by Ellen Butler
His tender playfulness had my lonely heart falling shamelessly in love with him, and our passion filled gaping emotional holes in my life. For those hours, we lived in our own private soap bubble. I was no longer Lily the spy, and he ceased to be the army captain. The little French apartment became a safe haven away from the guns, war, and death that raged not so far away.
My roommate, Colette, a former member of the Résistance Française and now an agent for the Free French Intelligence, did not return that night. I later discovered she’d been sent on assignment. I liked to think she would have approved of my choice. Her own first-time experience had been quite different from mine, having lost her virginity to a brutal invading SS soldier at the tender age of sixteen, and the reason she joined the Resistance.
It was late afternoon when Charlie and I emerged from the apartment to seek out sustenance. An army private striding down the street toward us drew in one last puff of his cigarette, threw down the butt, and stepped on it. He snapped a salute. “Captain.”
Charlie returned the salute and made to walk on, but I recognized the writing on the envelope he carried.
The private placed a package in my hand. “You need to report by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.”
The captain’s look of surprise and consternation would forever be ingrained in my memory as I took the documents. “Thanks.”
The runner pivoted, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and ambled off.
I sighed, dreading Charlie’s questions and knowing I’d have to feed him more lies.
“Your next assignment?” Charlie watched the private’s retreat.
“I suppose so. They must have found me a military escort to my next location,” I added as an explanation for the unorthodox delivery of the documents. The private must have been new, his handoff poorly done.
“Then this is ... good-bye?”
“Not necessarily. I have until oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. What about you?”
“My train leaves at ten-hundred.”
We wasted not a moment of our time together.
Chapter Five
On the Move
February 1945
Germany
By morning the swelling and the storm had receded. I tore the dusty, white-linen valance hanging above the window into strips, and after wrapping my ankle, I was able to get the boot over it. The small chest, about the size of a footlocker, revealed not only the World War I bolt action rifle that kept me company through the night but also a pair of navy mittens, a pair of men’s trousers, and a beat-up brown rucksack. I filled the rucksack with the rest of my rations and my handbag. A search through the small dish cupboard revealed a tin of sardines, a tube of cheese, and some crackers, which were also added to the sack. I pulled on the trousers, tucked up my dress, and tightened the oversized waist with the belt from my coat.
The morning sun shone bright enough to filter through the pines and bounce off the three inches of fresh snow covering the ground. I estimated the temperature hung around the freezing mark when I set out that morning. The soft snow made the going slow, but worse, it laid a track. I soon broke off a pine branch and used it to obscure my trail. This area of the Black Forest was littered with streams and rivers. Most of them were frozen, and I successfully crossed over on foot, but it took time to scout some of the larger streams to make sure the area was uninhabited. The Nazis built many of their dreadful work camps outside small towns, so I had to be careful to avoid stumbling into one.
There was a work camp not far from the weapons factory in Oberndorf. Ironically, the men were forced to construct the weapons that built the army that subjugated them to begin with. I’d been stunned when I’d found out about the appalling practice. Some were their own German people the Nazis considered “undesirable,” others were gypsies or healthy men and boys from France or Belgium. The Nazis basically enslaved each country’s inhabitants that they’d invaded. However, a recent conversation I’d overheard between the colonel and Minister Speer led me to believe this workforce was treated rather well compared to the camps they’d built for the Jews in Poland. The colonel had at least insisted on daily meals to keep the workforce alive and so they could churn out their monthly quota of fifteen thousand guns. Speer spoke further about the Polish camps, referring to them as Hitler’s “final solution.” Unfortunately, I’d heard Magda approaching and had to abandon my hidey hole, so I missed the rest of the conversation.
