Eva (33 page)

She looked down at her hands. He could see the blush rise on her neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The blade sliced across her throat, biting into her white skin as easily as a warm knife into soft butter, severing her jugular vein and cutting her windpipe, instantly choking off any sound. Only a bubbly gurgle frothed in her slashed throat. She wrenched her head around in a final spasm of agony. Her eyes met his in an eternal moment even as they glazed over in death—the astonishment and hurt in them dying with her. The warm blood that welled out over his hands felt silken and slick. He picked her up. He was surprised. In death she was heavier than he had thought she would be. He carried her to the bed and put her down. The bedding would absorb the blood. No need to leave a mess in the room. He poured some water into the porcelain basin and washed the blood from his hands.

He turned the girl over. Only a little blood was still oozing from her throat. Her open eyes stared up at him as if they wanted to commit to a dead memory the image of the man who had robbed her of her life.

Involuntarily he shuddered. He was instantly angry with himself. The primary rule was to sever from yourself all feelings when a disagreeable duty had to be performed. And the girl
had
been a menace. A menace that had to be eradicated. Ruthlessly—and without delay. No regrets. In his mind he heard the Führer’s solemn charge: No one must know. The secret must stay with us.

He had only made certain it would.

One more thing.

He did not know the woman’s connection with Hacker’s tailor shop, but the
Anlaufstelle
had to be protected; no suspicion that would trigger an investigation involving the shop—by either the German or the American authorities—must become a possibility.

He would have to make the killing look like a robbery. No. There was nothing worth taking. It would not make sense. A rape? Possible. Suddenly he had the answer.

Werewolves.

He remembered the lurid warning poster he’d seen tacked up on a fence in Bamberg, addressed “to all traitors and collaborators.” In it the Bavarian werewolves threatened death and destruction to all who collaborated with the enemy. “
Unser Rache ist tödlich!
—Our Vengeance is Deadly!—the broadside had stated. And it had been signed “
Der Werwolf”—
“The Werewolf.”

It was perfect.

He dipped his finger in the still moist and glistening stain on the bed that had been the life of Eva’s best friend. On the mirror he printed in blood:
AMI HURE!—
Ami Whore!

And he signed it, “
Der Werwolf.”

He took a last look at the dead girl.

A word had killed her.

One single word.

Eva.

He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes to two. He had less then seven minutes to get back to the shop in time for the two o’clock rendezvous with their transportation.

He ran from the room. He bounded down the stairs. He almost collided with an elderly woman entering the downstairs hallway.

“
Heil Hitler!”
he shouted at her.

Startled, she gaped after him as he rushed out of the door and ran down the street.

The soldier sat warily on a slab of broken masonry from a demolished building a few houses down the street from Hacker’s tailor shop. His
Wehrmacht
uniform was close to being tattered and there was no way of knowing the rank or service branch of the man. All insignia had been removed. At his feet stood a soiled burlap bag. It probably contained all his worldly belongings. Unshaven, empty-eyed, he looked tired, disillusioned, and dejected.

SS Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz had found the disguise as a returning prisoner of war a most effective one. There were thousands of them roaming the roads and streets of postwar Germany trying to make their way home. No one bothered them. The US soldiers looked away, uncomfortably—half guiltily, it seemed. The Germans did not want to get involved; it might mean being asked for food or lodgings. And there was nothing to share. It was exactly what Strelitz wanted. To be left alone. By everyone.

He was watching the tailor shop that served as a
B-B
Achse
stop. He had seen Lüttjohann run from the place and hurriedly return. He felt the familiar rushing wariness tingle through him; that faculty of being able to feel trouble in the tips of his fingers, developed through his years of SS investigation—his
Fingerspitzengefühl.
He had long since learned to respect it. It had often saved his life.

He tensed as he saw Eva and Lüttjohann come out of the shop. They were carrying their belongings. They began to walk down the sidewalk toward him. He shrank against the demolished building, melting into the ruins.

