Volk (38 page)

One of his companions joined him there; the third did not. They realized that they had lost a man. They had all been aware that this was a high-risk mission, but this confirmation was nevertheless sobering.

On the third day, the 18th, as they drove farther ahead of the front, they were again flagged down. Ernst noticed that one man stood in the road, while two others remained at the side, rifles ready. This was no out-of-gas situation.

“Hey, buddy—who are Dem Bums?”

Ernst nudged his companion with his hidden foot, warning him into silence. “Listen, dogface—you got something against the Dodgers, let's have it!”

“Not a thing, pal. You there, sergeant—where's the Windy City?”

“Chicago,” Ernst murmured without moving his mouth. “On Lake Michigan.”

“Mister, I wish I was back there on Lake Michigan right now!” Ernst's companion replied. “Chicago may not be much, but it's a damn sight better than this hellhole.”

“You got that right, trooper,” the man said. “Pass, friends.”

But Ernst retained caution. “Now do you mind telling us why the damned interrogation? A joke's a joke, but I don't like being covered like that by my own side. Would you have shot me if I'd trashed Brooklyn?”

“No. Only if you hadn't known about it. We caught some fake soldiers, Krauts in American uniforms, sabotaging our supplies. So now we're checking all strangers. Your uniform and rank don't mean nothing; you gotta prove you're American.”

Ernst made a show of relaxing. “Oh. Gotcha. Sorry I got my back up.”

“Get your ass on outa here.”

“Right.” Ernst drove the Jeep on through the checkpoint.

“How did you know they suspected us?” his companion asked.

“I spent a year in America. Now we must be alert: it's not enough just to answer questions; we have to do it as Americans do. Pugnacious, insulting. If you are challenged with something you don't recognize, make a counter-challenge; that may put them off.”

They drove on, looking for something to sabotage but still had no luck. Ernst hated the feeling of ineffectiveness but knew it would be pointless to risk exposure unless he found a target worthy of the risk. Meanwhile it was becoming evident that the German attack was faltering; there were too few troops to sustain it, and the Allied defenses were stronger than expected. The commandos' element of surprise had been nullified, and there was nothing further to be accomplished.

“We had better rejoin our troops,” Ernst said. “But we can't do it in these uniforms.”

His companion agreed. They drove east, toward the sound of gunfire, as far as they could without hitting a checkpoint. Then they pulled into the forest and quickly changed clothing, becoming Germans again. Then they split up, knowing that it would be easier to sneak through separately.

Alone, Ernst trudged back toward the line. There no longer was an easy avenue through; the line was stabilizing as the German thrust lost momentum. But it should be possible to get through at night.

“Halt!”

Ernst stopped. He had been spied—and now he was in German uniform. There was an American soldier bringing a rifle to bear. Ernst could have shot him with his handgun, but didn't try. He had never directly killed a man, and the thought of it sickened him.

But if he surrendered, he might be spared. He might be taken as a stray from his unit.

Slowly he raised his hands. He felt like a coward. Thus ignominiously did his career end. Just as the career of the Third Reich was ending. Götterdämmerung—the day of doom, when the good gods were slaughtered. It had come at last.

Lane finally had the freedom of the continent, thanks to the understanding of his superiors. He had to find his friend, if he survived, so as to find his fiancée, if she survived. There had been no word as Germany collapsed, and now in the chaos of the war's ending there seemed to be no way to run them down through Allied or German records. He had to do it himself, his own way.

On May tenth, 1945, he came to Wiesbaden, which was where Ernst Best's family had been going. He would start his search here.

The phone service was cooperative. Yes, there were Best families here, but no phone listed for Ernst. Lane took a list of their addresses, and drove to each, inquiring for Ernst Best. On the fifteenth he found recognition. “Yes, he is my nephew,” Karl Best said. “A good young man. But lost in the war.”

“Lost?”

“He left his woman here with my brother's family and returned to Berlin for a dangerous mission. We have not seen him since.”

