Eva (20 page)

The man was, of course, a stickler for rules and regulations, and his opinion prevailed: No one was supposed to leave his post until relieved. They would all wait. Rules also prescribed that all men must have identification papers. Willi had none, and consequently had to be considered an enemy of the people and must be treated as such. At least until his fate, and that of his woman, were decided by higher ups.

Willi seemed to be half dozing as he slouched against the boat. But his thoughts were racing—observing, assessing, and forming a plan of action.

It would be impossible to wait six hours—and then take the chance of being detained even further by some half-baked
Volkssturm
outfit. Potsdam could fall any time, and he preferred to get there while the town was still in German hands.

When he informed his
Volkssturm
captors of his true identity, he realized that he hardly looked the part of an SS officer in his gaudy sports shirt and mufti pants. He did not blame them for not taking him at his word. In their place he would have done the same. He cursed himself for having discarded his I.D. too soon. On the other hand, had he held on to it and been intercepted by a Russian patrol, which could easily have happened, his cover as a refugee who had lost everything would most certainly have been shattered.

Out of half-closed eyes he studied the four men who were guarding them. They seemed competent enough. They were more than adequately armed. Each had a Mauser Gewehr 98, the standard army rifle, and two or three Stielhandgranaten 24, the common stick hand grenade, clipped to his belt along with his ammo pouch. The pedantic little leader had appropriated his, Willi’s, P-38 for himself, and a couple of Panzerfäuste lay ready nearby.

He considered the men. He regretted having to kill them. They probably had wives waiting for them. And children. Grown children. But there was no other way.

Eva—and the child of Adolf Hitler—came first.

“
Holla! Mench!"
he called to one of them. “Hey! Fellow! If I don’t get to a tree in a hurry my damned bladder will burst!”

Uncertainly the
Volksstürmer
looked at one another.

“How about it?” Willi asked plaintively.

The leader turned testily to one of the others. He nodded toward a nearby thicket around a few tall evergreens. “Take him over there,” he growled unpleasantly. “He gave the man the P-38. “Take this. And keep him covered.”

The
Volksstürmer
took the proffered gun. He checked it. It was loaded. He gestured to Willi. “
Los!”
he said. “Get up!”

Willi, his hands bound behind his back, struggled to get to his feet. In so doing he leaned toward Eva. Urgently he whispered: “Eva,
whatever happens,
trust me!”

He stood up and started to walk toward the thicket. The
Volkssturm
man followed him, covering him with the gun.

They reached the undergrowth.

“Far enough,” the guard said.

Willi turned. He looked back toward the boats. They were still in plain sight. He grinned suggestively at the
Volksstürmer.

“
Du sollst dich schämen, Opapa!”
he scolded. “Shame on you, Grandpa! You want to give the young lady a free look at me? Perhaps you would like to join me? We could give her a great show, you and me!”

The man reddened. “Go on with you,” he snapped. “Behind the bushes.”

Willi shrugged. He walked into the thicket, out of sight. He stopped. Looking over his shoulder at his guard, he nodded at his bound hands.

“How about it?” he asked. “Do I get to use my hands—or will you pull it out for me and hold it while I piss?”

Angrily the man gun-gestured. “Turn around,” he said. “And no tricks. Your own gun will be right in your back.”

Willi turned. He felt the gun press into the small of his back. From now on, he thought, from now on, old man, it will be exactly as a training exercise: First, get your enemy as close as possible behind you. He had. He waited. He felt the man tug at the ropes around his hands. He felt them loosen.

Now!

With all his might he stomped his heavy boot heel down on the man’s instep. In the same split instant he twisted away to his left and delivered a sharp, two-handed blow to the man’s wrist, numbing the hand holding a gun suddenly pointing at nothing. The man had time only to grunt in surprise and pain as the gun flew from his grip, before Willi crashed a knee into his groin. Gasping, gagging, the old man collapsed.

Willi never stopped moving. He tore his hands from the loose rope. He ripped the
Volksstürmer’s
belt from his trousers and tied his feet. He used the rope to tie the man’s hands and stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth, tying it there with his own.

