The Swiss Courier: A Novel (13 page)

“I wonder where they’re going.” Jäger moved toward the apartment entryway and pressed his right ear against the front door.

“Do you hear what they’re saying?”

“Nothing. Just footsteps.” Then Jäger swore and took three quick steps back. “They’re coming this way!”

Suddenly, without a knock, their front door burst open, and Joseph watched in horror as two of the three soldiers—each wearing black scarves to cover their faces—tackled Jäger to the floor. As bodies crumpled, Jäger yelped. His head hit the sharp end of their living room coffee table, inflicting a gash on his right temple. A thin rivulet of blood snaked down the side of his face. The third soldier pressed a black pistol to Jäger’s forehead as he curled up into a fetal position.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Jäger screamed.

“Shut up! You’re under arrest!” The soldier balled up his right fist and swung at Jäger’s midsection, landing a painful blow to the left kidney.

Joseph stood paralyzed. Without thinking, he allowed the glass he was holding to slip through his fingers and crash to the floor, causing three sets of suspicious eyes to turn his way. The scene before him was surreal—not possible.

“Don’t hurt him,” Joseph pleaded. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

“And how would you know that?” The voice came from a fourth person entering the room—a Gestapo agent wearing a black leather trench coat and hat. He, too, wore a black scarf to disguise his facial features. He casually reached inside the right pocket of his trench coat and withdrew a Luger, then pointed it at Joseph.

Joseph felt his knees grow weak. “I-I-I don’t know.” He thrust his hands toward the ceiling. His usually agile mind fogged over, and he couldn’t make himself believe the reality of what was happening. After a moment, he managed to enunciate a sentence. “We’re just scientists working at the University.”

“And who are you?” the agent in charge asked.

“Engel, Joseph.”

“And you?” The agent pointed his pistol down at Jäger.

“Jäger, H-Hannes. We a-are roommates.” A pained cry escaped his lips.

The agent nodded his head toward Joseph. “He’s the one.”

Joseph felt the blood drain from his face. What had he done against the State? This had to be a huge mistake.

Before he could say another word, two soldiers lunged toward Joseph. He fell backward onto the sofa in a heap. They were on him like wolves on a carcass.

Joseph swung his arms and kicked his feet, attempting to push them off, but his efforts were of no use. One of the soldiers vise-gripped his upper arm while another latched on to his legs. Without warning, a heavy fist crashed into his temple. Joseph cried out as pain shot through his head. The room faded, but he fought to remain conscious. Again, he struggled against the men, but another sharp pinch pierced his shoulder as the Gestapo’s nightstick found its mark.

“What are you doing?” he screamed. “I’ve done NOTHING!”

“Handcuff him,” the lead agent directed.

One of the soldiers flipped Joseph over, pressing his knee into the small of his back, forcing him to struggle for breath as his face mashed into the thin carpet. The second soldier joined the first, pressing him down and cinching the handcuffs tight on his wrists.

With a loud curse, the first soldier rose and slammed his booted heel down on Joseph’s backside for emphasis. Another stab of pain shot through him as his breath escaped, forcing him to gasp for air.

“Stop it! I’m cooperating!” he finally managed to wheeze out.

The soldier took a step backward, and Joseph relaxed. His eyes met those of his roommate, and he noticed fear in Hannes’s gaze. Fear mixed with accusation.

“Get up,” the Gestapo leader ordered.

Joseph struggled to find his legs. When he was fully standing, he felt a gun tip pressed into his lower spine.

“We need your identity papers. Where are they?” the Gestapo agent demanded.

“In my satchel. On . . . on the nightstand in the bedroom.”

The Gestapo agent nodded toward one of the soldiers, who pivoted and marched into the apartment’s single bedroom and returned with a well-worn leather satchel, handing it to the man in charge.

“Heavy. What’s inside?”

“Physics papers and my personal notebook. My identity papers are in my billfold.”

The Gestapo agent peered inside, fumbled around for a moment, and then secured the silver clasp, tucking it under his arm.

Joseph’s eyes met Hannes’s again.

“Are you okay?” Joseph asked in no more than a whisper.