“How long ago?” Lane asked anxiously.

“Seven months ago.”

“How can I search for him?”

The man studied him with disconcerting lack of expression. Lane realized that to these people the British and Americans were still the enemy. They had to be polite, but they were not friendly. “Krista might know.”

That must be the woman. “Where is Krista?”

“I will take you to her.” The man seemed relieved.

Krista was surprisingly attractive despite her worn clothing. Her hair was blond, her features fair, and her figure appealing.

“Krista, this is Herr Dowling,” Karl Best said. “He is looking for Ernst.”

The woman said something in German.

Karl Best turned back to Lane. “I must translate for her,” he said, with an opaque expression.

“Do it,” Lane agreed.

The man spoke rapidly in German. Then Krista reacted.

She turned her blue eyes on Lane. They seemed almost to glow with recognition. “Lane Dowling!” she exclaimed.

“You know my name?” he asked, startled.

She spoke again in German.

“She says you are Ernst's American friend, are you not?” Best translated. “He spoke of you.”

“Yes. I must find him. Do you know where he is?”

Again the German and translation. “I know where he worked, in Berlin. But I do not know whether he remains there. I fear he is dead.”

“He must not be dead!” Lane exclaimed.

She nodded when she heard with something more than agreement. “Ja, he must not be dead. But he has not returned.” The intensity of her gaze made Lane uneasy. What was in her mind?

“Tell me where he worked.”

“He was in the SS. There was a special mission. Perhaps one of the other officers would know.”

“What other officers?”

She shook her head. “They did not speak their names to me. I would know some by sight, however.”

“Then come with me, and tell me who they are,” Lane said. Then, as Best translated his words to her. “I am Ernst's friend. I will not hurt you.”

“I have no money to travel,” Best translated.

“I have money. I have a car. Just go to Berlin with me, and show me. Then I will bring you back. I promise.”

With seeming reluctance, and something else, she agreed. “But how shall we speak to each other?” she asked through Best after a moment.

“We don't need to speak! But I will teach you a few words of English while we drive there.”

She turned those great blue eyes on him again. “Ja.” Then she walked away.

Lane watched her go. She had an interesting walk. “She's a strange one,” he murmured.

“We are a defeated people,” Karl Best said. “We are careful where we tread. Especially our young women. For a woman to go with a soldier—this has implications.”

“I will bring her back unscathed,” Lane said, appreciating the implication. “I'm—I'm not after the local women. I'm looking for my friend, who I hope will know where my fiancée is. Maybe Ernst mentioned her: Quality Smith?”

“He did.” The man seemed to be ill at ease.

Lane's heart leaped at this confirmation. “Do you know—did he say—is she alive?”

“She is alive and well. I can not tell you more.”

“That's enough!” Lane exclaimed. “All this time I've been afraid she was—thank you, Mr. Best! You have given me wonderful hope.”

“I have given you very little.”

Lane realized that the man, perhaps mourning the loss of his nephew, was taking a negative view. If Ernst was dead, how would Lane find Quality? Yet that assurance that she was not only alive but healthy buoyed him. Ernst must have found her and gotten her to safety somewhere. Otherwise how could Ernst's uncle have known of her? He would find her somehow.

Krista returned with a handbag. “Thank you,” Lane said to Karl Best. Then he stepped to Krista, to take her bag. Evidently surprised by this minor gallantry, she yielded it, smiling. She was stunning when she smiled. They walked to his rented car.

“Do you know the way to Berlin?” Lane asked. Then, remembering that she did not speak English: “Berlin. Where?”

“Berlin,” she repeated. Then she pointed her finger straight ahead.

Good enough. She knew the way. He could find it, using the map, but it would be easier with someone who had been there.

Krista guided him to Frankfurt, and then north through the mountains to Kassell. It was getting late, and he realized that it wasn't worth trying to reach Berlin in one haul. He would have to spend a night on the way. But he hadn't anticipated traveling with a woman. What was he going to do with her?

