by Ellen Butler
I laughed. “Have you lost your mind? We’ll be shot down as soon as we cross the border.”
“Into Switzerland, then,” the captain said.
My laugh turned into a gasp. “Don’t be foolish. We’ve bombed Zurich. Accident or not, the Swiss are not happy with the Allies, and they are no longer escorting random planes flying into their airspace to their airfields. They are shooting them down. It’s a foolish risk.” My gaze turned fully onto Blaus. “I am surprised you would even suggest something so hazardous.”
“We are confident we can make a safe drop,” Blaus said in a matter-of-fact tone. “The drop zone is a farm just across the border.”
“Let us say, even if I can locate another agent in the area willing to go on this insane mission, what if he doesn’t have jump training?” I shook my head. “Forget it. We enter Switzerland by train or on foot, and we train into Germany. Our visas will have to be for business. But what kind ... and who can I find to accompany me?” I stared sightlessly, picking at a hangnail, and speculated out loud, “If I can locate Luc, he was a Résistance fighter I once worked with, maybe...”
Blaus cleared his throat. “May I point out, you are sitting in the heart of an elite fighting force. Jump trained. Weapons trained, and seasoned in the field.”
I gritted my teeth. “None of them are trained in espionage and even less likely to speak German.”
Blaus reached into a different pocket and withdrew a small scrap of paper. “I have a list of four potential candidates who speak the language. Three meet the height requirements.”
“No.”
“But—”
“I said no. I will not return behind enemy lines, a marked woman, with an untrained operative. Nor would I ask any of these men to go AWOL and risk internment, or worse, for some Lordy-Lord of the British Empire. I’ll go alone before I risk a single hair on any one of these men’s heads,” I said with quiet vehemence.
“They wouldn’t be considered AWOL. These men have permission from General McAuliffe,” said Fitzgerald.
I think my mouth hit the floor. “McAuliffe approved this mission?”
“He approved the use of one of his men to help with an RAF rescue mission.”
“In other words he has no idea what his man is getting into.”
“Need to know,” Blaus explained.
“More like, didn’t want to know,” I muttered.
Blaus shrugged. So, they wanted me to ask a weary soldier—who was supposed to be returning to the relative safety of Mourmelon, a reprieve from the front lines—to give up his seat on the next truck heading west and go with me into the Nazi stronghold. I ground my teeth and we all stared at each other.
“Let me see the list.”
I almost hoped that Jake would be on the list. His German was passable, but he didn’t meet the height requirements. I recognized only one name, Sergeant John Feinberg. His parents immigrated to the States after WWI. He had a narrow face, distinct overbite, wiry physique, and according to the intelligence, he spoke the language like a native. We’d shared an early-morning breakfast together last week. He was another Normandy vet. His family owned a garage and gas station in Toledo, and his brother had been sent home six months ago after losing his leg in Italy.
None of the other names on the list rang a bell, but I knew putting my finger on any one of them could mark the soldier for death. Did I go with the man I knew, or pick a stranger who might have had a girlfriend or wife and young child at home? In the end, I chose Feinberg, because he looked German and seemed to be the type of guy who wouldn’t flinch in the face of a Nazi border guard.
Later, when I approached him with the proposal, Feinberg never hesitated. “So, it’s a rescue mission?”
“Yes, but there is a high risk we could be captured or killed.” I enunciated every word.
“I see.”
“If we are captured, our government will disavow any knowledge of our mission. No one will come to our rescue. Your dog tags must remain behind. You will not be going in as a serviceman, you will be entering the country as a spy, and, if captured, we will be executed for espionage or worse.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Not a rescue like this. No.”
“But you were in Germany and got out. Right?”
“Yes, but I didn’t escape unscathed.”
“I heard about that.” His head bobbed.
He confirmed what I already feared; my anonymity had become nonexistent.
“When do we start?”
With that, Operation Pony Express was born.
