Eva (39 page)

Strelitz lazily surveyed the young man standing ramrod straight before him. He was already beginning to display the expected signs of nervousness. Good. But it was not unusual. He would take his time. Give the young man’s own mind as much of a chance as possible to reach a full measure of anxiety. Time did that admirably to a guilty mind. Even to a mind free of guilt—if such existed.

Strelitz reviewed for himself the information Ludwig had obtained for him through the
Verteilungsstab.

His subject had indeed made remarkable speed since leaving the
Anlaufstelle
in Eisenach, where he had teamed up with the girl. The agent in Coburg had been bitterly resentful over the way the traveler, who went by the name Bauhacker, had thrown his weight around. Of course, he mused, that by itself meant nothing. He knew from other information received from the Eisenach
Anlaufstelle
that the man in front of him supposedly was an SS officer. Acting with unquestioned authority would be natural to him. The agent at the Coburg stop had all but recommended the subject be quartered and drawn. Strelitz smiled cynically to himself. That was only wounded pride. He had seen plenty of that before. It was the obvious anxiety by the subject to hurry along the escape route, displayed at every stop, that perturbed him. Why? Through a skillful combination of cajoling and veiled threats, the man had effectively pressured the
Anlaufstelle
agents into sending him and his girl on, ahead of regular scheduling.

He frowned. The man’s behavior bore investigating. Especially since intentionally or not, his efforts would soon bring him into striking distance of Eva Braun Hitler.

Deliberately he set his face in the cold, hard mask of a ruthless inquisitor. He would soon learn if the young fellow and his girl were bona fide
Achse
travelers.

Or not.

He would hold off making a decision. Certainly if he had any doubts, it would be better to eliminate one honest SS officer, than to allow the existence of even the possibility of a threat to Eva Braun Hitler.

And her unborn child.

“
Your name?”
The words rang out like two rapid fire shots and cracked through the room. Woody started. Dammit! It had been too sudden. “Once again, I ask you,” Strelitz said ponderously. “What is your name?”

Woody more felt than heard the thin rustle behind him, as Ludwig steadied the gun aimed at his back. He clicked his heels. “Diehl, Fritz,” he snapped. “
Hauptsturnführer.
SS-Führer-Ausweiss-Nummer 250.252. Partei-Mitglieds-Nummer 3.387.514.”
Let the bastard check, he thought defiantly. It was the real Diehl’s ID numbers. It buoyed him to be able to rattle them off. And, dammit! he needed all the buoying he could get.

For a long moment Strelitz studied Woody, his eyes hooded. In doubt? Did he know it was the second lie? Woody’s self-satisfaction quickly caved in. He could feel the flesh on his back crawl. Any split second a bullet could slam into him. Would he know? Or would he simply cease to exist? He willed himself to meet his interrogator’s steady gaze.

Strelitz contemplated him.
Stimmt,
he thought. Correct. The agent at the Eisenach
Anlaufstelle
had been in possession of the man’s actual ID cards.

“What were your duties,
Haupsturmführer
Diehl?” he asked.

“
Zu Befehl, Herr Sturmbannführer,
I was in charge of guards,” Woody answered. “At Flossenburg.”

He was aware of the strangled gasp coming from Ilse. Dammit all to hell! He had assured her he was
not
like her mother. Now he, himself, with his own words, was forced to destroy the trust, the feeling of intimacy that had sprung up between them. He had not wanted her to hear. Not this. But he had no choice. Not if he wanted to stay alive. Bleakly, he knew she would have to hear more. Much, much more. He ached inside.

“Ah, yes,” Strelitz said. “I remember the camp, Diehl. I visited there occasionally.” He looked sharply at Woody. “I never saw you.”

Woody was about to make an apology or an explanation. He caught himself. They would have been lame at best. What was there to say? He would not be drawn into the trap of futile explanations. He knew what it could lead to. Betraying facts that might be damaging. He had used the ploy himself. Often. He stood silent. So what, if they had not run into each other? It was a big camp. Sprawled all over the damned place. He suddenly felt chilled. If Strelitz really knew the camp, he could easily trip him up. He, himself, had been there only once. Desperately he searched his mind for anything he could remember from his visit to the camp. Back in April. After the Death March. Anything he remembered seeing. Any facts he had learned. Any bits of knowledge from his interrogation of the real Fritz Diehl.

