The Swiss Courier: A Novel (20 page)

“The Karlsruherstrasse leading into Leimen?”

“That is correct. Captain Hauptmann thought it unusual for a truck loaded with hay bales to pull over just several hundred meters before the checkpoint. We went over to investigate.”

“What was the farmer like?”

“There were two, actually. Neither of them looked much like farmers. Their papers checked out, though. Maybe they were helping out an old lady who couldn’t find farmhands.”

“Could be.” Kassler stroked his chin. Most able-bodied men had been either constricted into the army or forced into the factories, although some received furloughs during planting and harvest times. The Fatherland needed food since armies marched on their stomachs, as Napoleon famously said one time. “So you initiated a search?”

“Correct. It’s common to hide fugitives in hay loads, so we followed standard procedure. I was probing between the rows of hay bales when the air raid siren blasted.”

“How many planes?”

“Just one. I recall taking a few shots at the American fighter, but he wasn’t too concerned about us.”

Kassler cocked his head in interest.

“What I mean, sir, is he blasted the checkpoint. Came in real low. It wasn’t until his third dive he attacked us. After that, I don’t remember much.”

“Let’s talk about what happened before the raid. You mentioned you were on top of the hay bales when the attack occurred. Do you remember anything else?”

“I do, but I’m not sure if it’s my memory playing tricks on me.”

“What do you mean?” Kassler looked toward Becker, who was poised with his notebook.

“While probing the hay pile, I saw what appeared to be clothing through the hay. Maybe just a lost scarf . . . or maybe something else. Maybe it was someone. But like I said, I’m not sure.”

One more clue, Kassler thought. One more clue.

“Type out the description of the flatbed truck and notify the local authorities,” Kassler barked.

Trailing his superior officer, Becker struggled to keep up, scribbling reminders in his notebook. Kassler barely broke stride as he pushed his way through a set of glass doors that led to their staff car parked at the hospital entrance.

“A mid-morning, single-fighter raid on a security checkpoint in Heidelberg? Preposterous.” Kassler paused beside the automobile, waiting for Becker to open the rear door for him. “Who do they think they are?”

Kassler sighed as he settled into the leather bench seat. Becker climbed into the front seat and mumbled something about a late lunch, but Kassler didn’t respond. His mind replayed Privat Grüniger’s report.

The fact that the Allies had owned the skies in the last year was one thing. But there was something utterly brazen about launching a midday aerial assault in broad daylight, with just a single fighter and no escort. P-51 Mustangs normally escorted the B-24 Liberator bombers to their missions, and while it was true that some rogue American P-51 pilots hung back to hunt for Luftwaffe ME-109s or strafe rail yards and supply depots, a single-seat sortie on an overmatched checkpoint was unheard of—unless . . .

Kassler balled his hands into fists. Those “farmers”
knew
the air raid was coming, which is why they stowed their truck in that plaza. And he had no doubt that entombed underneath a ton of hay was Joseph Engel—which meant the bandits and the Jew traitor traveled south.

Toward Leimen.

Dieter placed the folded napkin on the table and leaned back with a contented smile. He studied Gabi’s face, watching her as she finished the last bite of her lunch. Although from the outside she appeared to be enjoying a comfortable meal, he noted a look of excitement in her gaze. He had her on a string—like a marionette at the Salzburg Children’s Theater.

“I’ve got the check. I’ll let you head back to the office first, Gabi.”

“You don’t have to. Here, let me cover my part of the bill.” She reached for her pocketbook.

He lifted a hand and waved her offering away. “Don’t worry. Lunch was on Mr. Dulles.”

“Well, all I can say is thank you, Mr. Dulles.” She stood and waved her hand in the direction of Bern. “I’ll see you back at the office. Thank you . . . for thinking of me.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and hurried off with a smile.

Dieter kept his eyes on the lithe figure approaching the elevator. When Gabi was gone, he called over the waitress to pay.

“Two
Röstis
, two Henniezs,” he announced.