The path I took headed uphill in a westerly direction north of Baiersbronn, where I would have to cross one of the major roads heading out of town. A train whistled in the distance. I debated heading closer to Baiersbronn to see if I could find some sort of transportation, when the grind of an engine met my ears. I stuffed my gloves into my pocket and swung the gun off my shoulder as I hid behind some shrubbery. Two staff cars and a motorcycle with sidecar roared past at a fast clip, and a few minutes later, trucks filled with soldiers lumbered into sight. I slunk down farther as tanks squeaked and rumbled past followed by lines of troopers marching on foot. All in all, I estimated two battalions paraded past.
I waited until the sounds of their engines and footsteps could no longer be heard. Taking the plunge, I ran across the road and slid down the embankment on the opposite side; my feet slammed into the rails of the train track, jarring my injured ankle, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the cry of pain.
The track looked well used, the grease on the rails fresh from a recent train. I picked my way across and scrambled back up the verge into the cover of trees. The passing caravan had put me off any thoughts I might have had about going into Baiersbronn, and I hustled as fast as my injured ankle allowed over the hill and down the valley. My hop-along flight soon came to a standstill when I ran into the Murg River.
The banks were frozen, but in the center of the green river, water gurgled and flowed around the treacherous rocks. Using the flat of my hand to shield my eyes from the bright sun, my gaze swept up and down the gorge, eventually alighting upon an old-fashioned, manual cable car. The metal basket hung in the center about fifteen meters above the river and looked only large enough to hold one person.
I climbed the treacherous ladder to the icy platform and halted at the top. Half a dozen homes across the river came into sight. They were a less than a kilometer away and clustered around a bridge. An army motorcycle, looking remarkably like the one that passed me, was parked outside one of the homes. Anyone watching would be able to see the cable car. I could wait and cross at the bridge after dark, but sunset was still hours away and I needed to keep moving.
The rusty pulleys groaned as I hauled the cage toward the platform. The cable caught twice, and I had to hang on it with my full weight to get it going again. My feet slipped, and the cable dropped from my hands as I reached out for the railing to save myself from tumbling off. Finally, I drew the basket even with the platform. I took one last look at the homes before climbing into the bucket and letting go. The car whizzed across the river, whining with disuse. I feared the high-pitched squeal could be heard as far away as Vienna and breathlessly watched for curious figures to come running out of their homes. The cage came to a halt about three quarters of the way across, and I quickly grabbed the guide cable before the car could slide backwards and continued to pull it to the far side. I heard the rumble of trucks in the distance. Fear gave me added strength and swiftness, and soon I successfully reached the far side and scrambled down.
My relief upon reaching terra firma was almost euphoric. However, I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching. My obsession with what was behind must have been the reason for almost walking directly into what was in front of me.
He wore a brown coat and carried a weapon slung across his shoulder, wispy white hair tossed in the breeze, and his piercing eyes gave me a start. I’m sure I made quite a picture in my overly large trousers carrying a gun and rucksack. I’d tucked my hair up into the stolen brown scarf, and I imagined my cheeks were bright red from exertion, bu
t that didn’t exactly explain why his brows knit in an angry glare. Perhaps he was the owner of the cable car and didn’t appreciate strangers.
I decided to brazen it out. “Guten Tag.” Good day.
I nodded and moved to pass around him, but his hand whipped out and grabbed my arm in an unexpectedly firm grip.
“Du bist früh dran.” You are early.
Early? What is he talking about? I shook my head and tried to pull away.
He glanced over his shoulder before pulling me closer and said in an undertone, “Haben sie eine Zigarette?” Do you have a cigarette?
“Nein.” I wrenched my arm from his grip. “I haven’t got any cigarettes.” This fellow was just the type I expected to be a Gestapo snitch, and the sooner I was away, the better.
I took five long strides before pulling up short at his next softly spoken word.
“Jude?” Jew?
Slowly, my head turned on its axis. He’d pulled the semiautomatic gun off his shoulder and held it in his hands, though he didn’t point it at me. With an unforgiving squint, I answered his question, “Nein, mein Herr, I am not a Jew.”
He shifted uncomfortably and seemed unsure what to do.
So, I turned the tides on his impertinence and, with raised brows, asked, “Sind Sie Jude?” Are you a Jew?
