by Sarah Sundin
Outside Augsburg
“Out of the auto,” the Nazi said in German. He spoke no English at all.
With his hands cuffed behind him, Ray swung his legs outside and pitched his body forward to stand up. Before him, a small farmhouse sat far from civilization, devoid of paint, roof bowed with snow under a leaden sky. This might be the last building he saw.
Despite trembling limbs, he squared his shoulders and mounted creaky stairs. In the dragon’s lair, cold air smelled of ham and smoke and decay. Scant furniture stood in no particular order, and soot tinged the walls.
The Nazi opened a door, tossed Ray’s parachute down the cellar stairs, and removed the handcuffs.
“Danke schön.” Ray’s hands fell to his sides. He resisted the urge to stretch his cramped muscles.
The Nazi pointed to the cellar. “Put here your Fluchtausrüstung.”
“I don’t know that word.”
“Things. Things for running.”
His escape kit? With his eyes on the man with the gun, Ray leaned down to unbutton his shin pocket and threw the olive drab canvas pouch into the cellar.
“Everything. Your helmet too.”
Ray emptied his pockets of flight rations and pocketknife, then removed his steel flak helmet and leather flying helmet with the oxygen mask strapped on one side. This made no sense, but he intended to be compliant within the limits of his orders.
“Give to me your personal things—papers, letters, talismans.”
“I have none.” All he had was his Bible, but he planned to die with it over his heart.
“Seat yourself.” He pulled a chair to the table, sloughed off his greatcoat, and tossed it over a chair, and then tucked his pistol into his holster. “Have you hunger?”
Was it wise to admit hunger? He lowered himself into the chair. “Captain Raymond Garlovsky Novak, serial—”
“Nein.” He flapped a hand at Ray and threw sticks into the feeble fire in the fireplace. “You will want food. I have not much, but I give you bread and cheese.”
“Nein, danke.” Wasn’t that a typical interrogation tactic? To start with a show of friendliness to lower a man’s guard?
The Nazi pulled two cloth-covered bundles from a shelf, set them on the table, and pulled off the cloth to reveal a dark bread and a pale cheese. “It is not polite to refuse good bread. You will eat. Enjoy Bavarian Gemütlichkeit.”
Ray nodded, but the reception of his crewmen didn’t reflect the famed Bavarian hospitality.
After the German gave Ray a slab of bread with a sliver of cheese, he sat and rested a booted foot on the table. “I cannot give you much food, but I will a story tell. My story.”
Ray stiffened his guard so he wouldn’t be lulled into revealing information.
The Nazi took off his cap, revealing gray hair, thick and straight. “After I fought in the last war, I met a beautiful girl in München. Very beautiful. In a month, I married her.”
Ray took a bite of his last meal, and the bread crumbled in his dry mouth.
“She gave me three fine sons about your age, I believe. How old are you?”
Ray paused. “Captain Raymond—”
“Ja, ja.” Thin lips tilted, not quite a smile. “Three fine sons. Good, strong boys. But their mother grew fat and ugly, and I learned why—she was Jewish. She hid that from me. Then the Nürnberg Laws passed in 1935. I saw opportunity in Hitler’s Germany, but not with a Jewish swine wife. I divorced her. They took her away in ’38.”
The bits of bread and cheese curdled in Ray’s stomach.
“Ach, you think I am the swine, nicht wahr? But I did right. I joined the Party, took many blonde Mädchen, and gained power.”
Ray studied the face etched deeper than warranted by his age. If he thought he’d done right, where was his peace?
The Nazi got up and poured two cups of water. “No beer. Today it is difficult in Germany.” He sat, and the heel of his boot thumped the table. “Prost.”
“Prost.” Ray returned the dragon’s toast.
“When the war started, I became important. My greatest work was to uncover a resistance ring—German race traitors who smuggled Jews out of the country.”
Ray took a sip of water, as refreshing as the knowledge that good people stood up against this evil regime.
The Nazi swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “At the center of the ring stood three men. Three brothers. My three fine, strong sons.”
The air rushed from Ray’s chest.
