No Dawn for Men

by James Lepore

  “They ran?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. You must tell me how you managed that.”

  “Perhaps someday I’ll write about it.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “A college professor.”

  “Where are we, Professor?”

  “In a cave under the Oder River.”

  “I think it would be the Niesse by now.”

  “Likely. My geography is not as good as it might be. We traveled far last night. At least I think we did. I slept the whole time.”

  “Where are you going? One of the river boys said you were a ‘fellowship.’ He used the word quite reverently, I might add. What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know,” the professor replied, thinking, then again, perhaps I do.

  “Where is this fellowship headed?” Vaclav asked.

  “Tell me who you are first.”

  “I told you last night, I am a Czech Army captain, a ranger in a special unit. I sometimes assist in reconnaissance flights. The Germans have taken the Sudetenland without a fight, but from now on, we fight.”

  “A ranger?”

  “We are shadow warriors, a special group, if you will.”

  “Spies?”

  “If necessary. Were you in the war?”

  “Yes, in France.”

  “It’s coming again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve been all over Germany in the last five years. A war machine is being built like no other the world has ever seen. They will crush all of Europe in six months if we don’t stop them.”

  “How did you know about us?”

  “I was told to be on the lookout for two men and a dwarf. I did not think you would be so far north, but there you were, except you were two men and three dwarfs.”

  “What were you told about us?”

  “That the Germans would kill you if someone didn’t get to you first.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That if you were spotted, I was to make sure you arrived safely in Prague, and with all deliberate speed. All of you.”

  “So you jumped.”

  “Yes. It was fun.”

  “It was fun? You mean you never jumped before?”

  “No, but I’ve watched.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I hate the Germans. That’s all you need to know. Now tell me, who are you, really, and why are you running?”

  41.

  The Bavarian Forest, Near Deggendorf

  October 9, 1938, 8:00 a.m.

  “There’s a priest at the bridge,” said Jonas Kaufman. He was sitting on a three-legged stool at a window overlooking the stream and the old wooden bridge. “On a bicycle.”

  “Christ,” said Rex Dowling, who was sitting nearby on the floor, the radio in front of him.

  The others, Fleming, Billie, and Hans, were also sitting on the floor, eating their breakfast of thick and rich Irish porridge out of tins that Hans had taken from the Adlon’s gloriously stocked kitchen before leaving Berlin. Spoons in one hand, tin cans of precooked oatmeal in the other, they looked in unison at Jonas.

  Fleming put his things down and scrambled to the window on all fours. “Let me see,” he said, when he reached Jonas, indicating the binoculars that the German held to his eyes.

  “Father Schneider,” Fleming said after putting the glasses to his brow and adjusting the focus wheel slightly. “From St. Peters.”

  “The one who heard your confession last night?” Dowling asked.

  “Yes. I told him if he heard anything else from the abbey to come to the mill.”

  “You told him where we were?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Does he look like he’s carrying a weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “On our side of the bridge.”

  “I will go,” said Hans, who was already on his feet, his woolen cap on, his machine gun over his shoulder.

  Fleming nodded, as did Dowling, who had crawled to the window and was peering out, concealing as much of himself as possible. They watched as Hans exited the mill through its large storage room door immediately below them and walked slowly toward the priest, who stopped and put his hands in the air when he spotted the one-eyed war veteran, who had unslung his weapon and was carrying it at the ready. Father Schneider kept his hands up as Hans came up to him. They spoke for a few seconds and then the priest, a small, thin man in spectacles, looked up at the mill’s second floor windows. In one of them, the one next to Fleming and Dowling, knelt Jonas Kaufman, his rifle aimed at the cleric’s chest.

  “That’s a professional search he’s doing,” Fleming said. Father Schneider was now kneeling, his hands clasped on top of his head, as Hans went about his business.

  “Yes. He was in charge of French prisoners at the end of the war. He learned to be thorough.”

  “He won’t do a cavity search, I hope,” said Fleming. “The man is on our side.”

  “Probably not. But I think that he lost his eye doing a search. The POW had a razor blade in his teeth. Slashed him pretty good until another guard shot him.”

  “How do you know this?

  “Rumor. Hans will say nothing.”

  “Here they come.”

  * * *

  “Bauer and the troops are gone,” said Father Schneider.

  “What? Are you sure?” Fleming asked.

  “Yes, I was at the abbey this morning to say mass. Father Wilfrid asked me to ride over to tell you.”

  “Are there none left?” Billie said.

  “There is a group camped in the courtyard.”

  “How many?”

  “Forty men.”

  “What happened?” Fleming asked. “Why did they leave?”

  “I don’t know. Father Wilfrid does not know.”

  “Where were they headed?”

  “Father heard them say north.”

  “Do you think you were followed?”

  “I rode here directly from the abbey. I was not followed.”

