Crossword

by Alan Bricklin

  CROSSWORD

  BY ALAN S. BRICKLIN

  COPYRIGHT 2005 ALAN S. BRICKLIN

  To my wife, Bonnie, who has always

  been at my side with love, support and

  encouragement; she is the star of my life story.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAKE TINNSJO, NORWAY. 20 FEBRUARY, 1944

  SS General Gerhard Waldman lit a cigarette, bending forward and cupping his hands against the wind, then looked up as he exhaled, staring out at the lake and the vessel moored there. The dock was lit by floodlights that cast a hard utilitarian light, illuminating numerous German soldiers, mostly in groups of two or four, carrying various sized crates onto the Norwegian ferry, Hydro. He surveyed the scene, moving his head in a panoramic sweep of the dock, and found himself surprised by the lack of noise. The bright lights washed out all color from the scene, and it was, he thought, as if he were watching a black and white newsreel clip without sound or the benefit of a narrator. Even the few civilians present stood silently in small groups awaiting permission to board the ferry, occasionally stamping their feet or blowing on their hands against the cold February chill.

  The general stood just over six feet tall, with chiseled features and jet black hair, his lean, athletic build hidden by his uniform and the long leather coat he wore. His features were almost a caricature of himself, and in the eerie light he looked, at times, more like an illustration than a living human being. By most standards he was handsome, and his easy smile as well as his competence at the social banter so difficult for most military men, not to mention, of course, his bachelor status, made him a sought after bounty by many of the elite single women of the Third Reich, and some of the married ones as well. For the careful observer, however, one who watched when he stood by himself, thinking himself alone, there was to be seen a certain cruelty to his lips, a disdain that at times bordered on a sneer, and a chilling iciness to his eyes, the whole creating a visage capable of inducing fear; in short, the look of a predator.

  He turned around and once again faced Heinrich Schroeder, also a General, but with the Wehrmacht. Schroeder was a career soldier, a military man first and a political man a distant second or, more correctly, seventh or eighth since between the military and politics there were a slew of endeavors that, to his way of thinking, kept pushing politics further down the line. Waldman, on the other hand, did not consider himself a military man and, although he was a high-ranking member of the Nazi party, did not for the least minute consider himself to be a man of any political bent either. He did, however, recognize that throughout history politics was often the key to power, and power was something that did interest him, so, with determination and a well thought out "business plan" he had begun courting the proper people and making the right connections as Adolph Hitler rose to a position of eminence.

  Waldman came from a well connected family, was educated at the proper schools, and social as well as political protocol came easily to him. At the right time he accepted a commission into the SS, quickly rising to the rank of general and, since the beginning of the war, had managed to avoid any conflict that was not overwhelmingly lopsided in his favor. He was an efficient and ruthless commander but did not particularly care for placing himself in harm's way as long as there was another method to accomplish his goals. His goals, of course, did not always coincide with those of the Third Reich, and it often took all of his skills and connections to guide himself safely through the many obstacles in his path, especially with a most inconvenient war involving so much of the world.

  Heinrich Schroeder, however, was a soldier, and the fact that he was a general did not change that. Not that there was anything wrong with his family or education, he just moved in different circles than Gerhard, and it was as true now as it had been during his youth. A shorter man than general Waldman and ten years his senior, no one would label him as handsome, but the experience that showed on his craggy face, and the understanding emanating from his eyes, made him a leader much admired by his men, soldiers whose loyalty he commanded because he had earned it. He had fought in many battles, distinguishing himself more for his personal bravery than for any insightful tactical planning, although he did have a solid grasp of military tactics and won his battles more because of perseverance and a skillful ability to judge, once engaged, what the likely outcome would be. Although not meteoric, his elevation through the ranks had been steady and he became a general while still young by military standards and still liked by those who served under him. He was comfortable with his lot in life and his career. The war, however, was beginning to trouble him.

  Gerhard exhaled smoke and smiled at Heinrich, looking down on him like some beneficent ruler. They stood amongst several trucks carrying various crates to be loaded on the ferry. Heinrich's staff car was parked alongside and his driver stood next to it. As Gerhard opened his mouth to speak, loud voices and then shouting pierced the dockside quiet. A crate had been dropped on the gangplank and the four soldiers carrying it were arguing about who was responsible. An exasperated sigh and Gerhard stormed off in the direction of the altercation, mumbling under his breath as he left.

