The Berkut (61 page)

During the several months they were together, Father Nefiore observed that his colleague led a dual life. By day he was the incarnation of the Good Shepherd; by night he was something entirely different. The small parish church bore the name of the Sorrow of the Redeemer, a name whose significance grew for Nefiore as he watched the old priest single-handedly manage what he concluded could be nothing else than an escape network. Two or three times a week shabbily dressed strangers of both sexes and all ages would come to the church. Often they arrived in family units; usually it was the woman who came to the door to talk with Father Jarvik. Not once was Nefiore privy to the substance of these hushed conversations, but he could see from the windows of the small rectory that others often hung back in the shadows while the conferences took place. At times, especially when the weather was bitter, strangers were taken to the rectory cellar for the night, fed and given cots and blankets. They were always gone before the sun's first rays appeared.

On many nights Nefiore found himself alone while Father Jarvik traveled to undisclosed destinations for unexplained purposes. The old man would simply say just before leaving that he had to be "out" for the night or for several days, but he always returned when he said he would. As time passed, Father Nefiore assumed more and more parish duties, saying masses, conducting catechism classes for the village's young, officiating at confirmations and weddings, attending the sick, troubled and dying. Early on, he had resumed the use of his own name, and Father Jarvik explained during a Sunday sermon that the new priest was an Italian of German descent sent by the bishop temporarily to help him. The villagers accepted Nefiore quickly; his penances were firm enough to convey the severity of given sins, but not excessive, and he was a good listener, though not afraid to say what he thought. The women, especially the older ones who doted on all priests, liked him immensely.

If Nefiore had any weakness, it was a certain nervousness that people found in him, a kind of posture that made him appear to be guilty of something, though God knows what sin a priest could have on his conscience. It was not a major issue for the congregation, merely a trait they attributed to his foreign birth.

It was evening. Nefiore was in the kitchen cooking blood sausages in a large skillet when Father Jarvik came up from the cellar. The old man stretched when he entered, ladled himself a mug of hot coffee from the pan that stayed heated on the wood stove all day and sat down. Nefiore put a plate in front of him, then speared the sausages with a fork and dropped them on their plates. Jarvik ignored the food and stared at the younger priest. "You came here for a purpose," the old priest said after a silence. "It's time for you to go."

"Where?" Nefiore asked nervously.

Jarvik did not answer, but pulled on a wool overcoat and hat and went outside. Nefiore grabbed a heavy cape with a hood and followed, running to catch up.

They took Father Jarvik's horse, a huge black mare with a shaggy coat still thick from winter, and hitched her to a small buggy. Nefiore noticed that she seemed unsteady, almost off-balance as she stood waiting to be harnessed, and thought it must be old age. They loaded the boot of the carriage with several parcels and two baskets filled with bread wheels, then drove quietly out of Wetter past a ruined
Schloss
on a nearby hillock. Among the ruins dozens of small fires flickered like fireflies. "Catholics?" Nefiore asked.

"Who knows?" Jarvik answered. "The forest has become a melting pot, an ethnic stew." He laughed at his own joke. "They're displacedrefugees from eastern Germany and Poland, Ukes, Czechs, Latvians, Croats and a dozen more nationalities."

Passing through a dense forest of red pines, the road narrowed to no more than a trail. Branches whipped at them and wet clods of mud clung to them as they raced headlong through the funnel at high speed. "Father Jarvik!" Nefiore cried as he tried to dodge the branches. "Slow down-before you blind the horse!" It was all he could think to say, though it was his own well-being that he feared for.

The old priest only laughed and snapped his whip again. "She's already blind! That's why she steers so well! Don't worry, Father, you won't die an accidental death."

After a long gallop at high speed, Father Jarvik slowed the horse to a walk and Nefiore began to relax. The animal's flanks were lathered with white foam; its breath, coming in gasps, exploded into the cold night air in small bursts. In the forest around them, the Italian once again began to see small fires on both sides of the trail and far into the trees. When the buggy stopped, the old man handed him the reins. "I have an errand here. Let her graze-just give her her head, she knows what to do-and don't leave the buggy." He darted into the shadows.