  “What else did Father Wilfrid say?” Fleming asked. “Did he tell you when they left?”

  “They left last night, just before midnight.”

  The group was silent for a moment as they took this in. The priest, pale of face and shy, but obviously determined to carry out the abbot’s request, sat before them on the three-legged stool. They had given him a tin cup of water, which he now sipped. “I must return soon,” he said after lowering the cup. “We are burying Father William.”

  “The one who knew about the tunnel?” Fleming said.

  “Yes, he died last night.”

  “How? Bauer?”

  “No, he called for Father Wilfrid, said his confession, and died a moment later.”

  Fleming shook his head. At his faux confession last night, Father Schneider had relayed Abbot Wilfrid’s terse message: there is a tunnel entrance near a Roman wall one hundred meters south of our orchard. It leads to the Devil’s Canyon. That had been the first he had heard the term Devil’s Canyon. He had been hoping to connect somehow with Father William to ask about it.

  “The Devil’s Canyon,” Fleming now said. “What do you know about it.”

  “Nothing,” the timid priest replied. “Rumors.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “That one of the monk’s made a pact with the Devil in a hidden canyon in the forest many years ago, a hundred years ago, no one knows when or who.”

  “Do you know where the tunnel entrance is?” Billie asked. “Does Father Wilfrid?”

  “No, only Father William knew. He did not tell Father Wilfrid.”

  “Are you sure?
” Dowling asked.

  “Yes. Father urged him to tell, but he would not.”

  “Are the troops making patrols?” Dowling asked.

  “Yes, Father said one group is circling the abbey at all times.”

  “One group? How many, did he say?”

  “No, I’m sorry, just one group. They patrolled last night and Father Wilfrid believes they will patrol around the clock.”

  “Do they have a radio?”

  “Yes, it is set up in the kitchen. A soldier stays with it.”

  “Does he have a replacement?”

  “Yes, the Father said the sergeant relieves him.”

  “Are they sleeping in the courtyard?”

  “Yes. I believe so. There are tents there and gear.”

  “Is there an officer?”

  “No, just the sergeant. I do not know his name.”

  “Do they post lookouts?”

  “I don’t know,. Father did not say. We did not talk long. He walked me to the front gate. We talked as we walked. Or, rather, he talked, I listened.”

  “Are the gates guarded? When we visited there were troops outside the gates.”

  “Yes, four men.”

  “Are there gun placements? Machine guns set up?”

  “I saw one in the tower.”

  “Who is feeding them?”

  “Feeding them?”

  “Yes.”

  “The machine guns?”

  “No, the troops.”

  “Ah, the troops. The monks are.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Father asked me to bring back a sack of flour to make bread. He said they are feeding the soldiers and are running low.”

  “Do they have a regular cook?”

  “Yes, Father Adam.”

  “When is meal time? When does Father Adam cook?”

  “Six in the morning, noon, and six in the evening.”

  “The patrol, where do they eat?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know their schedule?”

  “No, I just know that Father Wilfrid believes that they will patrol the grounds around the clock.”

  “How far out? What distance from the abbey?”

  “I don’t know. Please, I must go. I’ve told you everything.”

  “Go,” said Fleming, extending his hand. The priest grabbed it and Fleming hoisted him gently from the stool.

  “How can we contact Father Wilfrid?” Fleming asked.

  “I will ride over for you. Just come to the rectory.”

  “What is your routine? Do you go on a regular schedule?”

  “I go every Saturday afternoon to hear confessions. And when Father Wilfrid calls and asks me. He called this morning and asked me to come to assist him at mass and to help prepare Father William’s body for burial.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Fleming said. “You have been very helpful.”

  “Helpful with what?” the priest asked.

  “Permit me to ask you a question first,” said Fleming. “What is motivating you to help us? You are a German citizen. This is your country, those are German troops at the abbey.”

  “I am Austrian,” Father Schneider replied. “Not German. I was born a Jew, orphaned when my parents were killed in a pogrom. I was taken in by the local Sisters of Mercy. They did not encourage me to convert. I insisted. I listen to the BBC every night in the rectory attic. The Nazis are killing Jews by the thousands, and soon, if they are not stopped, it will be in the millions. The Catholics will be next . . . I am both a Jew and a Catholic, a rarity, but here I am. So, Herr Fleming, what am I helping you with?”

  “I will say only this, my dear Father,” said Fleming. “The second world war in our lifetime has started, and you are on the right side.”

  * * *

  “Can we take them by surprise?” said Dowling, when Father Schneider was gone. “It’s forty against four.”

  “Five,” Billie said. “You’re not leaving me behind.”

  “Can you handle a weapon?” said Dowling.

  “Yes. I was in a gun club in college. I was too old for Hitler Youth, and this was an acceptable alternative.”