The waitress, per custom, reached into her apron for a black purse filled with Swiss banknotes and enough loose change to open a bank teller cage.
“Zweimol drüü macht
sächs,”
she uttered in the local dialect,
“plus zwiemol eis
macht acht Franke, bitte.”

Baumann counted out eight francs in coins and handed them over.

Instead of exiting via the elevator, Baumann turned right and pushed through the door leading to the men’s room. His contact, Ludwig, waited next to the washbasins.

Dieter’s eyes darted to the stalls. “Empty?”

“I checked. We’re alone.”

As habit, he walked over to the middle stall and bent over. No feet rested next to any of the three toilets.

Ludwig passed a comb through his thinning black hair. “What did she say?”

“She took it hook, line, and sinker, as the Americans say.”

“Did you tell her when?”

“Not yet. I thought we should talk first.”

“Consider yourself talked to.” Ludwig tucked his comb into his front shirt pocket and then pulled two papers from a pouch he carried under his shirt. “We go tomorrow. Here are your papers for getting across the border.”

Baumann fingered the two work permits. “Interesting that the Germans don’t require a photo.”

“They match this permit to your Swiss identity card, which has your photo, so you have to take both.”

“I knew that. I was just making the observation that this seems out of character for our neighbors to the north.”

“Could be, but consider that these work permits are for Swiss wanting to come
into
wartime Germany and work in their factories. They know what side their bread is buttered on.”

Dieter tucked the documents inside his jacket pocket and then folded his arms across his chest. “You’re sure the diamonds are in that safe?”

“I double-checked with my police source this morning. You get your girl to work those magic fingers of hers, and when this war is over, we’ll be sitting pretty. From what I hear, there are enough rocks inside that safe to open a diamond exchange in Amsterdam.”

Jean-Pierre peered over the top of the newspaper as Gabi Mueller exited the busy Globus entrance. What was she doing here? She looked to her right and adjusted a white scarf over her hair, then turned to the left and walked past a series of department store window displays while he continued to track her progress from across the street.

At the third display—where two women were dismantling a First of August scene—she stopped and regarded their work. Jean-Pierre lifted the newspaper to cover his face. When a suitable amount of time had passed—fifteen seconds—he dropped the newspaper, but she was gone.

A minute or two later, Dieter Baumann departed the Globus, his right hand working a toothpick as he strode back toward his office. Jean-Pierre sized up the situation: this was an off-site rendezvous with Gabi Mueller. What was that all about?

Jean-Pierre didn’t have an answer, but he was sure that Allen Dulles would be interested in
this
development.

He tried to ignore the knots that had formed at the base of his neck, and he hoped the anxious tenseness that surged through him was wrong this time. Gabi Mueller had a lunch meeting, nothing more.

Jean-Pierre told himself that was all Baumann was up to, but he was having trouble convincing the jury—himself.

At first, he believed he was still dreaming.

Joseph rubbed the sleep from his eyes and swept his gaze

around the second-story bedroom, paneled in finished pinewood and fully furnished with an armoire, a small table, and chairs. He sucked in a deep breath, taking in the scent of lye soap and lilac—not unlike his mother’s house when he was a child. He noticed a vase of lilacs on a small bedside table, and his lips formed a soft smile.

Sunshine flooded through a single-paned window, outlined with red-and-white checked curtains. He figured it must be midafternoon. From somewhere beyond his bedroom door, a chorus of baritone voices sung a familiar hymn—a muffled melody, he realized, that had awakened him. A song as sweet as an angel’s hymn.

Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott,

Ein gute Wehr und Waffen;

Er hilft uns frei aus aller Not,

Die uns jetzt hat betroffen . . .

Joseph closed his eyes and hummed along with the next stanza. The words flooded his consciousness, words as familiar to him as the Lord’s Prayer. This didn’t surprise him. After all, it was in Fräulein Ritter’s second grade class when he first learned the lyrics to Martin Luther’s seminal hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Luther’s paraphrase of Psalm 46, as well as the rhythmic isometric arrangement, reassured Joseph that no matter what he faced, God was a bulwark never failing.

