The Brass Compass

by Ellen Butler

  My next stop would likely be out of the district, and the Marken I held would be useless. A small gasthaus across the square caught my eye. It ran a café, and I debated using more of my Marken to get an Ersatzkaffee before moving on. The drawback, the little restaurant sat right next to city hall, the SS command post. However, I’d already been in the small town long enough for a few shop owners and residents to take note that I was a stranger among them. My presence here was not going to go unnoticed, so a few more minutes probably wouldn’t make a difference. I stepped off the curb, onto the street, when the blare of a horn drew the attention of every pedestrian in the square.

  A septuagenarian herded a forlorn pack of nanny goats, with full udders and jangling bells around their necks, across one of the intersections leading out of the Marktplatz. The car honked again, and the old man steered a straggling goat out of the way. The vehicle zipped past the flock with one last rude blast, and then whipped into a parking space in front of city hall. My blood ran cold as the SS officer from Lenz’s apartment stepped from the Volkswagen, a downgrade from last night’s Mercedes. He did not glance my way as he strode, his shiny black boots clicking against the cobbles, into the building.

  I stepped back, staggering against the lip of the curb, and would have lost my balance if a passerby hadn’t caught my arm and saved me and my basketful of rations from a nasty tumble to the ground.

  “Danke,” I muttered before making tracks up the closest side street.

  I had tarried too long in Dornstetten. Perhaps one of the children had woken early and come for me. Or maybe the SS Officer was at the colonel’s house at dawn. Or missing breakfast had emboldened Magda to find me. Whatever the case, he was here. And somewhere inside that building was a young, blue-eyed Stormtrooper who could positively identify me. It wouldn’t take long before they would fan out into the Marktplatz asking questions and following pointed fingers.

  The street headed south, and I found myself alone among the stone and timber homes. A dog barked, and a door opened behind me. My pounding heart hitched a beat as I ducked down a shadowed alleyway between a pair of three-story homes. Coming out the other side, I paused. In front of me, a frau’s laundry snapped in the chilly breeze. On it hung a faded, wren-brown head scarf, similar to those many of the local women wore to stay warm. I scanned the area before trotting up to the line and snatching the still-damp, indistinguishable scarf. A quick glance down the rope revealed no gloves or mittens; I was out of luck, and there was no time to pilfer other laundry lines.

  I finally came to the end of the charming homes with the forest ahead; in between lay two hundred meters of open ground, browned with dead grass and patches of melting snow. Running might draw attention, so I set out at a fast walking pace and lengthened my stride to cover the distance quicker. A few minutes later, I slipped into the comfort of the concealing trees.

  Chapter Three

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  I hiked through the woods with grim determination to put as much distance between Dornstetten and myself. A kilometer out of town, I stuffed my identifiable fedora into a hole of a passing tree and covered my hair with the ugly scarf.

  I’d made it a fair way into the woods before I heard the dogs. It seemed far off and might have been only two of them, but I couldn’t take the risk and set about laying a false trail. It took extra time that I could have used to get farther away, but it was more important to get the dogs off my scent. I started by going about in a wide circle, then weaved in and around a thick stand of trees. One of the best ways to throw off the dogs would be to walk through one of the many streams passing through the area, but the small ones I came upon were frozen. My next option was to go up.

  I’d been an avid tree climber as a child. As a young teen, I remembered my mother yelling at me to come down out of the big oak in our front yard and berating me for my “unladylike” behavior. The muscles might have been out of practice, but with dogged persistence, I climbed up, basket tucked high under my arm, and carefully crawled across a sturdy branch. I didn’t look down or give myself time to think before leaping across to a branch on an abutting tree. The entire tree shook with my weight as I clawed at the rough bark. The dogs’ howls were now consistently in the background and less than a few kilometers away if I had to guess. Once the swaying stopped, I slowly crawled to the trunk, identified another solid branch that hooked up with the tree next to it, and took another death-defying jump.

  I shimmied to the ground and, praying I’d done enough to confuse the trail, set out at a jogging pace heading north. An hour later, I no longer heard the bark of the dogs.