Fire crackled in the fireplace and in the Nazi’s eyes. “I hanged them. If I hadn’t, I would have been butchered. I watched my three fine sons hang to death.”
What kind of man could make such a decision? And what kind of world encouraged men to make such decisions?
“For the death of their mother, they could not forgive me or their country.” He slammed his fist to the table. “But for my loyalty, what is my reward? The Party does not trust me. They sent me here. Nowhere. I have nothing to live for. My sons are dead. My career is dead. All I have is Vergeltung.”
“Vergeltung? I don’t know that word.”
The Nazi waved one hand in a small circle. “Vergeltung. Vergeltung weapons. The V-1, V-2.”
“I understand.” Vengeance. All the man had was vengeance, and Ray’s blood chilled.
“Hitler promised good, but he brought death. The folk starve, our cities are bombed, our youth are killed. I see how this war is fought. The Fatherland will be destroyed.”
The torture in the man’s soul cried out to Ray’s ministering spirit. But dragons were known for emotional trickery, and the most dangerous dragons were those who had lost their treasures.
The Nazi sprang to his feet and stoked the fire. “Now I hate the Party more than my sons did. I take vengeance, a life for a life. I have taken two lives, and you will help with the third.”
Help? No, Ray would be the third, and he tried not to think how the red-hot poker would be used.
A motor puttered outside. The Nazi looked out the grimy window. “It is time.”
Ray’s stomach turned. Even one bite of bread and cheese had been too many.
“Fast! Into the cellar.” He whipped out his pistol and motioned to the cellar door. “Be entirely still or I will shoot you.”
Shooting seemed preferable to whatever waited in the torture chamber, but the cellar contained nothing but a ham and bags of potatoes and apples. The door shut, and a bolt slid into place, leaving Ray in darkness outside and in. What on earth was going on?
He sat on a step with his face to the door, where he could see between warped, mildewed boards. Lord, get this over with quickly so I can be with you. Thank you that my family and Helen will never know how I died. Be with them, Lord.
The front door creaked open. “Guten Abend, Herr Oberleutnant. Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler.” A second man’s voice, a younger man. “I seek an American pilot. The folk said you took one away.”
“Ach, ja. The Luftwaffe collects for the Stalag Luft.”
A smile swept up Ray’s face. He’d live after all. He’d kiss the ground of that Stalag Luft.
“Come inside. This winter is so cold.” The Nazi’s voice drew inside. “I have no pilot for you. Today the folk killed three men before I could stop them.”
No pilot? Ray reached for the door, but it was bolted, and the Nazi wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
“We must make them understand,” the younger man said. “It is not right. Pilots follow the knight’s code. A parachute is a sign of surrender. These murders make our pilots fear for their own lives if shot down. It is not good.”
“Ja, ja. I agree.” The Nazi strode to the shelf beside the fireplace. “Would you like a drink? Warm yourself by the fire?”
“Nothing to drink, danke, but I warm myself gladly.” The officer squatted by the fire and stretched out his hands.
Two steps, a flash of silver. “Hände hoch.”
Ray gasped, a sound echoed by the Luftwaff
e officer. A gun—the Nazi held a gun to the younger man’s head.
“Hände hoch. Stand up.” He jammed the barrel in the officer’s ear.
“I stand. I stand. What is wrong?”
“Undress yourself.”
“Undress? Undress? What is wrong with you?”
Ray shrank back from the door. He didn’t want to see what would happen next.
“Undress yourself.” A click from the pistol.
The officer laid down a string of German words Ray never learned in college or in seminary. Clothing rustled and brass buttons clunked to the floor.
Ray dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Lord, protect that man. The two pilots, though enemies, had fallen into the hands of the same monster. What could Ray do?
“Go out the back door.”
More curses, shouts, orders, and the back door opened.
“I can’t let this happen. I have to do something.” Ray pounded the door. He worked his fingers around a board and pulled. It was decayed. He jumped down a few steps, raised his knee to his chest, and kicked the board. It cracked. Another kick, and his foot punched through.
He extracted his foot, plunged his hand through the opening, and worked the bolt free.
