Spoils of Victory (6 page)

Finally, without warning, she'd written him. Sighing, he folded the letter with care, inserted it into the envelope, and placed it back in the drawer. Inside that same drawer lay a box of darts. He shut the drawer quickly before temptation drove him to grab a handful of darts to launch at whoever was likely to show up at the station with Laura.

M
ason waited just inside the front entrance of Garmisch's train station. He paced the area, unaware of the people having to navigate around him. He opened and closed his cigarette lighter and muttered commands to keep cool. Except for wearing a crisply pressed uniform, he might have been mistaken for one of the crazies that haunt every train station.

The interior was like most train stations found in every small city: long and narrow, with the ticket counter at one end, rows of wooden booths in the center. And like all of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, the walls were decorated with carved wood beams and frescoes of some saint and the surrounding countryside.

Through the double doors overlooking the station platform, Mason spotted Laura's train pulling into the station. A few minutes later passengers poured inside. Besides soldiers and businessmen, a large group of German refugees had arrived; after being forced out of Czechoslovakia, many now sought shelter in Germany's cities or with relatives.

Laura stepped up to the door. Mason's heartbeat quickened. Then he saw a tall man with pointed but handsome features hold open the door for Laura. The two stopped just inside the doors and exchanged
a few words with comfortable smiles, though Laura's eyes clearly betrayed her nervousness.

Mason remained near the front entrance and watched them. Laura and her companion seemed relaxed standing together. Not the nervous flirting typical of new couples. They obviously had been a couple for a while. That made Mason's sense of loss more acute, and he had to look away for a moment.

Laura scanned the station as she spoke. She wore a knit ski cap and heavy white coat, which enhanced her blue eyes and black hair. She looked beautiful as always—elegant, really, with classic highborn Yankee New Englander features of pronounced cheekbones and a thin, upturned nose. As the crowd of arriving passengers thinned, she spotted him. She turned to the man, putting her hands delicately on his chest, and said something. They both looked in Mason's direction. She smiled at Mason, but with sad eyes, as if observing a crippled soldier. That was what Mason felt, at least.

Laura approached him alone, with assertive steps, like a tomboy who had blossomed into a stunning woman but had never grown out of her rough-and-tumble days. She kissed him on the cheek. “Hello, Mason.”

“Hello,” was all he could muster in return.

They looked at each other for a moment. Mason found it hard to speak, and it looked as though Laura experienced the same difficulty.

Finally Mason said, “I'm glad to see you're still in one piece. And beautiful as always.”

She smiled, her eyes moist. “I see you got my letter.”

Mason nodded. “You've met someone,” he said softly, though it took strength to say it.

“He's a reporter. Richard Cranston. An Englishman—” She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Cops and reporters.”

“We tried.”

“He has the same wanderlust and independence of mind that
you and I have. But Richard and I travel in the same hemisphere. We have the same goals. He's always there for me—”

“Good for him. Does Ricky know who I am?”

“Richard,” Laura said, raising one eyebrow. “And, yes, he does.”

“He looks like a nice enough guy.”

“Yes, he is. Would you like to—”

“No.”

“Look, I know this is hard for you, but it's hard for me, too. Like I said in the letter, I care enough about you to want to tell you everything to your face.”

“And it was a brave thing to do.”

Laura looked in his eyes for a moment. “You surprise me sometimes. One minute I feel I know exactly what you're thinking, then you hit me with something I didn't expect.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“I still do.”

Mason needed to change the subject. “I assume you didn't come all the way to Garmisch just to see me.”

“The
Washington Post
has agreed to publish my story investigating the black market routes in a four-part series, so I decided to write it up in Garmisch. The legwork is finally done, and I'm exhausted after close to three months on the road. I even disguised myself as an Italian DP and went on a few black market runs into Italy. I saw how they manage to get across the tough British checkpoints between Austria and Italy.”

“I still have to wonder why you picked Garmisch, of all places.”

Laura only smiled in response.

“Ricky's okay with you risking your life that way?” Mason asked.

“Being in the same town as you, or associating with dangerous black marketers?”

Mason was unsure how to take that, so he said nothing.

