Authors: John Anthony Miller
In Satan's Shadow (38 page)
Two hours later York reached the outskirts of Stuttgart, a major rail center, home to Daimler and Porsche automotive factories, and several military bases. Since it was a valuable industrial production region, it was also a prime target for Allied bombers.
As York entered the southern suburbs, he saw how widespread the devastation was. He drove through residential areas heavily damaged, some blocks nothing but rubble, and industrial areas where factories were destroyed, brick shells with collapsed roofs. Still others, charred and crumbling, continued their contribution to the war effort, their smokestacks belching, their workforce producing.
The train station was located in the center of the city, a dominant building of limestone and brick, supported by pillars and marked by a large rectangular tower. It too had been severely damaged, with parts of the façade lying in piles of debris, walls toppled, windows shattered. But it still functioned, trains coming and going, carrying troops and material, travelers and weapons.
York guided the motorcycle to a street adjacent to the terminal, little more than fumes left in the fuel tank. He parked the bike beside a street light, collected his cane and bag, and hobbled into the station.
He studied arrivals and departures, finding a train that left for Berlin forty minutes later, and went to the counter and purchased a ticket. A nearby café had tables inside the terminal, and he got a cup of coffee and a kreppel, as well as a newspaper.
He sipped his coffee and ate his donut and pretended to read the newspaper, but he was really thinking about Amanda and Erika. What would Richter do with them? He couldn’t imagine them returning to their normal lives, dominating the concert stage, as if nothing had happened. Or would they have to? Was the grand illusion that important to the German people, Hitler’s favorite musician, the Scot, Amanda Hamilton?
They might be sent to prison, or a concentration camp, where the Nazis literally worked people to death. Far more likely was a staged accidental death, followed by public mourning for the violinists of the Berlin String Quartet, the nation grieving the loss of their musical masters. That was more typical of Richter, sneaky and sinister, the deception visible for all to see, yet for no one to doubt. York got anxious, his last thought overwhelming, time far more critical.
He tapped his foot on the floor, impatient, and looked at his watch. He didn’t see the two men in green police uniforms approach. They motioned for an elderly couple at a nearby table to quietly move out of the way. Then they walked up, standing just behind him, and withdrew their pistols.
“Don’t move,” one of the policemen said.
York froze. The voice was commanding, authoritative. He remained motionless, hands on the table, and considered the possibilities. The Gestapo would be worst, a local policeman least likely to determine who he really was.
He watched from the corner of his eye as a man came into view. It was a policeman, walking in front of him, the green uniform easily identifiable.
“Raise your hands,” the policeman said.
“There is still a gun in your back,” said a second voice behind him.
“Now stand up,” the first policeman ordered.
A crowd started to gather, standing on the perimeter of the café: a few soldiers, an old man with a newspaper under his arm, a teenage girl. They watched curiously, wondering why two policemen were arresting an army sergeant.
York did as he was told. He stood, pasting a surprised look on his face, chewing the remnants of the kreppel still in his mouth.
“What is wrong?” he asked innocently.
“Step away from the table.”
“May I get my cane?” York asked. He nodded towards his leg. “A war wound in North Africa.”
The policeman hadn’t expected that information. It didn’t fit the description of the man he had been told to arrest. He didn’t answer him, but exchanged a wary glance with his companion.
“Are you armed?” the policeman asked.
“Yes,” York replied. “I have a pistol. Military issue.”
The second policeman moved closer behind him, putting the barrel of his gun in York’s back. “Put the pistol on the table.”
York moved his shirt aside, exposing the holster, ensuring the man in front of him could see it. He pinched the handle between his thumb and index finger, gently lifted it, and put it on the table.
The policeman relaxed noticeably once York was disarmed. “Papers, please.”
York pointed to his pocket, and slowly and deliberately withdrew his documents. He laid them on the table and raised his hands again.
The policeman reached forward and retrieved them. Once satisfied York wouldn’t move, and that his partner’s pistol was poking his back, he studied them carefully. He fingered the texture of the paper and examined the seal, before leafing through them. Then he laid them on the table, looked at his partner and shrugged.
The first policeman eyed the growing crowd and shifted uncomfortably. “You’re papers are in order, but we have a few questions to ask you. Please, come with us for a moment.”
York looked back at the boarding area. “I have to catch a train in twenty minutes.”
“We have an office just down the corridor. It won’t take long.”
“You resemble a wanted criminal,” the other policeman explained. “We must ensure you’re not him.”
They took his gun and papers, searched his bag without finding anything, and nudged him through the terminal. The crowd began to dissipate, although a few stragglers with time to spare followed, wondering what had caused the excitement.
The office was only thirty meters away. York kept a wary eye on the train as they led him in and had him sit down.
“Where are you coming from?” the first policeman asked.
“Freiburg,” York said, knowing his original story would be hard to verify.
“Why were you in Freiburg?”
