Crossword

by Alan Bricklin

  Larry's thoughts waxed philosophical. The specter of death that loomed before him dispelled most of the inconsequential concerns on which we spend so much of our mental energy. Broader issues —— life, death, the insensate hurling of one country's youth against those of another, leading to pitiless death and carnage —— all of these were his highway companions as were the more personal thoughts, thoughts of his own death, how he would face it, the manner of his final exit. It was these latter considerations that insinuated themselves into his consciousness and hung about like nagging consorts, uninvited but relentless in their cries for attention. And so he walked on, his mind occupied with its many visitors and scarcely aware of the journey itself, the distance to Munich shrinking until late one day, just as he was surveying the landscape for a place to bed down, he came upon a sign indicating Germering five kilometers away, and he knew that he was approaching the outskirts of Munich.

  A relay tripped in his head and Larry Sabatini, OSS field agent, took over, all other thoughts and voices that had made incursions into his mind summarily banished to deeper, silent places, to lay dormant and mute for the time being. As a wanderer of country highways it was not too difficult to blend in with the farmers, field hands and other displaced souls who had joined him each day during his journey, and the outward appearance of a simpleton served to deflect questions about why someone of his age was not in the military. It would be more difficult in a major city. He needed to get cleaned up, make himself look more presentable and get a few calories in him. The trick was to enter the city very early when people were hurrying to their jobs or to make the rounds of stores to see what food might be obtained from the dwindling supplies that reached the population, a time when everyone was focused on themselves and had little time to ruminate about strangers. Alternatively, an early evening arrival, when most citizens just wanted to hurry home and shut out the reality that confronted them on the streets and in the empty stores, would also provide him with a degree of cover. In either case, a strong stride and a purposeful gait with no hesitation would be necessary. Morning or evening, the decision would have to wait until he completed his preparations.

  He was approaching a small hamlet just outside of Germering and he slowed his pace so he could better scope out the surroundings for anything that might be useful. A small square was visible up ahead, in the center of which stood a large cement roundabout bordered by a walkway that circumscribed a rather ornate fountain. It reminded him of a piazza he once saw in a small Umbrian town, but here it simply looked out of place, cold and without charm. There were numerous stone figures in the fountain, the usual statue of Neptune, a few mermaids and other effigies that he presumed to be German heroes or perhaps old Teutonic gods. The statuary was chipped in numerous places and covered with soot colored grime. The fountain itself was also in disrepair, several inches of greenish water covering the bottom and the pipes of broken spouts protruding from the brooding figures who looked out on a populace as disfigured morally as the statues were physically. Water trickled feebly from several of the pipes but most were dry.

  People on foot and on bicycles detoured around the fountain, not even looking at it, now merely just another obstacle. As he came to the square an old woman on the other side began to turn her bicycle, somewhat unsteadily, to circumvent this impediment, the weight of several boots and a small load of groceries affixed to the rear of her bike adding to her difficulty in navigating the turn. Larry altered his direction and adjusted his speed so that he was on a collision course, then turned his head to look at several children, arms extended like tightrope walkers, walking along the top of the low wall that bordered the fountain. Out of his peripheral vision he noticed the woman trying to change course but the irregular road surface and her poor balance was making this difficult. Ignoring her cries to watch out, he became absorbed in the antics of the youngsters until her maneuvering grew frantic and then, just as she was in peril of falling over he suddenly noticed her and grasped hold of her bike, front and rear, firmly steadying it, keeping it upright while apologizing profusely for his absentmindedness. In the excitement of the moment she did not notice anything strange in his dialect, nor did she notice him deftly lift a sausage from the bag strapped to the back of her conveyance and slip it into his pocket. While the event was quite a stir for the woman, most of the other passersby simply ignored the minor commotion or gave it only a quick glance as they hurried to their destinations. The old lady continued to grumble and Larry continued to apologize, offering to help get her on the way again. Without waiting for an answer he began walking the bike forward, picking up speed and finally propelling the startled driver down the road, her feet scrambling to gain a hold on the pedals as she muttered various invectives, most unknown to Larry but which, he was sure, would make a maiden blush.

  He watched her pedal on down the road, making sure she didn't stop to inspect any of her cargo, then turned back toward the fountain and walked to its edge, peering over the balustrade into the brackish water. Looking in, he quickly turned his head to make sure no one was standing behind him because the reflection that greeted him was surely that of someone else. A dirty, unshaven face with unkempt hair stared back at him, lips cracked from lack of water and the eyes recessed in dark rimmed sockets. His first instinct was to reach into the water, however dirty it appeared, to wash his face, and he actually started to reach down before regaining his composure and hurrying off in the direction of Germering and Munich to find a place to rest and try to clean up. It was starting to get dark and traffic on the road was thinning out, houses becoming scarcer. This would change as he got closer to the city, and once past Germering, he expected it to be congested and built up all the way into Munich. He had only a small window of opportunity, perhaps only the next few kilometers, to find his final refuge before entering a large urban area where dangers abounded and the risk of detection increased exponentially.