“
Richard
and I met in Italy at the end of my last run there,” Laura said.

“So, no.”

Laura gave him a don't-go-there look. “What about you? Risking your life on a daily basis?”

“Not in the last”—he looked at his watch—“few hours. There are some pretty ugly black market activities going on around here.”

“Maybe we'll compare notes sometime.”

“Maybe. Though I don't think I'll be coming around for a social call.”

“You could if you wanted.”

“I don't think I could stand being near you with Ricky in the shadows.”

Laura nodded and looked away to break Mason's gaze. “I hope you'll forgive me . . . and wish me well.”

“I forgive you. Maybe not myself for screwing things up.”

“I'm sure you'll find someone else who's far more patient and loving than I was with you.”

Mason said nothing.

Laura took a small step forward. “Try to be happy for me. And, on occasion, for yourself.”

She started to go, but Mason said, “Maybe we
can
have that tea sometime.”

She smiled. “Yes . . . See you around.”

Mason tried to say good-bye as she walked away, but it got stuck in his throat. He left before Laura returned to Richard, before having to watch them walk away arm in arm. All his strength seemed to be sapped from him. Even pushing open the exit doors took effort, and the walk back felt very long and very cold.

*   *   *

M
ason made it to the Rathaus parking lot before turning away from the headquarters entrance at the last minute and walking to his assigned car. And instead of driving to his billet, he crossed the railroad tracks on St.-Martin-Strasse, then turned right and
headed for a cluster of streets where restaurants, bars, and nightclubs had sprung up to accommodate the huge influx of soldiers on leave.

It was eight
P.M.
, and Garmisch had begun changing into its second skin. The extreme contrasts of life in this town had struck Mason on the first day of his arrival, and this evening was no exception. During the day the streets filled up with German civilians and ex-soldiers and the less-fortunate displaced persons, all seeking ways to survive. They shuffled through the snow in threadbare clothes, with gaunt faces, bartering possessions for food or taking long treks up into the mountains to gather wood for their fires. At night, the town's other half emerged: army GIs and military government officials in their dress uniforms escorting young German ladies. And it was the first time Mason had seen wealthy Germans flaunting their furs, jewels, and tuxedos. The rules were different in Garmisch, at least for Germans of sufficient wealth, whether old money or new and nefarious: no curfews, private luxury vehicles, zero restrictions on gathering at restaurants and bars. Just one big demented family.

A sign on a single-story building advertised the Blue Parrot with alternating neon lights that created the illusion of a parrot raising its wing and downing a mug of beer. Unfortunately, the middle gesture looked like it was giving a Nazi salute—an unintentional send-up of Hitler by the Americans who had converted the former German beer hall into a bar/eatery for U.S. army and military government personnel.

Mason shook his head at the irony. He crossed the street and entered the establishment. The bar's namesake came from the film
Casablanca
, but the interior looked more like Geppetto's workshop from
Pinocchio
, with the additions of American flags, Coca-Cola and iconic beer signs, and framed photographs of FDR, Truman, and Eisenhower.

Mason nabbed the last spot at the bar and ordered a beer. While he waited for the barman to bring his order, he scanned the crowd. Every stripe and bar of every rank was represented. He recognized some of the locally stationed army and MG personnel, but the
majority consisted, as always, of American servicemen and women from all over the American occupation zone.

Mason usually shunned crowded places. Noisy restaurants and cocktail parties bored him. He liked being alone, but seeing Laura at the station had left him feeling empty, and he needed to fill the void. He looked at the other women and wondered if he'd ever meet someone who could knock him over like Laura did. Lust would push him into the arms of another woman, but once that fire was extinguished he'd move on.

His beer arrived, and as he sipped the liquid, his attention turned to the male patrons. Which of the men he saw having a good time took bribes to look the other way or greased the wheels or even participated in large-scale black marketeering? Was it the captain in the transportation regiment sitting at a table with two young women? He had access to trucks and trains to transport or divert goods. Was it the major in the MG financial offices in Munich dancing with a girl half his age? That department not only dealt with payroll and funds for government rebuilding projects, but also oversaw the collection of retrieved caches of Nazi-stolen artwork and gold that on too many occasions ended up missing. Then there was the captain of the prison that held suspected Nazi officials and industrialists. It was rumored that for the right price, papers would suddenly appear exonerating wealthy prisoners of all wrongdoing. And when the captain ran out of legitimate prisoners who could pay, he had other moneyed victims arrested on bogus charges, forcing the families to pay for their freedom. Rumor had it, of course . . .

