Authors: John Anthony Miller
York touched the photograph he always kept in his pocket, caressing it, missing the person it depicted. He didn’t want to be in Berlin for years. But he knew that he had a duty to perform, a role in ending the war, and the future of mankind was more important than his happiness.
Max sensed his apprehension. “I’ll be in Berlin, too. I have other agents besides you, larger networks. I don’t intend to abandon you.”
“When are you arriving?”
“I’ll meet you six weeks from today at 10 a.m. at Olivaer Platz in Charlottenburg. I’ll be on a bench on the north side of the park. Sit next to me, but not too close. You can also contact me in an emergency. Do you know what method to use?”
York nodded. “Personal ad. Same as we used in Lyon.”
“Yes, use
Die
Welt
newspaper. The day after the ad appears, we’ll meet at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church at noon.”
York nodded, envisioning the road ahead. He would have to immerse himself in the culture, become German, speak the language as perfectly as his Austrian mother had.
“How do I get across the border?”
“The Swiss have an agreement with the Germans,” Max explained. “Trains to and from Germany and Italy can pass through Switzerland without interference as long as the cars are sealed.”
“How do I gain access?”
“A train from Genoa to Freiburg will stop a kilometer northeast of the Basel terminal two weeks from today at midnight.”
“I thought trains passed through, but didn’t stop,” York said.
“That’s correct. But a herd of cattle crossing the tracks will force the train to stop. It will take exactly seven minutes for the cows to be moved.”
“So I have seven minutes to board the train?”
“Exactly seven minutes,” Max emphasized. “The last car of the train has a trap door in the floor, mid-length. The cargo area above has been packed with a space large enough for you to sit in, a small cave in a sea of crates.”
“I get off the train in Freiburg?”
“Yes, adopting the role of Michael Becker, wearing your sergeant’s uniform, boarding a passenger train to Berlin. The real Michael Becker has an aunt and uncle who own a farm twenty kilometers outside of the city. You’ve been convalescing there for six months. That’s how long Michael Becker has been in captivity.”
York arched his eyebrows. “I’m impressed, Max. You’ve thought of everything.”
“You better hope I did, old boy. If I didn’t, you’re a dead man.”
April 15, 1943
Amsterdam, Holland
No one saw them remove the rail from the track that led to Berlin. Four men, sweating in the spring chill, took the long iron bars and went to the next section. They put the flat end just under the spike and, with the opposite end now elevated, they all leaned downward, prying the spike from the timber a centimeter at a time. Forty kilometers from Amsterdam, they had chosen a rural location, and a sloping curve, to sabotage the train.
They were surprised when they heard voices, more light laughter than words, the sound coming closer as seconds passed. They grabbed their iron bars, scampered down a small embankment, and hid in the edge of the trees.
The men looked at each other anxiously. Their work was not complete; they needed more time. And anyone could see that the tracks had been tampered with.
The voices became clearer, a man and a woman, not yet visible.
The leader looked at his watch. It was 5:05 p.m.
A few minutes later they came into view, a German soldier and a young Dutch girl, smiling and holding hands as they strolled down the tracks, young lovers hiding from a world that wouldn’t approve.
The men waited, watching anxiously. The pair blocked their escape path. If they saw the missing rail, they would tell the authorities. Then the Nazis would find them.
“The train will still crash with only one rail missing,” a man whispered. “We should find a different way out.”
The leader again glanced at his watch. “Just to be sure, we should remove two,” he said patiently. He considered their predicament and the risk they faced. What if there were others following the young couple? “We’ll wait ten minutes. No more.”
“What if they see the rail missing?”
The leader paused, watching the couple as they came closer. He was determined not to fail. “Then we have to kill them.”
The German, no more than twenty, stopped abruptly. He turned to the girl and kissed her. She responded, wrapping her arms around his neck, her eyes closed.
The leader frowned. “We have to make them leave or they could be here all night.” He thought for a moment, deciding what to do. “Come, follow my lead.”
