Summit: A Novel

by Harry Farthing

  For a while, it was all he could do to breathe.

  Eventually he was able to roll over onto his side to see down the mountain, scanning the debris from the small avalanche that must have caused his fall. It tracked away from him down the sloping strip of snow and over the edge.

  His blurred, bloody vision made out the length of purple rope still tied to his waist harness.

  He knew he was searching for something.

  What?

  He traced each twist and turn of the wavy purple line until it stopped at the sharp slice of rock that had cut it.

  Contemplating the end of the rope, senseless, not connecting, Quinn was just surprised at how perfectly that rock must have severed it as it sliced into the snow.

  Suddenly he felt as if he had been slammed by another rock, but it was only his aching head recalling what should have been at the end of that purple rope.

  9

  The Paznaun Valley, Southwest Austria

  October 1, 1938

  9:30 p.m.

  The rain had eased a little by the time the mountain troopers and the Jews set off up the path that began behind the cowshed. Slippery and narrow, it followed the steep side of the wooded hill with an animal’s natural respect for gradient, taking long, looping switchbacks up through the dripping trees.

  Gunter led the way, as always. He put the oldest adults at the front of the line. He always did that too, taking his pace from them, slow but steady. Halfway along the tramping line, Kurt was leading the first mule bearing the older of the two girls. At the rear Josef followed with the second. On the mule’s back sat little Ilsa, her skinny legs jutting out over the animal’s wet flanks, tiny feet encased in bulbous bandages of canvas that bounced upward from the mule’s rib cage whenever it made a sudden movement up one of the many steps in the path.

  Every now and again someone slipped or stumbled. It would cause a pause in the line before it restarted, as if by instinct. There were occasional sickly coughs, muffled into sleeves so as not to incur a hissed rebuke from Gunter, who demanded silence at the slightest sound. At one point, Josef thought he could hear Ilsa faintly crying. When he quietly asked her how she was faring, the noise stopped, but he received no reply. Josef felt for her, for them all, in fact. Over the last few trips, their charges had become so hunted and afraid, particularly the children, that it was no longer enough to remind himself that it wasn’t sympathy that spurred the three of them to lead these desperate collections over the hills. It was habit, and money.

  Gunter, Kurt, and Josef were all from a little hamlet situated high in the Bavarian Alps where the men took their living from the surrounding hills, not as soldiers, but as shepherds, hunters, guides, and smugglers. Josef had been five, Kurt six, and Gunter eight, the day a pale limestone mountain in the Dolomites was mined during the third year of the Great War. It had taken the Italians three months to bore the intricate blast tunnel beneath the German hilltop position and load the massive charge. The morning the Alpini finally set the fuse to the thirty tons of tightly packed gelignite, they could smell the Kaiserjäger troops above cooking their breakfast, the mouthwatering scent of bacon seeping down through the natural fissures in the chalky, soft rock. It was the last thing that any of the Germans would smell. In the valleys below, they said it was as if the entire mountain rose up and spilled over into the sky like boiling milk.

  The boys’ fathers, all infantrymen in the 71st, died without breakfast that day, exchanging hunger for death in an unknowing instant that left their equally unknowing young sons with the obligation to grow up quickly. As soon as they could, the boys went to work in the high hills to support their stoic yet tired mothers and protect their defenseless sisters. Josef had two, Trudl and Ava, eight and two at the time of their father’s death. Everything he did from that day on, he did for them. When, in 1935, the boys, now men, were conscripted into the 99th Gebirgsjäger, one of the reformed German infantry regiments instructed by Adolf Hitler to ready itself for new glories, they went without enthusiasm, mumbling the oath of loyalty to the führer without conviction. Already successful providers from time-honored mountain trades, the unfair exchange of their days and abilities for a poor soldier’s wage offered little appeal. The three of them had no interest in the politics of the city, in the building of empires, or the supposed perfidy of other races. Not one of them had even seen the sea.

  At the barracks in Garmisch, the three unhappily settled into a dull military regime of training ever-younger recruits in mountain skills that they had known since childhood. They became somewhat happier, however, when they realized that their uniforms and Wehrmacht passes provided opportunity to continue their other, more lucrative, alpine trades. Whenever they could, they would lead climbs for the growing National Socialist cult of alpinism, they would track for Nazi dignitaries and businessmen in hunts for trophy chamois, boar, even bear, and, most profitable of all, they would secretly cross into Austria to make runs over the high passes into Switzerland, smuggling people out and foreign cigarettes and currency back in. To do so, they used the high, hidden routes known only by their fathers and their fathers before them, lost smugglers’ paths that ignored arbitrary lines and frontiers on maps and showed little respect for the extremes of natural geography. The Treason against the Reich Act might well make being caught with either cargo punishable by death, but then again, falling off a rock face or being gored by a wounded boar had always offered them such possibility.

