Never as wicked as Berlin, Leipzig had been a cosmopolitan city long before the war. Practical, Protestant, and liberal, it was not a place where the Nazis or any of the other right-wing parties prospered. Not that it mattered; by the spring of 1945, liberal, democratic Leipzig had been pounded into the ground just as methodically as every other German city. Still, if he looked closely, he could see shadowy figures moving through the rubble by ones and twos, clutching each other for support as they negotiated the rubble. Survivors. As he drew closer, he saw their faces showed the same numb, wide-eyed helplessness once reserved for the people of London, Coventry, and Manchester. Bromley would be so pleased, he thought.
It was nearly 4:00 a.m. He had little more than two hours of darkness left, and his progress through the rubble-strewn streets had slowed to a crawl. Reluctantly, he abandoned the bicycle and set out on foot. The damage appeared to be random, but finding the neighborhood, much less the street, would be difficult. However, as he got closer to the rail yards, while many of the buildings were badly damaged, a few on Horstmann’s street were still standing, albeit dark and abandoned, including what was left of the boarded-up bookshop. There was a new, gaping hole in the roof, part of the end wall was open to the night, and the boards over most of the windows had been blown off; but the other walls were still standing.
Scanlon circled the block, looking for any surveillance. He saw nothing suspicious, so he drew an even tighter circle around the building. Still, he saw nothing. Finally, he worked his way to the building’s rear side. The outer cellar door was missing, but the familiar, dark stairwell leading to the basement was still there. He pulled out the Luger as he went down. “Georg,” he whispered down the stairs. “Georg Horstmann, are you in there?” After getting nothing in reply but silence, he crept to the makeshift door and knocked. “Georg, open up. It’s me, Scanlon.”
Finally, he heard a familiar shuffling on the other side and the rattle of a dead bolt. When the old man finally opened the door a crack, he held the stub of a lit candle in his hand and raised it up to try to see outside. Squinting, all the old man could see was the dim figure of a man in a Luftwaffe uniform standing in his stairwell. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said with those sad, knowing eyes as he saw the face. “Is it really you?”
“I’m afraid so, Georg,” Scanlon said as he brushed past him and closed the door.
“Then you are a bigger fool than I thought you were, my boy.”
“Always was, Georg, always was.” This was hardly the welcome he expected. They had always been friends, and now he desperately needed the old man’s help if he ever hoped to find Hanni. If she was still alive and in Leipzig, Horstmann would know where she was. If he did not, Scanlon’s only choice was to break down the doors of Gestapo headquarters and beat the truth out of Otto Dietrich.
Even by the dim light of the small candle, the dank basement had not changed much. Neither had Horstmann, he thought as he looked at the old man’s craggy face, his disheveled mane of white hair, and his thin, bony frame. Maybe it was a knock on his door in the middle of the night, but Horstmann looked badly worn. He should have been glad to see the young American, for old time’s sake if nothing else, but he was not.
“I’m bone tired, Georg,” he said. “I’ve been biking and walking across half of Saxony tonight, and I don’t have a lot of time.”
The old man ignored him, put a dented old teakettle on a small Sterno stove, and lit the wick. “Then you need a cup of tea, Edward.”
Scanlon started to argue, but knew that would be a waste of time. He truly was exhausted, and the tea sounded good. “Where is Hanni?” he asked.
“Hanni?” The old man turned and stared at him for a long, painful moment, and then turned away again, shaking his head. “Leave it alone, boy, leave it alone,” he said, refusing to look at Scanlon.
“Georg, I must find her; where is she?” he asked, his voice taking on a sharp, angry edge. Old friend or not, exhausted or not, Scanlon was in no mood for games.
“Those days are gone, boy, gone forever; and it is better you let them stay that way.”
Frustrated, Scanlon stepped forward and grabbed the front of Horstmann’s shirt in a tight fist. Firmly but insistently, he pushed the frail old man back against the wall.
Georg looked up at him. He was surprised, but he showed no fear. “Is this how you treat an old friend?” he asked.
“Not if you start acting like one. Where is she?”
Horstmann turned his eyes away again and Scanlon let him go; both men were embarrassed that it had gone that far. “You should not have come back, Edward. You will not like what you find here.”
“I’ll take my chances. The Russians say she is alive.”
“The Russians,” Horstmann sighed heavily. “They told you that? Those two-faced bastards. There was a time they were on our side, but that ended long, long ago. Now, they are no better than the Nazis or the British. All they care about is themselves.”
Scanlon studied the old man’s face and realized for the first time that Bromley had not been lying. She really was alive. “They say she has gone operational again, that she’s in touch with Moscow Center, with Beria himself.”
“Hanni? Talking to Beria?” The old man looked surprised as he scratched his head and Scanlon’s words sank in. “Otto Dietrich has her, so you know what that means. But Hanni, talking with Beria? … Yes, now I see,” he said as he looked up at Scanlon. “Do you?”
Scanlon heard him, but he ignored the old man’s warning. “Where does he have her? At Gestapo Headquarters?”
“You are mad, boy. You cannot get in there, not even in that uniform.”
