Eva (42 page)

Ludwig met him at the gate. He greeted him with a self-satisfied look on his face.

“You will be pleased to know,
Herr Sturmbannführer,”
he beamed, “that Diehl and
Fraülein
Gessner left for Steingaden on the
Stars and Stripes
truck—on schedule!”

The light in the confined space behind the bundles of newspapers stacked almost to the roof of the truck was feeble, but Woody—his eyes having grown used to the faint light—could still make out the headlines and some of the body of the stories in the paper he had pulled from one of the bundles.
Stars and Stripes,
Monday, June 11, 1945.

The Allied Control Committee was still trying to hammer out details of the agreement reached in Berlin on June 5 by the four superpowers, represented by Eisenhower, Montgomery, Zhukov, and Tassigny, which divided Germany into four occupation zones with Berlin to be run jointly. Woody hadn’t even known of the agreement—let alone the detailed problems it had stirred up . . . Great Britain and the US had made an agreement with Tito for the military administration of Trieste and Venezia Giulia, the region in northeast Italy formed after World War I from ceded territories . . . The point score for enlisted men was about to be lowered again; and the Soviet commander in Vienna had ordered the British military missions to get out.

The Krasnov syndrome on a larger scale, Woody thought wryly. Whenever he thought of the brazenly two-faced Russian liaison bastard, he bristled.

He glanced at Ilse who sat silent and withdrawn, huddled in a corner of the cramped space. Ever since that damned interrogation in Memmingen she had been cool and distant. He knew she felt betrayed and he ached to take her into his confidence and tell her the whole damned truth. Take her in his arms and comfort her; restore her trust in him. And the world around her. He knew he could not, and it was about to tear him apart. But his mission
had
to come before his own personal feelings, so he tried to force himself to ignore his emotions, thereby making the anguish greater. There was nothing he could say, and the silence was bitter. For them both.

He heard the driver tap on the cab window. He peered through it. “Steingaden,” the man mouthed at him. He held up two fingers. “
Zwei minuten!”

Woody turned to Ilse. He touched her shoulder. She stiffened, but she did not move away. There was nowhere to go.

“We are ready to get off,” he called to her, over the rumbling of the truck. “Two minutes.”

The girl did not look at him. She gathered her belongings together and sat hugging them to her.

The truck came to a stop. Woody heard the cab door slam, and the rear door being opened. Light spilled in trickles through the cracks between the bundles of paper—becoming a torrent as the driver pushed aside the bundles covering their exit.

“Everybody out!” he called cheerfully.

The driver had let them out south of the village. The veterinary hospital which was their destination lay just ahead, around a bend in the road, he’d told them. As they walked along, their bundles slung over their shoulders, Woody looked at his watch. 1147 hours. They had been on the road a good four hours. The driver had had to make an unscheduled detour to Kempten, and the trip had taken almost twice as long as it should. Perhaps there was still a chance they could continue to the next stop that same day anyway, he thought, depending on where it was.

They walked around the bend in the road—and stopped dead.

Ahead they could see what was obviously the hospital. Several vehicles were drawn up on the road before the building. American jeeps, an official-looking German car—and an ambulance.

Woody stared at the unexpected scene. Had the
Anlaufstelle
been blown? What the hell had happened? No matter, he thought grimly. They would have to act as if it did not concern them.

“Ilse,” he said tautly, “just walk. Follow me. Pay no attention to anything. Understood?”

She nodded.

They walked on past the hospital. Only one man, sitting in the civilian car, was in evidence. He paid them as little attention as they did him.

Woody was disturbed. He tried not to let it show. He knew Ilse must be afraid. Uncertain. He knew she needed assurance and support. He could not give it, nor would she take it. Dammit all to hell! He cursed the SS officer who had forced that damned interrogation on him.

The sign pointing down the sylvan side road read:
DIE WIES 3 KM.
It was the alternate stop. Ludwig had instructed them to go there in the unlikely case of trouble at the hospital. To look for the caretaker, Johann Meister. And he’d been given alternate passwords.