There were many good men and women in the service who believed in what they were doing, performed their duty, and did it well, despite the seemingly impossible weight of bureaucracy and the rivalries between the army and military government. But the opportunities for profiting off a broken country were often too hard to resist. And no other town in occupied Germany offered as much temptation as Garmisch.

Mason spotted Agent Winstone entering the establishment with a beautiful blonde on his arm. He nodded to a few people he knew, but didn't stop to talk. Though he and the woman both made the effort to smile, neither came off as genuine. If Winstone wanted to make a show of his trophy date, he was making a bad sell of it.

Winstone spotted Mason and waved. As they came up to the bar, they sported more genuine smiles, like two winners relieved at crossing the finish line.

“Hey, you came,” Winstone said. “Where's your girl?”

“It turns out she's not my girl anymore.”

Winstone grimaced his sympathy. “Sorry to hear that, pal. Still, I'm glad you came.” He slid sideways to present his companion. “Allow me to introduce Hilda Schmidt.” He said to Hilda, “Mason is a top-notch detective with the military police.”

Hilda bowed slightly and shook his hand. “How do you do?” she said in accented English. She looked to be twenty-three or twenty-four, and while not having movie-star looks, she could have been cast as the enchanting girl next door, with her full figure, round face, prominent cheekbones, and broad forehead that framed sage green eyes.

“Hilda is a world-class ice skater and dancer,” Winstone said. “She performs at the Casa Carioca. You must have seen her there.”

“I've never been.”

“You've got to go sometime. Great place.”

An awkward moment passed between them. Mason had met Winstone's wife in London when she and her daughters had come to live with her husband. She had stayed only a month before deciding she couldn't tolerate the “foreignness” of England and she returned to the States.

Winstone squeezed Hilda's arm as a way of telling Mason that their coupling was more than a financial transaction. “I hope you still want to have dinner with us.”

“That's why I'm here,” Mason said as cheerily as he could.

Winstone gave Hilda a sideways glance. Hilda displayed a polite smile. “I'll be right back.”

“We'll find a table,” Winstone said to Hilda, and she headed for the restrooms.

“I don't see one available,” Mason said.

“No worries. I know the proprietors.”

And sure enough, after Winstone arched his eyebrows and snapped his fingers at the manager, two waiters brought out a small table and chairs and made room in a corner. When he and Mason sat, Winstone ordered a bottle of champagne. “And forget the menus, Franz. We'll take three prime rib dinners with the works.” He turned to Mason when the waiter left. “This is all on me.”

“Maybe I should screw up more of your investigations.”

Winstone laughed as if he didn't have a care in the world. They stood when Hilda came to the table. She gave Winstone a knowing smile as she settled in her seat.

“Seriously,” Mason said. “I appreciate the drinks and dinner. What's the occasion?”

“A renewed friendship. And word is, you don't get out much. But that's all going to change, as of now.”

The champagne came, and they toasted to good health and good friends. And by the time the prime rib dinners arrived, the bottle was empty. Winstone ordered another. All the while they made chitchat, or shared war stories about this bizarre foreign agent or that asshole commander. Mason learned that Hilda had been skating and dancing most of her life. She was even in Garmisch-Partenkirchen for the 1936 Winter Olympics as a young teenager and used in a Nazi propaganda exhibition showing off future athletes of the Third Reich. She traveled in ice shows all over Germany and Nazi-occupied territories during the war, and had ended up skating for her life and her family. Her mother was discovered to be half Jewish, and her father sent to a work camp for violating the racial purity laws. Hilda had used her charm and talents to help her parents avoid harsher punishment in
return for performing in front of Nazi dignitaries. “Like a circus animal,” she said bitterly.