  Of the three, Gunter was the natural leader, Kurt, the taciturn hunter, and Josef, the agile mountain goat that could climb anything. They combined these skills to form a team that prided itself on being able to get anyone or anything over the highest mountain. As the Nazis’ prohibitions increased, so did the demand and price for their services. Their recently issued Heeresbergführer badges, officially classifying them as army mountain guides and instructors, provided yet more license to roam the hills of the newly joined Germany and Austria under the cover of “training.” This run was the eighth of that year, the third using that secret route above the Paznaun. They rotated them to keep the Austrian border police guessing, but sometimes they wondered why they bothered. The police rarely ventured into the highest hills, particularly if it was snowing.

  That night was proving no different than usual. They walked. They stopped. They walked again. No words were spoken. The hours passed, each person retiring from the wet, the cold, the constant exertion, into their own individual hopes and fears, memories and dreams. Josef, as always, lost himself in thoughts of mountains he wanted to visit, of climbs he had made, of others still to do. He could daydream about them for hours. It was his way of shutting out the world, of enduring the boredom of the barracks, of diverting his attention from the risks they ran, and, more and more, of ignoring the frightened people, particularly the young girls that reminded him too closely of his own, once helpless sisters.

  10

  By the time the file of twelve stepped out from under the last, stunted pine trees to move up onto the steep grassy slopes above, the skies were clear. The rainclouds had pulled away to the north, leaving behind a black sky punctured with bright stars, the occasional flicker of lightning edging the high, mountainous horizon that bound it. With each flash, the high, narrow ridge they were bound for faintly shimmered, white from the first snows of the autumn.

  Out in the open, the group soldiered onward and upward, stretching out a little but still moving well. Occasionally Josef thought he heard the little girl on the mule behind him singing softly to herself. At least she wasn’t crying now. He didn’t have the heart to tell her to be quiet. At the next stop, he quickly pulled out her rolled-up blanket and showed her how to hold it over her head to keep warm. She listened to him silently, eyes large in her tiny face, before he lifted her back onto the mule. Five minutes later, there was a hesitant, whispered, “Thank you, man.”

  As the narrow path rose ever higher, it straightened to t
raverse above a huge grassy bowl that dented the flank of the steep mountainside below. Ahead they could see the faint trace of its line rising up diagonally before them, and below they could feel the increasing emptiness of the long slope that was growing beneath them. Patches of snow crystals began to appear, lightly resting on the thick tufts of grass that edged the narrow trail. A cold wind started to gust down onto them, chilling their faces and burning the tips of any exposed noses or ungloved fingers. Josef knew well that this was the moment when the travelers really began to suffer the strain of the trek even if there was still some way to go before the point where the path turned straight up for a final, brutal slog up onto the ridge itself. That was the steepest, hardest section, cut into the side of the hill like a huge, never-ending staircase. It always exhausted the travelers and made the tiny chapel set high on the ridge not only a convenient but a necessary resting point.

  The kapelle St. Christoph must have been up there, in one form or another, for more than three hundred years. A simple stone structure used more often by shepherds and hunters than pious pilgrims, the three of them found it a useful, if temporary, escape from the elements in order to prepare for the final, most difficult part of the journey. It was also a good place to leave the mules as the way beyond was soon blocked by a wall of granite over which they could not pass; the final barrier to Switzerland. There was no need for border fortifications up there; those jagged, towering rocks were natural frontier enough, impassable to anyone who didn’t know the tiny, hidden goat path that wove its way through them. On the other side, it was straight down as fast as they could go to meet the Swiss connection and exchange the Jews for the three big wicker back-baskets awaiting them. Each would be loaded to overflowing, weighing a measured forty kilos, packed and ready to be lifted up onto their shoulders. It was always a backbreaking pull to carry them back up to the chapel, but at least there they could transfer some of the tightly bound packages the baskets contained onto the mules and lighten their loads a little for the last leg back down to the valley below.

  Josef never knew how much money and merchandise they were carrying. He never even got to see it. It was always immediately handed over, placed, still bundled and sealed, into the open trunk of the black Mercedes with the Munich district registration that would be waiting for them down on the valley road. Only when they closed the trunk would cartons of foreign cigarettes and a thick envelope of reichmarks be handed from the driver-side window to Gunter in silent return. He often wondered how much more Gunter did know but whenever Josef asked him, the reply was always the same: “It’s safer for you not to know.”

  The path finally made its abrupt turn.

  They all started to grimly make their way straight up. Josef instantly fell into his habit of counting every step up to one hundred before starting at zero all over again. As his hundreds multiplied and the path got steeper still, Josef knew they were nearing the final crest before the little chapel. It would be good to have a rest and smoke a cigarette. Even his legs were aching.

  He looked at his watch. The faint outline of its luminous hands said 1:45 a.m. They were making reasonable time. Josef searched upward for the edge of the ridge and, to his surprise, saw it clearly outlined for an instant by a faint flash of light. “More lightning,” he whispered to himself. It was closer now they were higher and warned that they were going to be hit with more bad weather before the night was over.

  The mule that Josef was leading began to slow as if struggling with the more direct, steeper route. To urge it on, Josef gave a hard tug on its bridle, just as something moved in the dark above them.

  A large rock thumped out of the night, pounding in and out of the snowy grass as it bounced violently down the hillside to their right and disappeared into the darkness below.