  My travels came to an abrupt halt at a razor-wire fence line. Using the brush and trees as cover, I followed the barrier north until the forest thinned and revealed a barren field. In the middle of the field rose three concrete mounds covered in green camouflage. From my vantage point, I could barely make out a white sign that read ACHTUNG MIENEN! I guessed it was some sort of bunker, only I couldn’t see an entrance from where I stood. Each concrete bunker had a large black swastika painted on the side. In the northeast corner stood a large barbed wire gate with a paved road leading to the installation. Sandbags surrounded a machine gun nest, covering the gate. A variety of military vehicles including two camouflaged tanks, transport trucks, and a handful of cars were parked inside the fence under the overhang of trees, and leaning against the bumper of a troop transport truck stood an enlisted man smoking a cigarette. He stared at the sky as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Reconnoitering the bunker north would have me hiking kilometers out of my way. Depending upon how far south the fence line ran, I would have to cross a river and risked running into another village. There was no way I’d willingly cross the road leading to the bunker during daylight, so I decided the best course of action would be to stop and remain hidden until nightfall.

  I slunk back into the forest, distancing myself from the installation. Deeper in the woods, I found a well-concealed bower beneath an evergreen tree. One of its roots stuck up out of the ground like a giant’s bent knee. I lowered myself on the perch and uncovered the basket. While the chewy bread coated in apricot marmalade and a slice of hard cheese slaked my appetite, it was the chilled bier that settled the anxiety roiling in my stomach.

  The respite was welcome, but thoughts I’d held at bay while I navigated my way through the forest now bounced around my conscience like one of Dagobert’s rubber balls.

  What gave Otto away? Were we observed passing our notes, or was he careless leaving them to be found? Why was the SS and not the Gestapo at Lenz’s? The Gestapo’s network of neighborhood spies was well known. What led the SS to Lenz’s home? Did I say something? Behave in an abnormal manner?

  Interactions with Otto in the past month ran through my head. Our conversations were always brief, spoken in code when I had information for him. He palmed my communiqués as I passed him money and ration cards. Any responding information would be passed back inside the bread. Did I slip up? Did an observer note the regular conversations about the weather and report it? Am I responsible? That last question gnawed at me, incessantly grinding away like a rat chewing through a block of wood.

  Magda. I squeezed my eyes shut. Magda, an innocent in the churning underground of espionage. Magda, the matriarch of the household, who had innocently poured out her problems and taken me under her wing like a daughter. I couldn’t wipe the vision of a pair of Stormtroopers escorting her from the house, fear marring her kindly features as she was led to the car. She’d been with the colonel’s family for close to ten years. Would he protect her or be angry at her betrayal? How would she react under interrogation? The thought of the angry visage of the Nazi screaming at Lenz, interrogating poor Magda, her white hair coming loose from its chignon, dread and anxiety writ in her faded eyes, made me nauseous. I rubbed at my own eyes in an attempt to block out the awful image.

  It was terrible enough Lenz and Otto had been captured, perhaps by my own mistak
es; however, they both knew what they were getting into. They recognized the risks and the repercussions. Magda had been nothing but kind and an innocent, and I had drawn her into a swirl of intrigue of which she knew nothing. It became a relief when the sun set and I forced myself to close those thoughts in order to focus on the task at hand.

  The night darkened, and before the moon rose to its zenith, I headed warily northwest, finding relief in the shadows of the vegetation. The woodland came alive with noises; branches cracked, broken by animals or the breeze, I did not know which. It kept me on edge, regularly slowing my steps as I paused to listen. Finally, I came upon the road that must lead to the bunker. It wasn’t straight, instead winding and curving through the overgrown trees, and from the direction which I approached, the front gates couldn’t be seen. I searched the night sky for lights but saw none. It seemed the Nazis wanted to keep their installation secret, which was fine by me. If I couldn’t see them, I surmised they couldn’t see me.

