by Ellen Butler
“We turned here.” I pointed.
“Yes, but I can’t figure out if we took this turning or the next. Which would either put us somewhere around here or farther north.” Nigel’s square finger tapped against my knee.
“No, no, we turned left, then right.”
“Are you sure?”
I stared at the crossroads and turnings, uncertain if the streets we drove were marked on the map. “No, I am not sure of anything.” I sighed, rubbing my eyes, and pictured Charlie’s fingers curling around my pendant. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a compass right now.”
“How about a kiss?” John mumbled from the back seat.
“I think you’re right, Nigel.” I refocused on the map. “We are somewhere around here.”
“Would you give a kiss?” John asked again.
Nigel and I shared a puzzled expression. “Are you hallucinating, Yank?”
I turned in my seat. “John?”
“You said, ‘What I wouldn’t give for a compass right now.’ Would you give a kiss?” He spoke in a thready voice, but his brows wiggled as he fumbled with the top collar button on his coat. With a tug, he pulled it free. “You’ll find the compass inside. Compliments of your British friend, Captain Fitzgerald.”
I plucked the petite brass button out of the palm of his hand and pulled the two pieces apart. I’d heard about compass buttons but had never seen one in person. It was even smaller than Charlie’s. The little black arrow bobbed cheerfully in its liquid casing, and for the first time since I agreed to this mission, a smile spread across my face.
“Oh, you beauty.” I pushed myself over the dividing seat and planted a smacking kiss on John’s mouth.
John beamed and it brought some of the color back into his cheeks.
“All right, now, if we are handing out kisses, what about me?” Nigel whined.
“What about you?” My brows rose.
“I helped you sew this bloke up, didn’t I?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes.” I grabbed Nigel’s ears and gave him a kiss on each cheek, which brought a ruddy blush and grin to his face. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
“I hope the car restarts.”
“Shush.” I pushed the clutch and brake, cranked the key, and like music to my ears, the Volkswagen roared to life.
The petrol marker wiggled dangerously low, and as much as I wished to put my foot to the floor, I kept the Volkswagen at a staid forty-five kilometers per hour. It was just one more reason my body was as tense as an overstretched violin string. The sun dipped lower in the sky by the minute, and I worried about driving the slick roads at night without lights. The increase of military presence didn’t help my nerves either; twice I pulled to the side of the road to allow military cavalcades to pass. We now headed south on one of the main roads leading to the town of Bad Säckingen, where we could cross over into the Swiss village of Stein am Rhein.
All of us had proper papers to get into Switzerland—at least they seemed up to snuff, considering there were no problems on the train. I’d compared the falsified stamp on Nigel’s papers to the stamp we received on the train. The differences were negligible and could easily have been attributed to an older stamp pad. I debated taking the vehicle into Switzerland or abandoning it in Germany. I still didn’t know if it had been reported stolen, and if so, would the border guards have been notified? With the Allied fronts moving forward so quickly, communication breakdowns were on the rise. Additionally, even though Nigel and I had done our best to clean up after suturing John, remnants of his blood remained on the seats and floorboards. If we were asked to get out of the car...
However, all my concerns would become moot if I ran out of petrol. As the only able-bodied member of this troupe, I was now in charge of the lives of two injured men, neither of whom were particularly mobile. I had no idea how long either could hold up if we had to walk, and the thought of rowing across the Rhine in another leaking boat held zero appeal.
Finally, signs for the town of Bad Säckingen came into view, and I coasted to a stop as we entered the village.
“It’s time to wake John,” I said quietly.
“I’m awake,” he whispered and leaned forward so we could speak in low tones.
“Nigel, speak nothing but French, and both of you watch out for English. If they become suspicious, they’ll start throwing English words at you to try to catch you. Do. Not. React.”
“Are we expecting trouble?” Nigel asked.
“One never knows. Our visas should be fine, but our transit papers...” I shrugged. “Just let me do the talking as much as possible.” I wrestled to loosen the money belt beneath my skirt.
“What the devil are you doing?” Nigel asked.
“Preparing to provide a little extra incentive in case we need it. Pull out a handful, Nigel, and stick it in your pocket.”
“Where did you get it?” John whispered.
“Compliments of Mr. Blaus. It’s probably counterfeit.”
A few of the buildings crumbled with bomb damage, and with the sun having disappeared behind the tree line, pedestrians were few and far between. Most were likely sitting behind blackout curtains, eating whatever miniscule evening meal their ration cards had purchased for the day. Nigel turned out to be an excellent navigator. The ancient covered bridge that would lead us into Switzerland soon came into view. A Volkssturm border guard stood next to a small, square shack.
The sight of the elderly Volkssturm had me breathing a sigh of relief, and I pulled up to the empty checkpoint with a smile and papers at the ready.
“Ausweis, bitte.” Identification, please, the white-haired gentleman said in a bored tone.
I handed them into his rough, liver-spotted hands.
The sunken sun left only a few of its gentle rays in the waning dusk, forcing the guard to hold the papers close to his face. “Johann Kraus?” He stuck his globular nose into my window.
“Hier.” John leaned forward so the guard could see his face.