A few hours later, my hair had been colored a muddy brown with gray streaks and pulled back into a tight bun. My eyebrows were darkened and thickened and a pair of black-rimmed glasses added. The glasses, along with strategically placed makeup, covered the remnants of the bruising and went with the new suit and shoes I found hanging in my closet.
I trimmed the sergeant’s hair and he shaved his scruffy beard for the photos Blaus needed to complete our identification, ration, licenses, and proof-of-residence cards. The Germans were obsessed with paperwork, and the SOE had already prepped the documents, which was why the person accompanying me needed to meet certain requirements. Back in November, the OSS gave me three weeks to prepare and memorize my backstory before dropping me into Austria. Granted, Pony Express was to be an in-and-out mission, but it was still minimal time to memorize our back stories and provided me one more cause for heartburn.
Blaus supplied John with a suit, tie, overcoat, and Swiss watch. All had been either brought out by other agents or replicated with an eye for detail. Both the SOE and OSS had costume departments to rival the largest Hollywood production. The clothes were apt for Feinberg’s new role as a Swiss banker intent on meeting with Nazi Party members interested in opening new accounts. I would be posing as his secretary. We were both Swiss-born citizens.
I fell asleep memorizing my cover story.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Rescue
The ropes bit into my wrists as I struggled against them. A dark figure loomed in the corner, sniggering at my hopeless exertion. The red tip of the cigarette burned bright as he sucked in the tobacco, and smoke slithered out his nose like an escaping soul. He stepped into the circle of light emanating from the old oil lantern and leaned toward me. Captain Müller’s breath brushed my cheek.
“Now it is your turn, fräulein,” he sneered, then pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pressed it against my flesh.
I screamed and screamed, pushing at the figure.
“Lily, wake up! It is okay, you’re safe. You are safe.”
I drew out of the depths of the nightmare to find strong hands at my shoulders and a dark figure above me.
“Ch-Charlie? Is that you?”
Warm arms wrapped around me and my face buried into a familiar chest. The lingering nightmare’s aroma of cigarettes dissipated as his musky scent enveloped me.
My fingers gripped his biceps with relief. “Charlie, oh, thank God, it is you. I was back in that filthy room, tied to that chair,” I babbled.
I’d spent the last week working hard, staying up late, and falling into bed exhausted, which had probably kept the nightmares at bay.
“Shh, it’s okay. You are safe. I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.” He rocked me and mumbled the soothing inanities. “They will never touch you again.”
Even as he spoke the comforting words, I realized the reason for the nightmare likely stemmed from my upcoming mission. A mission that Charlie was not privy to. Jake had been told that my plans were changed and I wouldn’t be catching a ride with him in the morning. Feinberg, sworn to secrecy, was spending his last night bunked with the RAF pilot.
I’d lied to Charlie in the past, and it had caused a gulf between us, which had yet to be fully repaired. He had treated me with cordial respect since I found the St. Christopher medal, and a few times I’d caught him staring at me with an unfathomable look, but he’d been called up to regimental HQ and
we’d not gotten time alone again. Our conversation remained unfinished. If we were to get back on track, I simply could not hide the truth from him again.
“Charlie, there is something I must tell you.”
“Sh, I’m sure whatever it is will keep until morning.”
“No.” I pushed him away. “It won’t. I’m leaving at oh-six-hundred on another mission.”
He ran a finger through my colored locks. “I wondered what inspired the new style.”
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
“Where are they sending you?”
I chewed my lip. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”
“You are going back in?” He frowned.
I sighed.
“Jesus. You know we are moving closer every day. Why are they putting your life at risk? If they catch you...” He pulled me to his chest so tight I could hardly breathe.
“Charlie ... Charlie.” I tapped a shoulder and his arms relaxed from its smothering hold. “I can’t tell you more. But know it is important.” At least it’s important to the King of England. “And it shouldn’t take but a few days.”
“I don’t want you to go.” He ran a gentle finger down my cheek and across my chin. “Must you?”
His tender plea brought the sting of tears to my eyes. “Truly, the mission is not so dangerous.”