Sitting alone in the cool night air, Nefiore felt a chill. He pulled his overcoat up to his chin and hunched down in it. At first he thought his discomfort was from the temperature, but soon it became apparent that he was being watched from the darkness. He could not see them, but he knew they were there and that there were many of them.

"You're not German," a tiny voice said accusingly from the darkness. "Who says this who can see in the dark like a bat?" he countered. "It's not so dark. We have our fires. When they go out,
then
it's dark." There was awe and fear in the young voice.

"What makes you think I'm not German? Perhaps I'm Russian."

"No," an older voice said hoarsely. "The Ivans smell like horse piss on cold soil. You're not Russian."

“I
am
German.”

"You try to be," another voice chimed in. "But you have an accent. Only slight, but it's an accent."

A feminine voice interrupted. "Are you with the old priest?" There was no affection in the question.

"No, he's with the priest's horse," someone said, and laughter echoed all around him.

"That horse keeps dangerous company," a voice said menacingly. Before Nefiore could think of a reply, Jarvik returned and climbed up into the buggy. "I see you've been entertaining my sheep." He laughed.

"Who are they?"

"I don't know their names. I think of them as part of my flock.

It's enough."

After leaving the forests, they drove for some time along a dirt road, passing through several small villages. Eventually the ground began to rise and the old priest guided the buggy onto a small side lane that climbed a winding route up a long line of steep ridges. They were in the forest again, but now the trees were mature and spread their canopy over them like an umbrella blocking the stars. For nearly an hour they traversed the hilly road, switching back on the face of each ridge, climbing higher.

"This doesn't appear so steep from below," Nefiore said. "It is a deceiving place," the old man said simply.

Eventually the road straightened in a long, difficult climb. The mare coughed as she slipped in the mud; her sides heaved mightily, but she kept a steady pace. It was dark, but at the very top Nefiore could see an opening and the outline of a small church. Drawing closer, he saw that the walls were white, and that there was a low iron fence around it. Another building of stone and an even larger buildingprobably a barn, Nefiore thought-sat astride the trail. "What is this place?" he asked.

"For you, my young friend, this is destiny." Jarvik's voice was low but hard.

Nefiore felt a chill.

The priest halted the buggy. "Get down, Father." Nefiore did as he was told. A cloth-covered parcel dropped heavily at his feet. "I don't know what your precise mission is, Father, but this is where it begins. You have certain instructions to pass on, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Sehr gut.
And you know your code word?" "Yes, it's-"

"Don't tell me! It's none of my affair. My job is to bring you here. They told you of the importance of your mission?"

"Yes."

"You fully understand what is required?" The old man's meaning was clear. "Inside the church you will find supplies to sustain you. There is enough. I urge you to stay inside the church; don't venture out here. You are to pass on the package at all costs."

"What about the other inhabitants?"

Jarvik chuckled. "There are no others. You are alone, Father. This church is built on the oldest evidence of man in northern Europe. This is antiquity, older than Rome. A Celtic fortress once sat here, a citadel of ancient civilization keeping the barbarians at bay. Primitive man hunted wolves with white-ash spears in this forest, and it hasn't changed since then. There is a volcano here; it holds the ghosts of centuries. Stay in the church, for your own safety and that of your mission."

So this was it. A tiny stone church in a dark German forest. He'd known all along that there was indeed a mission, but now it had leaped out at him with no time to think about it; he had become so absorbed in the parish that it had begun to fade from his mind. He was afraid. "Father Jarvik, will you hear my confession?"

The old man grunted, and Nefiore knelt in the mud beside the buggy. When he had finished, Father Jarvik granted absolution and turned the buggy back down the mountain. "What is this place?" Nefiore called as the distance between them widened.

"Christianburg. This is Christianburg." "Go with God," Nefiore said to himself.