The man grunted, then perused Nigel’s documents. “Wo wollen Sie hin?” Where to?
“On to Zurich,” I answered and the car gave a funny cough. Please don’t let us run out of gas. Not here.
He gave another grunt and was about to return the documents to me when another voice paused his hand.
“Ich habe dir Abendessen gebracht, Onkel.” I have brought your dinner, Uncle. The voice came from a younger man. “What have we here?”
My side mirror showed an SS soldier approaching.
“Nichts, two Swiss businessmen and their secretary returning home. Put the plate on my bench. I will get to it in a moment.”
The soldier came to stand by the Volkssturm. I studied his blond hair. My breath hitched and beads of cold sweat popped out all over my body. It was the young Sturmmann from the bus to Dornstetten. Surreptitiously, I used the seat back to push my hat farther forward down my forehead, and I rolled my shoulders forward to present a hunched appearance.
“Guten Abend.” Good evening. The Sturmmann bent to look in the vehicle. “Ach, why does the secretary drive two men? The Swiss way, ja?” he asked in a jovial needling manner.
Our gazes met straight on, for I didn’t want to allow him time to survey my profile, knowing he’d spent the better part of the Dornstetten bus trip studying it. “Unfortunately, my colleagues were recently injured in the Zurich bombing and can’t manage on their own.”
“Those American Schwein, think they are bombing us and end up bombing you. Maybe they need new maps, eh?” He winked. “Or perhaps you Swiss are not so neutral after all? Soon we will come for you.”
I didn’t wish to provoke an altercation, so I schooled my features into a blank face. Nobody in the car spoke up to defend against the insults.
The young officer studied me for a moment. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I laid my hand on the stick shift, ready to pop it into gear and run them down if need be. I desperately wanted to request our documents be retur
ned, but I held my tongue. And prayed my disguise went deep enough.
A bike wheeled up behind the vehicle and caught the soldier’s attention. “Be on your way,” he grunted and strode to the back of the car, where I heard him greet the bicyclist.
The old man returned our papers and we motored forward. The boards creaked beneath the weight of the vehicle and thunked over every seam as we drove through the two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old covered bridge into Switzerland, but I didn’t relax until the Swiss border patrol stamped our papers and waved us forward into the village of Stein am Rhein.
We ran out of gas fifty meters past the checkpoint. The vehicle coasted to the shoulder. John shifted and a spring creaked. Nigel slipped a cigarette into his mouth. The match scraped against his boot and flared briefly.
I could feel it bubbling up my throat. I swallowed in an effort to press it down and held tight to the steering wheel. To my dismay it shifted, presenting as a quiver in my shoulders, which turned into an uncontrollable quaking. I could no longer hold it in, and the hysterical laughter burst forth. In the darkness, I felt my seat mates’ stares.
“That’s right, love, let it out.” Nigel patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “We’ve done the thing and you were brilliant. For a moment, I thought that Nazi boy was going to cause us trouble.”
The laughter shook my whole body and came so forcefully I had trouble catching my breath. Soon my cohorts were chortling right along with me.
Eventually, the hysterics died down and I pulled myself together. Sucking big gulps of breath, I wiped the tears away. “You don’t understand”—my voice grated hoarsely—“I recognized him. He tried to get friendly during my first escape. He gave me his handkerchief.”
The vehicle went as silent as a spigot turning off. Nigel’s cigarette glowed brightly and I heard the crinkle of the burning tobacco. Its smoke surrounded us like a hazy cloud. Far-off explosions shook the ground and rattled the car.
“I need a goddamn drink,” Feinberg murmured.
“Me too, mate.”
“And a hospital. Let me see if I can beg, borrow, or bribe someone for fuel.”
Chapter Twenty-three
In Need of a Miracle
I traded the car to a local villager for a night’s lodging and a ride, the next morning, to the closest train station. By the time we made it to Bern, John’s forehead burned with fever, and though he didn’t complain, every jostle of the train pained him. Our first stop was a hospital, where his bullet wound could be properly cleaned and re-sutured. I checked him and Nigel in under their cover identities, since that was the only paperwork we had, and made up a story about how they’d acquired their injuries. These were hard times, and the doctors didn’t ask too many questions. Even though Switzerland remained a neutral country, Gestapo spies were everywhere, and we risked a knife to the back should we be identified. John’s situation did not look good, and I feared the doctors would amputate the arm if he didn’t receive penicillin to stop the infection.
I’d been given a phone number to memorize when I took up my post in Oberndorf. If I had to leave Germany and successfully made it into Switzerland, the number was to be used to make contact with the OSS. While Nigel’s injuries were seen to, I prowled the hospital halls, finally stumbling across a private office with a telephone.
“Geffen Shipping and Trading,” a woman’s voice chirped in French.
“The pigeon flew the coop.”
“Hold the line please.”
A series of clicking sounds happened, then a male voice came on. “Code name.”
“Fleur-di-lis.”
“Do you have company?”
“I’m alone.”
“Your emergency?”
“I need penicillin. Our mission went bad. My partner was injured.”
“Where are you?”
“Bern, Switzerland.”
“Take him to the local hospital.”
