The Swiss Courier: A Novel (18 page)

“How long have we been traveling?” Joseph mumbled from the dark tomb.

“At least an hour,” Wilhelm said. “Emil knows these roads well. He must be taking the circuitous route.”

Joseph heard the truck downshift once, twice, and then a third time. “We’re coming to a stop,” he whispered in the dark. He focused on the noises from beyond the tomb of hay—the slamming of a truck door. Followed by footsteps.

“Willi, can you hear me?” It was Emil, their driver. “How are you doing?”

“No problems here.” Wilhelm feigned cheerfulness. “Just a little dark and itchy, right, Herr Engel?”

“I’ve been more comfortable,” Joseph mumbled. He tried to adjust, and he attempted to peek through a small opening that offered a faint ray of daylight seeping through the hay bales, but his effort did no good.

“Is everything okay out there?” Wilhelm asked.

“Yes and no,” Emil replied. “We parked in the church plaza as ordered. Several hundred meters away we can see the roadblock leading to Leimen.”

From the rise and fall of Emil’s voice and the slight movement of the hay around him, Joseph figured the man was pretending to check the load—tightening the ropes, making adjustments, retying loose knots.

“Two trucks are blocking the road,” Emil’s muffled voice continued. “We were told this is where the roadblock would be for all traffic flowing south out of Heidelberg. Looks like our information was correct. Still, I don’t like it. Wehrmacht soldiers are stopping each vehicle—even horse-drawn wagons. From the looks of things, they’re turning everything upside down, giving it a good shake.”

Joseph could tell Emil tried to share the information as nonchalantly as possible. No doubt he’d been schooled at keeping calm during stressful situations, but Joseph also knew they were in big trouble. To continue on would mean their sure discovery. And if they turned around, they’d most likely be followed. Fleeing, in fact, would simply delay the inevitable.

Dear God
. . . Joseph wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a prayer.

“So what do we do?” Joseph found himself asking.

“Our instructions were to park next to this church and wait. Hans is making a phone call to get some advice about passing through the checkpoint. Uh-oh—looks like trouble’s coming our way. A couple of
soldaten
on a three-wheeler.”

Joseph’s ears caught the faint staccato sound of a motorcycle engine whining in the distance. “They’ve found us.” Panic rose in Joseph’s throat.

“Shush,” Wilhelm whispered. “Emil and Hans know what they’re doing. They’re prepared to shoot if they have to. Just pray that . . . we won’t be discovered.”

“If they start firing, we’ll be shot ourselves. Every soldier in this area will be after us—”

“Quiet. They’re almost here.” Wilhelm quit talking as the humming motorcycle engine drew closer.

Emil balled his fists to his side as he watched the three-wheeled motorcycle, with a passenger sidecar, careen into the cobblestone plaza and bear down on their parked truck in a cloud of dust.

Hans sidled up to Emil after making the phone call. “I don’t like this,” he piped out of the side of his mouth. “They are making a beeline right for us.”

Emil’s eyes remained on the motorcycle sidecar. “They’ll be here any second. Quick—any news?”

“The message from the Americans is that nothing has changed. We are to continue waiting here until the appointed time.”

“God help us.” Emil continued to feign a look of disinterest, then turned around to eye his load. “Let’s look busy.”

Emil loosened one of the ropes binding the hay bales. With a practiced jerk of the head, he motioned for Hans to give him a hand. They clasped the fraying cord together and gave it a hard yank. Though Emil’s stomach quivered on the inside, his grip was firm. There was no room for fear—men’s lives were at stake.

Employing a practiced motion, Emil cinched the rope to a cleat on the flatbed truck and performed a figure-eight knot. His body was on full alert. Silently, he prayed that the approaching soldiers would believe that they had merely stopped in front of the church to resecure their load—something any prudent farmer would do.

Grant us calmness, Lord. Protection
.