  “Then you’re coming,” said Fleming. “It’s your father after all.”

  “We will have to attack the patrol, plus the troops at the abbey,” said Hans Kaufman. “With five people, it can’t be done.”

  “We can disable the troops at the abbey,” said Fleming.

  “How do you propose to do that?” Dowling asked.

  “Poison,” Fleming replied. “We will poison the troops at the abbey and ambush the patrol.”

  “Poison,” said Hans Kaufman. “Excellent.”

  “How?” Billie asked.

  “In their food. Father Schneider will help us.”

  “We can’t kill the radio operator,” said Dowling.

  “No, nor the sergeant,” said Fleming. “We’ll need them alive.”

  “Why?” Billie asked.

  “In case Bauer checks in,” Dowling replied.

  “How will we get poison?” said Billie. “And what kind?”

  “We will visit the chemist in town,” Fleming answered, “and pick up the last things from our room, say goodbye to our lovely innkeeper.”

  42.

  The Niesse River

  October 9, 1938, 10:00 a.m.

  “We are wasting time sitting here,” Vaclav said.

  “As I’ve said,” Trygg Korumak replied. “We can only sail at night. There is too much activity on the river during the day.”

  “We are 190 kilometers from the Czech border,” the Army captain said. “That will take three nights of sailing.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “I need to leave the cave so I can use my radio. I can get a plane to pick us up and fly us to Prague, or Metten if you prefer.”

  Vaclav eyed Professor Tolkien as he said this.

  “How do you know about Metten?” Korumak asked.

  “I told him,” said Tolkien.

  The group was silent. They were sitting on the floor between the two pools. They had eaten honey cakes and bread and drank a tart beer-like drink, all produced by the river-dwelling brothers from the room beyond the arch, to which they had returned, leaving the three men and three dwarfs to discuss their business.

  “How do we know he is who he says he is?” Korumak said finally.

  “We have followed you here,” Tolkien said. “We have trusted you and your friends. I now choose to trust our ranger captain as well.”

  “Does he know what our mission is?”

  “Yes, I told him,” Tolkien replied.

  They now all turned to Franz Shroeder. He had said nothing. He was fingering the amulet through the spun woolen material at the front of his tunic. He remained silent, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

  “How will you land a plane here?” Korumak asked.

  “There are a half dozen possibilities nearby,” Vaclav said. “My friends have flown in and out of tighter spots.”

  “And in Metten? How will we land there?” the dwarf asked. “There will be German soldiers everywhere.”

  “I daresay we’ll jump,” said Tolkien, unable to suppress a smile. Ever since Vaclav told him of his flight through the air of the evening before, he had been imagining what it would be like to float easily from on high, to land with a quiet thud in a farm field or on a leafy street in Oxford. That would surprise the neighbors.

  “Yes,” Vaclav answered, “we will, and it will have to be at night.”

  Professor Tolkien was the only one who had developed any rapport with Vaclav, whose main pleasures seemed to be to kill Nazis and to talk about killing Nazis.
He looked around at the group now, knowing what he would see: the faces of the dwarfs white as ghosts. And that’s exactly what he saw. They were brave men but they looked now like they were about to vomit.

  “You can’t be serious,” said Korumak.

  “I’ll jump,” Franz Shroeder said. “This man is right. We have to get to the abbey as quickly as possible.”

  “Professor . . .” Korumak said, but before he could say another word, Shroeder interrupted him. “My dear Trygg, my faithful friend, you know more than anyone the weight I am carrying. You have known it for many years. I alone must carry it, but I cannot bear it much longer.”

  They all looked at Shroeder, who had seemed a different man since the episode in the forest. The raising of the amulet had nearly killed him, yet, afraid that more soldiers were on their trail, they had had to push on, dragging and carrying the old man through dense forest to their rendezvous with the river dwellers. He had slept on the raft and all morning in the cave, fourteen hours in all, and had eaten and drunk with the rest of them, but still he looked worn and haggard.

  “It’s settled, then,” said Vaclav. He rose and picked up the rucksack containing his radio.

  “Wait,” said Korumak. “Talagan or Narunir will have to take you out and back.”

  “I can find my way.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Talagan, who was now standing in the arched doorway. “It is forbidden.”

  “What is forbidden?” the Czech asked.

  “For anyone to enter or exit this river dwelling except in the presence of a river dweller.”

  “River dweller?” said Vaclav. “You are boys who have found a cave.”

  “You must cooperate, my dear captain,” said Tolkien. “These boys, these dwarfs, they are not what you think they are. There is a war coming, and we will need their help to win it.”

  43.

  The Bavarian Forest, Near Deggendorf

  October 9, 1938, 2:00 p.m.

  “What did you get?” Rex Dowling asked.

  “Rat poison,” Ian Fleming replied. “We delivered it to Father Schneider and came right here.”