started to turn over a plan in his mind, but his thoughts disappeared as he reached the top. Two Gestapo officers were half carrying, half dragging a suspect down to the cells below. He looked young, not much older than Tygo, with a little Van Dyck mustache and beard, which were covered in crimson. His right eye was squeezed shut and a nasty purplish blue.

  For an instant Tygo pictured himself crossing to the young man, punching the two guards out with lightning blows, and dragging him down the stairs, saying, “It’s all right, I know a secret exit, we can get away!” For a moment he fantasized he was that boy of action, then he glanced away, ashamed, and hurried past them. If he had even tried to do something like that he would be cut down before he’d gone ten paces.

  God, how he hated it all, this feeling of being trapped, with no way out other than a bullet from either the Nazis or the Resistance.

  When he reached the third floor it was deathly silent. The staff had left for the day, and there was only a light on in Krüger’s office at the far end of the corridor.

  He walked along the linoleum-lined floor and stopped outside a door. Painted on it were the words: RECORDS DEPARTMENT. Tygo stood there thinking for a moment or two, then looked around. The plan that was forming in his mind took another step forward. Here was an opportunity to find out about the house and its occupants … maybe even who the girl was, and a clue as to what exactly Krüger had been hunting for there. It was risky if he was caught, but the place was empty after all, and he would be quick about it.

  He checked the corridor again and carefully turned the handle on the door. It was unlocked. He stepped inside.

  “What are you doing?”

  Tygo froze. He slowly turned and found a middle-aged, hatchet-faced woman standing behind the door, buttoning her woolen overcoat. She had already turned off all the lights as she prepared to leave, he realized.

  She walked around Tygo and switched the lights back on. “Who are you?” She looked him up and down.

  Tygo decided his only chance was to brazen it out. “I’m Tygo Winter. I assist Oberst Krüger in asset protection.”

  At the mention of Krüger’s name, the woman’s demeanor seemed to shift. Nobody, Dutch or German, wanted to cross Krüger.

  “Well, what does the Oberst want?”

  “Some information on a property on Voorthuizenstraat, number 73.”

  “Can’t it wait till the morning?”

  “No,” said Tygo, taking a chance, “it’s most urgent he has the information tonight.”

  The woman looked at Tygo, then marched between the ranks of filing cabinets until she stopped by one, opened the second drawer, ran her finger along the files inside, and eventually selected one. “Here you are—put it back when you have finished and close the door.”

  “Thank you, Miss …”

  “It’s Mrs.,” the woman barked, and Tygo jumped.

  He opened the file as she headed for the door. It was very thin. A map of the street with the property outlined in red and a note pinned to it: “This property is hereby transferred by the owner, the Bank of Utrecht, to the German authorities.” There was an official stamp issued by the Gestapo with the date December 7, 1940. Just over four years ago.

  “Oh, Mrs. . . .”

  The woman had the door open. “What? Be quick.”

  “It says the house was owned by the Bank of Utrecht. Can I get some information on that?”

  “You’ll be lucky—it was a private bank, owned by the Löwenstein family. They got out when the Nazis arrived—went to live in New York, I believe.”

  “Thank you. I’ll tell the Oberst you have been most helpful.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said firmly, and left.

  “You took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Krüger glanced up at Tygo from behind his desk. He held a lit cigarette in one hand and a glass of colorless liquid in a brandy balloon in the other. It was probably schnapps; that was what Krüger enjoyed. He claimed his grandfather used to make it from pears. The best, he said.

  Tygo could tell he was irritated and annoyed. Whatever he had hoped to find in the house must have been important. Tygo suddenly realized something: On previous occasions when they had also come away empty-handed, Krüger had been in a similarly foul mood. Could it be that he had been searching for the same thing all this time?

  “Sorry, Herr Oberst.”

  “Well, at least you look and smell a good deal better than you did.”

  Krüger got up and walked across to a small side table that held decanters and glasses. He refilled his glass, then, after a moment, dropped an inch of the liquid into a tumbler for Tygo. He handed him the glass.