He picked up his gun and returned it to its holster. For a brief moment he stood listening. He heard nothing.

He bent over the old man lying twitching in agony on the ground. It had been almost too easy. The
Volksstürmer’s
reactions had been more than twice as slow as the slowest commando recruit in training.

One down—three to go, he thought.

He unclipped one of the stick hand grenades from the man’s belt and silently, stealthily he ran into the forest, circling back toward the boats.

Eva sat propped against the boat. She did not like to be alone. She was increasingly frightened. Willi seemed to have been gone a long time. She knew he had some sort of plan in mind. She thought that was what he had meant when he whispered his warning to her. But what? Had he escaped? Was he running away? Leaving her? She suddenly felt cold. She glanced at the three remaining
Volkssturm
men. They, too, were getting apprehensive, she thought. They were glancing at one another. The leader turned toward the thicket.

“Werner,” he called, “is everything in order?”

There was no reply.

The men looked worried.

Suddenly a wild cry rent the silence.

“
Grenade!"

And a hand grenade came flying over the sailboat to land in the middle of the little campsite.

Instinctively the three men hit the ground, covering their heads with their arms.

In the same split moment Willi came sprinting around the boats. He ripped the rifle from the first man he came to and kicked him in his throat with his boot as he turned. Even as the man rolled over, rattling through his crushed larynx, trying desperately to suck air into his lungs through his mangled throat, his fingers digging convulsively into the earth, his eyes rolling back in agony, Willi was by the side of the second
Volksstürmer.
He smashed his rifle butt into the man’s back, instantly breaking his neck. Dazed, the leader was just sitting up, fumbling for his gun, when Willi swung his rifle and caught him with the butt under his chin in a crushing blow that shattered his jaw and drove the splintered bone up into the roof of his mouth.

Willi ran to Eva. Quickly he untied her. Wild-eyed she looked at the carnage created in the span of a few seconds.

And at the grenade lying on the ground.

“I did not arm it,” Willi said. “I was quite certain they would be too scared to notice.”

She stared at him. It had all happened so fast her mind had scarcely had time to absorb it.

Willi picked up the grenade. He had not even unscrewed the
Sicherungskappe
—the closing cap at the end of the wooden handle, so the pull cord could be yanked to ignite the five-second fuse.

The
Volksstürmers
—as he had anticipated—had been too shocked to take notice.

He tossed the grenade at the body of the leader.

“Come, Eva,” he said, “we have been here long enough.”

Using his compass to orient himself, Willi picked out a landmark and started into the forest, Eva at his side. He estimated they had about two kilometers to walk before they hit the main thoroughfare of Königstrasse which bisected the area from east to west, and another two kilometers to the narrow body of water that separated Wannsee from the Babelsberg district of Potsdam where the safe house was located. Alone he could have made it in forty-five minutes, with Eva he estimated twice that.

If there were no further delays.

They stayed off the roads and paths, making their way through the forest itself. They skirted any signs of people. Many escapees from Berlin, their homes totally destroyed, had sought refuge in the Wannsee woods, living in makeshift shelters, some even with timber-shored dugouts. The refugees were not above preying on passersby—or on each other—for survival.

When they reached Königstrasse it was clogged with traffic going west, military and civilian. Trucks, armored vehicles, and army wagons competed for the roadway with hand-pulled carts, baby carriages piled high with belongings, and an endless stream of people on foot, carrying bundles and children in their arms.

They managed to get across the road, and soon they reached the bank of the channel that separated Wannsee from the Babelsberg district of Potsdam. The Böttcherberg bridge—although damaged—was still standing. It took them the better part of an hour to get across, but they were finally in Babelsberg on the outskirts of Potsdam.

Babelsberg was the industrial section of the town, which was chartered in the year 1400 after having existed as a fishing village since before 1000. The town had been enriched by Frederick the Great, Eva knew. The Führer had told her. The warrior king had his palace retreat,
Sans Souci,
there, where he held his famous, philosophical suppers with his friend Voltaire. Adolf had told her all about it.
Sans Souci,
she thought ruefully. She knew it meant
Carefree.
Not today.

