The Shadowboxer (21 page)

“It's un-American to turn down a promotion.”

“Find somebody else. Now will someone drive me back? I'm tired.”

“The medics said you need plenty of exercise. I wouldn't think of going against the doctors' orders. Why not just watch a little? It should be a hell of a show.”

Spangler heard shouting. He glanced along the ridge. Cogan was barking orders into a walkie-talkie.

“Beautiful,” Kittermaster chuckled from behind his binoculars, “absolutely beautiful. Those Rangers sure have class—not a patrol to be seen.”

Spangler raised his glasses. All the exterior red-helmeted guard patrols had vanished. Powder flashes caught his eye. The white lights of Birkenau went off. A moment later the camp was illuminated by red bulbs.

“They're in darkness,” Kittermaster said proudly. “The red lights mean darkness—thought of it myself.”

Spangler shifted his glasses to the tree line beyond Birkenau. Waves of blue-helmeted paratroopers rushed from the forest toward the exterior fence.

“Okay, I've watched,” Spangler said, putting down the binoculars. “Now can I get some sleep?”

“But the fun is just beginning.”

“Tell me about it tomorrow.”

“Don't you want to see how they identify Tolan and Jean-Claude?”

“I know.”

“The hell you do.”

“Once you take the camp, the prisoners will be brought out, lined up and moved past inspection posts until Tolan and Jean-Claude are found.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody. It fits, that's all. And it won't work.” Spangler walked off, suddenly looking healthier, as if pessimism were a restorative.

33

The “Silence” sign went dark.

“Can we take that last part again, Miss Tolan?” the control-room loudspeaker asked. “Pick it up from the beetroots. Take your time, you're doing fine.”

The sign went on. Hilka cleared her throat and stepped closer to the microphone. “… then add the beetroots and let the mixture come to a boil,” she said in German. “If you prefer a darker shade, a teaspoonful of soot can be added. After half an hour the dye will be ready and you can put in any garment you like. Once the garment is immersed, allow it to boil another fifteen minutes and then remove it. And so, brave women of Germany, another meeting of—of Household Hints comes to a close. We patriotic Germans abroad salute you and pray that God will soon ease your plight. Until next time,
auf Wiederhören
.”

Hilka pushed through the studio door to the Green Room.

“Well, Hilka,” Vetter said, handing her a container of tea, “how does it feel to be a radio star?”

“If advising women to put soot in their dye is being a radio star, I must say it's not very good. Can you imagine putting soot in dye?”

“It will all come out in the wash.” Vetter smiled, waiting for a reaction. None came.

“What do I do next?” she asked, looking out the window. Parachutists could be seen dropping in the distance.

“Fifteen minutes rest, and then your bedtime story.”

“Bedtime story?”

“For the children, Hilka. They will be the Germans of tomorrow—if any of them survive. They must learn to love and trust us.”

“Do you have the script?”

“It's being translated now.”

“Are they actually going to broadcast all of this?”

“How can we tell? Seven warehouses are now filled with newspapers that have never been dropped on Germany. The storage room next door is crammed to the ceiling with radio transcriptions that have never been aired. Someone somewhere must be optimistic. Perhaps the colonel can give you the answer. Why not ask him next time?”

Hilka turned hesitantly.

“There's no need to be upset, Hilka. I doubt if any of the others know.”

“Know what?”

“Why, that the colonel often takes you driving at night.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing, Hilka. In fact, I'm rather jealous. I am most curious to know what the world has come to look like beyond the fences.”

“Still the world. No better, no worse.” She turned back to the window.

“Where does he take you?”

“Up the coast.”

“Oh, that must be most scenic. Now I am even more envious than before. Do you ever see
people?
Ordinary people? Do you ever stop in towns?”

“Yes. He's rather good about that. He lets me walk about the villages if I choose. Nothing is open that late, but it is nice to walk through them.”

“Tell me, Hilka, are there mailboxes in these villages?” Vetter asked, moving up beside her.

