Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  She stayed still, filling her lungs again, touching her sore ribs to see if they remained intact, looking up and around, able to see much more now, taking in the maze of wood in which she found herself. Her battered body felt pierced, the wind throwing sharp darts at her, her sweater doing little to stop them without an outer coat.

  She looked down. Kurt and Gottfried had disappeared after starting their timers and finally seeing the approaching light.

  The rail rattled more loudly, the light growing brighter. She moved farther under the bridge, away from the edge. Some kind of vehicle was passing right over her. From the sound now, she could tell that it wasn’t a train. It was most likely a single car, gas-powered, she guessed. She’d seen them before. They were often used by one- or two-person maintenance crews. This one kept moving past her, across the bridge.

  Thank God! Hopefully it’s just a maintenance crew on its way home for the night.

  The car stopped.

  She heard a small engine whirring and gears shifting. It began to reverse, the high-pitched sound of the metal wheels creaking against the cold metal rail. It came to a full stop. Footsteps followed. A dog barked. She heard two men speaking.

  They’ve seen my binoculars, and maybe the coat and knife, too.

  One man’s footsteps turned into a run as he headed in the direction of Ursula and Kurt, taking the dog with him and yelling at the other soldier to remain up top while he looked under the bridge. The soldier left behind walked to the edge, peeking at the water as he inhaled a glowing cigarette. He moved back in her direction, squatted a couple of yards away, and settled in above her, waiting.

  A volley of semiautomatic gunfire turned the soldier’s head in the direction of his partner, the cacophony of multiple rounds ricocheting off the inclines on both sides of the valley. The soldier’s neck swiveled right and left.

  His head steadied, his eyes returned to the area directly above her, sweeping the ties, checking the cracks between them on the off chance that whoever owned the coat and the binoculars had managed to hide there. Emma could make out the lower half of his older, pockmarked face as she looked up through the same cracks he was eyeing. She had the full moon on her side. He was staring down into darkness.

  The dog was barking again.

  —

  “Halt!”

  Kurt didn’t move. He had only a pistol to protect himself.

  The well-bundled guard had a large semiautomatic pointed at him through the branches of a spindly pine tree, the same weapon he’d been firing seconds before.

  The boy had been halfway back to the top of the bridge when he heard the soldier coming toward him, and found this place to hide. He figured that, even with the moonlight, he would be fine because he hadn’t been seen yet. But the German shepherd had changed the game when it started barking at him.

  “I’m coming out,” Kurt said.

  He dropped his gun in the snow and raised his hands, trudging into the open, the dog still fixated on him, snarling, leaning forward, waiting for a verbal command to pounce.

  The soldier couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “Just a child?” he said, chuckling, his bushy gray eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, just a child. Please don’t hurt me,” Kurt responded, pitching his voice high.

  “Where’s your mamma, little boy?”

  A gun nuzzled up against the back of the soldier’s head.

  “She’s no longer alive, actually,” Ursula said. “Your Nazi friends took her, just like they stole my son and put him in a camp. Now you’d better drop your gun or you’re going to wish your mother was here to put you back together.”

  —

  The soldier was so close, Emma could smell his foul odor. He probably hadn’t bathed in weeks. He inhaled deeply, removed what was left of his cigarette from his mouth, and dropped it through one of the cracks. Its fall was interrupted by the intersection of two beams directly underneath Emma, where it nestled in, just out of reach.

  Gazing into the night, the old soldier contemplated his next move.

  A continuous stream of smoke from his still burning cigarette drifted upward, around Emma, and into her nostrils. She tried to ignore it.

  Her chest began to convulse. She forced herself to hold her breath. She thought about lowering herself to kick the cigarette away, which would be easy enough, but she worried that he would hear her if she made even the slightest noise.

  A gunshot sounded in the distance. The barking started again. Then another gunshot. And silence.

  The soldier above her didn’t budge.

  After half a minute, Emma couldn’t hold off any longer. She had to breathe. She began to cough, softly at first, then more forcefully, her lungs succumbing to the smoke and made worse by the cold air. She stopped herself.

  Maybe he didn’t hear me.

  She saw the man pull out a metallic object and look down, trying to bring her into view. She assumed he held a gun. He muttered and walked away. She moved now, descending not more than a yard, and using her foot to propel the offending cigarette into the darkness below. Her pulse slowed. She looked up again. The soldier had grabbed something from his car and returned to his previous position right above her.

  “It must be cold down there,” he said softly. “I’ve brought you a gift to warm you up.”

  Christ, no.

  Emma could see the large can of gas tilt toward her, but she didn’t have time to react.

  The liquid sprayed out unevenly, missing her by a couple of feet, its sharp smell filling the air. The next round landed on her hat and shoulders as he doused the cracks at his feet. She heard him swear. Apparently, in his eagerness to soak her he’d spilled some of the fuel on himself. More gas rained down. She tried to avoid it but couldn’t.

  Instead of trying to flee, she decided to climb toward the light and the soldier, placing her eyes near the gap between the two wooden ties to make sure she was almost right under him yet still out of sight.

