The Witness Tree

by Brendan Howley

  “Sure, Sophie, sure,” Offie said, examining the map. “Goddamn army. Look at the copyright date. This is prewar. No wonder we got lost. Good thing we got stopped where we did, my friend, or we’d be in Hungary by now.”

  “Puddicombe’s going to hit the roof,” Eleanor said thoughtfully.

  “I don’t think so. You’re with me. Safe and sound.”

  That was too much for Eleanor. “You think this is some kind of lark, don’t you?”

  “What? You’ve just had an adventure, Eleanor, something you can tell your grandchildren about—”

  “Janusz could be dead by now. They might have shot him, right there in the snow.”

  They hit a pothole and a spray of slush washed over the windscreen. Janusz set the wipers going. They slowed as the big truck climbed a rise.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m here,” Offie said.

  “He told me, that Russian, the second one, he told me they’d shot someone like Janusz just last week.”

  Janusz looked over at Offie and for a moment Eleanor thought he might hit the smaller man. “I feel this. Yes.”

  “They have their orders,” Offie sulked. “Don’t be naive. This is war and we’re right on the front line.”

  Eleanor faced Offie. “Naive I’m not.”

  Offie formed his most winning smile. “Think of it as housekeeping. We have our uses for old Nazis, and the Russians have theirs.”

  “What are you doing with them,” Eleanor demanded, “these horrors, these killers?”

  Offie sat up, drawing himself to his full height. “You want me to draw you a picture? We haven’t got a single source worth the name in Albania, Poland, Hungary, Romania. We need what these people give us. Upset? Go talk to your brother. See how hard he laughs.”

  “Allen? What are you saying?”

  “Sure,” Offie said, far too smugly for Eleanor’s taste. “Him and Wisner and Puddicombe. Your brother Allen is kingpin of the whole shooting match. We’re moving his favorite tame Gestapo and SS men, the guys he cultivated in Italy, his Vatican links, anybody with a pretense to intelligence value, sheep-dipping ’em right, left, and center. It’s damn near a whole anti-Soviet army right now, parked all over Rome, right on Church property.”

  “I can’t believe—”

  “Do you think Puddicombe gave you Austria because he likes you? Allen told him to hire you, ‘to keep it in the family,’ he said to me. He wanted someone he could trust not to muck up the money side east of the Brenner Pass.”

  “What … what is it I’m helping?”

  “A ratline, an escape route—it runs through Rome, ends up God knows where. I can tell you we’re safe-housing half the Gestapo most wanted in Frankfurt, you know, never mind Rome.” Offie slapped the dashboard for emphasis; Janusz flinched. “See that place on the hill over there? That’s a story. Knock on the monastery door sometime, see who answers.”

  Carmel Offie pulled his hat down over his eyes. Sophie looked at Eleanor, who pulled her close. Janusz kept driving, the big Studebaker pile-driving west through the snow.

  A week later, after another snowfall.

  The army driver dropped Eleanor off at the big wrought iron gate called Himmelpforten—“Gates of Heaven.” Eleanor had her clumsy American galoshes on, the smallest size she could find at the base PX. They squished along in the melting snow as she worked her way up the winding stone stairs to the entrance of St. Leopold’s. On the adjoining hillock, a stone barn echoed with cluckings of chickens herded by an ancient monk, his cowl up against the rising wind. The chapel bell rang and rang, but no one responded. Eleanor examined the charterhouse facade: several of the windows were cracked or blown out, and then she saw the pitted black stitch work where the cannon shells or machine-gun bullets, whatever they were, had struck the house of God. “Hell of a fight up there,” the staff sergeant had told Eleanor. He’d given her a letter of introduction from the local brigadier-general. “Five monks bought it, ma’am. Big tank battle, last day of the war. What the hell’s the point of that?”

  Eleanor reached the front steps. Down the hill she could see the village, a perfect Austrian vista, church spire, a lick of gray wood smoke hanging above terra-cotta roofs, clean white stucco buildings, a column of schoolchildren singing as they crossed the cobblestone square, shiny black with snowmelt in the morning sun. She turned the corner, where the chassis of a farm tractor stood, its engine draped with an army-issue tarpaulin, a range of greasy wrenches and screwdrivers lined up there, toy soldiers on a board. A smoke-streaked Tiger tank sat beyond, its turret knocked half off.

