“Oh, Hans,” she said. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”
“Really? It’s not much. Not for someone who should have been an engineer by this point. But even though the food is limited, I don’t have to use my ration cards, so that is a huge blessing.”
“But Hans, there are tens of thousands of men who can’t find any work at all right now. So this is wonderful news. A salary and meals. It’s an important start.”
That made him feel good. She was genuinely pleased for him.
”How is the food situation up there, Emilee? Are you and your family getting by?”
“Yes. Things are difficult here too, but not like they are in the big cities. Ernst has been making trips to the little villages out away from town and can occasionally find eggs, butter, cheese, and even flour from time to time. Oh, I forgot I haven’t told you. Ernst has a job too.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“Driving for his friend that lent us the truck. He’s getting enough business now that he wants Ernst to do all the deliveries so he can spend all of his time in the butcher shop. And occasionally, he lets him bring home some of the better meat scraps. It makes a wonderful stew.”
“Good for him. He’s a good man.”
“I think so too. How is your family doing?”
“They live on a dairy farm. They’re better off than most.”
Then she sobered. “Have you heard what is happening in Bavaria right now?”
“Ja. I called my mother the minute I read about it in the newspaper.”
“Really? Oh, I’m so glad you did, Hans.”
“Everyone’s all right,” he assured her.
“Well, thank the Lord for that.”
“Really? You’re thanking God for all these wonderful blessings we’re having right now?”
“Did I just detect a sour note in your voice?” she asked dryly.
“Guilty as charged.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because in my prayers tonight, I’m going to thank the Lord that you found this job. Obviously you’re not going to.”
Hans said nothing for a moment. He knew they were bantering back and forth, and he enjoyed that about her. She had a quick mind and stood right up to him. But . . . “Do you pray every night, Emilee?”
“I do. And morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Does that bother you?”
“No, not really. I just think the whole idea is ridiculous.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
That took him by surprise. “It’s not my affair what you do.”
“It could be,” she shot right back at him. “If things keep going as well as they are now.” She gave an awkward little laugh. “Does that shock you that I’m so brazen?”
“I don’t think of you as brazen.”
“All right, forward.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Actually, I like it when you’re forward. Keeps me on my toes.”
Emilee was quiet for a time, but after a moment, she cleared her throat. “Can I ask you a forward question, then?”
“Sure.”
“If we were ever to get married, would you ask me to stop praying?”
“Whoa! Where did that come from?”
“I’m serious. I’d like to know. If it bothers you, would you want me to stop?”
He thought about it for a moment, sensing that this was not a playful question. Finally, he shook his head. “No. What you do is your business.”
“Good.”
“Would you try to make me pray with you?”
“Of course not. I believe that prayer is a very personal thing.”
He glanced out of the booth at the clock on the wall. “Well, I’ve only got another minute of time. I’d better say good-bye.”
“All right, but I just thought of another question I have.”
“Go ahead.”
“What’s a Mormon?”
“What?”
“Your mother said something about her and your Aunt Paula being Mormons.”
“Oh, yeah. Why? Does that matter to you?”
“No, I was just curious. I’d never heard that word before.”
“Okay. Down to thirty seconds. So can I ask you one last question?”
“Sure.”
“How often do you call my mother?”
She actually giggled. “Oh! That was not what I expected!”
“So?”
“Every three or four days. I’ll call her today when we’re done. And she calls me after you’ve talked to her. That way we catch each other up on what we’ve heard from you. Does that bother you?”
He forced a light chuckle, glad that she couldn’t see his face. “I’m getting used to it.”
“I love to talk with her, Hans. She’s a wonderful woman. I can’t wait to meet her sometime.”
“I know. Well, gotta go. I’ll call again in a few days.”
There was a moment’s pause. “Hans?”
“Yes?”
“I miss you.”
He felt a little thrill shoot through him. There was longing and fervor in her voice.
“And I miss you, Emilee. I think about you all the time.”
Just then, he saw the exchange woman coming over, wagging her finger at him. “Hold on a sec.” He retrieved a one-mark note and handed it out to her. “I’ll come get the change in a moment.”
She nodded and retreated. He picked up the receiver again. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Say again what you just said. I wasn’t sure if I heard you right.”
He hooted softly. “You heard me very well.”
“Say it again anyway. I want to hear you say it again.”
He spoke slowly and distinctly. “I miss you, Emilee Greta Fromme. I think about you all the time.”
She sighed. “I think of you all the time, too. Especially every day at one a.m., when I’m doing my rounds. I . . . I think I’m beginning to really care for you, Hans,” she added, her voice low and hesitant.
“Ah, then,” he teased, “with that lead-in, I have something I want to say too.”
“I’m listening.”
“I am doing a special job for my boss tomorrow. It’s something really important to him. If I do it right, I’m going to ask him if I can have this Saturday and Sunday off. My railway pass is good for a few more weeks, so maybe I could come up and see you. Would that be all right?”