  “Prost,” he said, and banged his glass against Tygo’s.

  Tygo sipped the fiery liquid reluctantly.

  “Don’t sip it, boy!” Krüger said. “Down in one like a man.”

  Tygo threw it back into his throat and swallowed. He felt a pain behind the bridge of his nose, like when he ate a piece of ice. “Are you celebrating something, Herr Oberst?” he asked hoarsely.

  “More like commiserating, Frettchen. Today was a great disappointment—I was hoping to find something … I have been searching for it for some time now.” So Tygo’s suspicion was correct after all. “Something that would be most helpful.”

  “Helpful?”

  “To my future.” Krüger smiled; the liqueur had lifted his mood temporarily. He refilled Tygo’s glass over his objections and topped up his own. “That’s it, let’s drink to the future. God knows it’s going to arrive very soon, and with a vengeance.” He tossed back his drink, and Tygo did the same. He was already beginning to feel a tiny bit light-headed.

  “What do you mean, sir?” asked Tygo.

  “The head of the Gestapo, General Müller, is arriving here tomorrow to meet with me. To discuss a top-secret operation that is to be carried out in the next few days. What do you think of that, Frettchen?”

  Tygo looked back at him and shrugged. Actually, he thought it sounded pretty scary—and pretty odd that Krüger was telling him about it.

  “Why am I telling you, you may wonder, such a secret?”

  Tygo nodded. He was wondering exactly that, and getting a bad feeling inside. Too much knowledge, as his history teacher used to say, was a dangerous thing.

  “How long have you worked for me?”

  “Six months,” said Tygo.

  “Six months … and we’ve gotten along pretty well, wouldn’t you say?”

  Tygo nodded again.

  “There was that unfortunate business with your sister, but I think you learned your lesson from that.”

  Tygo nodded a third time. The mention of his sister took him instantly back to that terrible day last September when it had seemed liberation was at hand. The city was in turmoil, and he had refused Krüger’s order to help him secure the central warehouses. He had paid a terrible price for his insubordination: As punishment Krüger had ordered his sister, the last remaining member of his family, to join the next train of “guest workers” going to Germany. It was the last he had seen of her, or was likely to.

  “Learned that we need to trust each other?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can trust each other, can’t we?” Krüger was looking carefully at him now as he repeated the question.

  “Of course, Herr Oberst.” Tygo hoped he sounded sincere. He didn’t trust Krüger with the money for a pack of gum, and he never would.

  “Good, Frettchen. A great many things may need to be arranged. Arranged in total secrecy and with great speed. That is why I have told you about this matter.”

  “I understand, sir.” In truth, Tygo didn’t have the faintest idea what all this was about.

  “You will base yourself here at Headquarters until further notice. I will arrange some sleeping quarters for you.”

  The proposal both appealed to him and appalled him in equal measure. It meant his nights would at least b
e safe from the Resistance, but the thought of living in such a hellish place, where torture and murder were carried out every day, made him feel sick. There was no way he would ever live this down when the war did end—if he was lucky enough to survive, that was.

  Krüger walked back to his desk and picked something up from it. “You are to carry this at all times.”

  It was a small brass disk with the Gestapo badge on one side, identifying the owner as a member of the Gestapo. Tygo slipped the badge into his pocket.

  “And a letter, signed by myself, stating that you are acting on my authority and are to be given free passage throughout the Netherlands.”

  Tygo took the small envelope that Krüger handed him. He felt scared; such papers, if found on him by the Resistance, would certainly seal his fate. But then a spark of optimism struck him too. If you looked at it another way, they were a ticket to get away. He could move freely around the city—even the country—without being questioned. What other Dutch person could do that? For a moment it made him feel light-headed, giddy, but then he remembered the schnapps was probably the cause of that.

  “If I help you, Herr Oberst, is there a chance my sister could be sent for?”