  Evidently the tractor had given up the ghost struggling with the mess in the cobbled sideyard. The yard was neatly piled with the remnants of the monastery’s west wall, whatever hadn’t been blown to pieces by the 88-millimeter cannon of the massive German tank. The rising wind blew back a laundry line of tarpaulins flapping in the damp breeze, revealing the monastery’s first-floor hallway and what remained of a library, the beautiful wooden shelves disconsolately bare. The scaffolding’s lower beams covered a shell hole blown so deep in the cobblestones you could have parked a car in it. On the third floor, a young monk—Is that what you call them? Eleanor wondered—seated high in the scaffolding swinging his sandaled feet, his shins clad in farmer’s leather leggings, watched the approach of the American lady in her colonel’s uniform.

  “May I help you, madame?” He was a German, not an Austrian, a Berliner perhaps from his accent.

  “I’m looking for the abbot.”

  “No abbot here, madame, we’re Franciscans. That’s for Benedictines.”

  “I’m sorry. Father Matthias Obermayer, then.”

  “A moment.”

  The novice slipped away silently, reappearing a minute later in the ground floor library and gesturing Eleanor in.

  The dark central hallway was frigid. There was no electric light; the hall sconces held half-gutted candles. Somewhere above, the plumbing clanked and gurgled. The novice swung the great black refectory door open and a row of cropped heads looked up. Eleanor stopped. A reassuring fug wafted past her, a warm breath of fresh rye bread and wood fire and vegetable stew. A tall, red-faced man rose from his bench halfway down the table and motioned the novice back to his work. Father Matthias had a quick pace and a quicker temper, Eleanor gathered, taking in his headlong walk and sharp black eyes.

  “Madame colonel, I received the message. I apologize, we had our tractor expire this morning, as you see.” He raised his grease-stained hands. “Do come to my office. There is a fire there, rather more comfortable than the library.”

  “Where are your books?” Eleanor asked politely.

  “When the fighting came close, we moved most of them into the basement of the hospital in Reinecke-Grossdorf, the nearest town. We have some irreplaceable texts—a 1494 Gutenberg, some Celtic manuscripts … and many other documents.” He wiped his hands on a petrol-soaked rag. “Oh yes, a map of your own continent, from 1512. Remarkable, that. Moving it all took us a week. They are still there, safe. The hospital basement was a bomb shelter too—I should think the doctors and nurses had something to read when they needed it most, no?”

  They entered a low-ceilinged room, its joists big as railroad ties, with a fire roaring in the grate and a desk the size of an altar, topped with green glass and piled with texts and papers, behind which the restless Father Matthias stopped for a moment.

  “Wood we have. Unfortunately, our furnace runs on coal. I have a monastery full of very cold monks. Worse than nuns, you know. I compare notes with the mother superior at Sankt Ursula’s. They have no furnace either, but they don’t complain. But I’m being uncharitable. We are all tested, each in his own way. Tea? It’s very good. We have a brother house in Ceylon: they sent us a good supply once the mails worked again. You had something for me, you said, a document perhaps?”

  He seems to like paper, Eleanor reflected as she offered the letter.

  He read in silence. “The archbishop has consented
?”

  “Yes.”

  A reluctant silence followed while Father Matthias reread the letter. Judging from every wrinkle in his ruddy face, he was looking for a way out.

  “Why?” he said, putting the letter down.

  “Because I want to see for myself, Father. It’s personal.”

  His eyes flashed a warning. “It’s not, for me. I would take anyone here. Anyone. That is clear?”

  “Very clear,” Eleanor agreed.

  “They may not speak to you,” he warned. “They never speak to us, except for the essentials. It’s not much of a life … although I have some hope one or two of them might find God here.” He gave a thin smile. “But then I’m an incurable optimist. Brother Anton will take you. I have another commitment, at the infirmary. A brother is dying—my turn at the vigil.”

  “Thank you.”