“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have asked. I just...”
“Oh, Charlie—”
His lips came down hard upon mine, and I stroked the supple skin on his naked back, wishing I could stay cloaked by his warm body forever.
Charlie didn’t leave my bed that night. Our lovemaking wasn’t Paris’s languorous and tender coupling. It was desperate and unforgiving, between two people who had no more nights left. The desperation fueled our passion and he drove into me almost frantically, like he wanted to climb inside my soul. Little did he know ... he’d already done so.
♠♠♠♠
The memories of our joining taunted me as the train swayed, its repetitive motion mind-numbing enough to relax me into a false sense of security.
It turned out to be a good thing that we’d chosen a paratrooper, because we ended up having to make a jump. It was the easiest and quickest way to get us to Thonon les Bains, once a bustling tourist town on the edge of the Lac Léman, known on the Swiss side as Lake Geneva. Transporting into Switzerland by boat, crossing the frigid waters under cover of darkness cut out having to obtain or create another set of false papers to get into Switzerland. It would give the illusion we’d originated in country and hopefully keep us off the German intelligence radar. Switzerland housed a hotbed of spies from all sides, and new entries were monitored closely.
We picked up the visas to get us into Germany in Bern, Switzerland. The SOE had an office in Bern, and Blaus arranged for a package to be left at a prearranged dead drop. The package contained paperwork, codes for meeting our contact in Germany, and for identifying our RAF pilot. It was also in Bern where we caught the train to Zurich. From Zurich, we boarded a different train to take us north into German territory. Though Germany sent regular trains through Switzerland to provide supplies to their forces in Italy, few passenger trains traveled across the Swiss-German borders these days, and it was the reason our timeline had been so tight. We could not afford to miss the train going in, nor its return coming out.
It all sounded so easy when discussed in front of a roaring fire, sitting comfortably ensconced in a velvet chair. Now, in the relative luxury of a first-class cabin, watching the stark, snowy Swiss countryside streak past the window with the German border looming closer, I wondered if I’d been skillfully brainwashed back in France. How else could I justify agreeing to this cockamamie mission?
Feinberg tugged at his coat sleeves and shifted again. Normally, agents traveling on the same train didn’t sit together. My refusal to leave Feinberg, an untrained agent, on his own was part of the reason Blaus tied our cover stories together. If we’d been alone in the compartment, I would’ve provided words of reassurance. However, a gentleman in a natty brown coat and black fedora joined us during the Zurich stop, and our limited conversation, by nature, turned inconsequential. I pulled a copy of Neue Zürcher Zeitung, a Swiss newspaper, out of my large tote bag and offered it to my partner. He unfolded the paper without comment.
It wasn’t long before the landscape no longer soothed me, and I dived back into the bag to retrieve a copy of Buddenbrooks, by Thomas Mann, a novel I picked up at a shop near the train station. However, I soon found that I couldn’t concentrate on the bourgeois storyline, and my eyes scanned the pages without actually reading them.
A few differences stood out from the last time I was in country. First, I had the necessary papers for my return to Switzerland. I also carried the British pilot’s papers secreted within the lining of my bag. Second, a small white pill of cyanide nestled in a broach pinned to my dress. John had also been given one. Instead of keeping it in my handbag, I’d foolishly secreted the pill that I’d been given when I moved into the colonel’s home in the spine of a copy of Mein Kampf. Having no interest in repeating the mistakes of my last capture, I was confident I’d have the wherewithal to swallow the pill should it become necessary.
The drawback to our plan—the train didn’t stop immediately over the German border to release us close to our quarry. We couldn’t debark until Tuttlingen, overshooting our destination by eighty kilometers. We’d be forced to backtrack, and it put me far closer to Oberndorf than I would have preferred.
Barbed wire fencing flashed past the window. The train slowed and soon came to a halt. We had crossed the border. An SS Stormtrooper and dog stood outside our window. It only took a few minutes before the train began moving again, but I knew that didn’t mean we were safe. The stop allowed the German police to board. Officers would soon be visiting every car, checking IDs and visas and questioning passengers. Being in the forward cars of first class, it didn’t take long for the guard to get to our compartment.
