Crossword

by Alan Bricklin

  Having completed his analysis, he paused to listen and survey his immediate surroundings for intruders, then once more brought his energy inward and repeated the examination of the situation. The results were the same. Satisfied, he walked off in the direction of the road, picking his way carefully, the forest in near darkness, until he reached the edge of the woods where he could look out on the highway, illuminated by a quarter moon in a clear sky. He stood there for twenty minutes or so, getting a feel for the traffic that it carried, before he ventured out and headed northeast towards Munich, walking along the edge of the macadam where the footing was more secure than the grassy, litter strewn parkway that bordered the roadway and directly abutted it with no shoulder on which he might have continued his journey. When he heard an approaching vehicle he left the hard surface and walked in the thick grass and weeds, partly to be less conspicuous and partly to prevent some inattentive driver from bowling him over. Once, as he passed a cluster of houses and out buildings, he was overtaken by two young men, seemingly in a hurry to get somewhere. He kept walking, head slightly down, hoping they would take him for some itinerant worker making his way from one village to the next. They glanced back once and he nodded briefly at them, not wanting to appear furtive. When, after another few minutes, they looked his way again, he expected there might be trouble, but they suddenly turned off the road and headed to a small farm house about a hundred meters up a side path. Looking briefly to the side as he passed, Larry could see a light burning in the window and thought he heard a dog barking. Picking up his pace he tried to put as much distance as he could between himself and this lone outpost just in case the two might relay their encounter to someone in the house who thought it odd that a stranger should be out walking at night, and who felt that it deserved further investigation. But no hue and cry arose, no pursuing dogs hounded him. This was a nation that knew it was defeated even if some of its leaders did not. Most of the populace, especially out here in the country, wanted only to protect and keep what little they had left. They had strutted their brief march of conquest and now, with the Russians approaching from the east and the Americans pushing in from the west, they learned the bitter lesson of just how fleeting was victory.

  An hour or so after sunrise, when traffic began to increase, Larry made his way purposefully but, he hoped, unobtrusively to the edge of the woods, someone going to relieve himself or perhaps look for mushrooms. Slipping into the cool shadows of the forest he found a sheltered area away from any path, quickly gathered some twigs and vegetation for cover and warmth, eased his battered, aching body down on the soft forest mat and promptly fell asleep.

  He awoke in the mid afternoon and after fifteen minutes of stretching and massaging the muscle groups that complained the loudest, he walked further into the woods, exploring the area in a methodical pattern looking for some kind of sustenance. The water in any of the small streams in the area was not to be trusted, he knew. Having flowed through miles of relatively flat land, far from its pristine alpine origin, the water was most likely unfit to drink. Besides, it was not unusual to find wells or pumps in the center of some of the small towns and villages along his path and as long as he paused only briefly for a quick drink no one was likely to pay much attention. Food, however, was a problem. He was burning a lot of calories and with no food and little money there were few options left to him. The forest held little of interest; no growths of wild vegetables, no plants with edible roots and what game there might be was beyond his capacity to capture. After an hour the only offering he had for his stomach were a few winter berries and a handful of mushrooms too covered with soil and debris to eat without rinsing them first. The berries he ate; the mushrooms went in the rucksack to await a source of water.

  Brushing himself off as best he could, Larry emerged from the sheltering trees and resumed his trek, the feeble sun at his back as he lifted one foot then the other, trying not to think beyond the next five meters. Lift them up and put them down.

  The terrain here in the south of Germany showed much less of the outward signs of the devastation of war, being less industrialized than many other parts of the country, and less subject to the savagery of allied bombing. Elsewhere it was an almost constant rain of destruction now that the allies had almost unfettered supremacy of the skies over Germany. But even here there was no escaping the catastrophe of the global conflict, and even if only a rare five hundred pound bomb fell from the sky, splintering houses and shredding flesh, the populace was no less injured, no less mutilated by the decimation of spirit that spread from within, eating away at the heart of a person until only the exterior shell remained. The star of the Third Reich had reached its apogee and was now coming full circle. Where before the German population had watched the hollow eyed faces of the subjugated parade in front of the cameras, heads lowered in shame, bodies listless like Michelangelo's Adam awaiting the spark of life from the hand of God, they now looked in the mirror each morning and saw the reflection of that same humiliation and despair.

