Blood on Their Hands (Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics)

by Brendan DuBois

  Waldo jumped into the seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and shoved his foot against the pedal. Freddy had just time to pull himself into the passenger’s side before the truck screamed away from the curb.

  In no time at all, they were on the highway and passing the outskirts of town. Shortly after that, the banging on the walls and doors behind them stopped. Freddy was inclined to think this was a good thing; perhaps it had gotten too cold for them all back there. But around that same time some very large, dark birds began to batter the windows with their wings. In his side mirror, Freddy saw empty boxes bouncing along the pavement behind them, and some very large dogs running among these, keeping up with the truck, although it was moving far too fast for real dogs.

  “This is not good,” he told Waldo, as the birds began to thump on the windshield.

  “The sound you are hearing, Frederick,” Waldo said, as the truck began to bounce along the shoulder, “is not that of my feet dancing for joy.”

  They were not on the highway now, but Freddy couldn’t exactly tell where they were. Black wings covered the windshield completely, but he could hear the screech of metal against his door, and wood splintering somewhere in front of him.

  Waldo’s foot stayed right where it was on the pedal. “Keep holding on, Frederick!” he called. “Keep on holding!”

  Freddy tried to do this, but when the truck turned over, it was difficult to know just where to hold on. He felt the roof once, and his door once, and then the truck came down hard on all four tires. He wondered why none of them popped.

  “What...what now, Waldo?” gasped Freddy, shaking his hands and feet to make sure they were all still attached.

  Waldo was only slightly breathless. “I have faith that when you were getting into the truck you were also locking your door, Frederick?”

  Trying to keep his gaze away from the furry faces pressed against the glass, Freddy checked the door. He nodded.

  “Then we shall be waiting.” Waldo folded his arms. “And we will not be looking into their eyes.”

  “But look, Waldo!” Freddy replied, pointing to a growing crack in his window.

  For his part, Waldo pointed at the windshield. “I am looking only in this eastwardly direction, Frederick.”

  There were fewer wings in front, but all Freddy could see was an old windmill, silhouetted against the rays of the rising sun. It was very picturesque, but Freddy couldn’t understand why such a view was important. He turned to ask Waldo about it, and found that now the wings were gone completely from every window. He checked the mirror and saw that the dogs were gone as well.

  Before Freddy could decide he was safe, however, something else thumped on the window. It was the fist of an irritated man, whose vocabulary was unequal to the task of pointing out all of the splintered fence posts, dead chickens, and other debris spread across his property. All he could do was point and splutter. Freddy could barely make out one word, though whether that word was “Look” or something else he couldn’t be sure.

  Stepping outside, he found communication very difficult until he had the happy thought of resorting to a universal language. Each twenty-dollar bill made the man’s complexion a bit lighter, and his voice a bit less shrill. Enough green bills made the shouting die into grumpy humphs. And soon Freddy was able to roll up Waldo’s jacket and climb back into the truck.

  “I am guessing that a request for breakfast here would bring us very little to eat,” said Waldo.

  Freddy nodded. “I guess.”

  “Then we will be trying to travel elsewhere.”

  To the surprise of both Waldo and Freddy, the truck actually did move, slowly, gently, when the gas pedal was pushed down. Easing around as many chickens as possible, they made it to the farm road and thence to the highway. The truck traveled gingerly for about four miles before finally deciding it had had a long night, and coming to a gradual rest.

  “We’re out of gas,” Freddy noted.

  Waldo put the truck into Park. “As well to be leaving the vehicle now, Frederick. I would not like to be the one having to clean up.”

  Freddy thought about the boxes of blood and the rolling of the truck, and nodded. “We can be purchasing new transportation on reaching the next metropolitan area,” Waldo went on. “How much has this experience profited us, Frederick?”

  Freddy unrolled Waldo’s jacket, and brought the change out of his own jacket as well, for better accuracy. He counted the money the farmer had not needed. He counted it twice to be sure. Then he took a breath, and spoke right out. “It’s...eleven dollars and ninety-seven cents, Waldo.”

  Waldo sat back against the seat and looked full in Freddy’s face for a long moment. His lower lip slid a bit forward, and he raised his index finger.

  “It is a world, Frederick, which is having an unjustified appreciation of its own sense of humor.”

  Freddy nodded again. “Yeah.”

  Doppelganger

  Rhys Bowen

  It was fate that brought Hofmeister and me together during the summer of ’38. Fate, or in my case, luck. It was my final semester at the institute, and funds were running low. My grandmother had died, her life savings already rendered worthless by inflation, and with her my only means of financial support.

  Fortunately, I only needed this semester to complete my diploma in engineering. I had just enough money to make it to July—with appropriate cost-cutting measures. No more eating in the mensa or restaurants, for one thing. No more drinking in the little weinstube around the corner, and finally, the realization that I would have to share a room in the student residence hall.

  I had never shared a room before, and the idea was repugnant to me. Having been raised an only child by my grandmother, I was unused to the company of other males. Their behavior at the institute always seemed to me a little too juvenile and boisterous after the isolation of my youth. I saw no need to participate in backslapping and horseplay. In any case, I had grown to prefer my own company and a good book.