“What do you want mailed?” she said without looking at him.

“Just a postcard.”

“You know the regulations.”

“Achh, Hilka. You truly are becoming the colonel's lady. Is there anything so wrong with a father writing to his son?”

“Rudi? You told me he was dead.”

“It is best for us here to say our loved ones are dead. After all, who knows how this whole thing will turn out? Who knows what the Nazis might do when they find out about this?”

“Is he in Germany?”

“No, in Africa with the British Army, but that insures nothing. Will you mail it, Hilka? You can read it.” Vetter brought out the postcard. “There's nothing secret between the lines, believe me. Major Julian used to let me send them, but he's gone now. Look, it isn't even signed, so you can't get into any trouble. I just want Rudi to know I'm still alive.”

Major Black Buck Cogan sat in the number-two bucket seat beside the open door and adjusted the chin strap of his helmet. He stretched around and looked out. Thirty more transport planes droned forward through the evening sky in wing-tip formation. Behind him a contingent of Blue Attack paratroops sat on both rows of facing seats. Each had his chute cord attached to the static line overhead.

Cogan flipped open the attack plan and began reviewing it. The daylight jumps had gone well. Now he was faced with the moment of truth: night assault. Casualties were his main concern. Field judges would be waiting on the ground to estimate “projected losses.” The losses must not exceed five per cent. If fewer than seventy-five men were declared wounded or killed in the mock battle, the operation would be a success—provided Auschwitz and Birkenau could be overrun and the two prisoners found within the estimated margin-of-safety time period. Cogan checked his watch. The Rangers should already be on the ground. They should be setting up the drop zone, “taking out” the exterior guards and preparing to cut off the camp's power and communications.

“Sir,” the co-pilot called, hurrying back to Cogan, “there seems to be some trouble with the ground flares. They're not in the same positions we have here on our charts. The skipper suggests delaying until we have clarification.”

“We jump. Correct with aerial flares.”

“But, sir, wouldn't it be better to—”

“Correct it with aerial flares. We jump on schedule!”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

The formation of transports descended and spread into the approach pattern. The red lights above the open doors glowed on as the jump masters moved down the aisle checking the hooks on the static line. The men were ordered to stand. Flares dropped, ignited and drifted slowly down through the night. The transports jogged slightly. The green lights switched on. The paratroopers crowded forward. Cogan lunged through the open doorway of the lead plane with a yell.

The target area had been miscalculated. The treetops were littered with chutes and dangling soldiers. There was no need for the field judges to tabulate the “projected losses”; the actual casualties came to three hundred and two injured and eighteen dead.

34

The secluded gabled resort hotel lay twenty-three miles down the coast road. Five cars and a lorry on blocks stood in the parking area. The ancient desk clerk slept behind the desk. Spangler glanced around the fake Tudor lobby. Two sets of curtained glass doors opened off it. A string quartet was playing Ivor Novello from behind the first. Spangler pushed through the second. The dining room was oaken, low-beamed and gas-lit. A young couple leaned face to face against the bar in the near corner. Julian was seated across the room at a table overlooking the ocean.

“I thought you were in Washington,” Spangler said, pulling up a chair.

“Good! That's what I wanted everybody to think. Actually, Erik, I'm not in Washington. Actually, Erik, I got no farther than here. Felt I needed a few days of rest and meditation—and, come to think of it, drink. I am intoxicated, Erik. Smashed. Polluted. Zonked. But
lucid
, Erik; always lucid. Just can't walk too well, that's all. Care for a bite? The fish is almost edible.”

“I don't have the time.”

“No English accent, Erik? How disappointing. That means you're in low spirits. Pity.”

“This meeting was your idea, not mine. If you want to talk, talk. If not, I'm going.”

“Erik, Erik, Erik, I'm ashamed of you. You know how I am. Never have been able to get directly to the point. Love to thrash around a bit first. It's my ritual, Erik. It's like your symptoms. Erik, it's extremely nice of you to drop by.” Julian flashed a sad smile and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Now tell me, how is it all going at Westerly? Everyone still jumping out of airplanes?”