  My own journey was no longer the quiet padding it had been along the frozen lanes of last night, and I prayed the snapping twigs blended with the forest sounds. In the distance, booms of exploding bombs met my ears. The Allied advance through France kept the nightly shelling commonplace, although the trees played tricks on my ears, and I couldn’t be sure if the noise came from the east in Stuttgart or farther north. I hoped the explosions helped to cover my own noise.

  My initial thoughts fleeing Oberndorf had been to head south, to try and cross into Switzerland and get to Zurich, an area I knew well from my finishing school days and one that promised help. However, I soon realized, if I navigated my way south, reached the border, and could outwit, cajole, or flirt my way past the German border guards, without proper papers, the Swiss would turn me away and send me right back into the hands of the Nazis.

  Switzerland had been flooded with refugees before the war broke out in earnest. After Germany invaded France, limitations of resources made the government become quite strict with their refugee policies. When I accepted the nanny position, I’d been warned that I would be in the belly of the beast, and that, unlike my former missions in occupied France, the Office of Strategic Services had no organized escape routes from the town of Oberndorf and a limited network of spies. As far as I was aware, I’d been the only OSS operative in the area. Even the agent who had gotten me the phone operator job remained behind in Stuttgart.

  The Germans I’d dealt with were sympathetic to the Allied cause, having lost relatives or friends to the camps, but I’d never been introduced to any other contacts besides Lenz and Otto. One assumed there was a network of assets and operatives connected to Lenz, but we’d been kept apart, compartmentalized, for everyone’s safety. I now cursed the very secrecy that was supposed to keep me safe as it would lead to my downfall. Papers—with a new identity that would have allowed me to board a train to Switzerland—along with a silk map, remained hidden behind an oil canvas of a mountaintop landscape hanging in the nursery of the colonel’s home. As I was unwilling to travel farther into Nazi territory, my fleeing steps instinctively took me in a northwesterly direction away from the Neckar River.

  The clear moon only provided intermittent light, and I stumbled my way through the dense timberland, regularly tripping across roots hidden by snow and darkness. When I dropped into France, we’d been given Benzedrine pills to reduce appetite and combat fatigue. What I wouldn’t give for a couple of those little yellow pills right now.

  Distracted by a rustle of underbrush, what I’d been dreading happened; I slipped into a rabbit hole and something popped. I bit down on my lip, cutting off a cry of agony, and tasted the salty tang of blood as I collapsed on the hard ground. Tears sprung to my eyes.

  After the initial agony passed, I loosened my bootlaces to massage the site of the strain, which had already begun to swell. Pushing to my feet, I tested the injury. The ankle seemed able to bear weight, with moderate teeth-gritting, leading me to believe it wasn’t broken. I convinced myself the pain was nothing I couldn’t handle, so I re-laced the boot as tight as tolerable and gathered my things to limp along at a turtle pace.

  By the time the darkness grayed into predawn, my eyes ached with the grittiness of fatigue. The winds had calmed and the scent of oncoming snow drifted through the air. My ankle had swollen so much that I’d lost the feeling in the toes of my left foot, and the ache of the sprain that radiated up my calf caused muscle spasms. The basket I carried dragged at my arm, heavy as a typewriter, but its meager rations were so important to my survival I daren’t let it go. I spied a small hut, its white siding flaked and chipped enough to show the brown boards beneath. The front door faced east. I cautiously navigated my way around to the south, tucking myself behind a thicket of frosty underbrush, to wait and see what signs of life would stir with the sunrise.

  After twenty minutes, my knees and muscles had stiffened from crouching beneath the frigid, weak winter sun. No smoke rose from the tiny chimney, and in the lightening sky, a woodpile took shape along the front. A layer of undisturbed snow lay across the top. The fatigue and pain spurred me to creep closer to take a look. I gathered a handful of pebbles with my numb fingers and tossed them. They rained against the weathered door, and I held my breath as they rattled to the ground. Nothing. Growing braver, or perhaps more desperate, I threw a rock the size of a pecan. The thwap resounded through the forest, and a small animal scrabbled back into its hole.