  Thus, I entered that room in the Studentenheim on the twenty ninth of April with much apprehension. What if he stank, or sang loudly in the bath, or smoked cigars or left wet towels and dirty garments strewn on the floor? What if he tried to sneak in women at all hours? So I was pleasantly surprised to find Hofmeister engaged in unpacking a modest suitcase and placing pairs of socks neatly in a top drawer.

  “I’ve taken the bed by the window,” he said, looking up as I came in. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer it?”

  “No, take it by all means. I sleep better away from any form of light.”

  He came toward me, hand outstretched. “You must be Schwarzkopf. I’m Hofmeister.”

  We shook hands and clicked heels with the little bow that was customary even among fellow students. He didn’t tell me his first name, and I didn’t suggest that he call me Jakob. I liked his air of aloofness, and knew instantly that I should feel comfortable sharing a room with him.

  It turned out that we had a lot in common. We were both final semester candidates for the diploma, specializing in the relatively new branch of aeronautical engineering. We were both somewhat quiet and withdrawn, orphans with no close family ties—he having been raised by an aunt who had died the previous year. And most remarkably, we looked alike too. The other residents started calling us the Twins. Since we were not very social and kept to ourselves, we gained the reputation of being snooty and standoffish. There were also hints that we were more than friends, for which there was no foundation, as neither Hofmeister nor I had inclinations in that direction.

  We were both tall, slightly built, blond, with angular features and the high cheekbones of the Slav. Perfect Aryan specimens, in fact. I often thanked my lucky stars that I had taken after my beautiful actress mother, rather than my dark and brooding playwright father. In fact, if she hadn’t been stupid enough to marry him and thus give me a Jewish last name, then all would have been well. Especially since he had shot himself within a year of my birth. She, always fragile
, had only outlived him by another two years and I had been raised as a good Lutheran, in the elegant town of Ludwigsburg by my maternal grandmother.

  So I had passed through life pretty much unscathed and unaffected, avoiding the embarrassing street attacks, beard singeings, and rock throwings that befell more obviously identifiable Jews. I had come to believe I was immune when the director of studies summoned me to his office one day in May.

  “You will take your final exams in July, Schwarzkopf. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Herr Direktor.”

  He sighed. “I am glad for you, for I have the unpleasant task of informing all my students of Jewish ancestry that they will not be welcomed back to the institute for the winter semester.”

  “Then I am indeed fortunate, Herr Direktor.”

  He looked at me for a long minute. “You are a gifted student, Schwarzkopf. You have maintained excellent grades throughout your time here. What will you do when you leave us?”

  “I expect to be hired by one of the big aircraft companies. That is, after all, my sphere of expertise.”

  Another awkward pause.

  “You haven’t considered emigrating to, say, South America or the United States, where your qualifications would stand you in good stead?”

  “I have no wish to emigrate, Herr Direktor. Any company in Germany would be foolish not to hire me when they see what I have to offer.” I brushed a wayward lock of blond hair from my face. “Besides, in my case, I do not see that race will be a factor.”

  He sighed again. “I hope you are right. I wish you every success, Schwarzkopf.”

  When I recounted this conversation to Hofmeister, I was surprised with the vehemence with which he took the director’s point of view. “I think you should seriously consider the Direktor’s suggestion, Schwarzkopf—get out while there is still time, my dear fellow.”

  “But where would I go? I speak no Spanish, and my English is also poor. Besides, I have no love for the American lifestyle. Too much noise and lack of moral fiber.”

  “It’s a pity,” Hofmeister said jokingly. “You’d have made an excellent Nazi.”

  “They invited me to join the Hitler Youth until they found out about my background, so fortunately I was spared countless singsongs and camping trips.” I smiled. “What about you? I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful Nazi yourself. Have they tried to recruit you?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Many times. But I’m not interested in politics. I just want to be left alone to conduct my research in peace. I’d like to be the first to develop a commercial jet engine.”

  “That would be a magnificent accomplishment,” I said. “Jet propulsion also fascinates me. Wouldn’t it be splendid if we were both hired by the same aircraft company and we could work on our research, side by side?”

  “I’ve already applied to Dornier and Messerschmidt,” Hofmeister said.

  “So have I.”

  “Heard anything yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Neither have I, but it’s early days. They may want to wait for the results of our final exams.” He got up and paced around the room. “I worry about your future, Schwarzkopf. You’re a good fellow, but being a good fellow won’t count when the Nazis finally crack down. That piece of paper with your racial background—that is all that counts, I’m afraid.”

  “Surely not.” I gave a half-embarrassed laugh. “My mother was a popular performer in her time, and my father was not just any Jew. His plays are performed throughout the world.”

  As Hofmeister said nothing, I continued, “Besides, I’m hoping to make myself indispensable to a major aircraft company. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to hand over one of their most gifted research engineers. Not with a war in Europe brewing.”

  “The Nazis have their spies everywhere, so I’m told,” Hofmeister said in a low voice. “Trust no one, Jakob.”