  The next day, Larry decided it was probably safer to travel during the day, and he trudged on, a slow purposeful gait, head slightly bent, occasionally looking up to glance ahead and to the left and right. He had to be ever vigilant without attracting undue attention to himself. By mid afternoon hunger intruded incessantly on his thoughts and he began to consider ways that he might safely steal food. In front of a once prosperous looking farm a young boy had a meager array of vegetables and a few eggs laid out on a blanket. "How much?" asked Larry pointing from one item to the next. The cheapest were the potatoes and he spent the few Marks that he had on three of them, putting them into the pack along with the few mushrooms he had gathered. He continued down the road, heading east and north toward Munich, a city that was considered relatively safe, suffering less than many other cities from allied bombing, and probably chosen by Schroeder for that very reason. At the first sign of twilight Larry moved off the road and edged into the trees that still bordered portions of his route, anxious not to lose what light remained of the day while he looked for food. After thirty minutes of searching he was able to find a source of running water, apparently the remains of an unused or poorly maintained irrigation ditch fed from some distant stream. There was no farm or cultivated land nearby and he supposed it was merely a conduit, unlikely to warrant any activity or attention unless the water ceased to flow. He found a rather large leaf and rinsed it before placing it on the ground next to him. Next he removed one potato and the handful of mushrooms, holding them each in turn under the running water and briskly rubbing them with his hands to remove the dirt and clean them as best he could. It would be a cold supper for him tonight; he could not risk starting a fire, a beacon that might attract unwelcome guests. Nonetheless, the first bite of cold, raw potato received rave reviews, as did the mushrooms he ate along with it. Constantly listening and looking for intruders he finished the mushrooms and one of the spuds, forcing himself not to wolf it all down. After inverting his pack and shaking it out as best he could, he replaced the remaining potatoes and quickly walked off to find a more secluded spot to get some sleep.

  At first light, Larry resumed his pilgrimage, joining the others who trod the highway. He had tried to wash his hands and face before he ate last night but he was sure he still looked rather grubby. The almost equally dirty appearance of most of the other travelers gave him some solace and confidence that he did not stand out, a feeling that was reinforced by the total lack of interest from the occasional German patrols that passed him, whether on foot or in assorted military vehicles. However, he held no misguided thoughts about what his fate would be if he were discovered. Neither the soldier, the farmer or the peasant would welcome him as the advance guard of a conquering army; rather, it was more likely that he would be seen as the cause of all of the deprivation and defeats they had suffered. It would be only a question of how and when he died.

  These morbid thoughts segued naturally into ruminations about his own disease and impendi
ng death. There are so many ways to die. I wonder if there are as many ways to live. He covered the next several miles thinking about death. Death by cancer. Death by radiation poisoning. Impaled on the pitchfork of a vengeance seeking farmer. The interrogation and slow death of the Gestapo. Variations of each swam through his head, their ripples spawning innumerable permutations until suddenly, his mind filled with the image of a Gestapo guard dressed in the overalls of a country farmer who was about to use a scythe to amputate his fingers. He hauled up short and stopped. The danger of this kind of thinking, a whirlpool that sucked you down into despair and led your mind astray into a world of waking dreams, had been impressed on him during his training and a sudden clarion warning had sounded, causing the abrupt halt. He stood at the edge of a small village, panting, sweat appearing on his forehead. Several passersby turned his way, inquiring looks on their faces. Recovering quickly, he smiled sheepishly, pointed to his head and shrugged his shoulders. Don't mind me. Just daydreaming. I'm OK. Larry played the simpleton, an itinerant worker walking to the big city to look for work. Still grinning and shaking his head he walked off quickly, fighting the urge to look back, lest it should make any of the townspeople suspicious enough to alert the authorities. He kept his head down and picked up the pace, not slowing down until the village was several miles behind. Only when he was relatively alone on the road with only occasional people passing by did he slow his gait to a speed that was more sustainable. There was little sun this day, but it was not the bleakness of the sky that caused the cheerlessness in those he saw along the way, it was the despondency of people who, for the second time in not much more than twenty five years, knew that they would have to swallow the bitter liquor of defeat.