  Better to keep your enemies close.

  She could see part of his rough, scarred face looking through the crack, his eyes black, his nose pugged. He struck a match and leaned over to place it. Her lips tightened, her hands at the ready, her eyes burning from the gasoline fumes.

  The match went out in the wind.

  Emma reached into her back pocket, securing her feet as she moved into position, and looked straight up. This time he cupped his hands so the match would stay lit as he again leaned over to place it between the cracks. She took aim.

  Her silent bullet caught him completely unaware, disappearing into his mottled cheek.

  He screamed, dropping the match at his feet. She moved nimbly to her left and down, putting distance between herself and the fuel he’d poured all around her. She jammed the gun into her pocket, knowing what was coming next. The soldier keeled over face-first above her, and she heard a whoosh as he went up in flames.

  That will teach him not to smoke.

  The surface where she’d been standing seconds earlier was covered in flames spreading downward with the fuel over frozen wood that refused to burn. The screaming soldier managed to raise himself up, calling to the other guard for help and cursing her. The wind fanned the fire that engulfed his lower half, pushing the flames toward his chest and speeding the roasting process. She heard his footsteps and could smell his flesh burning. Then everything went silent.

  He’d launched himself into the river below.

  Emma returned to where she had swung herself under the bridge but went in the opposite direction, climbing upward, using beams she could now see, pulling hard with her upper body, moving around the logs, getting her hips back on top of the structure, struggling to bring her legs up one by one.

  She stood on the bridge, taking a brief moment to appreciate the fact that she was alive. She retrieved her coat, welcoming its warmth.
She looked at her watch. They still had eighteen minutes to escape. Hopefully the soldiers hadn’t managed to summon reinforcements.

  Ursula called from the far end of the bridge, Kurt running by her side.

  The three resisters left the bridge, making their way down to where Gottfried had said he’d meet them. They couldn’t see him, not at first anyway. Emma scanned the slope. Snow had started to fall, making visibility worse.

  Where the hell is he? she wondered. Has he gone ahead since we’re so late?

  They yelled his name. “I’ll run under the bridge to see if he’s there,” Kurt said.

  “No, I’ll go,” Emma said. “If he’s hurt, I can help him. The two of you should head to the ridge just in case he’s there already.”

  —

  Underneath the bridge, Emma caught sight of Gottfried’s pencil detonators and forced herself to look away. Part of her wanted to stop the devices to buy herself more time, but she knew there was no going back.

  Her eyes darted back and forth, shifting toward the river. She squinted into the moonlight, thinking that she might have seen something through the snowflakes, just yards from the water. She checked her watch, feeling guilty for doing so.

  She had thirteen minutes to live if she didn’t move fast enough.

  She ran toward the black outline in the snow. She could tell that it was indeed a body.

  No, please God, no.

  As she drew closer, her chest heaving, she saw a large dark circle carved into the snow by the lifeless shape. She grimaced, knowing it was blood.

  She recognized his brawny build. “Gottfried!” she shouted, sprinting.

  There was no answer, the only sound coming from the surging river beyond him.

  Her brain reacted as it always did around injuries or death, keeping her objective and calm so that she could be at her best, focused and not for a second distracted by any unhelpful emotions.

  She moved directly above his torso and eyed the three evenly spaced bullet wounds punctured into his coat and chest. Beside him lay his gun, which he no doubt planned to use on the soldiers who had interrupted their work on the bridge. She pulled off her glove and checked his pulse. Nothing. Gottfried’s icy, angular face and eyebrows betrayed no emotion, no sense that he’d seen what was coming from across the noisy river—bullets, as it turned out, launched by the soldier’s semiautomatic weapon, the spray of gunfire she’d heard from the top of the bridge.

  The man who did this has been punished, she thought, trying to console herself. Ursula had told her that she’d taken care of the soldier and his dog.

  Emma didn’t want to leave, but she knew she had to.

  Rational or not, she didn’t want Gottfried’s body to suffer further mutilation by the exploding bridge. She picked up his legs and dragged him to the side of the river.

  “I’m sorry, Gottfried. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  She said a short prayer and pushed hard with her hands, rolling Gottfried’s corpse into the current. His big body disappeared into the froth.

  She turned and ran.

  —

  Emma moved fast, knowing that her life was at risk, exhausting herself, forcing her thighs and calves upward, slipping at times in the snow, her lungs crying out for air. With each step forward, she braced herself for a deafening explosion behind her.

  She arrived at the top of the ridge, just minutes after her companions had done the same—Ursula having slowed Kurt on their way up.

  As soon as Emma was able to breathe, she relayed the news. “Gottfried is dead—three bullets.”

  She finally allowed herself to cry, finding it hard to believe that he wouldn’t be returning to headquarters with them.

  The three remained doubled over, out of breath, their tears freezing on their cheeks.

  Ursula dropped to her knees. “Why did we have to sacrifice another good person for our cause?” She screamed into the valley. “Death to Hitler! Death to all Nazis!” Her voice was ragged. “Michael! Michael! Michael!”

