“They hate us, you know. Because of the … Jews.”
“That’s mostly propaganda,” Schey said. It had been the same with Catherine. All she talked about was the bombing of Germany and the business with the Jews. Perhaps it was he who was missing something.
He took her firmly by the arm and pulled her back down the hall and into her bedroom. They had to step over Montisier’s body. “Get your suitcase and pack it. Hurry, please.”
She looked into his eyes. “Are we going to make it?”
“If you hold yourself together.”
“You’re right,” she said after a moment. She seemed to draw strength from him. She nodded. “You’re right, of course.” She squared her shoulders, then went to the closet and pulled out a cheap cardboard suitcase. She opened it on the bed and began stuffing clothes into it from her closet and bureau.
Schey watched her.
“Go into the bathroom and get my cosmetic case,” she said without stopping. “And on the shelf is a pair of scissors somewhere. Pack those.”
“Anything else?”
She looked up. “Yeah. In the medicine chest is a bottle of henna rinse. Throw it in.”
“What is that?”
She smiled. “By morning I’ll be a short-haired redhead with long, thin eyebrows and thick ruby lips. My mother wouldn’t even know me.”
He found the things in the bathroom, and ten minutes later she was ready. There was no one on the third-floor corridor as they headed down the stairs. Nor were they met by anyone coming upon the ground floor they hurried out the back door and across the parking lot to Schey’s Hudson. He tossed Eva’s bag in the back seat and climbed in behind the wheel. When the woman was in and the door closed, he started the car, backed out of his slot, and headed slowly around to the street at the same moment a black and white police cruiser slid up to the front door of the building they had just left.
“Down,” Schey said. He kept going. He turned onto the street toward the cruiser as its doors opened and two uniformed police officers got out.
As Schey passed them, they were going up the walk and entering the building.
“It’s clear now,” he said when they turned the next corner.
Eva got up and cautiously looked back the way they had come.
Then she turned to Schey. “It’s that fat bitch Leona, from down the hill.”
“The one at the door?”
“She called the cops. I know damned well she called the cops on me. She hates me.”
The police would go up and talk to the woman. Then they’d knock on Eva’s door. He didn’t think they’d break in. Not simply for a call of domestic troubles, of excessive noise. Eva shattered that notion, however.
“Leona is the housemother. She’s got the keys. She’ll let them in when I don’t answer.”
Schey turned north again and headed up toward the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The car’s gas tank was nearly full; he had a few dollars and some ration coupons in his pocket. The radio and most of his things were in the trunk. And presumably the package he had fetched from beneath Eva’s bathroom contained more money, ration booklets, and identifications. There was nothing holding them in the city. Nothing to return for.
By the time they connected Montisier’s murder and Eva Braun’s disappearance with him, if they ever did, he and she would be long gone.
“We can’t go back,” she said forlornly, something of her earlier uncertain mood coming back to her.
“What did you forget?” Schey asked sharply.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. It was all in the package under the toilet.” She looked out the window. “Nothing but a job and friends and a life.”
They passed the medical center, then crossed into Maryland, in Silver Spring, where Schey took the highway around to the northeast, finally picking up Maryland 190, which roughly paralleled the river.
As he drove away from the city, out into the dark countryside, he got the overwhelming sense that now his life with Catherine was really over. Seeing her lying on the floor of their house in Oak Ridge, blood down the front of her dress, simply had not been real to him. Nor had his run to Knoxville, and then here to Washington. For some reason all of that had been blanked out of his mind. Or rather it had unfolded like a motion picture on a screen—representative of reality, but nothing more.
Now, however, driving through the night, heading to the southwest and whatever lay there, he felt as if he were beginning a new life.
They were on their honeymoon.
Around six in the morning they crossed into North Carolina from Danville, in a blowing snowstorm that had been cutting their speed for the past three hours.
Schey knew he could not go on much longer. He was exhausted.
They were well out of what he considered to be the danger zone around Washington, D.C. And no one would recognize Eva, in any event.
He looked at her. She had fallen asleep again. Her hair was very short and was colored a deep reddish brown from the henna rinse. Sometime in the night she had crawled into the back seat, where she had carefully cut her long golden hair, tossing it out the window as she clipped.
Later they had stopped beside the road, and in the cold she had wet her hair with snow, had applied the rinse, then had cleaned her hair again with the snow and dried it with a reasonably clean rag from the trunk.
At first it had looked awful, but as it finally dried in front of the car’s defroster vent, she had managed to brush it out and it didn’t look so bad.
She redid her eyebrows and her lipstick at a gas station somewhere in Virginia. Now she was a different woman. Evelyn Baker, her driver’s license, Social Security card, and Red Cross blood donor card all said.
He had become Robert Stromberg, 4F because of a heart problem. His occupation was journalist with the War Information Bureau in New York. No such bureau actually existed, of course.
But if he was asked, he would tell anyone who wanted to listen that his job was to report on the attitudes of the country.
The cover was ingenious. It allowed him a logical reason to travel across the country.