His eyes fixed on the pair of soldiers bearing down in their direction on a mud-splattered Zündapp Z22 motorcycle, painted in Panzer grey and sporting ammo boxes and jerry cans. Bushy gray sideburns sprouted from underneath the flared Nazi helmet of the driver. He looked old enough to be Emil’s grandfather, but that didn’t stop the fear clawing at his chest. On the other hand, the smooth-skinned soldier riding in the sidecar didn’t look
old
enough to drive a motorcycle. Emil had heard the Wehrmacht was having trouble filling its ranks with able-bodied soldiers, and this pair’s approach was further evidence of the tumbling of the Reich that began with the massive defeat at Stalingrad.

The motorcycle parked, and the grizzly looking captain stepped off and patted a sidearm that hung from a leather pouch belted next to his right hip. Meanwhile, his youthful sidekick jumped out of the cramped sidecar and jerkily pointed his Mauser carbine at Emil.

“Papiere!”
The younger soldier’s command sounded like he was practicing his unbridled authority.

Papers. Always papers. Emil reached into his back pocket, where he kept a well-worn leather wallet. Between several Reichsmark bills was his
Ausweis
—the official residence permit with his black-and-white photo, thumbprint, and the necessary stamps from Heidelberger authorities.

“You will find everything in order.” Emil handed the papers over.

Hans produced his Ausweis as well.

“Privat Grüniger, search their load,” the senior soldier ordered.

“
Jawohl,
Captain Hauptmann.” The junior officer returned his rifle to behind his back and ducked underneath the truck, peering into the chassis with particular attention to the rear axle mount. Satisfied no stowaways were lodged beneath the flatbed, he pulled himself up and tugged on the driver side door. The door stuck for a moment before swinging open. He shoved the bench seat forward, but found nothing.

Emil watched as the teenage soldier next turned his direction toward the load of hay bales, stacked higher than normal.

“You have a pitchfork?” The youthful soldier glanced at Hans, who stood near the load with arms crossed.

“On top of the hay bales,” Emil answered for his partner. Then he dropped both hands into his baggy pockets and fingered the Luger pistol in his right hand. His orders had been unusually specific: they were to get Engel out of Heidelberg at all costs, even if that meant killing fellow Germans.

Emil had never shot a man before, but he
had
witnessed death. In his mind’s eye, he could see the small group of Jewish men being paraded across the Old Bridge to Heidelberg’s main square. If he remembered correctly, they were the last of the stragglers rounded up in early 1943, but he had never forgotten how a firing squad meted out their deadly volleys. He thought of that bloodbath often, and somehow the bleak image helped steel him for what he might be forced to do.

The young soldier walked around to the rear of the truck and climbed up a half-dozen wooden slats to scale the summit of hay. He freed the pitchfork and began probing between rows of rectangular bales, but the pitchfork’s curvature failed to make much of a dent.

He swore in frustration. “You farmers usually stack five— what’s with eight rows?”

“It was the first time we got petrol in a month.” Emil shrugged. “Just trying to maximize our load.”

Sweat built on the young soldier’s forehead as he again tried to plunge the pitchfork all the way through the tall piles. Frustrated and uttering another string of obscenities, the private dropped the pitchfork and swung his Mauser rifle around to his front. He gripped his rifle in his left hand and deftly reached for his ammo belt with his right, unsheathing a bayonet. Then with one quick motion, he attached it to his rifle stock.

Emil saw Hans glance his direction, but he refused to acknowledge his gaze. The bayonet, they all knew, would go deeper. He just hoped it wouldn’t travel deep enough.

Bending down to one knee, the soldier jabbed the space between the rectangular rows of hay, plunging as deep as he could.

Dear God . . . protect them. Shield them with your hand
.

Joseph willed himself not to move, even though he expected a steel tip to tear into his leg or back at any moment. One vigorous thrust just missed his feet. The next sliced through hay behind his torso.

Shafts of light entered their tomb, created by the soldier’s poking between bales. Joseph looked across to Wilhelm, curled into a tight ball. Two times a sharp blade invaded their space. Two times the bayonet missed the pair by centimeters.

The young soldier stepped back from the load. “Nothing so far. Shall I yank the bales off the truck?”

“Yes. Good idea.” The older soldier ran a hand through his gray stubble. “This load is too tall and tightly packed. That way we’ll be sure. You want to start throwing off bales?”

Emil took one step toward the older soldier, keeping his right hand in his front pocket. “Wait a minute—you’re destroying my hay!” His hand tightened around the Luger.