His head jerked and he coughed. “Nein, fräulein.”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” I said, between clenched teeth, before carrying on without a backwards glance. It took all my willpower to force myself not to limp. My shoulders remained stiff with tension as I prayed this stranger wouldn’t shoot me down.
When I’d gotten far enough away, I slowed my pace and the limp returned. I’d been hoping to find a place to stop and have something to eat and drink after the cable car undertaking, since the effects of this morning’s breakfast—the other half of the potato—had already worn off, but now I trudged determinedly onward, putting as much distance between myself and the inquisitive old man as possible. I climbed higher into the hills, my pace slowing even more as the woods grew thicker and was often blocked by compact undergrowth that forced me to circumnavigate to a less dense pathway.
Chapter Six
Franziska
An hour later, after turning my interplay with the old man over and over in my mind, it occurred to me, in my fear and desperation to get away as quickly as possible, I might have misread the situation.
What if he wasn’t a Gestapo snitch? What if he was part of an underground railroad for Jews? He said I was early. Who had he been expecting? Did I miss an opportunity for help?
A downed tree limb blocked my path, and I couldn’t summon the energy to climb over it. Instead, I dusted off the snow, plopped down on the damp branch, swung the backpack off my shoulders, and rooted around for something to eat and drink. I’d refilled the empty bottle of bier with water and took a few slugs before gnawing a piece of the deer jerky. The meat would hopefully give me the energy to keep going, because for the last kilometer, I’d actually begun thinking I should ditch the film and turn myself over to the Nazis. Once past Baiersbronn the terrain had gotten steeper and more mountainous, and I felt as though I’d barely made headway. My ankle throbbed, cold permeated the outer layers of my coat, seeping into my bones, and I might have foolishly passed up the best chance at getting out of this godforsaken country.
Ever-gnawing hunger in my belly likely gave rise to these fatalistic thoughts, and the salty deer jerky did little to thwart the hunger, so I dug out the tube of cheese. I’d no idea how old it was, but the seal hadn’t been broken and I took a chance. It had a fine, grainy texture and the taste was on par with glue. The best thing I can say about it, it filled the hole in my belly.
A whickering sound met my ears, and I froze with the tube of cheese suspended in the air.
There it was again, along with the unmistakable sound of a hoof stomp.
The food must have revived my survival instincts. I slid off my perch and crouched down, grabbing the weapon at my feet. Both the SS and the Heer had cavalry divisions, and a number of battalions still used horses for hauling artillery. There was only one round of ammunition in the gun, and I prayed I wouldn’t require more than that.
The whickering came again to my right, but I couldn’t see past the scree of brush. I slid into the cavity beneath the dead branch and shifted the weapon, ready to defend myself. The clop of the horse’s hooves must have been dampened by the snow, because suddenly shaggy white socks, dirtied with mud, walked directly into my line of vision. I listened for the creak of a leather saddle when abruptly a large brown nostril came down to my level. My heart leapt to my throat, and I jerked back, rapping my head against the hard branch. The horse let out a nicker and warm breath blew at my face.
Petrified by fear, I remained in my hollow, waiting for a pair of boots to jump to the ground or a simple demand to show myself. Neither of those things happened, and I finally noticed there were no reins attached to the beast’s bridle.
Gradually, I stuck out my head.
A large draft horse, bred for size and strength and usually used as a beast of burden, stood in front of me. Its dark brown coat showed a few bald patches, and as I pulled myself up out of the dirt, he backed up a pace, giving a snort and a shake of his head.
“Whoa ... it’s all right. There’s a big boy.” I crooned nonsensical German phrases. He allowed me to approach and take hold of the bridle; my mittened hands stroked his long neck. Gently, I blew into his nostrils and he gave another soft nicker. I hadn’t been around horses since finishing school, but I remembered my equine etiquette.
“Where did you come from?” I whispered.