This evening he had a second reason to be traveling: He and Eva (Evelyn) had just been married. They were heading south for some sun.
A couple of miles south of the Virginia border they passed slowly through a very tiny town. The signboard identified it as Pelham, North Carolina. Just at the edge of town was a gas station, a diner with its lights on, and a half-dozen tiny cottages in the back. A couple of trucks were parked around the side.
They couldn’t go on any longer, Schey figured. If he fell asleep at the wheel and they had an accident, it would be all over for them. It was better to stop here and continue after they had had a few hours of sleep.
Eva stirred when Schey pulled in and parked in front of restaurant. She sat up, blinking.
“What is this place?” she mumbled.
“We’re stopping here for some sleep.”
“Something to eat, too? I’m starved.”
“Sure, why not,” Schey said. He got out of the car, came around to the passenger side, and helped her out. The wind was very strong, and it was cold.
They went into the diner. A couple of truckers were seated in a booth, platters of fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs in front of them. An old black woman was behind the counter, and a burly white man was in the back at a grill.
Schey and Eva sat down at the counter. The waitress brought them mugs and poured coffee.
“Lordy, lordy, you two look like death warmed over,” the woman said.
Schey smiled. “I don’t feel that good,” he said.
“Is it pretty bad out there this morning, buddy?” one of the truckers called out.
Schey turned around. “We just came down from New York. It wasn’t so bad until the last couple of hours, though. Now it’s pretty rough. We just had to pull over.” The trucker shook his head and said something to his friend, who turned around. He had a sour look on his face. “Wh
at the hell you doing out in this shit?” he asked. His buddy punched him across the table. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir.”
Schey grinned. “We’re on our honeymoon.”
“You’ll be wanting a cottage then,” the black waitress said.
She was grinning ear to ear.
“First I want some breakfast,” Eva interjected. “I’m practically starved out of my mind here. The brute doesn’t feed me.”
“Go on now,” the waitress said laughing. “Hush your mouth and we’ll fix you two lovebirds right up.”
Katrina had stumbled back, away from Maria’s body, and she stood swaying in the kitchen doorway, a look of incredible surprise on her face.
“Go,” she said. She sounded out of breath.
Deland straightened up and started for her. “Katrina …”
“Don’t come any closer … spy!” She shrank back against the door frame. “Get out of here. Leave me.”
For a moment Deland had no idea what he could say or do.
His trainers had told him that a spy’s likelihood of survival in the field was firmly linked with his adaptability. But God in heaven, what was he supposed to do now, kill the girl?
His train would be leaving very soon. He was going to have to decide whether he should be on it or whether he was going to have to remain here to take care of this.
He tried to weigh the possibilities. The authorities already knew about him. Schlechter was no doubt Gestapo. It meant there were reports on him. On his movements. On his activities.
Or were there?
If they had been certain he was a spy, wouldn’t they have already arrested him? He glanced down at Schlechter’s body.
Was it possible that he was only suspected and Schlechter was merely here to watch for a mistake? The ticket would have been his mistake. They had evidently found nothing in his room. Had Schlechter, or whoever had searched his room, suspected the calculator was a radio, wouldn’t they have taken it?
Katrina was watching him, almost the way a cornered animal might watch its attacker. It made his heart ache to see her like that.
But then he steeled himself to the thought that she was a loyal German, after all. Killing Maria had been a dreadful mistake on her part—a knee-jerk reaction that she was already coming to deeply regret.
It was not likely Schlechter had made any report about the ticket. Not yet. So in that respect nothing here had changed.
Deland could find no regret in his heart for killing the man. This was war. If there was no report about the ticket, he thought, he could take the train to Berlin for his new identity as planned. He could be on his way to Switzerland before the bodies were found here. By the time the alarm was sounded, he’d be long gone.
There’d be no problems at this end.
All except for Katrina.
Her complexion was pale, her hair in disarray. She had gotten dressed. Beyond her, in the tiny kitchen, he could see his sweater lying over a chair. Her coat was on the floor beside it.
“I’m sorry this had to happen, Katrina,” he started. She flinched.
“It’s true, isn’t it,” she said. “You are a spy.” Her voice was hoarse.
Deland looked at her for several seconds. He was very conscious of the passage of time. He nodded. “Against the Nazis, not the German people.”
“What are you talking about?” she cried.
“I’m in the military. I’m fighting your military.”
“Are you British?”
“American,” Deland said. Why was he telling her this?
“I killed for you, Edmund … or whatever your name really is. Do you understand that? I killed …”
Deland didn’t think she understood what she was saying. Or rather she didn’t understand the implications of what she had done.
“No, you didn’t,” he said. “I killed Rudy, and then I stabbed Maria to death. They were both Gestapo, you know.”
As she watched him, he picked his train ticket off the floor and pocketed it. Next, he went to Maria’s body, hesitated a moment, then firmly grabbed the knife, smudging Katrina’s fingerprints and putting his own on the handle. Some blood got on his fingers; his stomach churned. He straightened up and looked at his hand. He turned; Katrina shrank back even farther as he crossed the room and deliberately placed his hand on the back of the easy chair, as if he had used it for support. He left bloody fingerprints.