  Krüger looked back at him. “I like you, Tygo, I like the fact that you’re always ready to push your luck. I’m the same: Push your luck; only then will you find how far it goes. Well, unfortunately this is where it stops. Your sister is no longer a concern of mine; her fate has been sealed, by yourself if you recall. Better to forget she ever existed. Do we understand each other?”

  Tygo nodded, hatred burning in his heart. He understood, all right. He would do everything that Krüger asked of him, and then he would use the letter and tag to escape this wretched city before it was too late. For the first time in a very long time, Tygo realized, he was thinking about something more than just day-to-day survival: He was thinking about the future.

  Tygo was dog-tired but couldn’t sleep. The room he had been given to sleep in was a broom cupboard in the basement, his bed a stained old mattress and an army blanket. Better than he had had for weeks, and he should have been fast asleep as soon as his eyes closed, but he wasn’t. He lay there thinking about the house they had visited. And the girl. And the jewel that Krüger was looking for. Maybe Tygo could find it—or better yet, maybe the girl knew where it was—maybe she had it!

  Tygo wondered if he should go back the next day to see what he could find. Then he felt the warrant disk in his pocket, next to the letter from Krüger. It meant he could break the nightly curfew if he wanted. What if he went now? It was after midnight, the streets would be deserted; it would be safer to travel now, and he would be back in time for Krüger the following morning.

  A long, agonized cry came from one of the cells. It seemed to pierce Tygo’s heart, and he shivered. No time like the present, he thought, and got to his feet in the darkness, his hand searching the wall for the light switch.

  He found an unused bicycle in the motor pool and, having shown his pass to the sentry, pushed it up the ramp from beneath the building and onto the street.

  The city was enveloped in darkness, and there was just enough light from the waning moon for Tygo to see his way and strike out for the south of the city: 73 Voorthuizenstraat. He thought he could make it in about twenty minutes. It was bitterly cold and the snow had formed a hard crust on the roads; he had to be careful on the corners, but he could still cycle.

  He never saw the rope, or twine, or whatever it was that had been strung across the road in front of him, in the darkness. It took him at chest height and lifted him clean off his saddle, and he flew backward. He was too surprised to tense up, and as a result—luckily for him—he landed very softly in a heap on the crusted snow, his back and shoulders taking the impact, the back of his head just knocking lightly on the road. He lay there, winded, for a moment, trying to figure out what had just happened, but then strong hands took hold of him and were pulling him up off the street and hauling him toward the sidewalk.

  “Let go of me,” he protested feebly. He knew immediately he was in big trouble. Dressed in the local Dutch police uniform, he could expect no mercy from the Resistance.

  “Shut up,” a young man hissed in his ear. The other person bent one of his arms up behind his back and jerked it sharply. A searing pain shot into his brain; it felt like his shoulder would dislocate.

  “Okay, okay,” Tygo yelped. A flashlight beam suddenly snapped on right in his face and he had to close his eyes.

  “Well, looks like we’ve hit the jackpot tonight.” A girl’s voice; Tygo recognized it.

  “Ursula …”

  “The one and only.”

  For a moment, Tygo glimpsed his captors—two boys about the same age as him, their faces gaunt and filthy. Ursula stood farther back in the shadows. She had a large bandage across the bridge of her nose. Then the light snapped off.

  “I said, shut up.” Another hard jerk, another bolt of pain. Little red dots danced in front of Tygo’s eyes.

  “Well, what about that, Winter?” said Ursula. “It’s just like trams: You wait for days and then two come along at the same time.”

  “Who is he?” asked one of the boys.

  “This is Tygo Winter,” said Ursula. “Collaborator.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Search him.” Ursula seemed to be in charge. One of the youths let go and came around to face Tygo, patting his clothing quickly and expertly.

  Tygo was thinking fast. Three against one; it was going to be difficult, and the other boys were strong. But he was pretty sure they wouldn’t kill him. Ursula wanted that bounty money.