Behind the approaching couple he saw a canvas-covered US Army weapons carrier come driving down the road. Eva and Lüttjohann were still about fifty feet from him, when he saw the weapons carrier pass them, abruptly cut to the curb and stop just ahead of them. A big, black sergeant, holding a 30 Ml Carbine, jumped from the cab and barred the way of Eva and her escort.

Tensely Strelitz strained to hear what was said, but they were too far away. He saw the American hold out his hand. He saw the terrified look of alarm in Eva’s eyes. He saw Lüttjohann reach into his pocket and hand the Negro sergeant his ID papers.

The big black soldier looked at the papers and gave them back. With his carbine he gruffly motioned them to get into the back of the truck. He followed.

Strelitz stiffened. His hand stole through the front of his tunic to touch the Luger nestled in his belt. Quickly he assessed the situation. When the truck started up and came close, he could pick off the driver. When the black soldier got out to investigate, he would kill him. He then could help Eva and Lüttjohann escape.

He heard the truck start up.

His grip on the Luger tightened, and slowly he began to pull it out. He stood up.

As he did, he was able to look past the driver of the approaching truck, through the open cab into the rear. The back canvas flap was open and he caught a flash image of the three people sitting inside the little truck. All three of them were smiling. The big sergeant was lighting a cigarette for Eva—while Lüttjohann held his carbine!

Strelitz froze, the Luger half out, and the truck came abreast of him. It gathered speed and drove off down the street.

Slowly Strelitz let out his breath. It had been close. It was audacious. Using an American vehicle and what appeared to be American personnel to transport
B-B Achse
fugitives. Was it possible? He had to confirm it. At once.

He picked up his burlap bag and began to shuffle down the street toward Hacker’s tailor shop.

Eva drew the smoke from the cigarette into her lungs. She luxuriated the feeling of well-being it created in her. She looked at it. Lucky Strike. It was excellent.

Out of the corners of her eyes she watched the black sergeant. She had never been close to a Negro before, and the man fascinated her. Jet-black, tightly curled hair; a broad nose with flaring nostrils and full lips in a deep brown face. Like chocolate mousse, she thought. She found him primitively attractive. Of course, Adolf had told her the Negro people were
Untermenschen.
Inferior, less than human. Only slightly better than Jews. It had all been scientifically researched and proved, he had told her. She remembered when.

Once, in an amateur show during her school days she had impersonated Al Jolson singing “Sonny Boy.” She had told Adolf about it and showed him a snapshot of her in blackface. He had burst out laughing at seeing her disguised as a Jew impersonating a Negro, as he had said. He had asked to be allowed to keep the little photograph, and he had told her about the black people—
Die Schwarze.

They had left town and were whamming down the country road. Eva shifted on the hard wooden bench. A piece of paper had been caught in a crack. Absentmindedly she pulled it free. She smoothed it out, glanced at it—stiffened.

It was part of a page from the American soliders’ paper, the
Stars and Stripes.
Dated May 28, 1945, the headline said:

LUFTWAFFE LEADER COMMITS SUICIDE.

The photograph of Ritter von Greim that had caught her attention showed him in his General’s uniform, although the story below it, partly torn away, identified him as Fieldmarshal, the last commander in chief of the Luftwaffe, appointed by Hitler. She read it. Her knowledge of English was good enough so that she could understand the gist of it. Briefly it told of von Greim’s distinguished career as a much-decorated pilot in World War I and his command of an air fleet on the Eastern Front until his promotion. Suffering from a wounded foot, which had become infected, the story reported, he was admitted to the hospital in Kitzbühel in Austria, accompanied by the famous test pilot, Hanna Reitsch. On May 24, after the town had been taken by American troops, he took his life.

She bit her lip. She knew Greim had been given a vital mission by the Führer when he left the bunker. She knew he had been told to guard its secret with his life. And she knew how very important Adolf had considered it. He had called it Operation Future.

She wondered if it was to make certain he would not be forced to reveal this, the Führer’s final charge, to the enemy, that the
Feldmarschall
had taken his own life.

