Eva (43 page)

The Red Cross courier had literally whisked them through Austria, stopping only at the borders and, for a few minutes, on business of his own, at the relief center office in Innsbruck.

Signor
Bazzano welcomed them expansively and put them up in a room on the ground floor facing the garden in back. He warned them to stay in their room. Tomorrow, he assured them. Tomorrow he would send them on their way to the
Anlaufstelle
in Bolzano, with new travel papers and a basket with lunch, fixed for them by
Signora
Bazzano herself.

And he left them to rest up after their no doubt exhausting trip.

It was shortly before 2030 hours, the hour of curfew. Ilse was asleep on the bed, and he was dozing in a big chair. Suddenly a noise in the courtyard roused him. It was the sound of a motor. It chugged, sputtered, and died. A motorcycle? It sounded familiar. He strained to listen. But he heard nothing. Of course, they were not alone in the inn. There were other guests, Bazzano had told them. Guests? Or
Achse
travelers? Or both? Was Eva among them, or had she gone on immediately after she had arrived, as he had? Bolzano was only about twenty miles to the south, less than an hour’s drive. Or, had he caught up with her? Was she in Merano? Bolzano? He was too tired to think straight. He admitted, reluctantly, that the constant strain was getting to him. Anyway, there was nothing he could do now. Tomorrow . . .

Slowly he dozed off.

In a room above,
SS Obersturmführer
Willibald Lüttjohann glanced at the sleeping Eva. She did not stir. The sudden motor noise in the courtyard had not disturbed her. He was grateful.

The rigors of the journey were beginning to take their toll. Her strength was being severely tapped. He would have to find a way to make the rest of the trip to Bari less strenuous for her.

Tomorrow . . .

He lay back in the big leather chair and dozed off.

Woody woke with a start. He knew he had had an unpleasant dream and had willed himself to waken from it as he usually did, but it had eluded his conscious mind the instant he woke up. For a split moment he sat motionless, blinking away the sleep from his eyes, trying to remember where he was, and feeling naked because his gun was not in its holster strapped under his shoulder. Then—he knew.

His neck felt stiff from the uncomfortable position in the chair, and one of his legs was asleep. He held his watch to a shaft of pale blue moonlight that slanted into the room. 0307 hours.

He stood up and stretched his legs. He glanced at Ilse, sleeping heavily on the bed, her face turned away from him. He frowned. Dammit! If there was only
something
he could do.

But there wasn’t.

He walked over to the window. Outside, the garden—a mosaic of shadowy and moonlit patches accented by the black silhouettes of trees and shrubs—lay quiet and silent in the beauty of the night. He was just about to turn away when something caught his attention. A movement. Ever so slight. Seen out of the corner of his eye.

He looked, peering into the darkness.

There. Again. Something moved. A figure. The figure of a man.

Instantly he was alert. What would someone be doing at three in the morning outside his window? Who? He didn’t know.

But he decided to find out.

Quietly he opened the window. He swung his legs over the sill and silently, catlike, dropped the couple of feet to the soft ground into a flower bed below.

For a moment he stood stock-still, melting into the shadows at the wall.

He listened. He peered at the spot in the shrubbery where he thought he had seen the movement, trying to penetrate the darkness.

He saw nothing.

Suddenly he stiffened. Footsteps. Cautious, clandestine footsteps. Someone was approaching on the path.

In the faint bluish light he saw a man slowly walking down the path. He stopped. He looked around and stepped up to a bush. From his motions it quickly became apparent that he was relieving himself.

Woody felt sheepish standing in the shadows, watching the man. But he could not move without being discovered. And he did not want that to happen.

The man continued to urinate. Woody could hear the thin rustle in the leaves on the ground. Finally the man tucked himself in and buttoned his trousers. He turned to go back the way he’d come. A thorny branch from a rosebush hooked itself to his pants leg and tore at him. The man uttered a low oath. “
Farsholt!
— Damn!”

Woody drew up in astonishment.

The man had cursed in Yiddish!

The man freed himself and walked on. Suddenly Woody heard a low, taut, and raspy command in sharp, guttural German, coming from the black shadows in the brush: “
Stillgestanden!
—Don’t move! Don’t make a sound!”

The man on the path stopped dead in his tracks. From the bushes stepped another man. Woody did not recognize him, but even the few steps he took before he planted himself before the first man betrayed his military training. He held one hand in front of him. A split second glint of moonlight on metal was suddenly reflected from the object he held.

A gun.

“What are you doing here?” the man with the gun snarled. “Who are you,
du Judenschwein?
—you Jewish pig?”

The man before him cringed. He began to tremble. “I—I beg your forgiveness. Please!” he mumbled in obvious terror. “There were no—no toilet facilities in the attic. And I—I was . . .”

“
Maulhalten!
—Shut your mouth!” the German snapped. “Do not play games with me. What are you,
du Saujude,
doing here at an
Achse Anlaufstelle?”

The Jew stared at him. “
Achse?”
he croaked.

The German glared at him, scornfully, triumphantly. “I thought you were a Jew swine when I saw you,” he said smugly. “Sneaking out of the house. No Aryan would look like you.” His voice grew harsh. “On your knees, you obscene creature!”

The Jew fell to his knees. Woody had the feeling it was not the first time the man had been forced to grovel before a member of the master race. The man wrung his hands. “
Zol Got mir helfn!”
he mumbled.

“Once more,
du Scheisskerl,”
the German snarled. Towering over the kneeling man he pointed his gun deliberately down at his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Please! Nothing! Only—we only . . .”

“We,” the German interrupted. “There are more of you scum here?
Los!
Out with it. How many
Saujuden
are there?”