The officer’s shouts outside descended to weeping and pleading.
Ray dashed for the back door. At least he’d die defending his fellow man, maybe give him a chance to escape.
He banged open the back door.
A shot, a flash of yellow in the twilight, and a dark-haired man in long white underwear collapsed to the ground.
“No!” Ray cried. The Nazi was insane—he’d shot his own countryman.
The pistol turned to Ray. “Undress yourself.”
“What?” Ray cried in English. “Just shoot me with my clothes on.”
“Auf Deutsch.”
Ray blinked hard, over and over, and held up his hands. His fingers curled into fists. “Schiessen Sie mich, aber ich ziehe mich nicht aus.”
The Nazi laughed and tucked his gun back into the holster. “Nein, I shoot you not. Already you are dead. And the Oberleutnant lives.”
“You are crazy.”
“Nein, nein. I am smart. He will wear your uniform, and you will wear his. All is clear.”
“What? This is crazy.”
“When it is full dark, you will leave. If you wear the American uniform, you will be caught, and I will say you murdered the Oberleutnant. You will be tortured and shot. If you wear the Luftwaffe uniform, you might live.”
Ray’s head spun. “This is—this is crazy. I surrender. Take me to the Luftwaffe.”
“Nein. You must leave.” The Nazi rolled the dead officer toward a dark square in the snow, an open pit partially filled with snow.
Ray’s breath chuffed through clenched teeth. This was premeditated murder. The man knew the Luftwaffe would come. Ray was the bait in this man’s twisted trap.
The Nazi glanced over his shoulder at Ray. “Put on his clothes and bring me yours. Fetch your things from the cellar. They are useful, and Luftwaffe officers often have American equipment taken from prisoners—or the dead. And give me your dog tags.”
“Nein.” Ray’s hand flew to his chest. As of now, he would be listed as Missing in Action, which would allow his friends and family to hope. If his dog tags went to the dead man, his status would change to Killed in Action. How could he do that to Helen and his family?
The Nazi strolled toward Ray with outstretched hand. “I have done this twice already. I don’t know if the men still live, and I care not. I have my vengeance. Germany stole my three sons, and I stole three of hers. But you, Herr Novak, might live.”
In Ray’s mind, he could see Helen’s lovely tea-colored eyes. He had to take the chance, no matter how slim, to gaze into those eyes again.
Ray lifted the tags over his head and dropped his identity—his life—into the Nazi’s hand.
In order to live, he had to die.
30
Antioch
Thursday, January 18, 1945
“That’s the last of it.” Helen relinquished the notebook and all her volunteer work into Allie Novak’s hands. Working full time for Vic would leave no time to volunteer.
Allie set all Helen’s beautiful notebooks on the Novaks’ coffee table, since her lap had gotten too small with the growing baby. “I’ll do my best. I know how important this is.”
Helen gave a quick nod to stanch her tears. “You’ll do well.” Allie had proven a hard and efficient worker the last few months.
“It takes both Betty and me to make one Helen,” Allie said with her shy smile. “Betty chats with the ladies and motivates them, and I keep her on the agenda.”
“Nonsense. Allie does the hard, boring work, and we all know it.” In the wing chair, Betty sipped her tea. “But Helen, you’d better relieve us soon. This kind of thing kills me. How long do you have to work full time?”
“Through August, when I can get my own place.” Her plan would shave five months off her sentence.
Betty rubbed her rounded belly. “Too bad you can’t ask Papa for money, but we know where he stands. We’re all grown up. Don’t come back begging.” She laughed, but she could afford to laugh. She had a good husband and a safe home. “Why the hurry to leave?”
Helen gazed into her empty lap. “I’ve imposed on the Carlisles long enough. They deserve peace and quiet again.”
Betty and Allie nodded as if they understood, but they could never know the real reason Helen was breaking her own heart by sacrificing her work.
But did her heart ache because she was abandoning the purpose the Lord gave her? Or was it a selfish, prideful ache, because the only way she knew how to please people was through accomplishments?