  The young American also knew what lay ahead for him and it did nothing to buoy his spirits, for the swill that awaited him was a draft from the river Styx, and so he walked on, his shadow preceding him, growing in length as the sun behind him declined in the sky.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CARATE BRIANZA, 25 KILOMETERS NORTH OF MILAN, ITALY.

  General Heinrich Schroeder was worried and that was unusual for him. Sitting erect in the back seat of his staff car, lost in thought and oblivious to the beauty of the northern Italian countryside, his hands repeatedly clenching and unclenching as he ruminated on the various dangers and unknown possibilities on which rested the fate of the young woman whose safety had now become his prime responsibility. As a commanding officer it was not unusual that he had to await the outcome of some offensive, but in all of those situations he had been intimately involved in planning and was able to maintain contact with those in the field. Unexpected events were transmitted to his staff and he could make adjustments based on information from various sources; it was a real-time chess game and he felt secure in his knowledge of the moves. An agent had been sent into hostile territory, an American agent at that, and Schroeder had had only marginal input into the operational plans. He held a deep seated and genuine conviction that the plutonium should not fall into the hands of those remaining in power in the Third Reich, a shrinking group of ideologues led by a demented little man full of venom and hate. All of the military men now realized that the war was over and there would be no benefit to the nation or its people in any desperate attempts to go down to certain defeat taking as many lives with them as was possible. Sadly, although many in the military had been in favor of the war, operations had now shifted to the politicos, and the desperation of impending defeat had winnowed those of sound judgment, leaving only the chaff.

  As strong as his belief in the morality of what he had set in motion, Heinrich was honest enough to admit to himself that the welfare of Maria ranked a closely contested second in the very short list of what he wanted to accomplish before he died. "Perhaps," he thought, "she is the only thing of importance now. To hell with all the others and to hell with this world gone mad. What do I care for them? I want only to see her safely removed from the maelstrom that is brewing as this cursed war collapses under it's own weight." He was lost in his own reverie and didn't notice that the car had slowed almost to a stop.

  "General." No answer. "General!" Schroeder jerked to alertness. "What should I do?" His aide turned in his seat to face him. Ignoring him, Heinrich quickly refocused and assessed the situation. Ahead, a German troop truck was parked across the road blocking passage, and ten meters in front of it stood four soldiers, two on each side of the road, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders but, he noticed, held at the ready. A lieutenant, hands held behind him, slowly, almost absent mindedly rocked back and forth on his heels next to the soldiers on the driver's side. Off to the side, beyond the truck on the grassy area next to the road he could see the front end of a staff car, the small Nazi flag hanging limply from the one fender that was visible.

  "Pull up alongside him. I'll talk. The Americans may have advanced farther than we thought possible in such a short time." His driver pulled the car between the soldiers and Heinrich lowered his window as the lieutenant approached.

  The young officer saluted and bent forward ever so slightly as he spoke. "General Schroeder?"

  "Yes. That's me. What is going on lieutenant?"

  "I am afraid you are under arrest. Please come with me."

  "That's preposterous! On whose orders?" The two soldiers had moved up to the car, flanking the lieutenant, who opened the door of Schroeder's staff car as he continued. "The command comes from the Führer himself."