  I was touched by his concern for my future, but I still felt no real alarm. I would emerge with one of the highest diplomas in Germany. My research had been on aspects of aviation that the Luftwaffe would need to maintain air superiority in the coming war. And I looked like a true Aryan.

  The semester drew to a close. We sat our final exams, and when the results were published, Hofmeister and I were both at the head of our class—although I outscored him by a few points.

  “Now those aircraft companies will come beating down our doors,” I said. “I wonder who will hear first, you or I?”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “I’ve already heard from Messerschmidt,” he said and looked away. They’ve offered me a post at their research facility in Dresden.”

  “Dresden? That’s a long way from anywhere.” We were both from the Swabian area of South Germany and Dresden counted as a foreign country in our eyes.

  “But a good position, nonetheless. Much of their top-secret research is being done there.

  “Then I hope they will hurry up with an offer for me too. I think I’ll write to them with my results to give them a nudge—and maybe I should ask Herr Direktor to give me a letter of recommendation.”

  Hofmeister moved away and stared out of the window at the hills that ringed our city of Stuttgart. “You may not want to put him in an embarrassing position, Schwarzkopf. To recommend you would be to compromise himself.”

  “But I had the highest grade in the class.”

  “And you are, unfortunately, Jewish.”

  “Half-Jewish,” I said. “With parents who were both public figures. Surely these things count?”

  “I’ll tell you what counts in the eyes of the Nazis,” he said. “Aryan. Non-Aryan. That’s all. If Jesus were to come back today, he would not be welcome in Germany.”

  His message was finally beginning to register. “You are saying that no aircraft company will want to hire me because I am Jewish?”

  He nodded. “I fear that may be the case. I hope I’m wrong. They may want to, but dare not. You have a fine brain, Schwarzkopf, and on top of that, you are a good fellow. Without the name and the identity papers, one would never know that you were Jewish.”

  “Then you really believe that I should get out of Germany?”

  “I really do, and as soon as possible, if you take my advice, or it may be too late.”

  I took his words to heart and made inquiries at various embassies. I found that it wasn’t going to be easy. No country was welcoming Jews with open arms, especially penniless Jews like myself. And war was looming. The price of transatlantic tickets had doubled and tripled for those with a Jewish last name. Nevertheless, I sent off letters to aircraft companies in Britain and the United States and waited hopefully for their replies.

  The semester ended. Those students who had homes to go to packed up their belongings and went home. Only Hofmeister and I had nowhere to go.

  “I head for Dresden in two weeks,” he said. “I want to get myself settled into my room and learn a little about the town before I have to report to work.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I wish you were coming too. I’m sorry things couldn’t be different.”

  “I wish so too. Think of me as I spend my summer laboring in some farmer’s fields, trying to earn enough money to pay for my ticket to America.”

  Uncharacteristically, Hofmeister slapped me on the back. “I tell you what—I’ve just come up with a splendid idea. We have to be out of here by tomorrow and I have no plans until I go to Dresden. Why don’t we take a final trip together to the Alps? We can hike and stay in hostels. It shouldn’t cost much.”

  I smiled. “Why not? One last look at the good South German countryside before we face strange cities and new lives.”

  So we stored our trunks and took the train south to Munich, and then the little post bus into the mountains. Then we set off with rucksacks and no planned route. It was glorious weather—warm but not too hot for walking. We went from village to village, over mountain passes and down again, crossing green alpine meadows full of flowers and cows and goats, eating picnic lunches by tu
mbling mountain streams and sleeping the night in a peasant s hay barn when there was no hostel nearby. We both became fit and brown.

  On the last day, we attempted our most ambitious stage. The trail led right over the Laufbacher Eck and down to Oberstdorf. It was a strenuous climb, but well worth it. As we stood, panting, on the high ledge, it was like being on top of the world. Snow-covered peaks glistened around us.

  In the valley far below, a round blue lake reflected the sky. An eagle soared out below our feet.

  Hofmeister spread out his arms. “This is the life, eh, Schwarzkopf. To hell with all that nonsense down there.”

  The thought came to me in a blinding flash. I’m sure I had never considered it before, but maybe it had lain dormant for some time. I don’t know. Anyway, I hardly had time to consider before I acted.

  I stepped up behind him and gave him a mighty push. He teetered for a moment, then waved his arms wildly, trying to regain his balance before plunging downward without a cry, his body bouncing from rock to rock like a rag doll until, at last, coming to rest at the foot of the cliff.

  My heart was beating so fast that I found it hard to breathe. The world swam around me, so that I, too, was in danger of falling. I clung on to an outcropping of rock and stayed there with eyes closed until the vertigo passed. Then, with much difficulty, I climbed down to him. He was, of course, quite dead. Fighting back the nausea, I made myself go through his pockets and rucksack until I had replaced every piece of his identity with my own. Then I ran all the way down to the nearest hamlet to get help.

  Everyone was very kind. They assisted me back to the nearest inn and gave me schnapps and warm blankets for shock. They wanted to know about poor Schwarzkopf’s next of kin and were relieved to hear that there were none. I spent the night at the inn and then caught the train back to Stuttgart, where I retrieved Hofmeister’s trunk from storage.