"Do your duty," Jarvik shouted back as the blind mare began to race wildly down the steep grade.

Nefiore checked his watch. It was a half hour before midnight.

86 – April 4, 1946, 2:00 A.M.

The three men moved into the Christianburg wilderness during a driving storm that blew up suddenly and splattered the leafless trees with huge drops. The forest muffled the noise, making it sound like a distant firefight.

Herr Wolf surprised his traveling companions by guessing their location. "I know this place," he said. "That shithead Goring used to bore us with long-winded tales of his exploits in this forest; he brought me here twice. Did you know that the traitorous swine was the Chief Forester for the Reich? It was his avocation, and he whined until I granted him the title. Given his failure with the Luftwaffe, he should have concentrated on hunting small animals that couldn't shoot back." The disgust in Herr Wolf's voice was clear. "Shithead" was his favorite epithet for those not in favor.

"There's a church here," Brumm said.

"I am more familiar with the plan than you," Herr Wolf snapped. "It has historic value. An old church built on the site of an ancient Celtic fort. A dramatic touch for our little adventure, don't you think, Sergeant?"

Herr Wolf constantly played up to Sergeant Major Rau, who for the most part ignored the older man's attention. It was one thing to serve the Fuhrer as a national symbol; it was quite another to serve the man who had held the title. Beard had long since shed his awe; he continued to do his duty only from allegiance to his colonel and the SS. The killing of the girls still sickened him; had he and Günter been alone, they would still be alive. In his mind Herr Wolf was responsible for their death. That he and his colonel had actually done the killings was immaterial; Herr Wolf was the cause. As German soldiers and professionals they had been obligated to do their duty, but at night when it was cold and he was alone on the damp ground, duty was not a consolation for the loss he felt. He missed his Valkyries. Never had a man had
such good fortune. Over time, Gü
nter had spent more and more time with Waller, which left the other five to his good keeping. And how he had kept them! What bothered him most was
the loss of their company and their youthful exuberance. Now, after only twelve days on the trail, he found the need for a woman overwhelming him. It bothered him; during his long career he'd never before been prey to such powerful feelings. Women were morsels consumed during furloughs, never during duty. The loss of the girls had weakened him in ways he'd not dreamed possible.

Brumm decided to use Herr Wolf's sudden interest in geography to good purpose. He made a small shelter from a tent half and spread out his map. Using his flashlight, he asked Herr Wolf for his opinion. "I make us to be about here; do you agree?"

Herr Wolf took the light from him and studied the map for several minutes, then announced that they were a little farther from their objective than Brumm's estimate. It never failed; no matter what position Brumm thought them to be in, Herr Wolf disagreed by just enough to bring home the point that
he
was the expert.

Discounting Herr Wolf's opinion, Brumm estimated they would reach the end of this leg of the journey in less than an hour, but he did not share his opinion with his companions.

He turned out to be right. Climbing along the rim of a long ridge, they entered a break in the forest and found a wide field of knee-deep grass. The colonel called his sergeant forward with a soft whistle. The rain was still lashing them and visibility was poor, but with their practiced eyes they could make out the shape of a small building at the end of the meadow.

"It's the church," Brumm said. "There are two entrances, one from the cemetery on this side, the other at the opposite end of the building. You take him and cover the back." He leaned close to his sergeant. "This is where we pick up our papers. We have to get what we need from this place, Hans, or we're lost. If something happens to me, you must get them at any cost." The tall sergeant major grunted his understanding.

Herr Wolf followed them closely as they began their low zigzag approach along the edge of the field. The nearer they approached, the better they could see the church. It was an eerie white, and even in the absence of moonlight, it seemed to glow. A pointed black steel fence, chest-high, marked the churchyard perimeter. Inside, gravestones were pitched at drunken angles, many of them toppled flat. Brumm boosted Herr Wolf over the fence, then watched as his sergeant slid into position behind a small mound only a few meters away from the back door.