War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 24
On the morning Gordon and the men had departed the manor house, the women set about their normal duties. If someone from the Gestapo or the camp came, it would appear only that the driver had chauffeured Mrs. Schröder, along with the POW and his guard, on some sort of errand. It would not be their duty to know anything beyond that. Only the stripped kitchen offered a clue that something was amiss: the women had sent the contents of the larder and pantry with the escapees, a few mostly rotten potatoes and onions, some curdled cream the only items remaining. Late in the day, after composing the farewell note that lamented their firing, they locked the premises as they typically did and began their usual route home through the snow, stolen gold coins and pieces of Mrs. Stroński’s jewelry sewn into their skirts, bottles of liquor they had lifted from the commandant’s bar clanking in their burlap satchels. They had thoughtfully left several bottles of wine for the commandant, knowing he was likely to need it upon his return home that evening. After midnight, in the blowing snow, they began their escape from Sagan in earnest, a slow and arduous trip through the dense woods in the back of a farm wagon. They headed north in hopes of avoiding the Soviet army that often did not differentiate between Germans and their Polish subordinates. With Clara were her daughter and the daughter’s eight-year-old twins, along with Clara’s great uncle whom the Nazis had deemed too old to send to the Russian front. Accompanying Helene were her husband and their teenage son. The group traveled only at night, hiding out for weeks at a time in a series of villages and farmhouses, before arriving at the ruined port city of Danzig. There, hidden in the hold of a fishing boat, they set sail for Karlskrona, part of the Swedish archipelago, the tense passage made worse by roiling waters that made all but the youngest seasick. They floated up to a small jetty at dawn on a crisp but sunny day, shocked at the enthusiastic welcome they received from the Special Operations Executive section that, as it turned out, was well-equipped in ostensibly neutral Sweden. The next day, the eight of them found their way to morning Mass at the one tiny Catholic church on Karlskrona, all of them overwhelmed with joy that they could worship free from the black tarnish of Nazi regulation that had contaminated their church in Sagan. As Clara knelt at the altar, receiving the bread and wine, her tears flowed unimpeded, wetting the hands of the young priest as he brought the cup to her mouth. “För att vi skola vara fria, har Kristus frigjort oss,” he whispered. Christ has made us free. Clara knew not a word of Swedish, but she understood him exactly.
It was this same SOE that had directed the War Office clerk to play dumb each time Mrs. Gordon Clarke called to ask if there was any updated news on the details of her husband’s death and the disposition of his things. After MI5 had moved on Jesse, they undertook surveillance of Beryl and the American with whom she spent considerable time, an agent often parked in Jesse’s former sitting room to observe comings and goings, mostly to put to rest any concerns that Beryl had cooperated with Jesse’s inept undercover work. It took a number of months, but eventually the various entities—the branches of the intelligence service, the SOE, and the War Office, prompted by an earnest army records clerk who sought once and for all to get answers about Lieutenant Clarke—compared their sets of facts and realized the POW the International Red Cross declared dead of disease at Stalag-Luft III was the same officer Jesse Jordan said found work within the home of a Nazi colonel and was, in fact, the same bloke the SOE was supplying as he rattled through the Polish hinterlands in a stolen Nazi staff car with a group of escapees. Military practice and protocol required officers to immediately contact the soldier’s wife to correct this grievous mistake and essentially declare the lieutenant no longer dead. But the SOE forbid it. The man remained in danger, went the argument, until he was back on British soil. Were he to die in the course of their escape, they could hopefully secure something of his and return it to the widow and she would be none the wiser that he had lived months past his alleged fatal case of typhus. But certainly, at this juncture, there was no reason to apprise her of anything because the chance of these men escaping the Reich were slim to nil. It was resolved among them all that they would keep their cruel secret for now. The records clerk would make known in the office that any inquiries regarding Clarke should come to him. Hopefully, they could mislead and obviate until such time the man was actually free and they could tell the truth.
