by Robert Wise
The hotel room was cold. A breeze had settled on the walls and had begun to whistle across the gloomy wallpaper like a restless ghoul. He glared into the dimness. A half bottle of liquor sat on the bedside table. He couldn’t remember what it was but he was sure it would quench his thirst. It dangled behind him, clenched in a weak clasp as he approached the bed. His shadow hit the mirror and he turned, observing the dark figure shaking within its frame. For some reason he thought back to the night before he had left for Paris. He had pondered over which way to lean, which way to walk. One thing he had not contemplated was whether he would be able to endure becoming an entirely different person. This was no longer an act. Even as he looked upon the rugged form of himself in the mirror he found himself wondering what his likes were, what past times he enjoyed, what thoughts ran through his mind. Niklaus Linder had come and gone but by doing so, had also taken Toby Vilsmaier with him. What was left was a shell, filled with liquor and hate. He closed his eyes, blindly swigging at the shallow bottle. The darkness was strong and he found himself spiralling into the nothingness. He stumbled over to the radio and took the receiver within his quaking grasp before nudging at the switch. A buzz of noise filled his ears. Scratchy purrs of interference leaker from each speaker. He moved closer. Applause, that’s what the static sounded like, an orchestra of applause.
He pushed away from his seat and thanked those who congratulated him as he passed through the sea of clapping hands. A man wearing a large grin and a pearly white tuxedo with jet black trousers welcomed him onto the podium. Beside him stood possibly the most beautiful woman Tobias had ever seen, her dress red and her hair flowing between blonde and brown. Words were spoken, blurry words. The wide grin pushed an award into his hands and Tobias raised it toward the cheering audience. Their faces were lost within the memory, their applause as loud as he could remember.
“You’re finest performance yet”
A tear had started to run away from the corner of his eye. The hand that held the receiver began to shake and his lips trembled.
‘Captain Linder? Do you read me?’ A flood of warm tears flowed across his cheeks. He clutched at the handset and parted his lips, allowing the flowing stream of tears to fall against his tongue.
‘Captain, do you read me?’
‘That’s not my name,’ he whispered.
‘Do you read me, Captain Linder?’
The headset came away in his grip and he swiped at the transmitter, sending it crashing against the wall. A short flaunt of sparkles and quivering murmurs escaped the shattered box as it crackled listlessly amidst the carpet. Splinters of plastic and metal lashed into the heavily hunched rug. Tobias wiped at his nose and lugged back another gulp. A heart stopping cry slid away from his bitter soaked tongue.
That is not, my name
He padded to the curtains and pulled them aside, revealing the flickering city below. His hand founded the handle. The drapes lunged into the room, desperate to keep away from the cold outside. Tobias stepped out onto the balcony. He knew the air was bitter and chilly but he felt nothing through his mask of tears. Paris spiralled before him, a city ignited within a yellow glow. The bottle met his lips. His arms fell against the railings. The city lights were sprinkled graciously upon a backcloth of violet, each glint brighter than the last. He studied them, trying to imprint them in his wavering memory. The bottle slipped away from his loose grasp and hurtled down into the street below. He watched carelessly as it smashed into a cobweb of shattered pieces. He listened to the night.
Where’s the applause now.
He hooked the heel of his loafer onto the bottom rail and slowly climbed over the edge. His hands clenched against the cold steel. Tears battled against his closed eyes. The drapes flicked at his shoulders.
Encore, they scream, encore.
THE LIST
Private Schulze stepped away from the transmitter and frowned. The operator unlatched his headphones and consulted the switchboard before turning to the Private and shaking his head,
‘Station seven appears to be offline.’
With a tired nod Private Schulze rubbed at his eyes. The walk back to Major Anaheim’s office would be a long one.
‘Run that by me one more time, Private.’
‘We’ve lost contact with Tobi... we’ve lost contact with Captain Linder, Sir.’
The smell of a fresh cigar lingered. Major Anaheim set down the pen he had been so eloquently striking across the group of pages before him and coughed twice before raising a shallow glass of brandy to his lips.
‘And you’ve consulted both the operator and log book.’
‘Yes, Major. He confirms, last contact was made around noon, Friday.’
‘I see,’ said the Major, strumming a band of fingers against the slow rise of stubble crossing his chin.
‘If Tobias Vilsmaier doesn’t resurface in the next twenty four hours we can assume operation Stile Maus has been compromised.’
Private Schulze nodded.
‘What would you have me do?’
Major Anaheim thought it through.
‘Bring me the list.’
Private Schulze nodded and left the office in a rush, leaving the Major alone to refill his glass and spark an unsullied cigar. A faint scuttle captured his attention and he stepped away from his desk and headed towards the small cage sitting beneath the window’s icy glare. The mouse lay inside, its tiny black eyes blinking and flicking at the towering observer. It belly rose in small, weak pumps and it’s stare appeared tired and strangely lifeless. Major Anaheim reached inside and nudged it gently with his finger. It didn’t budge. Heaps of dry, rotting fruit piled against the sawdust, barely touched.
