Eva (21 page)

“What do you mean—derails,” the soldier demanded to know, glowering at him.

“See for yourself.” Willi pointed to one of the intersections of the inner rails. “The wing rails at that frog have been knocked out of alignment. By the shelling.” He nodded up the tracks. “And that tongue over there on number two split is bent. How the devil do you think the train will pass over this turnout without derailing?”

He gave the rail a mighty blow with his sledge, leaned forward and inspected it critically. The two soldiers looked at one another uncertainly.

“If you got nothing better to do,” Willi said, “I sure could use an extra hand. There’s too damned much for me to do alone.” He nodded toward the shed. “Tools are in there.”

“You do your job—we will do ours,” the soldier growled sourly. They turned and walked away. They stopped at the shed. One of them stepped inside. He quickly reappeared, and the two soldiers walked toward the prisoners and soldiers crowded around the freight cars as Willi kept banging away on the rails.

Half an hour later the marshaling yard was empty. Willi hurried to the shed. He helped Eva from the bin. Her legs were cramped and her clothes full of sand. It was everywhere. It had penetrated through every opening in her clothing and stuck to her skin. When she moved it felt as if her underthings were lined with sandpaper. She had never been more uncomfortable. She realized it would be some time before she would be able to get it all cleaned out.

But she was safe.

The safe house Willi knew from his instruction was a small shop which sold musical instruments. The owner-operator lived upstairs. The address was Geigestrasse 77.

It was still early in the day when Willi and Eva stood staring at a huge pile of rubble and broken bricks that had once been a building.

They were looking at Geigestrasse 77.

E
VA SANK DOWN
on a chunk of brickwork tumbled from a ruined wall. She was exhausted, and her exhaustion seemed to double with the shock of seeing the house she had thought of as a place of refuge blasted into ruins. Willi joined her. She looked at him.

“What do we do now?” she asked, her lifeless voice betraying her discouragement.

“We try to find out if the people who lived here are still alive,” Willi said. “We try to find them.”

“Even if we do,” Eva said disconsolately, “how can they help us now?”

“I do not know how,” Willi said firmly. “But I do know they can—and will. I am certain that the possibility of this house being destroyed in an air raid or artillery bombardment was taken into account when the center was set up. All we have to do is find the people who ran it.” He frowned. “The only question is—how?”

Eva bit her lip. She looked pensive. “Willi,” she asked, “have you ever read any of the books by Karl May?”

He eyed her, puzzled. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Who is Karl May?”

“He was a German author,” Eva told him. “But he wrote a lot of books about the American Wild West. Indians, and cowboys, and gold prospectors. He was one of the Führer’s favorite authors. Adolf read the Karl May books when he was a boy—and when he reread them a couple of years ago he gave them to me to read. He told me that those books really had opened his eyes to the world. They had given him a lot of—of insight, he said.”

Willi looked at her curiously. What was she getting at? They were not playing cowboys and Indians. “How can that help us now?” he asked.

“Well,” Eva said, “the hero in the books was a man called Old Shatterhand who fought the wicked Ogellallah Indian tribe, and I remember something he once said, when in a fight with the Indians all his pack animals had run away, and he had to find them. He said: ‘If you want to find a mule—think like a mule.’”

Willi sat up.”Eva,” he said brightly, “the Führer—and you—are definitely right! Karl May
is
worth listening to.” He grew thoughtful. “If you want to find a mule—think like a mule. Or, if you want to find the people who ran this station—think like they would.”

He turned to her. “Very well, let us do just that. This place was set up to take in certain—travelers in need.”

“So they would expect strangers to show up,” Eva said.

“And therefore, when the building was destroyed they would have to keep an eye on it, or what was left of it.”

“So they could not go too far away.” Eva was growing animated. It was like a game.

“But they cannot just hang around the ruins. That would be too suspicious.”

“But still, they would have to keep a constant lookout, would they not? Or they might miss somebody.”

“Right. They would have to find a way to stay in the neighborhood—close enough to be able to watch the old house—and with a legitimate reason for being there.”

“With friends?”

“Perhaps.”

He looked around. There were many people on the street, all hurrying along on grim purposes of their own. Only one person was not on the move. A middle-aged woman. At a two-story house almost directly across from the demolished safe house she was busily tending a minute vegetable garden in a wooden box hanging from a ground-floor window.

Out of the corner of his eyes Willi watched her. He saw her cast an occasional quick glance in their direction. He stood up.

“Come on, Eva,” he said, stretching, “I think I have found someone who may be able to help us.”

They made their way across the street and walked up to the woman. “Excuse me,” Willi said. “Could you please tell me. That ruined house across the street. Was that Geigestrasse 77?”

The woman nodded. She looked at Willi noncommittally. “Were you looking for the music shop?”

“Yes.”

“It was bombed out,” she said unnecessarily. “Only two days ago. It was such a terrible thing. Luckily the Bocks were in the cellar and escaped with their lives.”

Willi gazed at her. “My father had a violin for repair,” he said. “I was trying to find out if it was ready. Do you know where the Bocks have gone?”

The woman regarded him placidly. “They had nowhere else to go,” she said. “They are staying in the attic—right here. The poor man lost everything. Except the few instruments he had in the cellar. I shall see if he has any information about your father’s violin. You wait here.” And she disappeared into the building.

They waited. Willi was fully aware that he had delivered himself and Eva into the hands of an unknown woman. There had been no choice. They would have to play out their hand.

Presently the woman reappeared. “
Herr
Bock would like to see you,” she said. “Please come with me.”