  “I’m going to enjoy watching them kill you, Winter.” Ursula came close, cleared her throat, and spat in his face. Tygo felt the thick blob of mucus run down his cheek. Managing to lean forward, he spat back as hard as he could.

  Ursula drove her fist into his stomach and he doubled up. One of the boys was still holding his arm tightly behind his back, saving him from falling to the ground.

  “Is that your best shot?” Tygo panted.

  Before Ursula could respond, a different answer was provided. Down the street came the sound of a heavy vehicle, and a powerful spotlight swung out in a wide arc, raking the sidewalk and houses with its beam.

  Ursula swore. Tygo felt the boy’s grip on his arm slacken, and took his chance. He spun around and head-butted him as hard as he could. The boy pitched backward, clutching his face and yelling in pain, and Tygo took off up the street toward the light.

  “Split up, go!” he heard Ursula shout behind him.

  Tygo could make out the vehicle; it was a four-wheeled, light-armored car with a turret sprouting a machine gun. A field police officer was standing in the turret, operating the light. Tygo put up his hands as it landed on him.

  “Tygo Winter, attached to Oberst Krüger’s department. I have authority to be out!” he shouted at the top of his voice. It would be too much to avoid a bullet from the Resistance only to get one from the Germans.

  “Come forward, slowly, with your hands up!” the policeman shouted.

  Tygo walked forward.

  “Your papers and identity disk!”

  “They’re in my tunic!”

  “Slowly then, with your right hand.”

  Tygo carefully took out the disk and letter as the policeman climbed out of the turret and dropped to the ground. He took the documents and examined them under his flashlight.

  “What reason do you have to be out this late?”

  Tygo knew he had no choice but to lie at this point, bluff his way out. The worst that could happen was that they would take him back to HQ and he would have to face Krüger.

  “A special mission for Oberst Krüger—I am not at liberty to say—his strict orders.”

  The policeman looked back at Tygo skeptically. “What is a young man like you doing for Oberst Krüger at this time of night?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him yourself?” Tygo’s heart was hammering
in his chest for the second time in as many minutes.

  The policeman took another glance at the letter, then handed it and the warrant disk back to Tygo.

  “Be careful, young man, the Resistance is active in this sector.” With that he climbed back into the armored car and thumped the turret with his fist.

  Tygo waited for the car to pass. Its light picked out his bicycle lying on the ground; Tygo ran to it and quickly climbed on board. He pedaled as hard and as fast as he could, but it was okay—Ursula and her friends hadn’t hung around.

  Ten minutes later he was at the villa. He parked the bicycle a little way from the drive and stole as quietly as he could through the deeper snow to the front door. Getting back inside took just a few minutes with his skeleton keys.

  His footsteps on the stone floor in the hallway sounded incredibly loud. He tried his flashlight, but it didn’t work; it must have broken in the fall. Tygo swore. He stood there for a few minutes, letting his eyes get used to the darkness; the place still had a metallic smell of explosives.

  “Hello, is anybody here?” he called out softly. Perhaps the girl had fled after they had left. The sweat from the cycle ride ran down his spine and he shivered. He’d been in lots of empty buildings, but at night, alone, they never failed to scare him.

  He went into the oak-paneled room and stared up the chimney. There was no way he was climbing back up it.

  “I saw you,” he said. “Come down if you’re there. I won’t hurt you …”

  But there was only darkness and silence. He turned and made his way out of the room, his boots crunching on the broken glass as if it were gravel. If the girl really wasn’t there, he could concentrate on looking for the jewel.

  Tygo decided to try the next floor; perhaps there was another safe hidden in the floor or wall somewhere else in the building. He slowly walked up the long, winding flight of stairs; each step creaked a little louder than the last. Tygo held on to the banister. It was rickety, with lots of spindles missing. Just as he reached the top, he felt something racing toward his face, the air whiffling. He screamed but the pigeon’s wing only kissed his cheek as the bird flashed past him. He nearly toppled backward, but managed to grab the rail just in time. The pigeon flapped down into the darkness below and out of one of the shattered windows.