Did it matter now?

She sat back. She closed her eyes and let the swaying of the truck rock her.

In a couple of hours they would be in Memmingen—at their next stop.

P I N O C C H I O

Woody and Ilse stared at the sign over the little shop on Bodenfelsstrasse 97 in Neustadt, every letter brightly painted in a different color and leaning every which way. In the small display window a generously gilded crèche vied for attention with a boy-sized Pinocchio puppet, surrounded by a clutter of other puppets, marionettes, and carved wooden figurines. Under the playful name of the shop was the legend:
Manfred Moser
—
Holzschnitzerei.

Woody looked at the place with a skeptical frown. Could that be the
B-B Achse Anlaufstelle?
It was the address they’d been given. He was sure of it. Both he and Ilse remembered it as Bodenfelsstrasse 97. He had a quick pang of alarm. Had they misheard? Both of them? It was not likely. But—a place full of wooden puppets? Manfred Moser, the sign said, Woodcarving. On the other hand, he thought wryly, what’s the difference between Moser’s puppets and Zorina’s dolls? But he couldn’t quite erase the feeling of misgivings from his mind. Had the
Zum Stern
agent given them a bum steer? The man
had
seemed a bit resentful when he, Woody, had insisted on leaving early. And the passwords.
Festhalle
—Banquet Hall, and the countersign,
Mädchenfüralles
-hand-maid. Somehow they didn’t seem appropriate. How the hell did you work the words
Banquet Hall
into a casual conversation with a damned woodcarver?

He wheeled the motorcycle into a small alley next to the building and put it on the side stand. He and Ilse both took an armful of baskets and entered the woodcarving shop. It was just past noon. They had made excellent time.

A small bell over the door tinkled delicately. No one was to be seen in the shop. Curiously Woody looked around. There were puppets everywhere. Marionettes and half-finished string puppets hanging from the wall; rod puppets, hand puppets, and a couple of ventriloquist dummies propped up wherever there was room; fantoccini, wooden figurines, and severed heads cluttered shelves and tables. And Pinocchios. Every size and shape, with only the long nose in common. At the rear of the shop stood a marionette theater with an ornate proscenium, flanked by heavy draperies. A gaudily clad marionette hung limply over the front of the stage.

Woody and Ilse put down their baskets.

“Hello!” Woody called tentatively. “Anyone here?”

Suddenly a singsong voice rang out:

Bitte! Bitte! Bitte!

Was wünschen Sie, mein Herr?

If you please! If you please!

What do you want, good Sir?

Startled they looked toward the voice. The puppet hanging over the front of the marionette theater stage had come to life. He sat on the edge of the stage, cocking his little head at them and waving his hand.

Woody took a step toward the little theater. “Is anyone here?” he asked. As soon as he had said it, he realized how inane it was.

Elaborately the puppet swung around and looked up and down in every direction. “Anyone here?” he sang. “Anyone here?” He leaned forward at an impossible angle and looked directly at Woody. “I see no one. Do you?”

Ilse watched the strutting little puppet with delight, but Woody was not amused. It seemed hardly the time for fun and games. All he wanted, dammit! was the address of the next stop, their papers fixed up, some gasoline—and to be on his way. He was in no mood to hold a conversation with a retarded Mortimer Snerd, for crissake!

The puppet blew kisses at Ilse.

Warum, warum, warum,

1st die Banane krumm?

He sang with earthy Bavarian peasant humor.

Warum ist sie nicht g’rade?

Das ist doch furchtbar schade.

Why? Why? Why?

Is the banana bent?

Why is he not erect?

That is a dreadful shame.

“Whoever is back there,” Woody said testily, “we only want some information, please. We have just come to town and we wondered if you could recommend a hotel to us. A reasonable place. It need not have a
Festhalle
—a Banquet Hall.”

“Hotels are for sleeping,” the marionette sang out. “Not for me! Not for me!
I
like to dance.” And the puppet launched into an animated jig.