The door slid open. “Ausweis und Fahrkarte, bitte.” Identification and tickets, please.
Brown suit handed his over and I retrieved mine from my handbag. Feinberg checked the interior pockets of his overcoat to no avail. He shot me a wide-eyed panicked look. I subtly patted my right hip before handing my papers to the waiting officer. The sergeant unbuttoned his overcoat and found the papers in his suit pocket. I could feel his breath against my cheek as he sighed in audible relief.
The officer asked what my business was, where I’d be staying, and when I’d be departing. The prearranged answers rolled off my tongue. My papers were stamped and returned, and I waited with bated breath as he turned to Feinberg. To my surprise, the sergeant’s hand didn’t quiver as he passed the documents over, and he answered all the questions in a flippantly bored tone without a single slipup. Satisfied with everyone’s answers, the guard remained no longer, allowing the compartment door to slam shut behind him as he left.
Feinberg didn’t make eye contact with me; instead he returned to his newspaper, snapping it up in front of his face in a businesslike manner, as though the entire incident was simply an annoying distraction to his day. He carried himself well, and though I wouldn’t have considered Feinberg handsome in the traditional sense, the suit gave him a confidence that made him attractive. You never would have guessed seventy-two hours ago this man looked like a ragged bum carrying a lethal weapon, and I had no doubt he could snap the policeman’s neck with one twist of his long fingers.
The train finally pulled in to the Tuttlingen station and we disembarked. A few passengers got off with us, and the platform quickly cleared of boarding travelers heading on to Stuttgart. The only people left were those exiting the train and a handful of SS Stormtroopers. One of them had a dog. Feinberg and I followed the tiny crowd, keeping our eyes straight ahead and walking with a swift gait. A guard patrolling the platform stopped the gray-haired woman in front of us and requested her papers. My stomach p
lummeted. Feinberg paused his steps, but I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and, with a gentle pressure, got him moving forward. We ambled around the guard, to the end of the platform, and down the stairs unmolested. It would be bad news for us to be stopped and questioned here. Our tickets were paid through to Stuttgart, and we’d prepared reasons for getting off early, but it would be best not to interact at all.
The small crowd scattered as we reached the foot of the stairwell, but I paused until an older gentleman with a black hat and blue scarf made eye contact with me. Nonchalantly, I pulled a pair of green knit gloves from my pocket and put them on. Blue scarf lit a cigarette, then turned and walked down the street. We trotted behind at a distance while keeping him in our sights.
Footsteps dogged us and I loitered in front of a barbershop window to check for a tail. We waited for a dark-haired woman to pass us before continuing onward. The black hat turned right, and Feinberg increased his stride to catch up, but I tightened my grip to slow his gait. By the time we made the turn, blue scarf lingered halfway down the block. He glanced up, took one last drag, threw the cigarette down, and crushed the butt with the toe of his shoe. Again, we lost sight of him as he swiftly disappeared up a side alley.
I worked to keep my breaths even as we approached the flattened cigarette. This was one of the most dangerous moments in our mission. It was the moment when we determined whether or not the contact was still “our man” and not “theirs.” A beige Volkswagen Steyr sat silently on the road next to the butt. Feinberg reached for the door and held it open for me. I hesitated for a moment before climbing inside. The sergeant walked around the front of the vehicle and folded his long legs behind the wheel. One swift tug of the chrome handle on the glove box revealed the keys. I passed them to my partner and unfolded the map that had also been left in the box. His fingers shook so much he couldn’t get the key into the ignition.
I placed a hand upon his forearm. “Steady on, you are doing fine,” I whispered in German. English may have comforted him more; however, we’d agreed not to speak anything but German once we crossed into Switzerland. I wanted his mind and ear tuned to the language in hopes it would reduce the likelihood he’d make a mistake.