The road led through a forest, and Woody was glad for the shade. He had begun to sweat. He didn’t know if it was because of the hot summer day or the disturbing turn of events. He hoped the first. He was getting thirsty. It had been close and hot in the truck. Memories of the tall glasses of cool iced tea his mother used to serve on hot summer nights back in San Francisco flooded his mind. And, unbidden, the corny joke his father had always told, scandalizing his mother—especially when company was present. The one about the New Mexico Indian who drank forty-seven cups of iced tea on a real hot summer day. And how the next day they’d found him dead in his tepee.

He chuckled to himself. He felt Ilse eye him, strangely. Startled, he realized he had chuckled aloud. What the hell was he doing?

Whatever it was, he felt better.

Suddenly the sound of a motor vehicle could be heard approaching on the road ahead. They walked over to the shoulder, trudging on, single file. The vehicle passed them. It was a truck. It flew a Red Cross flag. Woody thought he could glimpse three people in the cab before the cloud of fine dust stirred up by the truck enveloped him. Dammit! The dust stuck uncomfortably to his sweaty skin. He suddenly didn’t know what he wanted more. A cold drink or a shower.

Ludwig had mentioned that the
Wies
was some kind of showcase church, but Woody had not been prepared for the sight that met him when he stepped from the entrance hall into the nave. He stopped dead and stared. He had the feeling he’d walked into a gigantic wedding cake, angels, hearts, and all. Even the gilt was gilded. It was as gaudy and as garish as anything he’d ever seen. He looked around in genuine awe. My God, it’s pretentious, he thought.

In the choir at the far end a man was polishing the marble in the base of a tall marble column. Woody and Ilse walked toward him. As they got closer, Woody had another surprise. The marble. It wasn’t marble at all. It was painted plaster, for heaven’s sake. How kitschy, he thought. He looked at the figure of Christ that stood in a niche above the high altar. A strange, disturbing, marionette-like figure, flecked with painted blood. He chilled. It was the eyes. Haunted. Filled with abysmal suffering. He had seen the same eyes before. In the faces of the Flossenburg Concentration Camp inmates.

The man at the column stopped his work as he saw them approach. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Woody said. “I was wondering. Could you tell me, please.
Tempus non erit amplius
—there shall be delay no longer— is it not from Apocalypse 6:10?”

“You are in error,
mein Herr,”
the man answered. “It is Apocalypse 10:6.” He looked at them. “I am Johann Meister,” he said. “Please come with me.”

In the crypt room under the church Meister gave Woody and Ilse a surly look. “You have come here at an unfortunate time,” he remarked, obviously resenting their presence and the necessity of attending to them at a time when more pressing matters demanded his attention.

Woody nodded. “Apparently so,
Herr
Meister. What happened?”

“An—accident,” the caretaker answered evasively. “It is being investigated. By both the
Gemeinde Behörden
—the township authorities—in Steingaden, and the
Amis.”

“I saw them at the
Anlaufstelle,”
Woody acknowledged. He looked worried. “They may come here, too. To investigate. Is that not so?”

“No,” Meister snapped, “there is no chance of that.” But he did not sound convinced. “I am certain.”

“That is not acceptable,” Woody said curtly. “I will not risk being caught in a routine accident investigation, because of a stupid mistake on the part of some idiot!” He glared at Meister. “You will have to send us on to the next
Anlaufstelle
immediately!”

“That is impossible,” Meister declared.

“Nothing is impossible!” Woody shot back at him.

“If you had arrived this morning,” Meister muttered irritably, “you could have left on the Red Cross transport with the other couple.” He scowled at Woody. “Now, you will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“I will
have
to do nothing!” Woody snapped testily. He was startled. Red Cross! The damned escape route employed Red Cross vehicles. With Red Cross cooperation? It was incredible. But there it was. With a surge of excitement he suddenly realized that that “other couple” of Meister’s had to be Eva and her cohort.
They
had been in the Red Cross truck that passed them on the road less than an hour ago! He thought one of the three people he’d glimpsed through the windshield had been a woman. He’d thought nothing of it then because—my God!—Red Cross.