  Who betrayed me? And why now? Momentarily detached from the world, he tried to sort out the possibilities, staring unfocused as the uniformed man in front of him took several steps backward, the soldiers closing ranks and raising the muzzles of their Mauser rifles. He looked up in time to see the muzzle flashes, the silent scream "Maria" echoing in his mind as he was thrown back into the car by a dozen rounds of high velocity lead impacting his body and tearing a destructive swath through flesh and bone. The lieutenant walked to the other side of the car and opened the rear door. The body of General Heinrich Schroeder lay sprawled in the back, partially on the seat with his right arm and leg hanging down onto the floor boards, blood already oozing from multiple wounds. His head lay close to the door, his cap on the floor nearby. The officer removed his side arm from its holster, reached in and fired a single shot to the head, a final indignity to a man who had never disgraced his uniform or his country.

  The driver, who by now had soiled his pants and was visibly shaking, was ordered out of the car. "You have now been reassigned. These men will accompany you to your new unit." Still tremulous, but with the thought that life would continue for him, he exited the car and began walking towards the truck with the infantry men on either side and the lieutenant a few steps behind. Unlike Schroeder, the driver neither saw a muzzle flash, nor heard any retort since the bullet was traveling faster than sound when it ripped through his head and threw him face down in the dusty road on the outskirts of a charming northern Italian town.

  The soldiers returned to the truck, pausing momentarily to salute a somber figure who had emerged from the staff car and strode towards the spot where the driver's body lay in the dirt, the blood forming a circular pool around his head. The lone figure surveyed the scene —— the lieutenant standing almost motionless over the body, the car immediately behind him, its rear door open and one polished boot protruding from a bullet ridden vehicle. All motionless in the afternoon on a country road. He paused in front of the youthful officer who still stared at the corpse at his feet, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, lost in thoughts unknown. After a few seconds he became aware of the person next to him and snapped to attention. "General Gerhard, what would you like us to do now? Shall we remove the bodies and dispose of the car?"

  "There is paint in the trunk of my car. Have your men paint partisan slogans on Schroeder's car, then return to your emplacement."

  "Yes, General."

  "I have made my delicate inquiries."

  "Beg your pardon, sir?"

 
"Nothing. Get it done quickly." He walked hurriedly back to his staff car, his mind already on the next move.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Despite his best efforts, Larry's mind continued to wander more and more as he continued his trek, his distracted appearance and often unfocused eyes acting as a useful barrier, keeping away the occasional friendly fellow travelers as well as the curious. Through no conscious effort he maintained a detached, eccentric look, sufficient to keep others at bay, but not peculiar enough to attract undue attention. In this near fugue state, a ragged and dirty wanderer along the roads of southern Germany, he made his way towards Munich. Although he was often lost to the world, his strength of purpose and determination kept bringing him back and he remained steadfast to his plan, the tradecraft learned in training coming to the fore, keeping him safe and helping him find shelter at night. Food and water were the greatest problems, the latter for the most part a temporary problem, a question of doing without for a time, enduring thirst until a source could be found or a few hurried pulls on an unattended well pump provided relief; but the former was an emptiness that gnawed at him, more immediate even than the disease he knew was consuming him.

  As he plodded along, a rhythm to his gait that he fine-tuned to provide the optimal use of his dwindling strength, he would sometimes refocus his mind, the drifting thoughts that mirrored his outward bemused appearance coalescing and assuming purpose. At these times he sometimes thought about the mission —— where he needed to go, his revised route, the layout of Munich that he had memorized from weeks of studying maps, the operational plans once he arrived at Maria's apartment, and their exit route. In addition he ran through contingencies for every likelihood he could think of, but all told he spent little time on any of this; his training had been intense and the operation was as close as possible to being hardwired into his brain so it took very little to recall all aspects. Even the changes made necessary by the loss of the bike and the dispatch of one of Hitler's own had little effect on what was now an innate knowledge of what had to be done and how.