Cave Dwellers
Page 35
And yet they lurched onward against all odds, slowly gaining altitude and momentum. The staff car panted finally onto a sort of ridge where the road, if no better, was at least reasonably level and gave them a generous view of the countryside. So maybe there was something to this Triumph des Willens business after all.
“Schwalbenthal should be just ahead,” Kohlwasser told the driver. “Around this next bend. Have your weapon ready.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer!” He moved a hand from the shift lever to his sidearm, a large weapon that until now Toby hadn’t paid much mind to; it had seemed just a piece of the overall package, a nifty accessory. Now the man did something to it that produced a sharp, well-lubricated click.
This was, Toby reflected, the first time he’d heard the adjutant actually speak—and what was it about that voice that gave him a little frisson? It might have been the note of happy excitement, as if he’d been waiting for years, since his first days in training and maybe before that, his boyhood in the Hitler Youth, for the moment when a man like Kohlwasser would give him an order like this. Kohlwasser, for his part, looked pretty eager too. Good-bye, intellectual detachment—Toby was beset by a stupid memory of a Laurel and Hardy flick, Babes in Toyland, where all appears lost until one of the hapless heroes gets the bright idea of activating an army of life-sized wooden soldiers. And these ludicrous festive storm troopers come marching out of the toy shop to stomp the furry stuffing out of the bogeymen. The point of connection being, he supposed, that this stiff-assed army had been waiting there, ready for someone to flip the switch, and believe it or not, folks, those toy weapons turned out to be pretty effective.
He shifted he leather case on his lap. It seemed to have gotten heavier.
And then something happened—he’d have to run it through again later to figure out exactly what; it seemed there was a popping noise and the staff car made a dangerous lurch toward the drop-off at the edge of the road. Then another pop and the whole front end seemed to slump. The adjutant stomped on the brake and the car skidded to a crooked halt, the engine revving down with a clatter of overworked pistons. Now Toby could hear a hissing sound, air escaping from somewhere—maybe they’d just had a blowout. But two blowouts, nearly at once?
“Herr Standartenführer!” The adjutant was breathing hard, his voice pitched high with excitement. “I thought for a moment…were we just receiving fire?”
Kohlwasser gave him an angry frown, opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the rocky shoulder, scanning for a full minute the high ground rising jaggedly on the north side of the road. The adjutant meanwhile made a circuit of the car—both tires on the driver’s side were indeed flat, and the front one showed a clean hole through the sidewall. He reported these facts to the Standartenführer, who listened impassively.
“Got any spares?” said Toby, aiming for gung-ho but falling short, landing somewhere in what-the-hell territory.
“Only one,” said the adjutant. “But we have a repair kit.”
Kohlwasser continued to stare at the mountainside as though it were enemy territory. But if somebody had been up there shooting at them, and might be lurking still, keeping them in his sights, the notion didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he looked strangely unruffled, contemplative, almost serene. All right, an unseen opponent had just made a clever move. What should he do to counter it?
This would be the very man, considered Toby, to handle a sticky situation involving scandal at the higher levels of a neutral government, should that prove necessary or advisable. And if he required any sort of compensation, Toby was holding a pretty fungible currency right in his hands.
—
Chief Watchmaster Hans Diehl concluded his tour of the Gasthaus terrace and paused to reflect on what he had learned. Not as much as he would have liked. He was inclined to treat the place as a crime scene—seal it off, assign some men to search the mountainside below for a mysterious parcel that might contain notional “evidence”—only it was far from clear that a crime had actually been committed here. So cross that off. Move on.
“You’ve collected witness statements?” he asked the officer waiting nearby—one of his own, thank God; the fellows from Kassel had no concept of procedure. “They’re all in good order?”
“They are, sir,” the man said, then stepped closer to speak in confidence. He wore a mournful expression that Diehl recognized: the look of a man who’d seen many bad things but had not yet acquired the knack of detachment. “Old Müller, the landlord—he keeps wanting to amend his statement, to make additions. Now he says he was highly suspicious of the couple from Hamburg right from the start. The female especially. And he says their motorcar was not French. It was English.”
“Better leave it there,” Diehl told him, “before it becomes American. All right—you can let the witnesses go. Then we’ll take a look at the documents. And then I’ll go meet the…” He caught himself: not prisoners. “The detainees.”
The next phase of the walk-through brought no greater satisfaction. The chief stood in the front hall by a table that made do for a reception desk, where the following items were laid out: One hotel guestbook, latest entry 2350 hours, 28 May. One U.S. passport issued to Mr. Clairborne Townsend. One SS identity card issued to Obersturmführer Hagen von Ewigholz. One Swiss passport issued to Herr Stian Fogel. One letter addressed to the same Herr Fogel, penned in a florid hand, postmarked Berlin and signed “Your old loving Auntie”—subject of letter: forthcoming visit to Germany, thoughts and advices thereon, greetings to “a certain Fräulein whom we cannot wait to meet!”