  Father Matthias held the door for Eleanor. “Colonel Dulles, a last question. Do you pray?”

  “Yes, Father, I do.”

  “Then pray for me, will you?”

  The novice reappeared and led Eleanor down the hall. He unlocked a door, revealing a narrow set of stone stairs. He climbed, one flight then a second, stone steps worn by centuries of sandals. Another door opened on a short hall lined with ceramic brick, perhaps once a steam bath or sauna; at the end of the hall he knocked, three fast, one slow, and unlocked the heavy iron door.

  The attic was large, but its ceiling sloped sharply. A row of canvas partitions reminded Eleanor of the field hospitals she’d seen in France in the last war. These divided the space off a central corridor into a half dozen cubicles. There was dead silence except for the crackling of a small woodstove, tinking away under the eaves.

  “It’s Brother Anton,” the novice announced. A man, clearly an officer, emerged from the canvas cubicle closest to the door. He stood well over six feet, with intelligent, unworried eyes. “There’s an American colonel here to see you. The bishop sent her. It’s all right.”

  Two more men appeared, one bearded and thickset, the other taller. They stared at her, then the taller one turned on his heel and returned to his room; a cot squeaked. The officer type stepped forward, clicked his heels, and bowed, very correctly. Neither was over thirty: the very picture of SS men. All wore nondescript civilian clothes, woodsmen’s clothes; a row of hobnailed boots stood in precise order near the door, well dubbined and cared for. The room smelt of disinfectant and cedar, like the upstairs closets of the lakeside Dulles house at Henderson Harbor.

  “We are not prepared to entertain, colonel,” the first officer said. His soft, low voice reminded her of Allen’s, burnished with a chill charm. “My apologies.”

  “You must be Major Metz.”

  “Obersturmbannführer, strictly speaking. I am SS. As you see.”

  Metz’s name was on want lists all over southern Europe, accused of terrible things in the anti-partisan campaign in Slovenia—a barn full of villagers set aflame, summary shootings, children taken away; Eleanor had stopped reading the circular after that. The other two were on Soviet want lists, for God alone knew what horrors there. Yet here they were, plain as day, eating monastery food and working in the grounds—well rested, in the pink, untroubled.

  “Do you want me to stay with you, colonel?” Brother Anton asked.

  “No. No, that’s quite all right. I’m—I’m ready to go. Thank you, Major Metz. Good day.”

  Metz said nothing, but clicked his heels again and gave another curt bow. He’d never moved, never conceded an inch.

  Outside, in the cold hall, at the dumbwaiter door, the novice looked at her curiously. “I serve them every day, you know, madame. They’ve been here for almost a year, waiting to go to Italy. Many people come to visit them, you’d be surprised.”

  “That’s what everyone tells me.”

  “Sorry, madame?”

  “That I’d be surprised.”

  LI

  LONDON

  SPRING 1947

  They sat, backs to the wall, in the company of demobilized men quenching their thirst after a day’s legging it around the city looking for work, a press of young men full of ideas and impatience, trying to catch up with the lost years of their lives, arguing football and film stars and money. Misha and Shiloah met at a Hammersmith pub just up from the river. After the preliminaries, Shiloah raised a finger for a second round and began to outline Sol Lifton’s clever course through the paper sea of Safehaven. By the time Shiloah had finished, the pub was full. “If these people really knew what the game was, they’d be in the streets,” Misha said.

  “Well, my young friend, be kind,” Shiloah warned. “They believed they were fighting for the very best human beings aspire to.”

  “Be kind? I take it there’s a job in this for me, Reuven. Is kindness involved?”

  “Of a sort, of a sort. We need certain papers.”

  “It’s shaky stuff, turning a man for your own ends,” Misha reflected. “If it backfires … God help you.”

  Shiloah looked at Misha, measuring him. “I sincerely hope He will. Because unless I’m completely off the mark, Misha, there will be a war in Palestine. Agreed?” Misha nodded and Shiloah continued: “If we have the United Nations at our back, then we’ve a cause the world recognizes. Lose the vote and we fight absolutely alone. The world will show us no more pity than during the Shoah.”

