Eva (25 page)

“Perhaps because you are,” Woody grinned. “But no kidding, I really think it’s something we should investigate.”

“Why not send VII Corps the information you have? Let them get on the case.”

Woody looked aghast. “Mort!” he exclaimed, horror-struck. “You wouldn’t!”

Hall threw up his hands. He gave a little laugh. “No, I wouldn’t.” He grew sober. “However—no pass,” he stated firmly.

“Shit!”

“But . . .”

Woody’s ears pricked up. “But?” he repeated.

“But . . . I’ll arrange a twenty-four-hour TDY with VII Corps CIC for you. That’s the best I can do.”

“Mort, you’re a fucking sweetheart,” Woody exclaimed enthusiastically. “I’m practically in Halle already!”

“Just be back here on time,” Hall said drily. “I don’t want my agents spending their energy in another detachment’s territory.”

Woody made the two-hundred-mile drive to the town of Halle in just under six hours. He thought it pretty good time considering the condition of the roads. With no surprise he saw that Halle had suffered the expected wartime consequences of being an important rail hub at the junction of main railroad lines from Berlin, Leipzig, Hanover, and Frankfurt. The town’s only real claim to fame was the fact that the composer, Friedrich Handel, was born there; a bronze statue of him dominated the market square in the center of town. Woody felt oddly exhilarated as he came to a stop at the building taken over by the CIC. He had a hunch— a damned strong hunch—that his trip would pay off.

He was right.

Helga and Konrad Bock, frightened and exhausted from their flight from Potsdam, seemed downright relieved to talk.

They freely told Wood of their activities as a preliminary link in the escape route called the
B-B Achse.
They told him what they knew about the organization and its supposed operation, although their knowledge was only sketchy. They told him about the young SS officer and the young woman who had been the last “travelers” they had processed in Potsdam, in the eleventh hour of their escape from the Russians, and how they had wandered aimlessly, west and south, with other displaced persons seeking refuge in American-occupied territory, until they were picked up by the Military Police for curfew violation in Neumarkt on the northern outskirts of Halle. Woody watched them closely as they talked. They displayed no more than the normal nervousness at being interrogated by an enemy officer. He believed them.

“The two young people,” he asked. “The young man and the woman. Where did you send them?”

He was suddenly alerted. Had the two people tensed at his question? If so, why? It had been almost imperceptible, but it had been there. And he recognized it. Fear.

“We had instructions to send them to the Harz,” Konrad Bock answered. “To the Harz Mountains. As I told you, the escape route had not as yet been completed. They had to wait. Somewhere. In hiding.”

“Where in Harz did you send them?”

The Bocks glanced at each other before Konrad answered. There was an obvious closeness between them, Woody thought.

“To the village of Rübeland”, Konrad said. “To a man called Herbert Kotsch. He has a souvenir shop there. At the
Baumannshöhle.”

“Is that where they went into hiding?”

“I do not know. We only had the name.”

“Are they still there?”

“I do not know.”

Woody looked straight at them. “Did you know who they were?” he asked.

This time there was no mistake—even though the tiny flicker of fear that darted through the woman’s eyes was quickly gone.

“No,” Konrad said. “Only the name of the SS officer. He told us. Lüttjohann, it was. We did not know the woman. I—I told the officer I did not want to know.” He looked away.

Woody turned to the woman. “And you,
Frau
Bock, can you describe the young woman to me?”

Helga Bock’s eyes flitted toward her husband. He sat stoically silent, staring straight ahead, as if he were afraid their eyes would meet. The woman was obviously disturbed. Frightened.

“She was in her thirties, I think,” she said haltingly. “Blond. Nice-looking. She . . . she . . .” She swallowed. “I—I do not really remember . . .”

“And yet you told me she was the
only
woman you processed,” Woody said, his voice arctic, his face stiff with anger. “Did that not make you curious enough to take a good look at her. To wonder?”