  Heinrich quickly motioned to his driver who, with the help of a nearby soldier removed a gray crate from the trunk of the staff car and placed it in one of the nearby trucks. They grunted as they hefted a similar crate from the truck and the muscles of their necks tensed under the heavy weight as they placed it in the trunk of the staff car. Stenciled in neat black letters on the gray paint was "Norsk Wasserkraftwerk"— Norsk Hydroelectric, and hand painted in red was "No. 186: PU-1." General Schroeder observed the transfer intently and did not look away until the trunk was slammed shut. Only then did he turn back to the dockside activity, and signal the remaining trucks, one carrying the substituted crate, to proceed to the unloading area. Gerhard had just finished dealing with the "clumsy" soldiers on the gangplank and he began to walk back to where Heinrich waited, and as he strode across the dock, Heinrich watched his approach. Smoke from his cigarette and condensed moisture from the cool morning air emerged from his nose and mouth and made him look, to Heinrich, like a locomotive moving purposefully across the dock. He stopped directly in front of Schroeder, shook his head and, in a matter of fact way that belied the anger and abuse he had just heaped upon the hapless soldiers, said, "They are no better than pack animals. A mule is probably more intelligent."

  "They are willing to die for the Fatherland. They deserve better than that, General Waldman."

  "It does not take intelligence to die, my dear Heinrich, only obedience; and in that, they excel."

  The soldier in Heinrich felt compelled to defend the troops but he knew it would be a useless and futile gesture
where Gerhard Waldman was concerned and, moreover, he was anxious to have the loading completed so he could leave. He felt guilty about what he had done, but now that his plan was actually under way, he was eager to get on with it. "I will see to the supervision myself," Heinrich said and walked off toward the Hydro, the red lights of the last truck preceding him to the waiting ferry. Before he reached it, the truck had come to a halt and the tailgate was lowered, exposing several dozen similar appearing gray crates. Soldiers coming down the gangplank were moving at a slow pace toward the newly arrived truck. However, on seeing General Schroeder approaching they picked up the pace and the corporal standing next to the truck began barking orders. It was not necessary for Schroeder to do more than stand there, hands akimbo, looking at the men, for them to speed up in an apparent burst of enthusiasm for their work.

  It was an unsettling place although the soldiers did not know why. For many, the cold, damp, morning air and the swirling mists from the lake surrounding and touching them felt as if they were being caressed by the hands of death, feeling to see if they were ready for that final journey; and when the patchy fog momentarily hid one of them from view an audible gasp was heard, fear that perhaps one of them had been taken. Heinrich felt it too, that fear and restless nervousness, not unlike the emotions one felt before a battle, knowing that you may be killed but anxious to get started anyway. Upon reflection, it made no sense. "If I knew that I might be killed in an imminent battle," he thought, "common sense dictates that I should desire to put it off as long as possible. Yet, the opposite occurs." He pondered that a moment while the last of the crates were removed from the truck and carried aboard the Hydro, but once the loading was completed, his thoughts returned to more practical matters.

  He quickly ordered the men to return to their vehicles and dispatched his lieutenant to verify that the cargo had been properly stowed. Waldman's staff car pulled alongside and, leaning out the window, he said, "You are most efficient, General Schroeder."

  "Thank you, General Waldman. If your guards are aboard I will have the captain allow the civilians to board. Perhaps he can be underway in less than a half hour."

  "See to it," Waldman ordered his aide, who promptly emerged from the car and hurried up the gangplank. "I will leave the final arrangements in your capable hands," he said to Heinrich. "I must return to my headquarters." He nodded at his fellow General and motioned for his driver to move on.

  Schroeder stared as the car pulled away and accelerated across the dock, cutting a path through the fog and setting it in motion. He stood there as the gray colored swirls rushed in to once more occupy the swath cut by the car, their devilish spin eventually slowing until at last the gently undulating blanket of mist had settled back into place. He was still standing there, lost in thought, when his lieutenant, who had walked up behind him and had been waiting patiently, decided that a muffled clearing of the throat would not be out of line. The General turned around.

  "The arrangements are complete, General."

  "Have the passengers board and tell the captain to get under way as soon as possible. I will be in my car. We do not leave until the ferry pulls away from the dock."

  "Yes, General." Schroeder walked back to his car, stood a moment and stared at the trunk, then slid into the back seat while his driver stood at attention and held open the door. Once in, he motioned for the door to be closed and, feeling more emotionally drained than he had ever expected, settled into the seat in a most unmilitary slouch and looked out beyond the Hydro onto the largely obscured lake.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stooped over and moving swiftly, Sten and Olaf emerged from the woods that bordered the lake and crossed the ten meters or so to the waters edge. Several large boulders at the shoreline offered a natural blind where they were hidden from view and protected from the cold wind that blew across the lake. Sten looked at his watch then removed a pair of binoculars from the large pocket at the waist of his long parka and, holding them to his eyes, slowly scanned the waters of lake Tinnsjo. "Nothing. They're late."