“More or less.”

“And the little calamity, Erik—how has it affected events?”

“What calamity?”

“You know, Erik, all those silly men coming down into the poplars and the oaks. Something about misplaced flares?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Stop looking at me with that expression, Erik. You know that my patterns of intrigue and deception are always mundane and predictable. Why, when was the last time I came up with such a complicated idea as misdirecting an air drop? I expect last night's little bloodletting will hold things up for a bit, won't it?”

“Replacements are on the way. Cogan has a broken ankle.”

Julian frowned, lifted his glass and sipped. “In that case, Erik, he must be stopped.”

“Who?”

“Kittermaster. Yes, Erik, he must be stopped. He's quite mad, you know. Thinks he's Busby Berkeley. Obsessed with staging an extravaganza—a great big extravaganza for a grandstand of five or six Washington potbellies, and the price be damned. What do you think the price will be, Erik—one thousand, two thousand, five thousand men?”

“He might not lose that many.”

“That coming from you? Erik, which one of us has been doing the drinking? Can you really sit there in full sobriety and tell me that those released concentration-camp prisoners and those pathetic would-be marauders draped in American uniforms won't be slaughtered like swine?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know precisely what I'm talking about: Kittermaster's latest scheme. He plans to dress the camp prisoners in the discarded American uniforms, arm them and send them around the countryside to sabotage and create diversion—to give the paratroopers a better chance of getting out unnoticed.”

“If you're so damned concerned about the prisoners, why didn't you do something about the camps before?”

“I tried, Erik, I tried—as you know better than anyone. But Washington's a little vague on the subject. After all, if our government has still not officially recognized their
existence
, what can one insignificant major do? But perhaps this is our opportunity, eh? Perhaps now we can do something to save them.”

“No one has to save them in this situation, because nothing's going to happen to them.”

“Does God plan to intervene?”

“C.-c. prisoners are conditioned to passivity. The outside world doesn't exist for them. It's beyond their comprehension. It has to be if they hope to survive. No more than a handful would ever leave even if the gates were thrown wide open. And those few who
would
go out could hardly stand, let alone carry a gun and fight.”

“I see your point, Erik, and I will take your word on their physiological and psychological condition. But, Erik, isn't the safe retreat of the American soldiers based on the prisoners' acting as a decoy? What will happen if there
is
no decoy?”

“They have a chance to make it through.”

“How much of a chance?”

“That depends on their luck.”

“What a curious word for you to be using, Erik. You and I aren't the type to put much stock in luck. We wouldn't be alive today if we were. Let's not dwell on luck, Erik; it makes me feel as if someone has trodden on my grave. Let's deal with something else—with premeditation and skill. Erik, do you believe that if the air drop is launched in Poland the paratroopers can overrun the camps, locate Jean-Claude and Tolan and get them into the escape plane?”

“Maybe.”

Julian pondered. “Erik, are you counting on thirty-two hundred Americans to bring out Jean-Claude regardless of how few of them survive? Are you subscribing to the Kittermaster credo: Get me what I want and damn the corpses left behind?”

“We don't know if Jean-Claude is in there.”

“He's been missing for three weeks now, Erik. Where else would you expect him to be?”

“Maybe he's lost. He's a child, children can get lost. Or maybe he was captured and taken somewhere else.”

“Erik, isn't the reason you've remained at Westerly quite simply based on one belief—that Jean-Claude is at Auschwitz or Birkenau?”

“I don't know where he is.”

“I think you
think
he's at Auschwitz or Birkenau, Erik. Why waste time? Why don't you go in and find out for yourself?”

“You know I can't. I'm set up for Germany and the West. I have no contacts in Poland—you know I work through contacts.”

“Only recently, Erik. In the old days you had a way of not relying on anyone. Those were the good days, Erik. Those were your golden days. Perhaps you can do it again?”