  Some of the men in the pub stood in a circle singing a rower’s song Misha dimly remembered from his Cambridge days. “Where are these papers you want?” he asked over the din.

  “We need the index for Safehaven, Misha.”

  “We know this exists?” The singing was louder now; Misha could barely hear Shiloah’s answer, delivered into his ear with force.

  “Every archive has an index, Misha, a road map. No index, no eyes, only useless files gathering dust in the government’s belly. Blind, you see?”

  Misha watched the pub singers, arms around one another’s shoulders, glasses high. He turned to face Shiloah.

  “Eleanor,” Misha said, but Shiloah did not make out the word. He bent closer, so close Misha could make out the individual hairs on his temple.

  “Eleanor,” Misha said again.

  This time Shiloah understood him.

  NSA copy: National Security Agency / Document Declassification 16.722 [rubber stamp] [initials]

  Treasury Department

  G6/8875

  SAFEHAVEN [stamp]

  do not index

  do not cross-reference [stamp]

  eyes only

  distribution list: [BLACKED OUT]

  released for destruction [stamp]

  shredding release: RHK [stamp] [signature]

  February 15 1962

  typescript of conversation recorded between AR/617 and GL26/279

  transcribed by EMcK from acetate disks 456/457

  date recorded: 24 April 1947 from 1869 local time device installed: 22 April 1947 by [illegible] [initials]

  Old State Department Building

  room 354

  -begins-

  617 filthy weather/i couldnt find a cab for blocks /six seconds silence/

  279 your soaked my dear/look at you/how wonderful to see you again mish

  617 you too eleanor/your looking well

  279 [BLACKED OUT] told me youd crossed paths in bern

  617 yes i saw him once or twice/usually near the river on walks

  /22 seconds noise/poss vacuum cleaner in hallway

  279 your lucky i was still here [inaudible]

  617 working late

  279 trying not to work late [laughter]/you havent changed a bit

  617 im still paddling whenever i can/my last trip was across the chesapeake two days ago/two duck hunters nearly did me in

  279 i can send down for coffee

  617 im fine thanks/hows sophie

  279 well/schools fine/shes a bit talkative/must be the dulles in her

  617 what fresh crisis are you managing tonight

  279 tri
este again/its a dangerous situation all told/im going back this fall/im hoping the open city plan [inaudible] because tito has [inaudible]

  617 [BLACKED OUT]

  279 [BLACKED OUT] services/but i dont know/theres all kinds of sensitive cross-border things were trying/the liaison [BLACKED OUT] 617 i was at school with [BLACKED OUT]

  279 [inaudible] the entire building at this hour

  617 cant be too careful

  279 you look worried

  617 i have a contract with an old treasury friend to sort out some old files

  279 we have no secrets mish/i trust you like family

  617 thats it actually/theres family implications eleanor/your aware treasury began searching for nazi offshore assets in 1943/you were state liaison to one of the investigative committees/i think

  279 german and austrian central banking/yes/i signed on shortly after [BLACKED OUT] left for bern/you were still here/you hadnt gone to bern right

  617 thats right/i still had that tiny place near the cathedral

  279 [laughter][inaudible] when it rains

  617 except for the eggs/i dont think i ever ate eggs again [laughter]

  279 so

  617 well/i have some news

  279 yes

  617 its not good /four seconds silence/

  279 your frightening me/what is it

  617 it appears that [BLACKED OUT] did client work in bern

  279 what kind of client work 617 the kind i was sent to find for m.e.w./constructively what weve discovered is treason/representing his client interests with the nazis 279 whats he done

  617 it looks like/and im not saying this would be my testimony in court

  279 go on

  617 [BLACKED OUT] files are in the basement here/all of them/thats where [BLACKED OUT] are filed/the [BLACKED OUT] originals /12 seconds silence/

  279 youve seen them

  617 yes/but safehaven was shut down and now state has everything/that’s true /seven seconds silence/

  617 i need the index/the index downstairs /seven seconds silence/

  279 can you protect [BLACKED OUT] if you have it

  617 hes a small fish/theres far bigger /eight seconds silence/