“Two—two more,” the man stammered.

“In the attic?” The German sounded incredulous.

The man nodded. “We . . .”

“Why?” the German shot at him. “What are you doing there?” He glared at the man on the ground, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He answered himself. “You are spying on us! You are planning to betray us! Revenge yourselves, you scum!”

“No! No! We . . .”

“Shut up!” the German growled. Slowly, with menacing, measured steps he began to stalk around the kneeling man. “Be quiet! Or you will have shaken that Jewish cock of yours for the last time!”

“
Bitte, bitte, Herr Lagerbefehlshaber,”
the man pleaded, automatically addressing the German as he would a concentration camp officer. “Please. I—I mean no harm.”

The German laughed harshly. “No harm,
du Saujude?”
he grated. “To be a stinking Jew is harm enough.”

He stopped behind the trembling man on the ground.

Woody watched. Anger and rage were building in him, but he knew he could not interfere. He could do nothing that would jeopardize his mission.

He saw the German switch his gun to his left hand. He saw him reach down toward his boot with his right. In the pale moonlight he saw what he pulled out. A knife.

And he decided.

His eyes flew about for some kind of weapon. A row of slanted bricks formed a border around the flower bed where he was standing. He grabbed one of them. Quickly, keeping to the shadows, he silently skirted the two men on the path, until he was behind the German. The man was intent on the victim kneeling before him, his back turned toward him.

Woody was within a few feet of the man when he saw him draw back his knife arm, aiming the long blade at the back of the Jew’s neck.

He rushed the last couple of steps and smashed the brick down on the crown of the German’s head.

Without a sound the man collapsed, bowling over the Jew kneeling in front of him.

At once Woody was at his side.

“Quiet!” he whispered urgently. “We don’t want to alert the whole damned hornets’ nest.”

The shaken man stared at the knife fallen on the ground. “He— he would have killed me,” he breathed in shock.

Woody helped him to his feet. “You’re okay now,” he said. “But what the hell
are
you doing here?”

“You—saved my life,” the man whispered. “
Got zol dir bentshn!
—May God bless you!”

Woody looked down at the unconscious German. “Help me haul this guy into the bushes,” he said. He picked up the man’s gun. A Walther 7.65. He hesitated for only a second before he put it in his belt. Together with the Jew he pulled the German off the path. He picked up the knife and threw it next to him.

“Is he dead?” the Jew asked.

“He’ll have a bump on his skull the size of a bowling ball and a healthy headache,” Woody grunted. “But he’ll live.” He turned to the man. “What the hell
are
you and your friends doing in the damned attic?”

“We are waiting,” the man said. “For transportation. We are going to Palestine.”

Woody gaped at him. “Palestine? You’re illegal emigrants?”

The man nodded. “We are not permitted to go there. By the British. But we go there with the help of
Bricha.”

“
Bricha?”

“In Hebrew it means escape,” the man said. “It is the organization that helps us get to Palestine. We go there by the way of safe houses. Like this one.” He glanced fearfully toward the bushes that hid the unconscious German. “I—I did not know there were Nazis here.”

“They also have an escape route, my friend.”

“The innkeeper told us that there were other guests here. But not—not Nazis.” He shuddered.

“The innkeeper is screwing the Golden Calf from both ends,” Woody said drily. He was stunned. The
Achse
and
Bricha
using the same safe houses! Nazis in the basement, Jews in the attic. One hell of an arrangement. Ironic. Devilish. But then, as far as
Signor
Luigi Bazzano was concerned, why not? Money is money, whether it comes from Nazis or Jews. He turned to the man.

“Go back to the attic,” he said. “And
stay
there. You and your friends will be safe as long as you do. As long as you follow the instructions given you.” He nodded toward the German. “That bastard—when he does come to—won’t give you any static.”

The man nodded. “I will do as you say.” He grabbed Woody’s hand. “Thank you. And—be blessed by God!”

“
Shalom,”
Woody said. He grinned. “And for God’s sake, next time you have to take a leak—use your hat!”

The man disappeared into the night shadows. Woody turned back toward the window to his room—and froze.

Clearly seen in the pale blue light from the moon a figure could be made out standing in the window, watching him.

Ilse.

In two strides he was at the window. He looked up at the girl, who stood tensely, staring down at him.

“Who—are you?” she whispered.

Woody stared back at her. How long had she been there? How much had she seen? How much had she heard?

He climbed into the room. He closed the window. He looked searchingly into her face.

“Ilse,” he said, “what . . .”

“I saw it all,” the girl whispered. “I heard it all. I—I saw what you did.” She lifted her face to him. Her huge, luminous eyes regarded him solemnly.

“Who are you?”

For a long moment Woody stared into the wide, questioning eyes as if trying to read the thoughts hidden behind them.

Then—he told her.

[264

W
OODY STOPPED THE NERVOUS PACING
that had sustained him during the disclosure of his true identity to Ilse. Gravely he looked at the girl perched rigidly on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands that lay clenched in her lap. She was obviously deeply affected, shaken, by what she had heard. She had let him talk, not once interrupting him.

He was well aware that by telling her what he had, he’d broken every rule in the book—and several that hadn’t even been recorded. He could have done nothing else. Though neither he nor she had so chosen, Ilse, for better or for worse, had become part of his mission, and it was now imperative that there be no reservations, no doubts between them. Ilse had witnessed his interrogation by that
Sturmbannführer
in Memmingen, and she had just seen him disable what was supposed to be a fellow SS officer in order to save and aid a Jew! If he had done nothing, it was quite likely that the girl in her confusion and incertitude might have sought an explanation elsewhere. And that would have been his undoing.