“I have an uncle who lives there. I took advantage of my medical leave to visit him.”
“Why are you going to Berlin?”
“I have a staff assignment while convalescing, although I’m hoping to return to active duty. I can manage, with the cane. There must be something I can do for the war effort.”
“You were wounded in North Africa?”
“Yes, I served with Rommel. It’s been over a year now. And I want to fight again.”
“How long were you in Freiburg?”
York shrugged. “Five or six days.” He had to be careful. They could detain him and check train records.
“So you arrived at the terminal this morning?”
“No,” York replied, acting annoyed. “I arrived yesterday and visited with a friend from the army.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sergeant Kerr.”
“What unit is Sergeant Kerr with?”
“He’s with the Seventeenth Infantry Division. He’s on leave from the Russian front after sustaining minor injuries.” York glanced at his watch. “You are going to make me miss my train.”
The policemen moved to a corner of the room, talking among themselves. They came back a moment later and handed York his papers and the gun.
“You may go,” the policeman said sternly, offering no apology.
York nodded, showing his respect, and hobbled out, breathing a sigh of relief. He knew if they verified his story, they would find it was false. He just hoped they didn’t have time to check. Or they didn’t care to.
He made his way across the terminal and boarded the train with five minutes to spare, finding a window seat. The train was not fully booked, and there were many empty seats, so no one sat beside him. He opened his newspaper, but wasn’t reading the words. He was studying the passengers, making sure none posed a threat.
The train departed on time, pulling away from Stuttgart and barreling down the tracks. York looked out the window, watching destroyed buildings pass, the urban landscape gradually changing to woods and farms.
The journey would take seven hours, and he would arrive in Berlin early that evening. He settled back in the seat, tucked his cane and bag under his legs, and wondered where Amanda and Erika were. He still hoped to get to Berlin before they did.
The rhythmic motion of the train, combined with his weariness, made him drift off to sleep. It was hours later when an explosion woke him. Another blast followed, louder than the first, and then another, each getting closer. Shouts and screams filled the car and he bolted upright, wondering what was happening.
He craned his head against the window and saw a group of American aircraft flying by, grayish-green bodies with the stars and stripes visible on the tail and wings. They flew low, the pilots’ heads visible in the cockpit in the approaching darkness.
Another explosion sounded, rocking the train. It began to weave back and forth, unstable. Screeching metal from the brakes drowned the passengers’ screams, and the car began to slow reluctantly, the line of cars to the rear pushing those in front forward.
The train came to a halt, still intact, no damage visible or sustained. The chaos gradually subsided, shouts and screams muted, transformed to frantic conversation. After a few minutes had passed, an announcement from the conductor came over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, enemy planes have bombed the tracks in front of us. We will be delayed while repairs are made.”
The conductor made another announcement a few minutes later, warning the travelers that repairs would take hours rather than minutes. The doors were opened so anyone who wanted fresh air could step out but, given the cold weather, there were few takers.
York grabbed his bag and his cane and hurried to the door. He had no idea where they were or how long he had slept. But he had to get to Berlin; he had to find Amanda.
He pushed past passengers mingling in the aisle, moving towards the door. It was getting dark, past seven p.m., close to their original arrival time, so they shouldn’t have much farther to go. But he doubted repairs would be done that night. It would take time just to arrange the crew and machinery.
Once off the train, and standing on the side of the tracks, he could hear traffic. They were close to a main road, but the view was blocked by trees. He went to the front of the train, past the engine, and joined a group of observers, travelers, a few soldiers, and men from the train; the conductor, engineer, and coal handler.
The train had stopped twenty meters from a bomb crater. Although the timber and steel rail were intact, and most of the bed, the embankment was undermined, the crater leaving little support underneath the tracks. The engineer had acted quickly to stop the train and prevent a potential disaster.
York realized filling the hole would take time. But he didn’t have time. Although he had no idea what happened to Amanda and Erika, he suspected they were taken to Berlin. He wanted to get there before them, but even if they had driven the entire way, and he didn’t know that they had, they were already there. He had to hurry; he had to find a way to rescue them.
He stepped in the underbrush, tentatively poked through the shrubs, and started walking towards the traffic noise, moving frantically through the brush, hobbling on his cane. He picked his way through, with no path and little light, using the sounds to guide him.
After ten minutes, he came to a clearing on the edge of a highway. Cars, trucks, buses, and military vehicles were passing, scattered, the traffic not very heavy. He saw a sign on the road a few meters ahead. It read
Berlin
:
57
kilometers
.
He walked quickly, running when he could, hoping for someone to take sympathy on a limping soldier with a cane, carrying a travel bag. There wasn’t much else to do. There were no residences nearby; he couldn’t steal a vehicle. There were no bus stops or trolleys. But he had to get to Berlin. And he had to get there quickly.