  I snuck up to the miniscule front window and furtively peeped in. I couldn’t see a thing through the filth. The lock was broken and the hinges squealed in protest as I pulled the door. To my relief, the scent of stale air with a hint of old burnt wood greeted me. Across from the door was a small stone hearth, with a cot next to it. A plain wooden table with two chairs stood beneath the dirty window, and a petite shelf housed clay mugs, wooden dishes, and random utensils. A pot and kettle rested on an iron grate inside the fireplace, and a thick layer of dust covered everything. It wasn’t much, but in my now exhausted, shivering state it looked like a reprieve from heaven.

  An hour later, I huddled in a chair next to the crackling fire, unshod feet propped up on a settle, a mug of hot water gripped in my hands. Wrestling the boot off my injured foot had been a painful process that I didn’t look forward to repeating any time soon. I’d packed some snow around the swollen joint and wrapped it with the towel from my basket.

  Two pairs of antlers hung above the mantel, and I figured the tiny building must have been a hunting cabin. The wooden plate sitting on my lap held half a boiled potato and a few bites of the cheese. I dunked some of the hard bread into the water to soften it. The hunger that had been gnawing at me since the wee hours of the morning was barely appeased by the paltry meal.

  Admittedly, rationing had become stringent for the Germans; however, working in such a prestigious household allowed for special dispensation, and our cook often received extra ration cards or “gifts.” Even though the Germans complained about the strict rationing, they knew nothing of hunger. Nothing like what I’d witnessed and experienced during my time in France, where the Germans had systematically stripped the French of all their prime meats, vegetables, and wines, practically starving the population. Some might say my position in the colonel’s house could be described as a cream-puff assignment. They’d be correct ... if it weren’t for the extreme danger of being caught and shot in the head.

  The mug clunked to the floor, and I jerked out of a semi-consciousness to slide onto the cot and pull the blanket up to my shoulders. The crackling wood reminded me of the fires in our rooms at finishing school, and I fell into a restless sleep riddled with reminiscent dreams.

  ♠♠♠♠

  November 1938

  Château Mont-Choisi

  A log shifted and the fire hissed. Visina snored quietly into her pillow as I stared up at the ceiling. I was more than halfway through my sentence at the Château, although, if I was honest, the program wasn’t so bad. Last month, I danced with Laurence Oli
vier during one of our outings to Geneva. The point of finishing school was to build confidence, and it certainly achieved its aim. I’d feel comfortable running a large castle or preparing for a diplomatic formal dinner party. Mother would be so proud.

  The day had gone like any other day, floral arranging and cookery in the morning, swimming and riding in the afternoon. It had been an exhausting afternoon, but my mind wouldn’t settle into sleep. It kept going over and over the events of the evening.

  Following dinner, four of us had gathered in Camilla’s cozy room to listen to her radio. She’d twirled the dial and settled on the National Swiss radio station broadcasting in German.

  “Can’t we find something else? My German isn’t good and I’m so tired of hearing about the terrible Nazis,” Isabella complained.

  However, Camilla and I stayed her impatient fingers. The correspondent was reporting on the aftermath of what would be labeled Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass. A night in which paramilitary and civilians attacked Jews and Jewish businesses, breaking windows, burning synagogues, ransacking and demolishing buildings. Anything to do with the Jews seemed to be on the list. So far fifty fatalities had been reported, and thousands more were incarcerated by the Nazis.

  When the report ended, Camilla, with a shaking hand, flicked off the radio. “Ladies, I’m not feeling well. Please give me some privacy.”

  Isabella and Visina, taken aback by her abruptness, rose and stalked out of the room without a second glance.

  I closed the door behind them. “Who? Who do you know in Germany?”

  Camilla pinched her lips and stared hard. “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “I lived there too, Milla. Don’t shut me out. I fear for those I knew.”

  She raised a still-trembling hand to her blond brow.

  “Come now, you know me, I’m not one of the gossips around here. I can keep my mouth shut.”