His mind was blank. It did not worry him. He knew that a specific question would trigger his recall, now that he had placed himself on the alert. He did not try to force it. He kept his mind clear and receptive.

“An excellent camp,” he heard Strelitz comment. “Well kept.” The interrogator leaned back in his chair, relaxing, as if wanting to put his subject at ease.

Woody knew at once what the man was doing. It was an old trick. Make the subject feel the worst is over, then catch him with a trick question—and pounce. He steeled himself.

“I was especially impressed with the beautiful little garden just inside the main gate,” Strelitz went one. He frowned lightly. “To the right, I believe. At a little white garden house.”

Woody’s thoughts raced to the memory of the main gate to Flossenburg. “Yes,
Herr Sturmbannführer,”
he said. “I remember it well.” He saw a hard glint flit through the German’s eyes. “But, with the
Herr Sturmbannführer’s
permission,” he continued, “the garden was
outside
the gate. Not inside.”

Strelitz smiled thinly. “Yes. Yes, of course.” So, the young man did know the camp. How well?

“You were at the camp to the end, Diehl?” he asked. “Up to the evacuation?”

“I was,
Herr Sturmbannführer
.”

“Does the date, April 9, mean anything to you?”

April 9. Woody was blank. He felt himself tense. Easy. Don’t panic. April 9? What the hell had happened on April 9? He had no idea.

He shook his head. “No,
Herr Sturmbannführer,”
he replied, “I do not recall that date.”

“How about the name Canaris?” Strelitz asked.

Of course! That was it. They had told him about it. “
Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer.
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. The Admiral was arrested after the July attempt to assassinate the Führer. He was executed at Flossenburg—a few weeks before the camp was evacuated. In April.” He lit up. “Yes,
Herr Sturmbannführer,
April 9!”

“Do you remember anyone else?”

Anyone else? Dammit, what did the bastard mean. “Anyone else,
Herr Surmbannführer?”

“Executed on that date,” Strelitz said impatiently.

Memory clicked. “
Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer.
General-major
Hans Oster. And one more man. A clergyman. A traitor to the Reich. I do not remember his name. Bauhoffer, I believe.”

Strelitz nodded. “Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” he said. It was plausible, he thought. The
Kerl
knew. It was quite plausible that he would not remember everything. In fact, too perfect a memory would in itself be suspicious. The days at a concentration camp must have run into one another in dreary sameness. He would try one more question.

“Were you at Flossenburg since the camp was established in 1939, Diehl?”

“No,
Herr Sturmbannführer.
I was assigned to the camp in 1943. And, begging the
Herr Sturmbannführer’s
pardon, Flossenburg was established in 1938. In May.”

Strelitz nodded. “Of course,” he acknowledged.
Schon gut,
he thought. Diehl was Diehl. But—what was his great hurry?

“
Hauptsturmführer
Diehl,” he said, “I will be honest with you. There have been certain complaints against you. From the
Anlaufstelle
agents along the route.” He looked sternly at Woody. “You insisted on leaving Coburg ahead of schedule, and you arrived at the next stop in Neustadt considerably earlier than expected by the agent there—with consequences which could have become extremely serious. How did you accomplish this?”

“With the
Herr Sturmbannführer’s
permission,” Woody answered promptly. He was beginning to feel more confident. The bastard was buying his story. “We were supplied with bicycles for the trip. I—I stole a motorcycle on the way. I thought it would be easier on the
Fräulein
who had been entrusted into my care. And my training,
Herr Sturmbannführer,
in the SS had taught me to use my resources to the fullest.”

Strelitz suppressed a sour smile. The little
Gauner
—the little scoundrel—was trying to butter him up. It was not the first time that had been tried. “Why?” he snapped. “Why the great hurry?”

Shit! Here it was, Woody thought. He was stuck with it. He was stuck with what he had told Ludwig earlier. With Ludwig standing right behind him he obviously had to tell his interrogator the same damned thing. He almost glanced toward Ilse, who was sitting in stiff bitterness on the bed. He didn’t. What would she do?