Andrew Wilkins, the London-based agent who continued to surveil Beryl, observed that there was another reason not to inform Mrs. Clarke of her husband’s status. “It does not appear that she misses her husband too awfully much,” he told those gathered to discuss the case at the Baker Street offices. He offered dates and times—and they were numerous—wherein the American pilot stayed overnight at her flat and accompanied her on visits to her son. In Wilkins’ judgement, she appeared quite dedicated to the flier. “She’s having a fine time, my good men, so there is no reason to apprise her of what we know until absolutely necessary. Then it is she who will find herself in a tough spot, I suppose.”
But soon after the lieutenant and his colleagues began their run for the Czech border, Wilkins learned that the memorial service had been scheduled for the end of December. He knew the strait-laced military types would draw the line at allowing the funeral to proceed given the facts they knew. At some point, they would have to take Mrs. Clarke into their confidence, even if the outcome of the escape was unclear. But they allowed Wilkins to play out the string, all of them agreeing that the next several days would determine the story Mrs. Clarke would ultimately hear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
No power can the impenitent absolve.
–Dante’s Inferno
Inside the Reich, 1944
They pressed on, Gordon taking a turn behind the wheel while Annalise squirmed uncomfortably between Al and Melvin in the back seat of the car. They had removed the flags and license plate because surely, by now, a bulletin had gone out to find those responsible for the murders at the Legnica checkpoint. Seventy miles outside Kraków, the air hung smoky and dense, particles of ash dirtying the car windows and darkening the snow. The men could smell it, even with their windows closed. A munitions factory, they speculated, close to the railroad supply lines. But what of this acrid chemical odor?
“This whole area is about to be overrun by the Reds,” said Floyd. “The Germans would have moved any armament production west by now. That’s not what this is.” He knew the tendrils of soot and fog that soiled the air represented a different aspect entirely of fascist Germany’s attempt to remake the face of Europe.
Annalise gave a derisive laugh. “What you smell is evidence of diligent, young Germans still on the job. That is smoke from a work camp, where they employ undesirables—Jews, the gypsies, the communists, the deviants. When they work earnestly, they live. When they do not, they are killed and cremated.”
“It is not exactly that,” said Floyd, voice even, his gaze unblinking and directly on her, “as I’m quite sure you’re aware. We bombed the tracks more than once to keep the trains from bringing in more people, but when we did, they just rerouted the trains to other camps. This is one of the places people from across Europe are taken to be exterminated. Entire Jewish families—doctors and business owners and academics—by the thousands. There were reports of camps like this all over Poland, Upper Silesia, Germany—even France, although I expect those have been liberated by now. And, Mrs. Schröder, you’ve got it partly right: the Nazis work people to death. But others—young mothers with children, old people—are brought in by train and taken straight to their deaths. Next time you see your commandant husband, you can ask him about it.”
Annalise’s pale face colored. “You are mistaken, Captain. You have taken disparate facts and thrown them together, but they are not correct. These people—most of questionable background, many of them criminals, in fact—are brought here to work for the Reich. It’s a labor camp and unfortunately, some workers die. Disease develops and spreads and it cannot be helped. It is no fault of the camp. My husband and I have discussed the uglier rumors, and he was adamant about this. Your BBC has stretched the facts so grotesquely to inspire more passion in the Allied ranks, to make your soldiers fight more viciously. Like you did at Legnica.”
“Oh, ma’am, you don’t have to worry about us needing a reason to fight harder,” responded Al, lighting a cigarette and exhaling broadly before he spoke again. “Our guys are doing that already. And I ain’t apologizing for what I did. After your team took over Austria and Poland and France—and what else? Holland, Belgium. Tried to take over Africa. That was enough to rev us up pretty good. But killing people for nothing? Just because they’re Jews? That pretty much guarantees that we ain’t gonna stop ‘til we get to Berlin.”