“What did Kenyon say? They build jails to keep people in, not out.”
“There were a lot more of us back then, and Dietrich had a rare, careless moment. If you try to get in there now, he will kill you.”
“Kill me? Sometimes, living can be a whole lot worse than dying, Georg,” Scanlon said as he pulled the glove off his left hand and held up the scarred fingertips for Horstmann to see. “Can you get a message to her?”
“A message? To her?” Horstmann frowned, thinking. “I do not know, Edward. In there? Truly, I do not know.”
“Yes you do, Georg, and you owe me that much,” he said as his eyes softened.
“We have rules. Like the nuns in the convent, we took holy vows and I cannot simply break them. So show some respect for an old man.”
“Tell her I’m here, that’s all I’m asking. Tell her I’ve come to get her out.”
“Edward,” he groaned. “You do not know what you’re asking,” he said as his eyes reached out for understanding.
“Okay, but is she all right? You can tell me that much.”
“That is not for me to say. They have had her in there for weeks. You know what they do — especially to young women.” Horstmann poured two cups of tea and handed Scanlon one as a puzzled expression crossed his face. “You said that she has been talking to Beria, from in there? That can only mean one thing, and you must let it be, I beg you,” he pleaded. “You can come back here with those big cow eyes of yours and ask all these questions, but in the end you will not like the answers. You will not like them at all.”
“Tell her I’m coming for her. See that she gets that message, Georg.”
The old man groaned and shook his head. “If that is what you really want, Edward.”
“It’s what I want. Tell her I’m coming, and I’ll take my chances on all the rest.”
“All right, I’ll try,” the old man said as he pulled his heavy overcoat down from the peg on the wall and went to the door. “The Greeks used to have a saying, ‘When the Gods really want to punish a man, they grant him his wishes.’ I hope you know what you are asking,” he said as he opened the door and slipped away into the night, leaving Scanlon alone in the cold, damp basement. With no doctors or nurses, no Colonels, and no big, ugly Sergeant Majors picking at him and telling him what to do, he found the sudden silence
deafening.
What had Otto Dietrich done to her? Had she been beaten, tortured, raped, and hideously disfigured? Scanlon shuddered, but even that bitter truth would be better than the agony of not knowing at all. One way or the other, he had to know the truth. It was the only way the healing process could begin for her or for him. He had to see her; he had to talk to her; and he had to get her out of there.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had only been eight weeks since they carried him out of Otto Dietrich’s basement. Eight weeks. Like Dorothy’s Tin Man caught in the rain, he could feel the rust and hear the plaintive creaks and groans in his joints with every step he took. Worse, he felt pathetically awkward, out of place, and a half step slow. He had lost his razor-sharp edge and his confidence. The loss of either could be fatal.
There was a small sink in Horstmann’s basement. Scanlon bent over it and splashed cold water on his face to clear the cobwebs. Looking up, he saw himself in the small cracked mirror hanging on the wall above it. As he had seen in so many other men, the eyes always told the story. They are windows into the soul and his told him that eight weeks could be a lifetime, if they were filled with hospitals, pain, self-criticism, doubt, and far too much scotch. However, while they may have made him slow and rusty, they did not make him stupid. Perhaps Horstmann would be able to get a message to her, and perhaps he would bring one back out. Still, waiting here in the basement for the old man to return was not the smartest way to find out. Scanlon blew out the candle, tightened his greatcoat around him, and slipped out the cellar door, quickly disappearing into the shadows.
It was a moonless night, but the burnt-orange pall that hung over the city provided enough light for him to navigate through the battered old neighborhood. Despite the destruction all around, his memories came back in bright flashes and the place felt strangely familiar. He pulled his Luger from its holster, quickly checked the magazine, and released the safety. Two doors down stood what was left of an abandoned rooming house. It had a fenced rear yard and brick storage shed on the alleyway. The main building appeared ready to collapse, but the shed was untouched. It would do nicely. As he approached its rear wall, Scanlon heard the loud clatter of a board falling to the ground not ten feet away and nearly jumped out of his skin. He dropped into a low crouch and spun sideways, fumbling with the Luger as a trickle of cold sweat ran down his back. He peered around the corner, but all he saw was a large, mangy cat glaring up at him over the body of a dead rat. Back arched and teeth bared, there was not a hint of fear in the cat’s eyes. It hissed, fully intending to fight rather than give up its first meal in a week. Scanlon lowered the pistol. “Okay, cat. It is all yours,” he said. From the determined look on the beast, it was a good thing he did.
The fence ran from the rooming house to the shed. It appeared sturdy enough, so he climbed to the top, pulled himself over the eave, and onto the shed’s low-slung roof. It had grown sway-backed over the years. On the far side of the ridge, he found a dark depression that offered him a good view of both the alley and the street out front. Yes, this would do, he thought as he lay down. Forty minutes later the choice paid off. Through the gaps in the buildings, he saw a shiny black car snaking its way through the rubble in the next street, followed by a large, canvas-covered military truck. The car stopped, and the truck ground to a halt behind it. In seconds, he heard the muffled crunch of hobnail boots on cobblestone as two squads of heavily-armed SS troops climbed over the truck’s rear gate and dropped to the ground. Their ragged clatter was accompanied by the frustrated growls of a platoon sergeant trying to prod tired, half-awake men in the dark. SS or not, anyone who had ever been in a uniform knew that sound, Scanlon smiled. Crack combat troops or not, getting rousted out of bed in the middle of the night for a police raid was not about to get their best effort.