He wiped the rest of the blood from his hand on the arm of the chair, then turned to face Katrina.
“They were going to get married,” she said.
Deland shook his head. “No, Katrina. They were partners.
They worked together. They used you as bait to make me talk.”
“Lies,” Katrina shrieked, holding her hands to her ears.
He advanced on her. She backed into the table in the kitchen.
He took her in his arms, but she was stiff, her head down.
“You must listen to me, my darling. I am leaving now. I must go. But when it is over … the end of this year, or sometime next year, I will be back.” There, he had said it.
What’s more, he meant it.
She tried to push him away.
“No, Katrina, I never lied to you. I never used you. I told you the truth when I said I loved you. I still do. More than ever.”
She looked up finally, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re a spy.”
“I’m a soldier.”
.“Where’s your uniform? Where’s your gun?” she said. She pointed vaguely toward the southwest. “The soldiers are down there.”
“The fighting is everywhere. Hitler has to be stopped. Too many people have been killed.”
“I don’t care! I don’t care!”
“I care, Katrina. It’s why I’m here.”
“In my country. Killing my people.”
“They’re not your people …”
“They are! They’re Germans!”
“Listen to me, please,” Deland said, taking her hands. She was trying to pull away from him, a crazy, trapped look in her eyes. “The Nazis are not your people,” he said. He took a shot in the dark. “What does your father think about Hitler?”
She stopped dead. An expression of incredible grief came over her. Suddenly she had no more fight. Her shoulders sagged.
He took another guess, this one a little wider of the mark.
“You have a brother in the service?”
She shivered. “Helmut,” she said in a very tiny voice. “He was killed at Stalingrad. Just before Christmas, a year ago.”
“Did he write home while he was out there? Did he tell you about it?”
“He was proud …”
“Was your father proud?”
“What do you know?” she bridled, but there wasn’t much conviction in her voice.
“My father knows where I am. He’s proud of me.” It was a dreadful thing to say to her.
“Then go back to him and leave us alone,” she sobbed.
He drew her close. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. But that means when the Gestapo comes looking for Rudy and Maria, they’ll find you.” Only in the last few seconds had Deland realized what he was going to do. He would be taking a monumental chance. But there was simply no helping it.
“I’ll tell them anything they want to know,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I’ll tell them I killed Maria.”
“No. I killed them, and I nearly’ killed you. But I didn’t because I loved you.”
She looked up.
“You can tell them that. Tell them you didn’t know.”
“Oh, Edmund, I do love you. God help me, I do.”
“Then you must stay here, Katy, and tell them the truth about everything except Maria and where I am going. Tell them everything else.”
She was shaking her head.
“Yes. They’ll want to know about how we made love, here on Maria’s bed. They’ll want to know all of the details. It’s the only way the
y’ll be satisfied.”
“I can’t. Not that,” she said.
“You’ll have to, or else they’ll know about this. And then they’ll stop at nothing to make you tell them everything.” He looked-into her eyes, steeling himself for what had to come next.
“Tell them everything, Katy. Every little detail, about how I kissed your breasts. How we kissed each other … there, below … All we did.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“That’s impossible.” He stepped just a little bit back from her. She tried to move closer, but he held her off. “I’m going to leave Germany. You won’t be able to come.”
“I can’t stay here,” she cried.
Deland’s heart was breaking. “You will have to stay with your mother and father. They are going to need you.”
“No, Edmund. I love you …”
Deland stepped back at that moment, shifting his weight to his left foot, and he clipped her neatly on the jaw with a right hook.
She said, “Oh …” as her head snapped back, but before she went down, he grabbed her in his arms.
He eased her down on the floor. His blow had knocked her unconscious. Her eyelids were fluttering, but she seemed to be breathing all right. His blow had loosened one of her teeth, and a small amount of blood trickled from her mouth as well as her right nostril.
Her chin was turning a bright red. He kissed it as he laid her head on the floor. “I’m sorry, Katrina,” he whispered, his throat constricted, his eyes stinging. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He sat back on his haunches and looked down at her. He didn’t think he had broken her jaw, but Christ, he could have killed her. She was so fragile by comparison to him.
He looked away. There was nothing but destruction here. Ever since he had come to Germany, he had participated in nothing noble, nothing of any worth, nothing constructive. He had worked for just the opposite. Now two people were dead, and the woman he loved lay unconscious and possibly faced arrest and even death at the hands of the Gestapo.
He wanted to strike out at them, hurt them for what his life had come to.
He stumbled back and got to his feet. He was frightened for Katrina, deeply fearful for her safety now.
Deland turned resolutely and left the apartment, making sure the door was locked behind him. At the foot of the stairs he retrieved his suitcase and his radio from the shadows in the corner, then stepped out across the street and headed back toward the square.
Heroes Page 11