“Would you like some cake?” Mrs. Novak entered the parlor with a single-layer cake frosted in white. “Today is Ray’s thirty-second birthday.”
Helen inhaled a sharp breath. If she hadn’t driven him away, he would be celebrating at home. Perhaps they would be celebrating together.
“Nonsense,” Betty said. “You should share with your family.”
Mrs. Novak set the cake on the coffee table. “Pastor Novak needs to watch his waistline, Allie isn’t supposed to eat many sweets, and that leaves me. Besides, my two little frosting helpers are eating tiny pieces in the kitchen, so why shouldn’t their mommies have some too?”
The cake indeed looked as if it had been frosted by Jay-Jay and Judy. Mrs. Novak had spirited them away the moment they arrived. She would be a wonderful grandmother.
“Next year,” Mrs. Novak said with a brave set to her chin. “Next year, Ray will be home to celebrate, and Jack and Walt as well. I’ll be back with plates and forks.”
The doorbell rang, and she smiled. “After I get the door.”
Helen stared at the little cake with a wedge cut out. A year from now, Jay-Jay would be almost four. She’d be in her own place and could resume volunteering. But she would be alone. Surely the war would be over. Ray would come home and find an unbroken woman for his wife.
Mrs. Novak stood in the entry to the parlor, her face as gray as the streaks in her black hair. “There ought . . . to be . . . a limit.”
Two envelopes trembled in her hand. Western Union telegrams.
Two years ago, Helen had laughed when she received her telegram, but now her face tingled as the blood drained away.
“This—this is my fourth telegram from the War Department. Once when Walt was injured, twice when Jack was injured, and now . . . there ought to be . . . shouldn’t there be a limit?”
One of the brothers was wounded, missing, or dead. Helen clenched her hands on her lap and prayed it wasn’t Ray. But it was wrong to hope it was Jack or Walt, especially with Walt’s pregnant wife in the room.
“All right, Mom, let’s sit down.” Allie guided her mother-in-law to the armchair. “Would you like me to go to the church first and get Dad?”
“No, Allie, stay. I’ll get Pastor Novak.” Betty
took off, out the front door.
Helen couldn’t breathe or move, but the women she’d written off—one as a useless society girl and the other as a flibbertigibbet—were the only ones of use.
“Would you like to wait for Dad?” Allie said.
“No . . . no. I have you dear girls.” Mrs. Novak’s eyes glistened, fixed on the envelopes.
Allie knelt beside her. “That one’s from Britain, not the War Department. Would you like to open it first?”
Mrs. Novak nodded and worked a finger under the lip of the envelope with a cringing expression. Helen understood. As long as the envelope remained sealed, she could pretend all three sons were alive and whole.
Helen hugged her arms around her stomach, her throat swollen shut.
“I can’t. My fingers. Allie, would you . . . is it too much . . . ?”
Allie shook her head, drew her lips between her teeth, and opened the envelope. Then she rested on her heels to read it. “The telegram’s from Jack.”
Helen took a gulping breath. That meant it was Ray. Walt didn’t fly combat missions. The V-1s and V-2s killed thousands of civilians, but no one faced greater danger than the airmen.
Allie rose to her knees and settled one hand on her mother-in-law’s arm, her eyes soft but strong. “Ray’s plane was shot down over Germany.”
Helen slapped a hand over her mouth, clamping off her cry.
Mrs. Novak moaned, pressed both hands over her face, and crumpled over her knees.
Allie rubbed her shoulders. “Jack says there were at least three parachutes. He says we mustn’t lose hope. We mustn’t.”
Hope? At best, Ray was a prisoner of war during Europe’s coldest winter on record.
“I know he’s safe in a POW camp.” Allie hugged her mother-in-law’s shoulders. “They’ll notify us soon. Jack is writing a letter with more details. We mustn’t lose hope.”
Weeks would pass while they waited for word, but there would be none. Only three parachutes. Ray would be the last man to bail out, not one of the first. That meant . . .
Her gaze fell on the little white cake, never to be enjoyed, for a birthday that would never be celebrated again.
Helen choked on a sob, but she had no right to mourn. She’d killed another man.