‘Here you are, Sir.’
The Major turned his head towards the door and saw Private Schulze standing there with a thick black folder under his arm.
‘Here you are, Sir.’
The office thanked Private Schulze and stepped inside, saluting the Major before filling the red leather armchair that faced the desk. He appeared to be in his late thirties, ruggedly handsome, greying brown hair.
‘Good afternoon Corporal Bauer, I hope you don’t mind a little snow.’ All three men stared out into the bland downfall of white soot.
‘Not at all, Major,’ replied the Corporal, ‘Stuttgart isn’t famous for its sunny meadows and boiling hot beaches.’
The Major grinned.
‘Apologies for the letter, I know it wasn’t exactly vivid in detail.’
‘I must admit I was a little mystified.’
‘Well I hope that this meeting puts your confusion to an end Corporal. It just so happens that you have been selected for an assignment of the strictest confidentiality. I understand you speak Polish?’
A memory. Soon lost.
He gestured towards the table and the Private set down the document with careful precision, treating it almost as if it were a fragile or valuable artefact.
‘If Goetsch finds out about this who knows what he’ll do,’ stressed the Major as he slumped back into his chair, ‘Vilsmaier is his prize possession.’
Private Schulze remained mute, wondering if he should offer some kind of suggestion. The Major did not hide the fact that he was perplexed and unfastened the lid on a fresh bottle of gin before tipping a large amount into his scotch stained glass.
‘Should Captain Linder happen to reveal his true identity, well...’
Even though his sentence wouldn’t finish, Private Schulze knew what he meant. Vilsmaier was merely a utensil in a failing plan which had been doomed from the beginning. The Private didn’t know for certain but he assumed neither the rest of the high command or the Fuhrer knew about the Major’s privately organised operation. Goetsch was a problem. If he knew, if he even caught wind of his prodigal son’s disappearing act he could bring down the Gestapo with a plummeting fist.
‘If I may speak, Major,’ murmured the Private.
Major Anaheim waved carelessly.
‘As you said, Tobi
as Vilsmaier’s act of foolishness could indeed jeopardise the integrity of the operation and of course, this problem needs a solution, ignorance could end in catastrophic consequences.’
The Major stared at him, his greying eyebrows raised.
‘Are you offering a solution, Private?’
‘I think so, Major. What I mean to say is, the solution is right here, before our eyes.’
His stare lingered over the black folder.
‘I see,’ replied the Major, ‘if I am understanding you Private, you wish to send one of the existing operatives to Vilsmaier’s location, yes?’
‘That’s correct, Major, the operative consists of eleven field operatives, two of whom are incredibly close to Mr Vilsmaier’s location.’
Major Anaheim agreed with a nod.
‘Show me.’
Private Schulze flipped open the cover of the file and licked at his finger before flicking through to the third page. He cleared his throat.
THE LIST
Alexander Hertz
Leopold Bauer
Tomas Richter
Jonas Ehrlichmann
Phillip Amsel
Markus Faust
Dominic Lowe
Ralph Dieter
Simon Drexler
Joseph Hermann
Niklaus Linder
‘Faust is currently stationed in Belgium and I believe Drexler will be arriving in Vichy tomorrow evening.’
‘Drexler the obvious choice,’ implied the Major, ‘hold on,’ his voice became shallow,
‘No,’ he decided, ‘no, if we send anyone else to find Tobias Vilsmaier, then they will find Tobias Vilsmaier.’
For a moment Private Schulze mulled over the Major’s words, not quite sure of what had just been inferred. He caught on and smiled tiredly.
‘We are the only ones, excluding Goetsch and a few lab coats that know of Captain Linder’s true identity. We are the only ones who have to solve this.’
His mood had changed, his words were rushed, excited even.
‘Speak with General Kuhn immediately. Inform him that I will need the assistance of his finest men and an aircraft by sunrise.’
Major Anaheim eased into his chair and searched his desk for a cigar or cigarette. He decided on a modest bottle of smoky bourbon that he found propped against the windowsill. He glanced towards the cage and sighed. Private Schulze shuffled to a salute behind him and went to leave.
‘Gather your things, Private.’
Stopping at the foot of the doorway Schulze turned to face him, watching as the Major filled a glass with a shaky clumsiness.
‘You’re coming too.’