The fellow seemed placid enough, and although dirty and perhaps a little thin, in fairly good shape. I removed the mittens and ran my hands down his forelocks, searching for broken skin. His coat was dull and rough, clotted with mud in places, but finding no injuries, I encouraged him to walk in a circle while I watched for any sign of a limp. His gait appeared fine. After a second pass, I led him over to where my rucksack lay and dug around until my hands landed on the soft, round turnip. Cutting the root vegetable into smaller pieces with a pocket knife, I held my hand out flat. The soft, whiskered lips tickled my palm.
When my mother died, in my anger and pain, I stopped attending services and turned my back on God. After witnessing some of the atrocities the Nazis inflicted on the French, I questioned even the existence of God. Nonetheless, in the past few days, I’d sent up whispered prayers, and perhaps God had been listening, providing me with shelter when I needed it most, and now a mode of transportation.
However, my journey was not turning into smooth sailing by any stretch of the imagination. This horse was a typical workhorse, likely used for hauling supplies, and had probably never been ridden before. That and the fact there was neither saddle nor reins had me thinking God had a bad sense of humor. I’d ridden bareback a handful of times, but never on such a broad-shouldered horse and always with reins. If I hopped up on his back with no way to control him, one of two things might happen. We’d either go trooping off wherever the horse pleased ... or he’d immediately throw me and I’d be dealing with a broken head in addition to the twisted ankle.
I emptied the rucksack, searching for some sort of rope to use as reins. In one of the side pockets, I found a hank of twine, less than a meter long and much too thin to be of any use. I tossed the backpack aside with a huff and began searching the woods for other options. The horse followed a few steps behind as I canvassed the area before returning to where I started. I stared grumpily at the useless bag.
Shoulder straps! Made of leather and adjustable, they just might be long enough.
“Come on. Give me some luck,” I mumbled, unbuckling the bottom of the straps and holding the length from the bridle to the neck. It would be a little short, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I went about cutting the leather out of the top loops. The twine came in handy for making a new strap for the pack.
Fi
nally, with a makeshift harness in place, I led the horse—who I’d taken to calling Franziska because of the similarity to an overly wide cook we once had when we lived in Vienna—over to the fallen branch, which I used as a mounting block. I thanked the saints for providing me the trousers as I tossed my leg across the large breadth of Franziska’s backside. He eyed me with a questioning tolerance while I arranged myself and the reins. I leaned forward and gave him a gentle kick.
He didn’t move.
I kicked harder.
Franziska stomped a foot and tossed his head, almost yanking the reins out of my hands and unseating me.
I racked my brain for the verbal commands I’d learned during my riding days in Switzerland; visualizing the trainer in the ring, it unexpectedly came to me.
“Schritt,” I commanded, pulling out the word so it sounded like shaare-itt, and flapped the reins.
His weight shifted beneath me.
“Tay-rap.” I tried another one. Not that I wanted to trot, but I figured whatever got him moving.
I let out a curse and kicked him.
Franziska moved forward about three steps, then came to a halt. I was fairly certain he just decided to move forward on his own, not due to my foul language.
Okay. This horse is not used to riders, so how do I get a horse used to pulling munitions to move forward? I’d once seen a farmer in France ploughing a field; he’d whistled at the horse when it was time to turn at the end of the field.
I gave a sharp whistle, flicked the reins, and we were off!
Franziska had a sure-footed, loping walk and a gentle rolling canter, which I preferred, but I had difficulty keeping him striding at that pace. He kept slowing into a bone-jarring trot. Eventually, I gave up and reduced him back down to a walk. Even so, we covered distance at least four times faster than my previous limping pace, and Franziska’s broad back allowed me to prop my injured foot up, reducing some of the pain and pressure from the tight boot. Once an hour, I allowed Franziska to graze on whatever he could find that wasn’t covered with snow. At one of the streams, I used a heavy stick to break through the ice to let him drink. Every so often, the crack of a falling branch would rend the air. Luckily, Franziska seemed unfazed by the random noises and continued his steady pace up and down the steep hills.