“
Herr Sturmbannführer,”
he said earnestly. “I—I thought it best. Under the circumstances. I thought it best to get
Fräulein
Ilse to the port of embarkation as quickly as possible. The
Fräulein
seemed most anxious to get out of Germany. As quickly as possible.” He was obviously uncomfortable, but he pressed on. “I—I was not certain the
Fräulein
would bear up under a prolonged journey. And she wanted to—get away from the
Amis.”
That was it. That was what he had already told Ludwig.

He stopped. What would Ilse do? A contradiction. A demurral from her could finish him. Right now. With a bullet in his back.

There was not a sound from the girl.

“Why?” Strelitz shot at him.

“Because of . . .” Woody swallowed. Hard. “Because of her mother.”

Strelitz picked up. It was the first really unexpected answer he had received. “Her mother? What the devil has her mother to do with it?”

“Her mother was—Klara Gessner. Head of the Ravensbrück Concentration Camp guards,” Woody answered soberly. He saw his interrogator react to the name. He went on. “
She
prevailed upon the
Herr Reichsführer
Heinrich Himmler, personally, to have her daughter evacuated via the
Achse.”

Strelitz threw a quick glance at the girl sitting silently on the bed, staring straight out in front of her. So, she was the daughter of Klara Gessner, he thought, intrigued.
Die Ratte aus Ravensbrück.
He knew of her, of course. Who did not? Naturally, the girl wanted to get away. Especially in view of what had happened to her mother. That last bit of information finished the case. It all made sense. If . . .

“
Fräulein
Gessner,” he said. “Is all this correct?”

“It is correct,
Herr Sturmbannführer,”
Ilse said tonelessly.

Strelitz nodded. He returned his attention to Woody. Klara Gessner’s daughter, he thought. And a young KZ guard officer. It was plausible. And it could easily be checked.

“Why are
you
so
verdammt
eager to leave, Diehl?” he asked.

Woody drew himself up. “Because of my duties at Flossenburg,” he answered. “Carrying out the orders of my superiors and the Führer. Strictly and efficiently, as required. The
Amis
are calling my actions atrocities. I am to be arrested as a war criminal, if apprehended.”

It was done. He had destroyed the last vestige of credibility with Ilse. “I abhor what went on in those camps as much as you do,” he’d said. “I was
not
involved,” he’d told her. It had been the truth. But now, she
had
to believe that his present lie was really the truth.

He only hoped it had saved their lives. He had no doubt that were he to be killed, Ilse would die, too.

Strelitz gathered his papers together. He looked up at Woody. “We will let you proceed on your way,” he said.
Schon gut,
he thought. But in no way would he allow them to catch up with Eva Braun Hitler. If they tried, even got close, they would be eliminated. He would see to that.

“Your stolen motorcycle will be confiscated,” he continued. “From now on you will go where and when and by whatever means directed by the
Achse
agents. Or we will be forced to terminate your journey right here. Is that fully understood?”

Woody snapped to. “
Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer!”

Jawohl-Jawohl-Jawohl.
He was
Jawohling
himself right out of any possibility of success in his mission. Dammit all to hell.

Strelitz stood up. “Ludwig,” he called.

The plant manager came up to Woody. He glared at him, animosity in his once friendly eyes.

“You will leave here tomorrow morning,” he said. “You will travel by truck to Steingaden. You will be given the necessary papers and instructions before you leave. Meanwhile you will stay here.”

He and Strelitz left.

Woody walked over to Ilse. She would not look at him.

“Ilse,” he said, “I . . .”

She turned to him. “You saved me in the forest,” she said coldly. “I was in your debt.” Her eyes blazed anger and contempt at him. “But you lied to me when you denied being a KZ guard. You were! One of the worst.” She stopped. She glared at him.

“I despise you!” she spat.

Eva had promptly fallen in love with the little dachshund puppy. The black one with the limpid, brown eyes, the busy tongue and the tireless tail. He was one of a litter of four. He reminded her of Stasi. The mother, a stray, had been brought in by some children. They had found her lying in a gutted, abandoned farmhouse, badly injured and barely alive, with four lusty puppies fighting for her dry teats. She was still alive, although—according to the vet—it was only a matter of time.