THE RETURN OF THE SABOTEUR
He landed on the other side of the wall, hitting the gravel knee first. His wound had tweaked on the way down and his stomach churned upon landing. He needed rest, badly. A band of musky light streamed through the cracks in a wooden door just beyond his reach and he raised the Luger in caution. He crept against the dirt and continued down the dark alley, pushing his shoulder at the wall to assist his faltering balance. The sun had yet to rise and loitered behind the jagged backdrop of the city. The morning was still young and dark and still had the feel of night. He came to a green door, number forty-six. Stefan nudged at the wood with the Luger. It creaked open and Stefan stared at the ground, cursing before carefully slipping inside. Scatters of garden furniture sat against a concrete path, leading up to the back door. He knew it led to the kitchen and cupped his hands against the window before attempting to open it. Even with the aid of early morning glare he was unable to make out what lay inside. The door unlatched with little force and he entered, Luger first. The kitchen seemed untouched, the same as he remembered. Stefan frowned as he reached the pale glint of light that spilled out across the doorway of the living room. His eyes were captured instantly. A carpet of glass lay across the wooden flooring. His heart dropped into the pitfalls off his deeply wounded stomach, his eyes grew wide and anxious. The smatter of glass crunched beneath his footsteps as he proceeded slowly into the centre of the room. The furniture had been over turned, anything breakable, broken, smashed in fact, destroyed in an incredible rage. Grinding the chatter of his teeth Stefan set the Luger down upon the rest of a ragged armchair and curled his fingers around the tall pairing of flimsy drapes and peered out into the street outside. He had expected this. They must have come to the house after his arrest. He collected the Luger and crept upstairs. His room had been scoured, most of his belongings taken, it was the same with his siblings. His brother’s room had been trashed, ransacked, the floor covered in tiny strands of clothing. He sat at the foot of his sisters bed, her favourite toy in his hands. Anger lashed at his memories, whipping at every attempted vision. Tears streamed down the hot blush of his cheeks. They were gone. He noticed a small batch of blood on the carpet of his Mother and Father’s room. Her scarce amount of bronze jewellery plundered from her small music box. His Father’s walking stick lay on the bed, its blunt point bloodied with darkness. Always going out with a fight.
He returned to the living room. The light was still meagre. Stefan ran his hands over the tarnished wallpaper. He turned his back and slumped against the bed of glass, tears stifled his breath. Exhaustion had finally caught up with him and his eyes became heavier as he tried to battle it. A spark ignited from across the room, quickly vanishing under a sharp snap. Stefan scrambled his hand across the scattered heaps of glass, searching for the cold steel of the Luger. As soon as it delved into his blood dotted palm Stefan pushed his aching shoulders up against the wall and stumbled to his feet, pointing the pistol blindly into the whitening darkness.
‘W-who’s there,’ he hissed, choking on the lump wedged inside his throat.
The gun flailed within his weak grip.
‘I’ll shoot,’ he cried.
‘I have never been threatened by a dead man before.’
‘Who are you?’
A rise of smoke flamed within the gloom.
‘I knew you’d come back, it was only a matter of time. We knew you had survived.’
A tall outline rose from across the room, his face and attire completely hidden.
‘I said who are you?’ seethed Stefan.
The shadow grinned behind his enflamed cigarette and stepped forwards into the rare band of light.
‘I am Lieutenant Klaus Jung,’ replied the voice, ‘we’ve been waiting for you.’
Stefan set his finger over the trigger and edged forwards.
‘You’re a German?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re a dead man for coming here alone.’
‘And what makes you think I’m alone.’
Stefan took his stare away from the blur of darkness for a moment or two to check behind his shoulders.
‘I’m not your enemy, Stefan.’
‘Oh I beg to differ Lieutenant.’
The shadow of Klaus Jung crept across the room.
‘DON’T.’ Stefan seethed,
‘DO NOT SIT IN MY FATHER’S CHAIR’
The Lieutenant stalled and then eased back onto a small cabinet.
‘Tell me what happened here?’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘It looks like you and you bastards came into my home and...’
A swell of tears choked his speech and a soft, warm stream rolled down his face.
‘W-where are my family?’
Lieutenant Jung puffed at the cigarette and the embers blazed, igniting his peaceful glare. His hand reached into his jacket.
‘Hold it,’ cried Stefan, cocking back the hammer so that the pistol snapped, issuing a firm warning.
‘Easy Stefan, you’re no use to anyone dead.’
‘Answer my question.’
An ageing envelope appeared in the light. Stefan mulled it over with a tired squint.
‘What’s this?’
‘The answer to your problem,’ replied the Lieutenant.
With the Luger still aimed into Klau
s Jung’s unseen chest, Stefan reached forwards and snatched at the yellowing envelope. Its opening was rugged and torn, as if the paper within had been removed and returned a thousand times. The page unfolded within his shaking grasp.
‘What is this?’
‘Read it.’
The feeble strays of sunlight barely lit each ink strewn word. Stefan frowned. It only took about forty or so seconds to reach the signature at the bottom but he chose to read it again, his brow furrowing furthermore.
‘I don’t understand,’ began Stefan, ‘who is Felix Kalb?’
Glass crunched underneath the Lieutenant’s stride. He swiped at the curtain and allowed a radiant shine of brilliant yellow to spill across his face.
‘Felix Kalb happens to be the link between yourself and I, and he is the reason you are going to help me.’
Stefan shook his head, clearly angered.
‘Why, why would I help you? My family, my friends, they’re gone because of you.’
‘And what if they weren’t?’
The Luger became heavy.
‘It’s the wrong time to play games, Lieutenant.’
With a tired smile Lieutenant Klaus Jung glanced back at him, his face glimmering as though it were decorated in war paint.