The chief took the letter carefully and held it before his nose. There was a faint smell of something…attar of rose, could it be? Who kept attar of rose anymore? “This Fräulein,” he said, “do we think…”
“It may be the female in custody, the one without papers. But that’s only a supposition. Her name is Gretel Bücher. So she says.”
“And the missing papers?”
“Dropped inadvertently off the cliff, according to her statement. Thrown over deliberately, according to witnesses.”
The chief nodded. He turned his attention to the guestbook. “Now these last names here…at 2307 we get the couple from Hamburg. But then at 2350, who’s this? One Samiel Weber, boar hunter. Where’s he?”
“Gone before daybreak, says the landlady. She left biscuits out for him, and they were gone when she came down. And so was the young man, who has not returned.”
“Ah—so he’s a young man, is he?”
“A boy, almost, says the landlady.” The officer hesitated. “The name’s unusual, sir, isn’t it? Samiel?”
Diehl took a breath. Remain calm. “It’s the name of a character in Der Freischütz. Samiel, the black hunter. And Weber’s the name of the composer. What do they teach you in school nowadays?”
The officer looked startled and seemed to be trying to frame a reply. The chief raised a hand, forestalling it. Honestly, he’d prefer not to know.
Was there a clue here? Maybe so. Or maybe just a young man on holiday from the better sort of university, having a snooty laugh. File for later consideration. Move on.
“All right,” he said. “Where are you keeping the, ah…”
“Detainees? This way, sir.”
They ascended a stairway to the top floor, formerly an attic. The chief could remember how it had been and when it had changed, and now it seemed to be changing again, reverting. The air up here was pungent with must. The Müllers were getting old; they were letting things go. At the end of the hallway, the officer opened a small door; the chief stooped under the lintel and straightened again to find himself in a wide room tucked into the hipped roof. The ceiling slanted down on three sides; a row of windows ran along the far wall at about waist height. And here they were, in semi-silhouette: the four objects of a manhunt that had overexcited the press, strained police resources and drawn unwelcome attention from the Gestapo. Truth be told, they didn’t look worth the candle.
A feature of police work—sometimes a help but often a hazard—is that one tends to slot people rather quickly into familiar categories. The chief caught himself doing it now: the SS man was a bully, the boy was annoying but meant no harm, the woman had a temper and bore watching, while the other man, the Swiss…well, here was the problem, if indeed a problem existed, for this one was simply blank, to a degree that made Diehl suspect that the man was making himself purposefully opaque. And there was a slot for that, too.
It had been his intention to sit down and interview these people together on an informal basis—just a friendly chat, with an officer in the background discreetly taking notes. Invite them to tell their story in their own way, decide whether or not it rang true and proceed accordingly. But now he was having second thoughts. Something here felt just a little off. The search had ended successfully, yet the chief wasn’t sure what he had found. Four individuals who seemed to have nothing in common. What were they doing together? Why were they doing it here? He felt as though he’d stepped in on a stage play with plausible characters but no plot.
And then one of the characters—the Bully, stage center—stepped closer until he was staring at the chief eye to eye but from a slightly superior height. If there’d been any doubts about whether Diehl had slotted this one correctly, the Obersturmführer now dispelled them.
“I demand that you release us at once. This young man is an honored guest of the Reich. I am an officer duly assigned to protect him. These are our hiking companions. You have no authority to detain us.”
Hans Diehl felt himself smiling, though he hadn’t meant to. At last, here was some clarity. He hadn’t enjoyed being bullied by a colonel on the telephone from Berlin. He cared even less for the same sort of treatment from a first lieutenant, right here on his own patch. He turned summarily and exited the room, then stood at the head of the staircase, waiting for the sad-looking fellow to catch up.
“We’ll be taking them to the station,” he said. “Round up a couple men to help bring them down. Put the big one in cuffs. Mind you go gently with the Yankee boy.”
A minute later, having scooped up the documents from the reception desk, the chief watchmaster stepped out of the Gasthaus feeling pleasantly invigorated. One at a time, he thought. We’ll have a go at them one at a time, and we’ll save the Swiss for last. Let’s see how long it takes for that mask to crack.
To his surprise, the terrace was fully occupied. None of the witnesses had departed, despite being given leave to, and a few newcomers had shown up in the meantime. Well, no surprise; it was perfect mountain weather. The Müllers were out there as well, chatting up the guests, pouring that awful red stuff for everyone. They were all waiting, he supposed, to see what would happen next. So let them watch. Give them a taste of proper police work.
He barely noticed when, a short while later, as the detainees were being led to the car, the dull clap of a rifle sounded from not far away, followed quickly by another.
“What was that?” said the woman clutching her war novel.
“No cause for alarm,” Diehl assured her. “Just a hunter, I expect.”