  “Her son,” Kurt whispered, moving to hold the long-grieving mother. Ursula began to whimper. Emma had never known the name of her disabled boy.

  Emma checked her watch. “Fifteen seconds,” she reported.

  “This one is for you, Gottfried,” Kurt said, his voice hissing with the wind. “Know, my friend, that your final mission is going to be your most important. What we’ve done here will give the führer fits and help end his reign. By this, we swear.”

  The trio watched as a veil of snow continued to descend on the valley. They waited, exchanging glances, Ursula now crying silently as she steadied her breathing. Losing people had become all too common in this war, and they’d all had to learn to calm themselves against the flood of emotions.

  A full minute passed. No explosion.

  “We got this right, didn’t we?” Kurt asked.

  Emma nodded. “Yes, we got this right. But only because Gottfried and Gunter—”

  A massive explosion shook the valley, lighting it up, causing them to cover their ears and heads as they fell to the ground.

  Even though they’d helped plan and execute the unfolding destruction, they sat in the snow staring ahead in awe at the damage they’d inflicted.

  The bridge shrieked as it came undone, rising in the air, masses of wood and huge chunks of metal flying outward, smaller parts landing near them. Some of the largest pieces fell in on one another, crashing violently into the water.

  Smoke and fire filled the sky, casting a bold red glare downward onto the snow and water. After one final gasp, the structure’s last airborne parts began to fall, the red river now flowing like blood from its gaping injuries.

  Chapter 33

  Friday, November 3, 1944

  5:00 p.m.—Berlin

  Gottfried’s memorial gathering was to be brief.

  Maria explained that the group’s memorials had always been short and to the point. The dead were to be remembered succinctly. The living would learn from the mistakes that led to their comrades’ demise in the hope of staying alive.

  Each person had ninety seconds for observations or a quick story. There were to be no long speeches or references to sacrifices, bravery, or passion—these traits were a given or the deceased wouldn’t have been allowed into the group in the first place.

  After they’d returned from the Ore Mountains without Gottfried, Gunter’s first reaction had been disbelief, then rage at them. Finally, his face white, his arms hanging limply by his sides, he had collapsed, sobbing. Many people and things he’d cherished had been taken during his sixty years, but he’d never expected the younger, seemingly invincible Gottfried to leave his side.

  Gunter disappeared. Manfred discovered him a day later outside a local bar, lying in his own filth. As he’d done in the past, the gallery owner had turned to his schnapps instead of God to help him cope, and he smelled as if he’d slept in a barrel of it.

  With Gunter red-eyed but finally cleaned up and rested, the seven surviving members sat around the table in their headquarters, everyone in turn saying something about the man they’d lost. Gunter spoke last, his monotone delivery belying his emotions, which had coalesced into a single overriding goal: revenge.

  “I want Hitler’s head for this,” he said. “We’ve helped other groups go after him, but now it’s our turn to lead. I’m open to all ideas on how we go about this.”

  The group sat in silence. If they were to follow through on Gunter’s words, Hitler would have to become their entire focus, pushing aside Emma’s pursuit of the bomb and her son. Such a mission would entail a level of planning and risk the group had never before undertaken. Emma and Maria glanced at each other with concern.

  Gunter got up from the table, and they rose as one with him.

  —

  Peter led the way, the other resisters f
ollowing him along one of the hideaway’s long twisting hallways, then down a set of stairs far from the central living area.

  They arrived at a door Emma had never passed through. In his arms, the artist and forger held a large rectangular shape draped in cloth. Gunter took out his key to open the lock, hands still shaking from the schnapps. They walked slowly into the dark, standing huddled in the middle of the room. A soft overhead light blinked on.

  Emma gasped. Around the circular room were eight paintings, brilliant depictions of five men and three women—capturing their finest features, including the lines in their faces, the light in their eyes, the subtle slope of a shoulder, the length of their necks, the dimple in a cheek, the hint of a smile or a secret. She breathed in deeply. She was standing face-to-face with the lost members of the Resistance.

  Peter made his way toward an empty space on the wall. With a flick of the wrist, the cloth was removed and Gottfried appeared before them: a determined, confident look on his broad face, his shoulders and neck reflecting his strength, the wisp of a smile at the corners of his mouth—as though he knew something they didn’t.

  Peter hoisted the lifelike canvas of Gottfried upward and placed it on a hook. With everyone holding hands, Gunter said a prayer for all those who wouldn’t be joining them again.

  Emma couldn’t help noticing that the evenly spaced paintings covered just over half the wall, with the remainder of the room empty—enough space for exactly seven more paintings.

  —

  The owner of the bar tried to look busy as he glanced up through the smoke, across his small, dimly lit establishment. His back stooped from years of leaning over, he’d wiped the worn counter five times, and it wasn’t a lick cleaner than when he’d first taken his rancid cloth to it.

  In the far corner of the sparsely populated room, a converted church basement, a thin, good-looking man and a very pretty young woman sat at a table. They’d been speaking in hushed tones for more than thirty minutes, with the odd word or sentence reaching the proprietor’s well-trained ears.