Konrad Bock, the owner of the bombed-out music shop, looked to be about fifty-five. His left arm was in a sling and he limped slightly. He greeted them politely, if, Willi thought, a bit warily.

“You have something to ask me?” the man said.

“Yes.” Willi looked straight at him. “My father had a violin for repair with you. I was wondering if it was ready.”

Bock nodded. “What is your father’s name?”

“Wolfram Amadeus Schneeberger,” Willi said.

Again Bock nodded. “The charge is forty-seven Marks and fifty-nine Pfennige,” he said.

Willi sighed audibly. He had given the password. And he had received the correct countersign.

“Who are you?” Bock asked.

“
Obersturmführer
Lüttjohann,” Willi answered, drawing himself erect. “We come directly from the Führer Bunker.”

Bock nodded toward the woman. “My wife,” he said, “Helga.”

“You both look tired out,” Helga Bock said solicitously. “I will make you a nice cup of hot coffee.
Ersatz
of course.”

She busied herself at a little potbellied stove.

“Did you ask around to find me?” Bock asked, obviously concerned.

“No,” Willi said, “
Frau
Bock was the first person we spoke to. We showed no curiosity.”

Bock nodded. “
Ist gut,”
he said. “Curiosity kills more than cats these days.” He glanced at Eva. “That is why I do not want to know who the woman with you is.”

It was just as well, Willi thought. The Führer’s stern words echoed in his mind: You will reveal her identity to no one, he had charged him. Absolutely no one must know who she is—until the proper time.

“As you wish,” he said.

“We were told that you might come to us,” Bock said. “We were told that it was only a remote possibility.” He studied Willi. “I assumed that meant only if other plans went awry.”

Willi nodded. “They did,” he acknowledged.

Bock held up his hand. “I want to know no details,” he said. “I will tell you what my orders are to assist you and what will now happen to you.”

As Willi and Eva gratefully sipped the bitter but hot
Ersatz
coffee, Konrad Bock filled them in.

“Have you heard of the
B-B Achse?”
he asked Willi. “The B-B Axis?”

“No.”

“Do you know of the SS escape route called
Die Spinne
—the Spider?”

“Yes. We were told of its existence at Neustrelitz. It is supposed to be a clandestine, highly organized escape route for the use of high-ranking members of the SS and the government. It will enable them to escape enemy capture and aid them to travel to foreign countries where new identities have been prepared for them. And from there they can work for the resurrection of the German Reich and the ideals of the Führer, Adolf Hitler.” He knew it by heart. That was exactly what he had been told.

“That is correct,” Bock nodded. “The
B-B Achse
is the elite arm of the organization. It is an escape route that starts in northern Germany—in Bremen—and ends in southern Italy—in Bari. Therefore the name, B-B Axis. From Bari transportation is arranged to the Middle East—or to South America.”

Spellbound, Willi and Eva listened.

“The route goes south from Bremen through Germany and Austria,” Bock continued. “Across the Alps and into Italy. Then down the coast of the Adriatic Sea to Bari.”

“Are we to travel that route?” Eva asked, obviously disturbed.

Willi glanced at her. He knew what she was thinking. Such a journey, under the circumstances in which it would have to be undertaken, might take months. Would the rigors—and the time—permit her to complete it? Even though she did not show it now, she would soon become visibly pregnant.

Bock ignored the girl. He kept talking to Willi. “The route itself consists of a series of
Anlaufstellen
—stops, or safe houses,” he explained. “Every forty or fifty kilometers. These
Anlaufstellen
are staffed by loyal party members. You may trust them. Strict secrecy is enforced. The staff of each stop knows only the next stop on the route.”

He stopped to accept a cup of
Ersatz
coffee brought to him by his wife. He sipped the hot, bitter brew. He continued.

“Each stop will provide you with needed funds, with means of transportation, protection, and suitable identity papers. You will be sent from stop to stop until you reach Bari.”

He regarded the two young people solemnly.

“The Russians are already in Potsdam,” he said. “In the southern part of town. It is literally a matter of hours before they will be here. You must leave as quickly as you are able.” He looked at his wife. “Helga and I will be leaving, too. Today. We cannot afford to be captured by the Russians.”

“Will you travel via the
B-B Achse
too?” Willi asked.

“No. We will not. And neither will you. Yet. The final links in the route are still being forged. Cooperation by certain organizations that enjoy acceptance by the world is still in the process of being arranged. You will go to a safe house to which I will direct you. There you will wait until it is safe for you to begin your exfiltration journey.”

“How long a wait?” Willi asked. He glanced at Eva.

“Two—three weeks.”

“Will you go with us?”

“No. We will travel separately. With different covers. Helga and I will only try to reach territory occupied by the Americans. We do not want to leave Germany. We will be refugees, but we will manage. You must continue to your destination. When you leave Potsdam you will join the stream of foreign laborers that even now are straggling west. Many of them are leaving the breweries here.” He shrugged wryly. “All through the war they did not close down the breweries for a single day. They were, of course, declared essential, by government decree. But now . . .”

He sighed.

“I will provide you with papers that will identify you as brewery employees, natives of Luxembourg,” he continued. “I was informed you speak French. Enough to convince Russian or American patrols. And both French and German are spoken in Luxembourg, so you should have no problem using either.”

Willi nodded.

“I will give you exact information about your destination, how to get there, and how to identify yourselves when you arrive. You will be told there what to do next.”

“Where are we headed?” Willi asked.

“You will travel—by bicycle—to the village of Rübeland. In the Harz Mountains.”

Willi looked up, startled. “But—that’s—that’s . . .”