  The aftermath of allied bombing was in evidence along this stretch; craters pockmarked the macadam and burned out or mangled army vehicles lined the side of the road, everything of any possible use having been removed, probably by looters, possibly by members of the military. Stray bombs had also damaged some of the houses and buildings alongside the highway, a few beyond repair and now apparently unoccupied. Larry slowed his pace, carefully eyeing a house and adjacent barn about one hundred meters ahead on the left. The barn had burned and little remained except a concrete foundation and a few upright timbers surrounding a large open area visible to all who walked by. No chance of shelter there. The house, however, had possibilities, about half of it seemingly intact although canted a bit to one side. One whole side had been blown away, most likely by the same bomb that destroyed the barn, and a pile of rubble formed a low berm partially blocking the opening into several rooms now exposed to the outside world. It looked promising, he thought. There must be areas inside that were hidden from view of anyone passing by. At thirty meters he stopped and bent down on one knee to tie a shoelace that was already firmly secure, then he continued his surveillance while he stood, arched his back, stretched his shoulders and adjusted the meager contents of his pack. A group of older men had just passed him, deeply engrossed in a conversation, and their backs were now to him. Up ahead, barely in view, a few people approached but were unlikely to represent a threat, so he quickly walked up the path to the house and around the side, scampering up and over the debris until he stood in what was left of a room of indeterminate use. Nothing remained to give any clue as to what its purpose was other then to shelter some family now departed and perhaps dead. He stared at the bare walls for a moment before gingerly stepping across a refuse littered floor toward the opening into one of the interior rooms, then suddenly froze in his tracks.

  Turning his head slightly and angling it up a bit he quietly inhaled. He smelled smoke and it was coming from inside the house. His first inclination was to immediately leave, but a haven where he could prepare for the next phase of the operation was a nec
essity and his options were fading as quickly as the pale April sun. Placing one foot in front of the other, careful not to step on anything that was likely to cause noise, he slowly inched closer to the doorway. Although smoke usually meant people, this was not invariably so, but unfortunately in this case it was true. The doorway led to a small room lined with shelves, obviously a pantry. Peering cautiously through the opening and into the room beyond, he saw a grizzled looking woman attending a fire, and next to her in makeshift sleeping bags, two forms softly snoring. Silently he backed away, retracing his steps and exiting across the barricade of rubble, leaving the chair leg that he had picked up on top of the pile. The odds were not in his favor.

  Back on the road, the group that he had spied before had already passed and it was too dark to see very far ahead. There was no choice but to continue on, hoping for some other shelter, while assessing the possibilities if no sanctuary could be found. In the distance he could see the lights of Germering, apparently defying allied air power, although he knew from his briefings that this area was not a priority target for the heavy bombers. Although the road was essentially deserted, it was now bordered by a vast expanse of meadows with no forest to provide cover. Up ahead he could see a lone house, the glow of a kerosene lamp in the window. It appeared to be the gatehouse of what was once a large estate, now a solitary sentinel over a barren land. As he came up to the small stone structure the light was extinguished and the door opened, discharging a stooped figure who pulled the door shut after him, fishing in his pockets for a key, followed by a rather substantial sound echoing in the still night when he turned the bolt. Larry ducked behind a few scraggly bushes and watched the man hurry off toward the city, stout staff in hand, probably heeding the call of a siren pub.

  This place is empty and will probably remain so for at least an hour or possibly two. Maybe even more. Best not to tempt fate. An hour will be my deadline. When the man had faded into the distance, Larry made a beeline for the back of the house. Shit. A large solid door that provided entry from the back yard had been boarded shut and the two windows on either side were protected by bars. Apparently, protection was high on the list of priorities in this region. Closer inspection of the windows and door did nothing to brighten his spirits; this house would remain inviolate tonight. Several firm tugs on the bars produced rust stains on his hands but nothing in the way of movement.

  "You'll never get in there."

  Larry stiffened. He had placed his rucksack on the ground so his hands were free to pull on the bars, an advantage now, but not much. Forcing his body to relax sufficiently so he could spring quickly if necessary he slowly turned around. Understand the situation first. No need to make an enemy where there may not be one. When he had done a one eighty he found himself peering into a few ragged trees that bordered the rear of the yard.

  "I've tried. You'll never get in." Larry lowered his gaze to stare at a boy of about ten years old. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Lorenz."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I don't mean any harm. I've been on the road a long time. I just wanted to get washed up."

  "You wanted to break in to steal something."

  "No, just to get clean. That's the truth."

  "Don't think I'm stupid just because I'm a kid. No one would try to get into a house just to get washed."

  Larry began to worry. Oh, God, this situation could get out of hand. "All right. I'm hungry. I was going to try to get some food."

  "I can't blame you for that. I'd steal food and a lot more besides, if I could get in. But like I said, it's impossible to break into that old man's house. You talk funny. Where are you from?"

  Larry tensed. He wanted no more killing of children. "I'm from Solden, that's in the south, near Italy."

  "I saw an Italian once in Munich. We used to go there a lot. My mom said he was a businessman, trying to sell things to us." Larry calmed a bit.

  "Where are your parents?"