He strutted from the trees as if he hadn’t seen them, the others following, not knowing what to expect. They went to the track and looked in the distance, away from the couple.
“I’m sure the stream is just across the tracks,” he said loudly. “And I swear to you, it’s the best fishing around. I will show you.”
They walked down the embankment, talking loudly, scanning the trees on the other side, searching for a stream that didn’t exist.
The soldier and girl pulled away from each other, shocked at the intrusion, their privacy compromised. They turned, embarrassed, and started walking down the tracks in the opposite direction. They didn’t look back.
The saboteurs continued searching noisily for the stream, watching warily as the couple faded from sight. They waited ten minutes more, ensuring they didn’t return. After scanning the area and finding no one else, they retrieved their tools.
It took thirty minutes to remove the next section, grunting, leveraging the long iron bars. Once the rail was pried from the ties, they pushed it off the track, down a small embankment and onto the soggy soil. Now twenty meters of rail was missing. The train was doomed.
They disappeared into a wooded area, emerging a kilometer away. A panel truck with the name of a grocer stenciled on the side was parked at the edge of the forest. The men climbed in and slowly drove away, careful not to arouse suspicion. It was 5:45 p.m.
*
The members of the Berlin String Quartet walked towards the Amsterdam railroad station, their military liaison, Captain Klein, leading them forward. A veteran of the Great War, now near sixty, he was slight and wiry, secretive and reserved, and always acted as if he managed massive responsibilities. He kept a constant eye on the group, greeting his role with enthusiasm, but treating them like children. Just not like his own children.
A porter rolled a cart behind them, five suitcases resting upon it, along with the curved case that contained the cello. The violinists and the viola player carried their instruments, too protective to let anyone else handle them. They approached the station entrance, a sprawling building marked by two towers and three arched windows, and took one last glance back at the city, interlaced with canals, its architecture unique, its residents warm and friendly.
Amanda Hamilton, almost five months pregnant, had a camera hanging from a strap around her neck. She stopped in front of the station, put her violin case on the ground, and raised the camera to her eye. She took a series of photographs in rapid succession: the terminal entrance and the people passing through it, an elegant arch bridge that crossed a canal, the ornate ironwork looking like lace, a bicyclist with a poodle parked on the handlebars, and a five-story townhouse, an iron beam sticking from the highest window, a bureau hanging from it by rope as it was raised to the third floor.
The station was sprinkled with civilians, most traveling on business, but was dominated by German soldiers. Transferred by railroad, some troops from the west were going on leave before reassignment to the Eastern Front. They were replaced by new recruits from Germany’s conquered territories, usually Poland or the Ukraine. To the residents it didn’t make much difference. They didn’t care where they came from. It was still an occupation force.
The musicians paused, an isle in an ocean of uniforms, and studied the hectic terminal. Large boards hung from the walls, identifying arrivals and departures to and from major cities: Paris, Brussels, Copenhagen, and Berlin. Germans swarmed into the station and around the trains, stopping at kiosks to buy newspapers and coffee.
“Our train doesn’t depart until 7:40,” Captain Klein said. He glanced at the tickets, and then his watch. It was 5:55.
“You’re early,” the porter said. “There’s a train at 6:25. You should try to make that.”
The string quartet, two women violinists, an elderly cello player, and a dashing viola player, waited for Klein to exchange their tickets. They were tired, having given six performances in two days at the Concertgebouw Orchestra. They wanted to go home, the sooner, the better.
Amanda Hamilton stood beside Erika Jaeger. She absentmindedly rubbed her belly and then jumped with a start.
“What’s the matter?” Erica asked, concerned.
“It’s the baby,” she said. “I felt her move.”
Erica smiled. “Her? Are we certain?”
Amanda laughed “It feels like a girl. And I will spoil her for the rest of my life.” She paused, looking a little guilty. “But I’ll do the same for a boy.”
“Have you settled on names?”
“If we have a boy, Manfred insists we name the baby after him. He’s still upset he named my stepson Kurt.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
She rolled her eyes. “He prefers Wilfrieda, after his grandmother.”