A light drizzle started to fall, bathing the street in a glistening sheen. Darkness descended across the landscape, a hazy quarter moon dimly lighting his path, accented by the glow of passing headlights. Several vehicles sped by, more intent on their destination than helping a crippled soldier.
He had walked almost thirty minutes, gasping, and just about to give up hope, when a troop truck pulled to the side of the road, the canvas on the back rippling in the light breeze. It stopped just beside him, and the driver leaned across the passenger’s seat and rolled down the window.
“Do you need a lift?” the soldier asked. He was young, with blond hair and a warm smile. He seemed innocent, not yet tainted by the war.
York smiled, relieved. “That would be fabulous. I was on a train to Berlin, but the track was damaged by the bombing.”
“Climb in,” the soldier said. “I’m going to Berlin, too.”
York got in the passenger’s seat, stealing a quick glance in the back. It was empty.
“Where are the soldiers?” he asked, faking a grin. “This is a troop truck.”
The driver laughed. “I’m going to pick up some patients at a Berlin hospital.”
“On their way back to the front?” York asked.
“Yes, I think so,” the soldier said. “Although I’m not sure where.”
“I only wish I could go,” York said, feigning frustration.
“I saw you limping. Where were you wounded?”
“North Africa,” York said. “I’m going to Berlin to get medical clearance to return to active duty. So far I’ve only been permitted to drive an ambulance. But I want to fight. Like I did before.”
The conversation continued. It was pleasant, focused primarily on the war but drifting to family. The soldier wasn’t a fanatical Nazi. He was doing his duty, serving the Fatherland, like millions of other men. York relaxed, knowing he faced little danger, his mind drifting to his planned rescue.
The drive went quickly, the mile signs passing, Berlin getting closer. An hour later the outskirts of the city was visible. They approached a checkpoint, slowing the vehicle, but were waved forward by the sentries. Thirty minutes later, the soldier dropped York off on the Ku’damm, a few blocks from Amanda’s house.
It was late, almost 10 p.m. There were few people on the streets, some soldiers with dates, a policeman, an elderly couple walking their dog. York walked quickly, making sure no one followed.
He reached Amanda’s house and studied it from across the street. There were lights on; the block still had electricity even with the Allied bombings. Neighboring residences were mostly dark, a few windows lit but, for the most part, people had retired for the evening.
York walked around the block, ensuring nothing was unusual, no military or police presence. He studied the parked vehicles, the darkened windows, the bombed ruins of a nearby residence, and saw nothing suspicious. He returned to the front of Amanda’s townhouse and tucked his bag under a shrub by the front steps.
He walked quietly up the steps, staying close to the shadow cast by a nearby evergreen tree, avoiding the moonlight. When he got to the entrance he tried the door, but it was locked. He removed the knife from his cane, sliding it along the keeper until he heard a clicking sound, and again twisted the handle. The door opened, and he returned the knife to the cane.
York entered the residence, tiptoeing into a vestibule, the floor covered with black and white ceramic tile. A stairway to his right, six or seven carpeted steps, led to a higher elevation, a similar stairway to the left, led lower, probably to an apartment or storage area. He started up the steps.
A floor board creaked and he stopped, listening intently. He withdrew the pistol from his holster, slowly climbing one step then the other, pausing. He could hear no voices, but the light was on in the room he approached.
When he got to the last step, it opened into the parlor. He could see a dining room beyond, and a kitchen behind it. Both rooms were dark, barely lit. As he walked tentatively into the parlor, he saw two bags beside the entrance, Amanda’s and Erika’s. He stepped forward cautiously, looking into the rooms, ensuring no one was waiting.
“You are persistent, aren’t you Mr. York?” came a voice from behind him, near the stairs. “Now drop the gun. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
It was Richter, stepping from the shadows of an alcove just past the steps. York had walked right past him.
York sighed, defeated, and dropped the gun. He stood still, waiting further direction, every muscle of his body tense. He kept glancing about the house, searching for some sign of Amanda.
“I was wondering if you would show up,” Richter said. “Turn around.”
York turned to find Richter, pistol in hand, a sly smile on his face. “Let Amanda and Erika go. You have me. I’m the one with all the information. They know nothing.”
Richter sighed and shrugged. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Mr. York. They’re gone, destined for a concentration camp. They can play their violins for the prisoners.”
York shifted his weight, ever so slowly positioning his cane. “Their bags are right there,” he said, nodding towards them. “I know they’re here.”
“Their bags are here, ready for the garbage,” Richter replied. “But they’re not.”
York ever so slowly leaned back, tilting the cane, pointing the handle at Richter. “I doubt you would throw their belongings away,” he said, stalling for time, perfecting his aim.
Richter laughed. “But I would, minus the violin, of course, which is quite valuable. The rest has no purpose. They don’t need clothes, not where they’re going. And no one cares about Amanda’s ridiculous photographs.”
York fired. The bullet caught Richter in the forehead and blew off the top of his head.