The left side of his friend’s face was drenched in blood. Dark red dripped from his cheek, staining his white shirt in crimson.

Instead of answering, Hannes looked away.

“No talking!” The guard pressed the gun deeper into Joseph’s back. He arched to ease the pressure.

“
Raus! Jetzt ins Auto!
” the Gestapo agent growled.

Joseph dropped his head as two of the soldiers and the Gestapo agent manhandled him out of the apartment. The fourth stayed behind with Jäger. Joseph couldn’t stop his armed escorts from hustling him down the stairs and out the front of the building. There, a black Mercedes touring car waited with all four doors open.

One soldier jumped into the rear bench seat. The other grabbed Joseph by the scruff of the neck and shoved him inside the car, then remained outside awaiting orders.

“What should we do with the other one?” the soldier asked.

“Kill him.” The Gestapo agent showed no emotion as he took the passenger’s seat in the front.

“Jawohl.”
The soldier turned on his heels and ran back into the apartment block. Within thirty seconds, a single shot rang out, followed by two soldiers sprinting out of the apartment block. One jumped behind the steering wheel. The other squished himself in the rear next seat to Joseph.

No, not Hannes . . .
Joseph’s shoulders trembled. His friend was dead.

The driver slammed the Mercedes into gear, and they roared away from the University apartment complex.

Joseph ached to turn his head for one last look. Instead, the man next to him removed a black scarf from his coat pocket and quickly wrapped it around Joseph’s face, securing it with a tight knot.

“Where are you taking me?” he mumbled through the cloth.

“There’s no need to say anything, Herr Engel,” the Gestapo agent said from the front seat. “You’ll find out very shortly.”

“But—”

The guard to his left slammed his right elbow into Joseph’s rib cage. The air from his lungs escaped in a fast whoosh, and he struggled to breathe.

Joseph moaned and then yanked at the cuffs, but they didn’t give. His whole body seemed to protest the pain, and he wondered what he’d done to deserve this treatment. His mind searched for an answer, but he could think of nothing.

Something had happened, something beyond his control. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. Then again, these soldiers seemed certain they had caught their prey.

Maybe there was an explanation, but as each minute passed, the
why
no longer mattered. Joseph knew something horrendous was about to happen. Now he wondered
what
.

Kassler consulted his timepiece. It was after 11:00 p.m. when his Mercedes sedan, adorned with a pair of postcard-sized swastikas furling in the night air, jerked to a stop in front of the two-story brownstone apartments belonging to the University of Heidelberg.

Sergeant Rudolf Frisch stepped out of the front passenger seat, stiffened his posture, and opened the rear door for Sturmbannführer Bruno Kassler, who wore his black gabardine service uniform. A red swastika armband was wrapped around his left upper arm. Kassler nodded to Frisch, and then regarded the troop transport truck that noisily rolled in behind him.

From the truck’s rear, a half-dozen soldiers energetically jumped to the cobblestone street, each holding Gewehr 98 rifles. They quickly fell into formation before Kassler.

The Gestapo chief adjusted his leather cross-strap and jutted out his chin. “My fellow defenders of the Reich,” Kassler pronounced solemnly. “Sergeant Frisch has outlined the action we will be taking tonight. The description I have of Joseph Engel is that he is 185 centimeters tall, weighs 65 kilos, and is slim in build with brown curly hair. Age is twenty-seven. He is a research scientist and not expected to be a physical threat. Nonetheless, none other than Reichsführer Himmler himself has ordered that he be captured alive. If any of you harm this man, I will personally court-martial you. I can assure you my sentence will be quick, harsh, and brutal. I can also assure you that you will not live to see your loved ones again.”

Kassler turned to his left and paced a couple of steps. “The suspect lives with another University of Heidelberg scientist. Name of Hannes Jäger. They are not known to have many guests over to their apartment. Their sleeping habits are unknown at this time. Because of the sensitive nature of this arrest, I will be accompanying you tonight. I expect you to follow the orders and direction of Sergeant Frisch, but I will be immediately available if you have any questions.”