“I’m at the hospital. The wound is infected. If he doesn’t get the antibiotics, they’ll take the arm.”
“Go to the Café Turnhalle on Speichergasse 4. Your contact will be wearing a brown overcoat with a white scarf. He’ll have a French copy of War and Peace.”
“Will he have the penicillin?”
“Negative. He’ll bring you in.”
“I don’t need to be brought in. I need the medicine.”
“Go to the Café Turnhalle—”
“Forget it, I’m not leaving my partner.” I hung up and, with dragging steps, returned to check on my patients.
Nigel modeled a new white plaster cast and reclined on a pair of pillows. The dormitory-style room housed a dozen beds, all full, Nigel’s closest to the door. He smiled as I approached. “How is the other fellow?” His French was quite good but spoken with a distinct English accent.
Nigel’s French accent should have troubled me more, but for the moment, John’s situation remained my uppermost concern. Something in my expression gave my thoughts away.
“Bad?”
“The wound’s infected. He needs penicillin or he’ll lose the arm.”
“Have you anyone you can contact?”
“I just did.” I shook my head.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled in English. “Hand me those trousers.”
“No, Nigel. What are you doing? You need to rest. Get back into bed,” I hissed in French.
“We are going to the British Embassy. Blast. I can’t get these trousers over the cast. They’ll need to be cut.”
“Nigel. Stop it. You can’t get out of bed.”
His brows furrowed. “Are you going to get me something to cut these trousers or am I going to have to do it myself?”
I lost the staring contest. “Fine. Wait here.”
Two hours later, I walked out of the British Embassy with my hopes flagging. Nigel, or Lord Graydon as I learned, had been treated like the prodigal son returned, and though they were thrilled to have their royalty out of German hands, they claimed not to have access to the necessary antibiotics. I left Nigel enjoying a cup of tea in the embassy’s capable hands, the staff readying a room for him for the night. Nigel talked me up at the embassy, and they were kind enough to offer me accommodations as well, but I declined. Instead, I returned to the hospital to check on John.
The doctors had given him something to abate the fever and dull the pain, but the sergeant claimed the wound burned like a firestorm anytime he shifted. His coloring was pale and his brow permanently furrowed with discomfort. I promised him the medicine would be coming and his arm would improve once he had it. The assurances assuaged some of the concern writ over his face.
I resolved to, in the morning, hunt down Allen Dulles, the head of Bern OSS operations, and wring his neck until he coughed up the penicillin or directed me to someone who would.
I awoke in the middle of the night to find a man in a white doctor’s lab coat administering a shot to John. It took me a moment to come fully awake and realize I didn’t recognize the doctor. Thoughts of poison had me flying out of the uncomfortable wooden chair at him like an angry tornado.
“Was ist das?” What is that? I grabbed his wrist.
“Calm yourself, fräulein. It is the medicine you have been looking for.” He responded in German but, with his other hand, held up a vial written in English: PENICILLIN.
I released his arm. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Franz. I apologize. Your message was delayed, otherwise I would have arrived sooner. We have two nurses and an orderly on our payroll who are willing to keep an eye on your patient.”
“Thank you.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “I didn’t think anyone was going to help him.”
He adjusted his glasses and pulled a piece of paper from his lab coat pocket. “You need to get some rest. Here is the address of a gasthaus. A reservation has been made in your name. You are expected.”
The next morning John’s fever broke and the swelling dissipated.
Five days after crossing the borde
r into Switzerland, Franz’s crew arranged for our safe passage out of Switzerland into Allied-occupied France. We headed toward Mourmelon, where John could return to his company. When Nigel discovered we were leaving, he asked to hitch a ride with us. He had orders to report to Châteaudun, an Allied airbase north of Mourmelon, where he would catch a flight back to Britain. He declared a fondness for our company and determined to continue with us for our last leg of the journey. My own directive remained unchanged—report to Paris. I loosely interpreted the order to mean after I escorted John back to the 101st. Our trio set out with fresh papers restoring our identities.
My first impression of the army city could best be described as brown. Muddy, half-frozen roads were lined with faded brown tents. A platoon of soldiers, dressed in shades of chocolate, marched in precise rows. The tents were occasionally broken up by wooden barrack-style buildings, and in the distance, planes roared overhead as they came in for approach on the landing strip.
The brown city buzzed with activity, and we were misdirected twice before locating battalion headquarters for the sergeant’s company. Our ride finally stopped in front of one of the wooden buildings. I helped Feinberg out of the ambulance transport, thanked the driver, and turned to find Nigel in the doorway of the building.
“Must pay my respects to your commanding officer for sending you Yanks to rescue me,” Nigel said by way of explanation and crutched his way into a barren foyer with scratched wooden floors and the musty smell that comes with water damage.
A door to our left opened and the foyer filled with male voices. A dozen or more captains, lieutenants, and sergeants filed out of the room. Some milled in the foyer carrying on conversations; others passed us on their way out the front door.
Glassman’s eyes alighted on our little troop and he came over to greet us. He was clean shaven and his new uniform sported the gold bar of a second lieutenant.
“Glad to see you’ve returned.” Glassman shook hands with the sergeant, eyeing the arm in the sling. “What happened?”