He would simply have to foot the bill for a separate room for her. If she enabled him to find Ernst, and therefore Quality, it would be worth it.

“Must stop. Night,” he said. “Know place?”

She turned her head to look at him. “Place?”

“Night. Eat. Sleep. Hotel.”

“Sleep?”

“Two rooms! No trouble.”

She seemed to understand. She pointed to the side, where a road diverged. He took it. Soon it led to a hotel.

He parked the car and entered the lobby with her. “You have rooms?” he asked.

The clerk looked blank. Then Krista spoke in German, and the clerk brightened. It turned out that he would take American dollars. Lane paid, and picked up the room key. “But there are supposed to be two rooms,” he said.

Krista took his arm and guided him away from the desk. Apparently she had told the man one room. There was no bellhop, which was unsurprising in this chaotic time. Lane was glad to make his own way.

It was not a perfect room, but it had the amenities, including twin beds, which was a relief. They could make do.

They took turns using the bathroom and changing. Then they went out to eat. Krista was now in a blue dress which accented her eyes and her figure, which was really quite good. She had combed out her hair, which was like corn silk. When he stood behind her before the mirror, he realized that their eyes matched. She smiled, seeming to realize it also. It was as if they were on a date.

She was very helpful in ordering food, too, because she knew the cuisine and the language. They had a good meal.

Something occurred to Lane. “Ernst Best—what was he to you? Ernst—Krista?”

She smiled again, and he realized that she was not just pretty, she was beautiful. “Ernst, Krista,” she said, then made a kiss.

“His girlfriend!” he exclaimed, glad for the confirmation of his assumption. “That's why you're ready to go with me. To find him.”

“Find Ernst,” she agreed.

They finished the meal and returned to the hotel. But Lane was excited by the thought that this woman might know of Quality. “Ernst knew Quality Smith. Quality. You know Quality?”

“Quality,” she repeated.

“Yes. My—my girlfriend. You know?”

She seemed to hesitate. Then she lifted the hem of her dress, showing her fine leg. “Girlfriend?”

She thought he was asking her for sex! “No, no! Not you.” Apparently he would not be able to question her about this. Not until they had a better mutual vocabulary. “Let's learn words,” he said. He pointed to himself. “Man.” Then to her. “Woman.”

“Man, woman?” she asked, lifting her skirt again.

“Oh, brother!” he muttered. Then, to her: “Forget it.” He turned away.

“I know some English,” she said.

Lane whirled around. “You know? You understand me?”

“I understand you, Lane Dowling.”

“Then why the dumb act? We could have been talking all along!”

“Because a man traveling with a woman might take advantage.”

“I've been trying to explain, that's not what I'm after. I just want to find Quality.”

“Not Ernst Best?”

“Him, too. He's my friend. But if he knows where Quality is, she's my fiancée. I have to find her.”

She paused, evidently considering. “I must tell you, Ernst Best and I are no longer that close. Suppose your Quality has found another man?”

“In Germany?” he asked, laughing. “Let me tell you, she's a Quaker. A pacifist. An American. How would she find a man here?”

Krista shrugged. “Do the folk of different lands never get together?”

“Of course they do! But Quality is different. If you knew her, you'd know.”

“You would never find another woman? From another land?”

“You mean if Quality found another man?” Lane shook his head, finding the question awkward. “The truth is, I last saw her in 1938. It's been seven years. I don't know whether I still love her. But I have to be sure she's okay, and if she still loves me, I'll marry her. I mean to do what is right.”

Krista nodded. “You are a good man, Lane Dowling.”

“I'm just doing what I have to do.”

She unbuttoned her dress and pulled it off over her head.

“Hey!” he protested. “Go change in the bathroom. I already told you I wasn't after your body.”

“I apologize. I forgot.” She held her skirt in front of her and walked to the bathroom in her bra and panties. He could not help seeing how well endowed she was. All his prior impressions of her body turned out to be shy of the mark. Ernst had had good taste in girlfriends! Yet it seemed that they had broken up. What had happened?