“As I said, Sergeant, this is not true. It is a fabrication.”
“And the Strońskis?” Gordon asked. “What happened to them, do you think?”
“Who?” Annalise asked, agitated, annoyed.
“The family who owned the house you lived in, in Sagan. The house where I built your arbor, where we tended that unbelievably lovely garden. The owners of that house were forced from it, Annalise, because they were Jews.”
“What would you know of them? They were never forced from that home,” she said, mocking his tone. “They moved away. Reinhard told me this. They did not wish to live so near the camp that was being built there, so they moved away.”
“So that’s your line, is it Annalise? The one you’ll tell the Allied authorities when they win this war. I recall your saying many months ago that you did not wish to be found in the home of a Polish Jew if the Germans didn’t triumph. Remember that flash of insight? I do. And as Clara tells it, the Strońskis didn’t up and move: they were forcibly removed and quickly. They left their silver, the heirloom jewelry you’re so fond of, and their antiques—the Steinway you loved to play. Who moves without taking their things with them? They left everything because they were not permitted to take anything. They were taken to a death camp, Annalise, while you were pouring tea from their tea service.”
“Clara knows nothing. I know nothing of this,” she said. “In war, things happen over which we have no control. I did not want to move from Berlin, but I did my part. I made the best of it. Others have had to do likewise. It’s nobody’s fault. I bear no blame for decisions our leaders make for reasons I am not privy to.”
“He was a doctor. He was beloved. Not just because he saw children through serious illnesses, but because he was kind. Generous. He convinced the SS that Clara and Helene hated him and his wife to spare them from suspicion—guilt by association. He hid radio components for them—now, that’s something I honestly believe you don’t know—and that’s how we learned the Allies landed in France. Thanks to him.”
“Oh, that’s fiction, Gordon,” Annalise said, waving a hand dismissively to signal she did not wish to hear more.
“It’s true, ma’am,” offered Graham. “We built a bloody fine radio and rigged it up in our barracks at your husband’s camp. The Polish guards weren’t as loyal to your side as you imagined. Blitzkrieg tends to create hard feelings. But we most certainly enjoyed our BBC broadcasts which kept us apprised of the landing, then the liberation of Paris and so on. Quite lovely, that little radio.”
Annalise stared at the back of Gordon’s head. “I was the one who told you the enemy had landed in France, Gordon. It was me. I remember the day and I remembered how surprised you were.”
“Well, sir, is appears Jimmy Stewart isn’t the only actor we’ve got on our side,” said Melvin, “because I remember the moment the BBC announced the landings. You were standing right there with us, tossing back the Kriegie hooch, as I recall.”
Annalise dropped her head in her hands, wounded by the men’s laughter and the realization that Gordon’s decision not to flee with her was no last-minute change of heart. His betrayal began months ago when he had feigned surprise at her news of the Allied invasion, soothed her anxiety, and promised they would flee together. She rewound their many conversations over the past two years, replaying encounters between them she thought proved their intense mutual pull. The loose way he stood, hand on his hip, eyes lingering on her, solicitous of her opinions, eager to know her background, sympathetic with the difficulties of her life apart from her children. She had savored how he had responded to her from his very first day at the house, marveling as time went on that even in war, wondrous things can happen. Had it been mutual? Had he reached for her first, ever? No, she realized. Not a single time. He had followed her lead, done as she had asked, and then used her for his own purposes. Despite the risks she had taken for him and the life-saving gifts she had offered him again and again, she had not secured his love. She had forfeited a useful life with Reinhard and her children for nothing.
“There will be an accounting of all this, of what the Germans did in this war,” predicted Floyd. “There will be a price to pay.”
Indeed, thought Annalise. But I shall not pay it.
. . .
They arrived finally in Kraków, the Carpathians looming in the distance, the icy Vistula River churning nearer to the road. They were expected at a location in Old Town, where they could rest for the night and receive final instructions for the last leg of the journey. Gordon turned the car onto the Royal Road, the ancient coronation route used by Polish kings. Back when there was a Poland, he thought. God willing, there would be again.