  He shrugged. "My fathers fighting in the war. My mom went to Munich one day a long time ago, maybe a few months, and she never came back. I had to leave the room where we stayed because they said I needed to pay them money and I didn't have any. I go to Munich all the time looking for her, but I've never found her." His eyes glazed over momentarily at the remembrance of all his fruitless expeditions, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve, but no tears came. "Do you have any food?"

  Larry reached into his pack and pulled out the purloined sausage. The child's eyes widened and his tongue appeared briefly between his teeth.

  "If I tell you where you can wash will you give me some?"

  "Sure." The boy produced a knife and placed it near one end of the feast, glancing up at Larry to determine what his portion would be, an expectant look on his face as he moved the knife slowly toward the mid portion of the sausage. When it reached the middle Larry said, "Good," and smiled. The youngster broke into a grin and quickly sliced it in half.

  "You can get washed right here, there's a pump that works and you can drink the water, too." He turned and pointed to a wellhead in the corner of the yard, a large bucket standing next to it. "We can cook the sausage right here, too. I've done that before. I think he knows I come here but the old man doesn't say anything to anyone to make them chase me away. He never comes home for hours. Sometimes not until it starts to get light." Larry was almost knocked over by the verbal barrage. It seemed that Friedrich, that was his name, was intent on telling his whole life story, all ten years of it, while he bustled about the yard, gathering a few sticks of wood for a fire, picking a place for them to sit and supervising Larry as he fetched water. The words gushed out where no tears would flow, a verbal release of the fear and loneliness that filled the very being of this one small victim of war and all its associated atrocities.

  Larry felt somewhat safe, at least for the moment, and busied himself washing as best he could, stripping to the waist and dousing himself with the cold well water, rubbing his skin vigorously and then rinsing again. He had nothing with which to dry himself so he used his hands to squeegee off the water, let the remainder evaporate for a few minutes until the cold was too much, then he shook out his shirt and coat, putting them on again over his still damp skin. The fire was going now, but it burned with a low flame, scant fuel and secrecy preventing anything more robust. It provided little warmth although the two sections of sausage, held on small twigs, were sizzling nicely, the aroma both calming and stimulating. Their stomachs rumbled in anticipation while the fragrant smoke soothed their tense nerves, like a beekeeper's smoke stilled the hectic insects. After they had eaten the savory meat and drank their fill of water, Friedrich seemed prepared to bed down for the night, perhaps feeling safer or maybe just bolder, with Larry there. Larry, however, knew that he couldn't risk staying here much longer and his eyes thoroughly scanned as much of the rear of the house as he could see in the light from a partial moon. Friedrich had quieted down, content with only the occasional comment as they sat there, very happy to have a caring adult next to him, and Larry made small talk while he continued his reconnaissance.

  A foot or so above the windows a narrow ledge ran around the house, protruding only a few inches. It was probably a part of the construction intended to hold the wooden crosspieces that formed the support for the second floor. Above the ledge three small windows faced the yard and at least one of them was not shut completely. If it could be opened, Larry might just be able to squeeze in, although getting up the wall would be difficult or impossible, the stones being joined tightly and their faces worn smooth. He was intent on the possibilities and didn't hear the boy until he said loudly, "Hey, mister. Lorenz. I said 'What are you looking at'?"

  "At that window up there. You know, I'm going to Munich to look for work, and dressed in these dirty things no one would want to hire me. I thought I might borrow a shirt and a pair of trousers from the man who lives here. I could pay him after I get a job."

  Friedrich looked dubious but didn't say any
thing. He folded his hands across his chest, leaned back on the rock on which he sat and gazed seriously at the small window, and then at Larry, like some banker deciding if the patron sitting opposite would qualify for a loan. Larry was found wanting. "You'll never fit." He paused for emphasis. "But I could; except I can't get up there."

  "I couldn't let you do that. That would be stealing."

  "Everybody around here steals; all the time. Besides, if you do it, is the stealing any better than if I do it? Doesn't matter anyway, I can't climb up there." He lapsed into silence, and Larry furrowed his brow as conscience briefly intruded into a plan that must succeed.

  "You can stand on my shoulders and I can boost you up to where you can get hold of that ledge if you think you're strong enough to pull yourself up." Larry winced inwardly for he knew that the last statement was a challenge that no ten year old could refuse, and he felt guilty about manipulating the situation.

  "I'm strong enough. But you have to give me something to do it. What have you got?"

  War takes innocence as its first casualty, and Larry was not really surprised at this mercenary demand. "Not too much. I can give you this pack."

  "Anything else?"

  "I have a small knife. I know you have one but maybe you can sell one. Other than that, just the clothes on my back." The boy bargained for those, too. "And I did give you half of my sausage," Larry threw in.

  "OK, let's go. Give me the pack now, I'll fill it with food when I get in."

  Larry handed him the pack and he slung it over his shoulder as they walked to the edge of the house. Once there, Larry braced himself against the wall and bent his knee. Friedrich scampered up and mounted his shoulders with Larry grasping his ankles and helping to steady him. Larry took a half step back to get the right angle, and the ten year old reached up and just curled the tips of his fingers over the small outcropping. "You'll have to get me higher so I can get a better grip. Should I stand on your head?"