“Halt!”
barked the grizzled Army captain. He deftly unbuttoned his leather pistol holster and withdrew his Luger in one fell motion. “
Hände hoch!
”

Emil realized the older soldier had the drop on him. He hesitated, knowing that pulling a pistol out of his right pocket presented all sorts of problems. Releasing a breath, he eased his right hand out and raised open palms to shoulder height. “Listen, I’m not here to make trouble. I have cows to feed.”

“You two, give him a hand. I want every bale removed— every one!” The older officer waved his pistol toward the truck.

Emil had just taken one step forward when the pitched whine of an air raid siren crackled through the air. The high-decibel tone rose and fell, alerting them that Allied bombers would soon be upon them.

They had only minutes to take cover.

Since D-Day, the Allies had stepped up massive bombing of German industrial areas along the Rhineland and Ruhr areas—places like Essen, Dortmund, Pforzheim, and Stuttgart. And where was the celebrated Luftwaffe? It was a question everyone wondered, but no one voiced. Their saviors weren’t in the sky—that was for sure. There was no one to stop the waves of American bombers who released their deadly payloads during the daylight hours. No one to deliver them from their nighttime terror when British Lancasters and Halifaxes returned under the cover of darkness.

Emil looked up to see an American attack plane—with predominantly white U.S. Army Air Corps insignias on its tail and under its wings. The single-seat fighter screeched by at less than 100 meters overhead.
One of the new P-51 Mustangs!
The lone aircraft swooped past the church plaza, and Emil noticed farmers and civilians—including a mom with three children in tow—sprint for safety in a nearby building.

Gunfire sounded from the barricade, and Emil turned and observed three soldiers leaving their positions to fire at the approaching fighter. Emil knew the soldiers’ effort would do no good. Unhindered by ground fire, the P-51 Mustang lost more altitude and let loose a hail of ordinance from its wing-mounted machine guns. A half-dozen lines of bullets ricocheted off the cobblestone plaza and bore in on the blockade checkpoint. Another deadly line of machine-gun fire closed the distance between the plaza and a German troop truck. Then, within seconds, the truck exploded into a ball of flames as the P-51 made its first pass.

Emil cheered on the inside.

“Grüniger,
raus!
Leave them!” the captain yelled over the commotion.

The surprised private high-stepped his way across several hay bales before grabbing the highest wooden slat and swinging his body over it. He descended two rows, then jumped to the ground and raced for the motorcycle sidecar. The white-faced captain was already kickstarting the Zündapp engine. On the second swing of the captain’s leg, the 250 cc engine sprang to life. The
Motorrad
bolted out of the plaza, speeding to defend their comrades at the checkpoint.

Overhead, the swift American fighter circled and dove even lower on its second approach, relentlessly bearing down on the smoldering barricade that billowed with smoke and fire. A machine-gunner positioned atop a German halftrack suddenly slumped from a fusillade of bullets, and seconds later the halftrack itself exploded, knocking two soldiers to the ground, killing them.

On its third foray, the American pilot turned to the overmatched soldiers on the motorcycle speeding toward the checkpoint. The sidekick pointed his rifle at the pursuit plane and fingered several shots—none of which hit their mark.

Emil ducked underneath the flatbed truck with Hans and watched in fascination as the American pilot concentrated his attack on the German pair. Within seconds, a relentless hail of steel-jacketed bullets overcame the motorcycle. The old driver spasmed and fell onto the handlebars like a rag doll, and his younger charge toppled out of the sidecar in a heap. The motorcycle spun in several tight circles until the third wheel struck the private’s inert body and flipped onto its side, dumping the older driver to the ground.

The P-51’s final pass destroyed what was left of the checkpoint. Two military vehicles and a farmer’s flatbed truck—the latter unlucky enough to be stopped at the checkpoint during the attack—had burst into flames. Billows of black smoke arched into the late-morning blue sky.

Then, upon his departure, the pilot dipped his wings, a signal that the coast was clear.

“Did you see that?” Emil straightened himself after crouching beneath the truck.

“Yeah, I did,” Hans said. “This guy must be important to the Americans to have these types of connections.”