After the fourth and final verse, muffled male voices rose from beneath his floor, but he couldn’t make out more than a snatch of their conversations. Joseph stared at the ceiling as a peace settled over him. Even though this group of people had protected him, he still questioned whose side they were on. And he wondered what they wanted from him.

But now, waking to these songs, he had a renewed hope. Maybe it was God’s people who’d protected him. Perhaps he was safe after all.

Two minutes later, a knock sounded on the pinewood door.

“Herr Engel,
darf ich herein kommen?
”

Joseph didn’t recognize the voice, but the genteel request sounded courteous enough.

“Yes, you may come in.” He rubbed his eyes once again and regarded the slim, tall man entering the bedroom.

Joseph quickly sat up on the low-slung twin bed, covered by a duvet with an ivory white slipcover. “Excuse me, but I don’t normally nap in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Well understood. The events of the last twenty-four hours would drain the reserves of any individual,” the man said with an understanding smile.

Joseph swung his feet onto the hardwood floor, remembering that he’d slipped off his trousers before dropping into bed hours ago. He felt heat rising to his cheeks. “Excuse me. Let me put on some clothes.”

The slender man strode over to the second-story window, peering out.

Joseph grunted as he plucked his black pants—still speckled with strands of straw—from the back of a chair. He dressed, and then approached the window, glancing out toward a dirt yard that separated the main farmhouse from a two-story barn whose stained finish had faded to a mellow burnish.

“I see that the chickens are finding enough to eat,” the caller commented. “Lord knows how we need eggs around here.”

The older man turned and extended his hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Pastor Leo. I thank God Almighty that you arrived safely today.”

Joseph regarded the visitor before him. The pastor looked to be the same age as his father—early fifties, clusters of wispy gray hair, and skinnier than a rail. His nose resembled a raven’s beak, and his sallow cheeks spoke of his wartime diet. The way the pastor’s blue eyes met and held Joseph’s— warm, inviting—imbued the young physicist with confidence. He inspired trust, a sureness of mission.

“A pleasure to meet you, Pastor. You’ll have to excuse me if I seem confused. I’m having a terrible time sorting this all out.”

“I figured as much.” Pastor Leo approached a pine table with a pair of arrowback chairs. Dressed in casual farm clothes—with no clerical collar—but wearing wooden clogs so as to not track dirt and mud into the home, Pastor Leo pointed to one of the chairs. “Here, take a seat. We need to talk.”

“I would appreciate finally getting some answers.” Joseph settled into the offered chair.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

Joseph answered with a nod.

“To start, we aren’t the Gestapo. In fact, I can assure you that if our location were betrayed to the local authorities, we would all be given one-way tickets to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse . . . including you.”

“But I broke no law! I . . . I’ve done nothing to instigate my arrest . . . kidnapping . . . capture—or whatever you call it.”

“No, but you’d have a hard time convincing the Gestapo of your innocence.”

“Why?” Joseph threw up his hands. “Surely they’ll believe I had no part of this. I was taken by force.”

The pastor pursed his lips, then reached out and took Joseph’s right hand in his. He let out a long sigh. “There is no way to say this, but just to tell you plainly. The Gestapo— they won’t believe you no matter what you say . . . because you’re Jewish.”

Joseph pulled his hand away as if the pastor’s touch had scalded him. “No, you’re mistaken. You must have me confused with someone else. This whole thing is a mistake. My parents’ heritage is in accordance with the Nuremberg laws. I’m a God-fearing Lutheran. My background was thoroughly vetted before I joined Doktor Heisenberg’s team at the University.”

A sadness filled the pastor’s eyes, causing the muscles in Joseph’s shoulders to clench.

Joseph let out a coarse laugh to lighten the tension. “This must be some kind of twisted joke. My parents are
not
Jewish.”

“You’re correct.” The pastor’s eyes bore into Joseph’s. His mouth opened and closed again as if he was trying to find the right words. “Are you . . . circumcised?”