—
The White Russian princess could not keep still. She’d climbed out of the little car half an hour ago, complaining that her legs were cramped. She’d paced a bit, walking repeatedly to an old larch tree—one of several nearly identical specimens, but this one seemed to attract her—and then back to the car. She’d lit three cigarettes, taken a few puffs of each and discarded it, wrinkling her nose as if discovering anew that she couldn’t abide tobacco. Now she was standing pensively by a traditional split-rail fence erected by park authorities to mark the limit of automobile access to Frau-Holle-Teich. There was a gate nearby, but she seemed disinclined either to walk through it or to step away and stop looking so damn conspicuous. A group of hikers had passed by a little while ago, greeting her cheerfully, and she’d just stared back at them, as though this time she truly was having trouble with the language. But Cissy had been chirping auf Deutsch from her cradle in Minsk, Guido was fairly certain. Was there a name for stage fright that came on after the show was over? He thought not. But this show wasn’t over, was it? They were in a pause between scenes.
“Come back here, please,” he called to her. “Look, it’s a beautiful spot, why don’t you take some pictures? I’ll put a new roll in.”
“Oh, pictures!” She threw her arms up. “What a stupid idea that was! How does Jaapi expect…and where’s our friend? He should’ve been here ages ago.”
But she was walking back to the car, so that was good.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” he told her. “Everything will be fine.”
“Fine? This is what men say when they mean ‘Well, it could be worse. I’m sorry, old chap, both your legs have been blown off, but cheer up, you’ll be fine.’ ”
Guido laughed. Cissy slipped out of character just for an instant, long enough to let a smile escape.
He glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s still early. We’ll give it a while longer. I’m sure he’s all right.”
“All right? My God, that’s much worse than fine. That means nearly hopeless.”
But it was all right, after all. The young ensign appeared twenty minutes later at the head of the trail with his rifle bag strung tightly at his shoulder, red-faced and running with sweat from the hasty descent. His clothing was torn, and his whole left side showed minor abrasions—he must have stumbled and fallen—but he was otherwise intact and beaming, exhilarated.
“There were three of them,” he said between rapid breaths. “An officer. A driver. And a civilian.”
A civilian…was that something to worry about? No time, Guido decided. “You’d better change your clothes. Then we need to get going. Places to be. Roadblocks to avoid.”
“People to shoot?” said Cissy. “Because if not, perhaps we should get rid of…” She was pointing at the rifle bag, propped now against a fender of the Bugatti.
The two men traded looks. She had a point; and yet…
“Better hang on to it,” Guido said.
—
Months ago in Washington, Oskar had seen a travel poster captioned, “Motoring in the New Germany.” And here he was, enjoying that experience in its most quintessential form, in the back seat of a police car.
He sat jammed between Lena and Hagen, the latter in handcuffs. The mournful policeman was at the wheel with a colleague half-turned in the passenger seat, keeping an eye on them. Clair rode in another car, just ahead, with the officer in charge, the district Hauptwachtmeister. The little motorcade was taking its time on the mountain roads, pausing at forks, riding the brakes down the inclines, easing over the ridges as though allowing the prisoners a last good look at the Fatherland, in what might prove to be its last peaceful summer.
Just past the turnoff for Frau Holle’s Well, at a spot where the road narrowed to bridge a stream, they encountered a roadblock. Even from his disadvantaged viewpoint, Oskar could see that this was no ordinary police setup. A black Opel sat parked by the bridge at such an angle as to impede traffic. Two men in leather coats stood beside it, one of them cradling an MP-38, a new and remarkably ugly weapon that had not existed when Oskar was traini
ng at Lichterfelde. He’d fired one at the Abwehr school in Bremen and remembered two things about it: the touchy trigger and the mess it made of the target. The army was said to be buying them as fast as they could be stamped out, but as usual, the SS had gotten there first and begun issuing them on a priority basis to the Gestapo. And now one of them was pointed in the general direction of Clair in the car ahead as it rolled to a halt. The Gestapo men came up along both sides of it, peering through the windows. The fact that it was a police vehicle, clearly marked, seemed not to concern them.
The mournful officer had his window down—it was summer, the car was hot—and now he stuck his head out, trying to hear what was going on. Lena rolled hers down as well; no one stopped her, since the policemen now had other things to worry about. Oskar could make out two voices that sounded confrontational. But no shouting, not yet. And the Gestapo men looked calm enough, their bearing a sort of arrogant nonchalance. Still, they were blocking the road, the only way out.
“Do something, damn it,” muttered Hagen.
Who was he talking to? What could he possibly have in mind?
A door of the car ahead opened slowly, and for a few long moments that was all; no one stepped out, and the nearest Gestapo man came around to peer in quizzically. When a hand emerged, apparently seeking assistance, he hesitated but finally gave it a helpful pull. Out behind it came the chief watchmaster, holding an assortment of papers, a few of which fluttered loose and blew across the roadway. The Gestapo man chased them down while his partner stepped around the car and exchanged a few words with the chief, seemingly humorous. The two of them shook hands. The first man returned with the errant papers and acknowledged the chief’s thank-you with a shrug. Somehow, the standoff had become a collegial roadside conference. This Hauptwachtmeister, Oskar decided, was a genius.