“All right?” she squealed. “Do you have to ask?”
“Good. I’ll call you and confirm for sure what time I’m coming.”
“Wonderful. Write me in the meantime! Auf Wiedersehen, Hans.”
“Auf Wiedersehen, Emilee. Oh, and one more thing.”
“What?” He could tell she was holding her breath.
“I think I’m beginning to care for you a lot, too.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t quite hear that. Would you mind repeating it for me?”
He laughed aloud. “Good-bye, Emilee. I hope I’ll see you on Saturday.”
January 11, 1919, 6:12 a.m.—Zentralmarkthalle, Alexanderplatz, Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, Berlin
Anatoly Kharkov let up on the gas pedal as they approached a well-lit intersection about half a block from the massive black hulk of the central market hall. He pointed through the windshield. “There’s the market.”
“My word. That’s huge.”
“It is very big. This street where we are turning leads to the back loading docks. It is a one-way street. We go in here; we come out the other end. That’s where they were waiting for me when I came out of the alley.”
With a light mist catching the light from the street lamps, it was hard to see very far. “Pull over to the side here for a minute. I have some questions for you.”
Anatoly did so, leaving the engine idling but turning off the lights.
“All right. First question. In both cases, it sounds like they waited until after y
ou had gotten the food and were on your way out again. Is that right?”
“Ja. Both.”
“Do you carry cash on you?”
“Nein. No more than five or six marks. Everyone knows that it’s not safe on the streets anymore, so all of us have a line of credit set up with the markets.”
“So what they’re after is the food. Not surprising. With rationing and food shortages, the black market must be very lucrative right now.”
There was a weary sigh as Anatoly nodded. “When the city started building these central market halls in the late 1880s and early 1890s—I think they eventually built fourteen in all—they put a police station close to every one of them so people would feel safe. What a laugh that is.”
Hans’s eyebrows lifted. “A police station? Tell me more.”
“It’s at the other end of the market, just before we come out of the alley.”
That surprised him. “And that’s where they attacked you?”
Subconsciously, Anatoly began rubbing the cast on his left wrist. “Yes. Maybe a block or two away from the station.”
“Did you see any policemen that morning?”
Another nod. “Two were standing on the sidewalk watching me as I went by.”
“How far was that from where the gang stopped you?”
Anatoly’s voice was bitter now. “No more than two blocks.”
This was making more and more sense to Hans. “And the police did nothing when you were stopped?”
“That was my first thought,” Anatoly said. “That they would help me. But when I saw the men up ahead of me, I looked in the mirror and the policemen were no longer there.”
Hans nodded thoughtfully. “That changes things.”
“How so?”
“If the police are in on it, that’s not good. The thieves are probably giving them a case of wine or a hind quarter of pork to look the other way. What else? You say the alley doesn’t open out directly on Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse? There’s this other street?”
“That’s right.” Then Anatoly cocked his head, thinking hard. “But I remember seeing another truck pulling away from the docks after I did. I could see his lights coming behind me.”
That piqued Hans’s attention. “Was he right behind you?”
“Nein. More like thirty or fifty yards back.”
“So what did he do when you were stopped?”
Anatoly rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s the other strange thing. Just before those thugs stopped me, I looked in my mirror again, checking to see if the other truck was still following me. But he was gone. I don’t know what happened to him. Maybe another group held him up.”
“No,” Hans said. “That doesn’t make sense.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Is it possible that the police could have stopped him? Held him back?”
He gave Hans a strange look but then began to nod. “That could be. Once the thugs had me out of the cab and were unloading my stuff, I saw two or three trucks come out of the alley, but they turned the other way, which is strange. That’s not the shortest way to Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse.”
“Okay, okay.” Hans’s mind was racing. This was making more sense. “So the police stop anyone else behind you, hold them back until you are completely alone, and then turn them in a different direction. It’s really quite brilliant, actually. Smarter than I was giving these goons credit for.”
“But why choose me? Why not one of the other vehicles?”
“Good question.” Hans thought a moment. “It may be purely random.” His brows furrowed. “Or they’ve got one of the guys in the market in their pocket. He tells them which loads are the most valuable. That would make sense.”
“So what do we do?”
Hans smiled grimly. “We beat them at their own game.”
6:48 a.m.—Loading docks, Zentralmarkthalle Allee
It took them only about twenty minutes to help the dock workers load in several tubs of beef, pork, various sausages, and other cold cuts, all packed in ice. They hadn’t filled all the tubs they had brought, but Kharkov was delighted that they had been able to find as much as they did.
With the cargo secured, they climbed back into the cab of the truck. Anatoly inserted the key, but Hans reached out and stopped him. “Hold on. I have more questions.”
Kharkov sat back, watching him nervously.
Hans was looking at the activity all around them. There were a dozen trucks lined up at the loading docks. Men were swarming around them like ants in an anthill, carrying boxes, and rolling slabs of meat on hand dollies.