  "There must be guards on board; and I bet the Germans checked everybody's papers very carefully. It probably just took them longer than usual to get under way," Olaf said in a voice that almost seemed to be apologizing for the crew of the ferry or perhaps even for the Germans who had failed to live up to their reputation for punctuality. Olaf was young, barely eighteen, and had that perpetual questioning look seen so often in the youth of any country. His smooth face and tasseled blond hair protruding from the watch cap he wore under his hood made him look even younger, and not even the rifle he carried slung over his shoulder, nor the bayonet-like knife he wore at his side could dispel the boyish look he projected. He was tall and slightly built but with hands that while delicate in appearance seemed oversized for the arms to which they were attached. The fingers of his right hand sequentially closed around the hilt of his knife then neatly reversed order and let loose their grip only to repeat the process once again. Although he remained in position behind the rocks, not moving, he gave the appearance of someone who was anxiously pacing and had momentarily paused, perhaps to answer a question or finish a thought. It was, no doubt, the energy of youth confined, that sought what escape it could, for throughout history waiting was something that the inexperienced of any country found almost unbearable.

  Sten turned, perhaps to respond to Olaf's supposition, but merely looked him up and down as if reassuring himself that, yes, this is the Olaf I left with and not some last minute substitution. He spit and returned his gaze to the lake. Sten was 42 but looked older. At first he thought it was the war that had aged him, for he himself had noticed some time ago that his appearance had changed, that whatever vestiges of youth he may have retained at 40 had disappeared by the time he turned 41. It was more than simply the battles fought and the risks taken; he knew that now. Fighting may kill you but it was all the other things that chipped away at your soul and sucked out your energy so that no matter how strong your muscles were, no matter how good your physical condition, you always felt drained and weak.

  His life had been one of protracted melancholy, of missed opportunities, of paths not chosen, of fear and continual self-doubt. Sten had never felt secure, not in himself and not in the world around him. The influx of the conquering Germans was the final barricade in his life, and although barely entering middle age, he felt that he had reached his penultimate years. The Germans were not an obstruction to be overcome or bypassed. For Sten, they and the war they brought were the bulwark at the end of a rail line; beyond, the tracks ended and the train could go no farther. Any chance he thought he might have had of turning his life around, of doing something useful of which he could be proud, were forever dashed. And so, at 42, he looked ahead only to his approaching demise.

  He had seen his brother defy a Nazi order to return to work after the employees at the plant had refused to start their machinery, only to be smashed on the head by a rifle butt. Sten had been helpless to do anything, machine guns pointed at him, his wife and young children. And when his brother was partly paralyzed from the blow and unable to work he had had to endure the humiliation of the countless forms and lines just to get food rations for him. Sten could not travel freely around the city of his birth; everywhere there were the Nazi soldiers and their seemingly incessant orders and demands to see one's "papers". He was part of a subjugated population and could not openly fight the evil that had enslaved them. The abuses committed by the Nazis and his inability to directly confront them in any way other than a suicide gesture had taken a physical toll on him. His fear and insecurity ate away at him.

  Being a resistance fighter was not something that he chose as a daring endowment to Norway and to freedom in general, although a part of him wanted to think that was the case. When he really thought about it critically, which was quite infrequently, Sten had to admit that it was more like herding sheep to the slaughter; at every cusp all the gates were shut except the one leading to the abattoir and ultimate em
ancipation. In June of 1940 the Norwegian army had been demobilized in the face of what was an overwhelming German force. Many of the soldiers returned home to their wives, children, farms or whatever work they had at local factories and businesses; but many also left to continue fighting with the allies, some leaving on British warships and others crossing into neutral Sweden. Sten, overcome by indecision, sat at home and obsessed on his duty and obligations to his family and to his country. What could he do at home but try to take care of his wife and child, and pretend that foreign invaders didn't control his life? Did that accomplish anything that would advance the flag toward the goal of defeating and ousting the enemy? On the other hand, if he left to fight, it would be abandoning his loved ones left behind to tyrants. Able-bodied men could still make it out of the country, but it was near impossible for families, especially with small children, to make the trek. While the Nazis insinuated themselves into the affairs of everyday life, Sten went about his business, paralyzed with incertitude and slowly sinking into a state of depression and anger.

  "Sten," Olaf whispered. Sten's unfocused eyes looked out at the rippled surface of the lake. Louder. "Sten." Rousing from his reverie he turned to face the youth. "Sten, what should we do?"

  "Wait." That was probably the most difficult thing for an eighteen year old and his discomfiture was phatically signaled in Olaf's reply.

  "But Sten..." Sten did not have the psychological resources at this time to deal with the youth or even to provide any solace for him, so he simply ignored him and swung back to the lake, the binoculars to his eyes, once again lost in his musing.

  Life under the Germans was not so much of a vice grip for him, as it was a suffocating encumbrance, an impediment to living the way he wanted. It was, he thought, as if all his actions took place on a giant cobweb of infinite dimensions, each movement held back by sticky strands, never knowing if he would reach his destination and always, in the back of his mind, the spider. Would today be the day it came? Would he feel it's paralyzing sting, and then, immobilized, watch as the light faded while the beast methodically spun its cocoon of death until all was shut out except the cries from his own terrified mind and the receding sound of marching jackboots.