The woman nodded. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Oh, yes! And I did. But—but I . . .” Again she sought help from her silent husband. Woody broke in, frowning at her. “And you also said you’d had special orders about her and the man with her. Yet you can’t describe her?” He made himself sound as outrageously incredulous as possible. Konrad Bock spoke up.

“There was nothing unusual about the woman,” he said flatly. “We did not know her. We do not know who she was. We have told you all we know.”

“Very well,” Wood said. He made his tone of voice tell them he did not believe them. He stood up. He picked up his helmet—a gesture of finality. He looked from one to the other of the two Germans. “You understand, of course, that your story will be checked out. Thoroughly. There are many people in our hands who were involved with activities such as yours. Perhaps even with you. It will take a little time, of course, but we will find out. You will be held in custody until we do.” He paused. He looked at the woman. “Unfortunately,” he said, “we have no facilities to keep male and female prisoners together. You will therefore be separated. I can’t tell you for how long. But—since you have told me all you know—we should be able to verify it in due time.”

He turned to leave the room. “Unless,” he added, looking back at the stricken woman, “unless, of course, you have something more to say. Now. Something you may have remembered. Something that will
convince
me that you are telling me everything you know.” He gazed directly into the frightened eyes of Helga Bock. “In that case, I will see to it that you are issued proper papers so you can be on your way to wherever it is you want to go.” He shrugged. “However, as it is, I will instruct the Military Police to take you to your separate detention camps.”

Helga, distraught, turned to her husband. “
Konrad.
Please! Please!” she whispered hoarsely. She grabbed his arm. “I—I cannot bear to be alone.”

Konrad Bock stood ramrod stiff. He said not a word.

Helga looked back at Woody. The tears were running down her cheeks. She was oblivious to them.

“There is—one thing,
Herr Offizier,”
she sobbed. “Just one thing I—I have not told you. I swear it!” She tried to compose herself. “Some while ago,” she said, her voice broken, “five years, it was, I worked at the UFA film studios. At Neubabelsberg. In the wardrobe department. And—and one day there was a visitor. She was with Luis Trenker. The film actor. We—were told she was the Führer’s woman.” She looked at Woody, her eyes beseeching him to believe her. “The young woman who came to us later, I thought—I thought . . .” Her eyes pleaded desperately with her inquisitor. “I cannot be sure, but I thought I recognized her. I thought it was the same girl.” She looked down, spent. She removed her hand from her husband’s arm.

“You know her name?” Woody shot at her.

“Braun,” Helga whispered. “Eva Braun.”

“Why did you try to hide this from me?” Woody snapped at her. She shrank from him. Konrad suddenly spoke up.

“Leave her alone,” he said. “It was
I
who told her to say nothing.” He looked at Woody, eyes blazing. “We did not want
anyone
to know that we recognized the woman. It was dangerous knowledge to possess. You must realize that. And now? We have all heard that the Führer married
Fräulein
Braun. And that they died together in Berlin. The Russians have said so. Would you have us shout to the world that we, Helga and Konrad Bock, refute what the conquerors claim?”

For a while Woody stared at him.

“I will see that you get your Military Government travel papers,” he said curtly. “I will expect you to cooperate fully with the officer who will be questioning you before you are let go. Is that understood?”

Bock nodded. For an instant he debated with himself if he should tell the American about the SS officer who had come to them just before they fled Potsdam. The officer who had had papers signed by the Führer himself. The officer who had also wanted to know where the young couple was going. Strelitz had been his name.
Sturntbannführer
Oskar Strelitz. He decided against it. He had not been asked. Volunteering information would only mean more interrogation, more trouble. “It is understoood,” he said.

Woody turned on his heel and left the room.

It had been like swatting gnats with a sledgehammer, he thought, but he had gotten the information he was after.

Or—had he?

Was a maybe-I-think identification enough to convince the brass? Would
he
accept it if he were in Hall’s shoes? He realized he would not. He needed more proof—definite proof—that Eva Braun was alive.