“I should have paid attention, but you don’t have your name or the name of the restaurant painted on the truck, do you?”
“No.” Anatoly squinted at Hans. “What are you thinking?”
“The inside man probably describes the target vehicle to the gangs using color, size, and the fact that we have a canvas cover, not a metal one. So whoever is selling them the information—and they’re probably selling it directly to the police—are not saying, ‘Watch for the Kharkov truck,’ or ‘Watch for the truck that belongs to the Bayerischer Biergarten restaurant.’ It would be, ‘Watch for the one-ton truck with a yellow cab and black canvas cover.’”
“And why does that matter?”
“Because,” Hans said, his face grim, “if we pull this off this morning, we don’t want them knowing who we were or where we came from. Because they’re gonna be out for blood. Our blood. But with no names, we’re just one of thousands of other trucks in the city.”
Anatoly got it, and he clearly didn’t like it. “Why would they come after us if they don’t get anything from us? Won’t they just pick another truck?”
Hans patted him on the shoulder. “To answer that, let me ask you one more question. When these guys jumped you the other day, how long did it take them to pull you over and unload the truck?”
“Hmm. Probably eight or nine minutes.”
“That’s right. And how can they dare to take that long? Because the police are making sure no one disturbs them.”
“Ja. Exactly.”
“Which means that we’re going to have eight or nine minutes with these slime balls too.”
That puzzled Anatoly for a moment, but then suddenly his eyes went wide. “What are you planning to do?”
“I’m planning to put these bloodsucking parasites out of business once and for all.”
“You mean you’re going to . . .” His voice was filled with horror.
“No, Anatoly. No one’s going to get killed this morning. But when we’re done with them, they’re gonna think seriously about changing occupations.”
That didn’t reduce Anatoly’s anxiety. “What if something goes wrong?”
“My job is to see that nothing goes wrong. That’s why I’m riding shotgun. Okay?”
There was a long sigh, and his face was troubled. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Just give me one minute, and then we’re out of here.”
Without waiting for a response, Hans slipped out of the truck and moved around to where the truck mostly shielded him from the view of the dockworkers. Bending down, he found a patch of mud that hadn’t been packed down by the trucks and scooped up a handful.
Anatoly watched in wonder as Hans looked around again. Then, with one quick swipe of his hand, he smeared the front registration plate with mud. A moment later he’d done the same to the back plate. After quickly wiping his hand off in a patch of wet grass, he came back to the truck. He withdrew the two scarves he’d bought yesterday at a men’s haberdashery store and handed one to Anatoly. “Cover your face. Tie it tight so it doesn’t slip. We want nothing but our eyes showing.”
As Anatoly tried to put it on, Hans saw that with the cast on his wrist and thumb, he couldn’t tie it. His hands were also shaking, which made it worse. So Hans quickly reached over and tied it for him. Then he did the same for himself.
“You ready?” he asked softly.
The older man swallowed hard and then nodded.
“Okay. I’m going to get in the back of the truck. Let’s hope that the fact that you just bought over two hundred marks’ worth of fresh meat makes us their number-one target this morning.”
Managing a wan smile, Anatoly nodded again.
7:00 a.m.
As they turned out of the alley onto the narrow, dimly lit street that led to Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, Anatoly opened the small, sliding window between the cab and the truck’s cargo area. “Can you hear me all right?”
“Yes. That’s good. But when you see them, Anatoly, don’t turn around. They’ve got to think you’re alone.”
He waved his cast at Hans. “And what if they decide to beat me up again?”
“Then someone is going to end up with a forty-five-caliber slug in his gut. But that’s not going to happen. Not if you keep cool. Act scared, but whatever you do, don’t turn around like you’re looking for someone, all right?”
“Yes.”
A moment later, the Belarusian turned his head slightly. “Coming up on the street. There are two policemen waiting at the stop sign. They’re waving me through. What do I do?”
“Whatever they say,” Hans called back.
Hans reached out and made sure the two canvas flaps that covered the back of the truck were closed so there was only a narrow slit between them. As the truck slowed and then accelerated again as it turned the corner, Hans looked out through the slit in time to see them roll past two uniformed officers. And—no surprise—the moment the truck rolled past them, they stepped into the head of the alley. Both had their hands up, waving for the next truck to stop.
Brilliant, Hans thought. Stop them. Talk to them until Anatoly is out of sight. Then turn them the other way. It was actually smarter than he had expected. Slick as a child’s slippery slide. No fuss. No fanfare. And now, Anatoly’s was the only vehicle on the deserted street. “All right, Anatoly,” Hans said in a low voice. “It’s happening.”
“Ja. I can see them in the mirror.”
“Easy does it.”
Yeah, Eckhardt, easy does it. So why is your heart pounding like a kettle drum and your mouth as dry as a piece of leather?
Fire and Steel, Volume 2 Page 20