Frisch reached for a Luger pistol and released the safety, an action that the six soldiers followed with their carbines. With a twitch of his head, they followed him into the apartment complex. The stairway leading to the second-floor apartment was lit with a bare lightbulb. Frisch crouched as he entered the second-story landing, and then stopped in his tracks.

“
Was ist los?
” he whispered, then held his hand up. He waited until Kassler joined the search party, then nodded toward Apartment 2, where the front door was left open.

“A trap?” Frisch asked.

Kassler peered toward the faint light. He wasn’t sure, but what he did know was that a wide-open front door was unusual at 11 p.m.

“Maybe. Have your men storm the flat, but remember, Engel is to be taken alive.”

The four soldiers nodded and readied themselves for the assault. Frisch led them closer, inch by inch, then raised his right arm and jerked it forward. One soldier sprinted past the door and knelt on the other side, his rifle ready. Another took a position next to the doorjamb.

Frisch pulled up beside him and held up his left fist. Making eye contact with each soldier, he mouthed
eins
,
zwei
,
drei
. . . and on the count of three, they poured into the apartment, guns ready to match fire.

Kassler was on their heels, and what he saw stupefied him. Living room furniture had been turned over, a bookcase toppled, and two pictures knocked off the walls. Sitting on the floor—his hands bound in handcuffs and a black scarf cinched across his mouth—a sandy-haired man looking to be in his mid-thirties struggled to free himself.

Frisch motioned to two soldiers to check the rest of the apartment.

“Take the gag off,” Kassler ordered.

Frisch leaned over and untied the scarf. “Who are you?”

The prisoner devoured several gulps of air before responding. “Don’t kill me! I’ll tell you anything. Anything you need to know!”

“Who are YOU?” Frisch repeated.

The prisoner relaxed after a few seconds. “I’m Hannes Jäger. I work for Doktor Heisenberg at the University. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Kassler processed the information for a moment. “Put him in a chair.” A sinking feeling came over him. He
would
find out what happened . . . but from what he could see, Engel was gone. He’d have to find the missing physicist, and soon. If not—well, he didn’t want to think about that possibility.

After they blindfolded Joseph, none of the four men in the Mercedes spoke much except to say “Left here” or “Continue straight.” They had motored just five minutes when he sensed the car slow down and veer sharply right. Judging from the reverberations, they were turning into some sort of voluminous building. Then the car parked, and the engine turned off.

Joseph’s heart pounded so hard he worried it would break one of his ribs. His body ached, and fear caused his knees to weaken—and his legs to tremble. He was sure he was about to be tortured. The question was
how
. And why? His mind searched for answers. What did he do? Why did they drag him out of his apartment? Could his arrest be a grotesque case of mistaken identity?

He pictured the cold, hard steel of a muzzle pressed against his temple, and a shudder passed through his body. The truth was he could be dead
today
. His stomach lurched, and nausea rose in his throat.

Joseph heard the car door open and felt an arm squeeze his right bicep. “Out you go,” one of his captors directed.

With his arms bound behind him, Joseph struggled to find his legs.

“Remove the blindfold,” he heard someone say.

His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit warehouse with a cavernous ceiling. Swiveling his head to his left, Joseph regarded a half-dozen flatbed trucks, dirty and well-used. Bales of tawny hay were stacked in a corner, and truck parts were strewn haphazardly on the concrete.
So this is where it will
end.
He couldn’t believe everything—his own life—had come to this.

Three men dressed in workman’s clothes strode out of the shadows, issuing greetings to his captors. He watched as the Gestapo quickly removed their hats and unbuttoned their uniformed shirts. Joseph noted smiles of relief as they shook hands with those welcoming them back. For a moment, their cheerful smiles seemed a worse greeting than if they’d approached with guns. At least then he’d know where he stood. But this . . .

These were not the Gestapo.

But who were they? Wartime Germany was not a place of safety, and Joseph knew enemies revealed themselves in many forms.

The reedy man in charge approached Joseph, unbuttoning his leather trench coat, and removing the scarf around his jowls. Joseph took a step back, tugging at the handcuffs holding his hands.