Cold-eyed he glared at the caretaker. Here was his chance. “I am afraid, Herr Meister,” he said icily, “I am afraid I do not think that under the uncertain circumstances my companion and I will be safe here overnight.” He glowered at the agent. “And neither will you, my good fellow, if you are found here with us.” He drew himself haughtily erect. “If you cannot assist us, as required of you, I must attempt to reach the next
Anlaufstelle
on my own. And, of course, give a full report to the Brotherhood.” He gave Meister a withering look. “I am certain you understand.”

Meister suddenly looked frightened. “I can assure you,” he said fervently, “I would like you gone from here as much as you do. I am fully aware of the danger your presence here constitutes at this time.”

“Then I suggest you find a way to send us on,” Woody snapped.

Meister nodded. “As you say.”

“Then do so!”

“There—there is a possibility,” the caretaker ventured uncertainly, “a slight possibility that . . .”He stopped. He was obviously thinking.

“I am waiting, Meister!” Woody snapped.

“There is a special Red Cross courier arriving here,” Meister said. “He is not supposed to be a transport. He is here to get a full report on the—the accident. And he will have instructions regarding changes in the Red Cross escape route assistance in crossing into Italy. He—he should be here within the hour.” He looked at Woody. “I will talk to him. Perhaps . . .”

“We will both talk to him,” Woody interrupted firmly. “Where is the next stop?”

“The Red Cross transport goes to the
Achse
collection point in Merano. In Italy,” Meister said. “It is at least a five-hour drive.”

“Then that is where your courier will take us. Today.” Woody’s tone of voice precluded any gainsaying. “In one hour. We will have more than enough time to get there, if you,
Herr
Meister, get to work on the necessary documents immediately!”

Willi Lüttjohann was impressed. Both by the magnificent scenery he and Eva had driven through, crossing the Tyrolean Alps, and the ease with which the Red Cross truck, loaded with food parcels, had crossed the border checkpoints. The guards had saluted, counted the number of passengers, and checked the Red Cross manifest, keeping it just long enough to place their stamps on it. He had felt like a tourist, and had thoroughly enjoyed the trip, taking special satisfaction in the obvious pleasure and enthusiasm expressed by Eva.

They had made the trip in just under five hours and had arrived at the
Anlaufstelle
in Merano a little before 1700 hours.

The stop was a small, picturesque inn on the outskirts of town. It was a two-story, ochre-colored building with an attic under a red tile roof. It was covered with vines and had a secluded private garden in back. An open gate led to a walled courtyard in front. Set into the stone wall next to it a shrine with a wooden figure of the Madonna welcomed the travelers who sought the shelter of the inn.

The
Anlaufstelle
was run by an Italian couple named Bazzano, who also ran the inn.
Signore
and
signora
Luigi Bazzano were in the pay of the
Achse.
And according to Meister, pay was the right word. The Brotherhood paid dearly and excessively for their services. Rumor had it, he’d told them, that the Bazzanos had old and close ties to the professional local smugglers and were on as good terms with the local police authorities as well-greased palms could insure. Be that as it may, the Merano collection point was one of the most efficient on the Italian leg of the escape route.

They were greeted with profuse enthusiasm by
Signor
Bazzano, a chubby, animated man who exuded so much sincerity and goodwill that Willi instantly distrusted him. “
Benvenuto,
my friends!” he cried. “Please. Come with me.”

Bowing and scraping the innkeeper agent took them to a small room on the second floor, facing the garden. In a mixture of Italian and German and a tarantella of windmill gestures he cautioned them to stay in the room. There were other guests at the inn, he explained, and it was best they were not seen.
Signora
Bazzano would bring them food. Some nice spaghetti, bread and cheese, and a bottle of red wine. He winked at Eva. It looked like
la signora
would welcome it, he observed roguishly. He pointed to a button on the wall next to the door, surrounded by a dirty patch of finger marks on the flowery wallpaper.

“If you want anything,” he said, “please ring the bell.”

It was two hours later, and dusk was turning the green trees olive drab, when Woody and Ilse walked across the walled courtyard to the inn at Merano.