  The group froze as Josef and Kurt fought to hold the two mules, both startled by the falling stone.

  Josef was fortunate. Having just taken a tight hold on his mule’s bridle, he was able to strong-arm its head down and calm it with soft sounds, all the time holding little Ilsa onto its back with his other hand so she wouldn’t fall. Kurt’s mule however was on a looser rein. It reared with fright and toppled sideways off the path, throwing the older child from its back and struggling desperately as it tried to get a footing on the steep, slippery slope.

  Kurt and two of the men in the party had to move quickly to stop the animal from sliding further down the slope. They got the beast under control but not before the frightened braying of the mule and the screams of the thrown child had shattered the silence.

  An uneasy stillness returned. Then, from above, there was more movement in the dark.

  Three mountain goats sprang out into the night air, one of them a huge ram with thick, ridged, perfectly curved horns that seemed to glow white in the blackness. They, like the rock, leapt directly down the steep hillside in giant bounds before veering off to the side, as if steered only by a flick of their stubby tails. They passed so close to Josef he could smell them through his face scarf, more bestial and pungent than the stink of the cheese in the back of the truck.

  The mules panicked again. This time Kurt and the two Jewish men restrained their animal. Now it was Josef who battled for control.

  Pulling little Ilsa off its back with an outstretched arm, he held her to his side as he wrestled with the harness to stop the beast from bolting. It pulled and stamped, but his grip was strong and slowly he steadied it.

  Once again a nervous silence returned to the hillside.

  The two children were shaken but unhurt.

  The group waited, unsure what to do next until Gunter’s voice broke the night.

  “It’s all right. It’s only steinbock, mountain goats. Keep going. You have got to keep going. We are nearly at the chapel. You can rest there.”

  The group started trudging upward again, hearts beating loudly in their ears from both exertion and fear.

  The mules were still nervous so Josef pulled Ilsa up onto his back instead. She held on to him tightly as he climbed the final section and tugged the mule after him. The small child was as light as a feather. For a moment, it reminded him of his own childhood when he would carry his youngest sister, Ava, on his back in those rare moments of playtime when all their chores were done. He thought he heard another whispered “Thank you,” but he couldn’t be sure. Even if she hadn’t said it, Josef had already decided that he was going to continue carrying her on his back until he delivered her to Switzerland. She was nothing compared to the return load.

  11

  The slope, now covered with a thick layer of snow, finally began to level off. After turning right along a narrow rising ridge, they eventually arrived at the doorless entrance of the chapel.

  The exhausted group quickly filed inside.

  Josef set Ilsa down. After giving him a quick look, she too darted in, leaving him to tie the mules onto a rusted metal loop set to the side of the doorway, while Kurt broke the ice in an ancient stone drinking trough of water with the hobnailed heel of his boot. With a pat on his friend’s shoulder, Josef then followed Kurt into the building.

  Inside, Gunter had relit his lamp, putting it up onto a bare altar made of granite slabs that filled the end of the narrow, single room. It produced a soft, flickering light, illuminating the simple crucifix pinned above and the nine Jews collapsed onto the earthen floor and leaning back against the rough stone walls.

  The three mountain troopers began to move amongst them, asking how they were, checking the bindings on their feet, telling them they were going to get half an hour’s rest, that they had earned it. They offered them bread, some water or wine to give them a little more strength for the final climb over the top.

  There were appreciative mumblings in response. Josef could see they were still frightened from the surprise of the goats, but even the older ones had a faint gleam in their eyes now. They knew they were getting near.

 
When Josef came to Ilsa, who was huddled to the side of the altar, he produced a red tin of Scho-Ka-Kola, his army chocolate ration. It was strong and bitter, heavily caffeinated, not really for a child but it would give her some energy for the final leg over the border.

  He unwrapped the round cake from its silver foil and broke it into pieces. The girl looked at the small sections with hunger but when Josef offered them to her, she struggled to pick up a piece, fingers fumbling. Josef took her hand and felt its thin woolen glove. It was soaking wet, very cold.

  Peeling it off, he held the tiny hand tightly in his to warm it and with the other lifted a piece of the chocolate to her mouth so that she could eat at the same time. The chocolate was hard and he heard her small teeth trying to crack into it.

  Before he could stop her, the girl suddenly reached up her other gloved hand and pulled down his scarf.

  In the half-light, she studied his face intently as her mouth contorted into an exaggerated grimace to crunch the bitter chocolate.

  Josef smiled back at her, but careful to keep his exposed face twisted away from Gunter’s sight.

  “It’s nasty, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “The chocolate, not my face!”

  Ilsa gave a tiny, gentle laugh.

  “But it’s good for you. Make you strong for the next part. You’re going to make it, little Ilsa Rosenberg.”

  When she heard Josef say her name, the girl seemed a little taken aback. Her small eyes met his and she asked, “What’s your name then?”

  “That’s a secret,” he replied.

  “Is it Adolph?”

  This time Josef couldn’t help but laugh at her question as he replied with a soft yet exaggerated, “No!”

  Ilsa smiled in return to show that despite her tender age she was playing with him.