Perhaps the answer was to be found in the Harz. It was only about a hundred miles away.

He could be there in a few hours.

He looked at his watch. It was already past 1800 hours. And he still had to get some chow. Even if he left for Rübeland at once he wouldn’t get there until well after dark—the middle of the night for the Kraut yokels. He might as well stay on in Halle and get in some sack time; go to Rübeland first thing in the morning.

The tiny village of Rübeland was a mere pinprick on the map—and not much more in the flesh, or in the half-timber, as it were—and Woody had no trouble finding the little souvenir shop owned by Herbert Kotsch.

He stopped his jeep in front of the little building, dismounted and stood staring at it.

Across the narrow display window two rough, wooden planks had been nailed in a cross from corner to corner, and on the door a crudely hand-letter sign read:
GESCHLOSSEN.
CLOSED.

W
OODY WALKED UP
to the display window and peered in. The space behind was empty, the faded, dusty, green felt that covered the display tiers showed clean and darker spots where the various souvenir items had stood. He tried the door. It was locked. He had expected it.

He had come to a dead end in his search for Eva.

Dammit!

Across the street, swinging on a squeaky wooden gate in a fence around a small garden, a boy—four, at the most five—was watching him with open curiosity. He jumped off the gate and came over. He stared at the jeep with obvious awe. He looked inside at the dash. He turned to Woody.

“Are you looking for
Herr
Kotsch?” he asked.

“Yes,” Woody answered, “I am. Do you know where he is?”

The boy shook his tousled towhead solemnly. “He skipped out,” he said. He looked wide-eyed at Woody. “Are you going to arrest him?” he asked. “And shoot him?”

“No,” Woody grinned. “I just want to talk to him.”

“You cannot,” the boy stated with irrefutable logic. “He and
Frau
Kotsch they both left.” He ran a small grimy hand over the hood of the jeep in obvious adulation. “They got themselves two new bikes,” he said. “They put a lot of bundles on them.”

“When did they leave?” Woody asked. “I bet you know.”

The boy nodded. He squinted toward the tower of the small village church visible down the street. It had a clock with an ornate ironwork face. It showed just past ten. The boy counted on his grubby fingers. He held up three of them.

“Three,” he said. “Three hours ago.”

Woody cursed himself. If only he’d gotten here last night, dammit! Instead of feeding his face and drawing bunk fatigue.

“Do you know where they went?” he asked, knowing it was a futile question.

The boy shook his head. “Away,” he said.

Woody squatted down beside him and looked him in the eyes. “Which way?” he asked. “Did you see which way they went?”

The boy nodded solemnly.

“Will you tell me?”

Again the boy nodded.

“Which way was it?”

The boy pointed down the street. “That way,” he said. “It is the road to Hasselfelde. My aunt Ingeborg lives there.” He looked at Woody. “My name is Kurt,” he said. “Are you going to shoot
Herr
Kotsch?”

Woody laughed. “No way,” he said. “Say, Kurt,” he exclaimed, “how would you like to go for a ride in my jeep?”

The little face lit up as brightly and as suddenly as a streetlight at dusk.

“Hop in then,” Woody said. Kurt scampered into the front seat. Woody slid in behind the wheel. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll drive on down toward Hasselfelde. Perhaps we’ll meet
Herr
Kotsch and his wife.” He looked at the boy. “You know them don’t you, Kurt? You can tell me when we see them, right?”

Kurt nodded. “We can wave to them,” he said.

“You bet.”

Woody took out his map and spread it on his knees. Hurriedly he consulted it. Hasselfelde was twenty-three kilometers south of Rübeland. It was worth the chance. Kotsch had a three-hour head start. The roads were hilly. He and his wife could have made four or five kilometers an hour. Say they’d covered fifteen kilometers. From the town of Hasselfelde three main roads branched off to the towns of Braunlage, Nordhausen, and Harzgerode. There was no telling which one the Kotsches would take. If he were to catch up with them it would have to be before they reached Hasselfelde. It would be tight.