They found the address and Graham climbed out of the car, clasped his hands behind his back and drew himself up straight as SS officers tended to do, although a close inspection would have given him away with his worn boots, the flecks of blood on his uniform jacket. He proceeded to the door and knocked using the prescribed rhythm, so the occupants would know who was there. But when a young girl opened the door, her eyes filled with terror. She believed him an actual SS officer, calling late in the evening, with a carload of officers right behind him. Still, she breathed the password, hand tight on the doorknob in case she needed to slam it shut.
“Drozd,” she said, eyes worried. Thrush.
“Wróbel,” he responded. Sparrow. She smiled and swung the door wide.
The others fairly leapt from the car, Melvin on one side of Annalise, Gordon on the other, gripping her upper arms to propel her forward and through the door. They entered a modestly appointed house, a fire blazing in the hearth, the smell of something delicious on the stove. Just a simple family home where this young girl lived with her parents.
“Welcome. Glad you made it,” said a man, the girl’s father, apparently. “Any problems?”
“None, really,” responded Floyd. “An incident at a checkpoint, but we’re past it, I think. I’m Captain Harris,” he began.
“No, please, none of that. Details of this sort can prove deadly. Call me Piotr. I’m glad you got here safely. We’re going to need you all to change out of those uniforms,” he said, eyeing the blood, most profuse on the cuffs of Gordon’s jacket. “Aside from the… soil, that was fairly good sewing on somebody’s part. Then we’ll get some warm food in you.”
“We have a change of clothes out in the car,” said Gordon just as a young man came through the front door bearing a wicker basket.
“Got ‘em,” he said, “and the rest of the food, too. There’s also a small valise and a big suitcase. I’ll put them under your bed.”
“The car?” Piotr asked.
“Taking it to the motor pool at Rynek Główny 28,” the young man smiled. “German headquarters, where it will be one of many parked there for repairs. If they are scouring the countryside for this particular vehicle, that is the one place they will not expect it to be.”
The escapees exchanged a relieved look, Al saying if he never saw that car again, it would be too soon.
Their host escorted them to a small lavatory where, one by one, they rinsed in the frigid water at the sink, then changed into their peasant tunics and breeches. After, they joined Annalise in the kitchen, where she warmed her hands around a steaming bowl of vegetable soup prepared by Piotr’s wife. As the others sat down to eat, Gordon and Floyd approached their host for a private word.
“All’s well, as far as you know?” Gordon asked.
Piotr nodded. “The woman?”
“She’s been fine. Angry, but she’s cooperated. We ran into a little trouble at the last checkpoint. I think she’s still recovering from that.”
“Well, she’ll have more to sort through tomorrow, won’t she?” observed Piotr. “But we have it well in hand.”
. . .
After their meal, Annalise asked if she might bathe and change into fresher clothes. After a nod from Piotr, the man’s wife took her off, allowing her to pull some items from her suitcase—a clean sweater and skirt, lace undergarments, and surprisingly, a satin nightgown. The suitcase would remain under Piotr’s bed. Melvin observed her from the doorframe, one of the handguns tucked in his waistband. After a look into the windowless bathroom, he allowed her to proceed.
The rest of the group remained at the table, smoking the few cigarettes they had left, sipping the tea they had brought with them, and enjoying the quiet of the home, the sheer luxury of sufficient space to move and lean, to cross and stretch their legs, to stand and pace. Piotr reported that Polish partisans were certain German workers were now evacuating the headquarters building they’d held in Kraków since 1939. Just a handful at a time, but offices that once buzzed with activity were now dark, piles of papers sent to the incinerator. The chaos, he said, was most convenient. It was easier to bluff and delay and obfuscate than just a few months ago. The name of the game now, he said, was to buy time enough to survive.