It wasn’t the first time she had been to Babelsberg. The Potsdam suburb was also the center of Germany’s motion picture industry. The great UFA Studios were located there. In Neubabelsberg. As so many others, Eva had been movie star struck in her earlier years; she had always enjoyed the films Adolf showed almost every night at Berchtesgaden. And five years before she had visited the glamorous UFA Studios. She had seen there the great but arrogant German film star and director, Luis Trenker. He had written, was producing, and directing, and starring in a film about Giovanni di Medici and was at UFA on some sort of business. She had, of course, met him before. Years earlier. In Munich. She never did care for the man. She really thought him a disgusting fellow, and she had said so. She once had danced with him, and he had become embarrassingly familiar and suggestive. She looked at the battle-scarred buildings. She sighed. How different it all was from then.

They were crossing a railroad marshaling yard. Though crater-pitted and rubble-strewn it was apparently still partly operative. Rolling stock, much of it disabled, filled long stretches of track. On some of the cars a singularly nonprophetic propaganda slogan had been painted:
RADER ROLLEN FUR DEN SIEG—
Wheels Roll For Victory.

They were suddenly aware of a great commotion around two freight cars that stood off on a siding. A mob of about fifty or sixty people, men and woman, were breaking into one of the cars, which apparently was loaded with rations for the armed forces. Shouting, pushing, and clawing they were pulling boxes and crates from the door they had forced open, spilling cans, loaves of bread, slabs of bacon, sacks of potatoes, and other foodstuff on the ground, shoving and fighting each other for it.

Willi and Eva hurried by.

All of a sudden several trucks came roaring into the yard. Bouncing and lurching over the rough ground and the tracks, they split into two columns and quickly surrounded the area. From them poured a detachment of
Waffen
SS soldiers, rifles on the ready. The looters were trapped inside the ring.

And so were Willi and Eva.

Willi looked around quickly. Just ahead of them stood a little switch yard tool shed. Pulling Eva along, he raced for it. The door to it was locked with an old padlock. Quickly Willi searched about. A length of twisted metal from a piece of machinery demolished by the shelling and hurled out into the yard lay nearby. He snatched it up. He jammed it into the loop of the lock and brought his entire weight to bear on it. The lock broke. He tore it from the hasps and threw the door open. He pulled Eva inside.

He looked around. Tools. Shovels. A couple of railroad lanterns. An old greasy leather cap hanging on a nail. A large bin, lid open, the bottom covered with brake sand. Three sacks of sand, and a barrel of iron spikes.

“Get into the bin,” he said urgently. “Scrunch down as far as you can.” He grabbed one of the sacks of brake sand and tore it open.

“The—bin?” Eva exclaimed, startled.

“There is no time for questions,” Willi snapped. “Just do what I say. Now! Into the bin!”

Eva climbed into the large bin. It took two sacks of sand to cover her up to her neck. She sat staring up at Willi—a detached head with huge, frightened eyes.

“Don’t move,” Willi said hurriedly. “Don’t make a sound. Stay there until I come for you.”

He placed one of the empty sacks over her head, hiding it, and stuck a shovel in the sand that covered her. He picked up a small sledgehammer and a crowbar and put on the soiled cap. He left the shed.

Outside he quickly looked around. The soldiers were closing in around the railroad cars, the looters were being herded together, gun-butted into submission. There were occasional shots as some of them tried to get away, paying for their hunger with their lives. They were the lucky ones, Willi thought.

He walked over to a double turnout switch on the tracks. He swung his sledge and gave the rail a few good whacks. Two grim soldiers came up to him, their rifles pointed at him.

“You,” one of them ordered gruffly, “get over there!” He gestured menacingly with his gun. “With the others. Move!”

Willi looked up. He blew his nose with his fingers and wiped them on his oily cap.

“Sure,” he drawled. “And when the supply special due to come through derails—who shall I say ordered me away from my work?” He looked, eyebrows raised, at the soldier.