The soldiers quickly fanned out through the dark streets and alleyways and formed a tight cordon around the block. Once they were in place, the black car crept forward again, like a panther on the prowl. It continued down the street alone and turned into Horstmann’s block. When it stopped in front of the bookshop, the trap was sprung. A shrill whistle brought the two squads of SS Troopers running in from the sides and rear. Scanlon pressed himself flat against the roof and stopped breathing as SS men ran by in the alley below and surrounded the side and rear of the bookshop. These were not the local militia like the men he ran into that night in the train yard, and they sure as hell were not here by accident. It was a carefully laid trap, and Scanlon could see he was to be the guest of honor. The only question was how did they know where to find him this quickly? Hanni? Horstmann? Scanlon shook his head and longed for the “old’ days” when everything was black-and-white, us versus them, and good versus evil. When a war burns down to its dying embers, this is what inevitably happens. The participants begin thinking more about themselves and the next war than about the one they are still fighting. Old friends or new enemies? Before long, you cannot tell them apart, and it becomes winner lose all.
Scanlon had seen enough. In their haste, the SS had rushed past and left him outside their cordon. He pushed back from the ridge and slid down the rear slope of the roof intent on fading away before the jackboots returned. If he moved quickly, he could disappear into the side streets before they realized their net was empty. Lowering himself over the edge, he dropped softly to the ground, turned, and found himself face to face with a young, and equally startled SS Trooper in full battle dress, mouth open, eyes wide, just like his. Scanlon dove around the corner of the shed while the German ducked behind a fence. The man carried a Schmeisser submachine gun, and Scanlon could only hope that his sergeant left his worst marksman to mind the rear.
“Herr Hauptmann? Herr…” the guard called out as Scanlon remembered too late that he was in a German uniform. “Halt, wo bist du?” Who are you? The man called out warily, recognizing the rank, but realizing something was very wrong.
Scanlon peeked back around the corner, only to be greeted by a burst of all-too-accurate 9-millimeter bullets that tore up the edge of the masonry wall and peppered his face with red dust and shards of brick. Deaf and now half-blind, he staggered back into the shadows until he heard that big cat hiss at him again. He kicked out at the animal with a heavy boot, but missed. Great, he thought. He had a German with a submachine gun blocking his escape down the alley and an angry, gnarled cat trapped back here with him. Worse, the gunshots were certain to draw the rest of the SS here any minute now.
Accident or not, the German had picked his ground well. Hidden behind the fence, all he had to do was hunker down and wait for his pals to arrive and finish the job. Scanlon pointed the Luger around the corner, squeezed off two shots in the general direction of the gunman, and then inched forward on his knees for a second quick look. The barrel of the guard’s Schmeisser was jutting out through a gap in the fence not thirty feet away. It was hopeless to try to get out that way, Scanlon could see. As he drew back again, that angry, twenty-pound ball of fur and gristle leaped on his back and sank its claws deep into his coat. “Ahhh!” Scanlon growled as he reached back over his shoulder and grabbed a fistful of feline fur. With one arm and on his knees, he ripped the angry beast off his back. “Goddamned cat,” he swore as he swung it over his head and hurled it high into the air, around the corner, and over the fence where the German hid.
Howling like a banshee from hell, the terrified cat tumbled through the air with its claws raking the air until it bounced off the startled Storm Trooper. He screamed in terror, having no idea what had just hit him. He tried to jerk his Schmeisser back through the fence, but that only jammed it between the slats. That was the opening Scanlon had been waiting for. He stepped around the corner and pointed his Luger at the trooper as he continued to try to pry his Schmeisser loose. Scanlon squeezed off two shots and the German fell down before he could fire. That should do, Scanlon figured, as he turned and took off running down the alley. When he got back home, he would have to remember to make a contribution to the
SPCA, or perhaps endow a home for wayward cats.
Knocking the German down, though, did not appear to be enough. The fellow lay on the ground, but he still managed to raise the barrel of the Schmeisser and let loose a quick burst at Scanlon as he fled. The bullets missed their mark, but they tore into the brick wall of the shed and sent the American ducking again. He reached back and pointed the Luger in the German’s general direction again; but before he could fire, two sharp pistol shots rang out; and they were not his. Scanlon heard the SS guard groan and his submachine gun clatter on the pavement, and could not care less where the phantom pistol shots came from. Horstmann? Perhaps he had judged the old man too hastily, but who else could have taken out the guard? Scanlon heard shouts and loud whistles coming from the direction of the bookshop and another rush of jackboots, and knew there was no time to find out as he took off running down the alley again, stumbling, and rubbing the brick dust out of his eyes.
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