Erika cringed. “And what does the mother-to-be prefer?”
“I like Elisabeth.”
“A beautiful name. It sings like a bird. Appropriate for a third generation violinist.”
Amanda thought of her father, a violinist for the London Symphony Orchestra. She wished he were still alive; they had left so many things unsaid. Although she knew he tried, he really wasn’t a very good parent, even to his only child. He was cold and distant, a brooding loner, more of a shadow than a man. But he might have done better with a grandchild.
Captain Klein approached. “I was able to change our tickets, but we must hurry. Come with me. Quickly.”
They rushed through the terminal and stepped on the train. Amanda and Erika moved to the front of the car, sitting just past the door. The three men turned in the opposite direction, moving towards the rear, near the baggage rack. Kaiser and Klein sat together while Gerhard Faber, the newest member of the group, sat in front of them.
They were barely seated when the doors closed. The train began to pull away from the station, moving very slowly, the engine struggling to pull the cars behind it. But the speed gradually increased from a crawl to a run, and soon the buildings of Amsterdam moved past in a swirling sea of colors, the narrow townhouses wrapped in beige, mauve, amber, and crimson, separated from interlaced canals and narrow bridges that spanned them by cobblestone lanes.
Amanda looked out the window as the train gained momentum, watching the city of Amsterdam glide by. She put her camera to her eye and snapped a series of photos, capturing the houseboats that lined a canal and six bicycles stacked against a lamp post, secured with a single lock and chain.
“I’m glad we got the earlier train,” Erika said. “I can get to the War Ministry on time in the morning.”
Amanda lowered the camera and turned to her friend. “I wish you didn’t have to work so hard.”
Erika shrugged. “I don’t have much choice. I need the money. You know how sick my mother is. And I have other relatives I care for, too.”
“I would be glad to help you,” Amanda said.
Erika smiled. “I know you would. But I can’t let you. It’s my family, and my responsibility. The work keeps me busy. I don’t think about Wilhelm as much.”
Amanda covered Erika’s hand with hers and gently squeezed it. Wilhelm was Erika’s husband, killed in Russia the year before. He was an artist, a woodworker who made beautiful cabinets, a craftsman with talents few could mimic. A uniform never fit him, mentally or physically; he looked out of place. A man with a big heart, a ready smile and a gentle soul, he was better suited for heaven than the Third Reich.
“Maybe I can help with your mother,” Amanda suggested. “I could spend some time with her while you’re working.”
Erika considered the offer. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” she said reluctantly.
“You’re not imposing. Ask your mother. She might like having some company.”
Erika motioned to the camera hanging from Amanda’s neck. “But then you wouldn’t have time for photographs. Or your violin.”
“I can spare a few hours. It’ll be nice to get out of the house. Manfred is rarely home, the war keeps him so busy. Kurt is growing up. He’s always with his friends.”
The train increased its speed as the last of the townhouses yielded to scattered homes and then forest and fields. The steady motion, and rhythmic sound of the train’s engines, lulled Erika to sleep, her head resting on Amanda’s shoulder. Amanda’s eyes closed a few minutes later.
They awakened with a start, the train screeching along the rails, the wheels screaming in protest, brakes fully applied. The sheer weight of the cars prevented an abrupt stop, momentum pushing the train forward.
Amanda gasped and grabbed Erika’s arm. Cars hurtled down the tracks, their speed barely impacted by the squealing brakes, the offensive shriek sending shivers through their bodies.
They were flung forward, bodies slamming into the seat in front of them, their eyes wide, faces pale. They screamed and braced themselves, grasping the arm rests, their feet planted firmly on the floor.
The car leaned to the side, pulling away from those behind it. With an ear-shattering screech, it skimmed off the rail, tilting heavily. It hurtled into space, branches brushing the windows, as it sped down the embankment, sliding through dirt and stones.
Amanda flew over the seat in front of her, banging her head on the ceiling. As the car twisted she was flung to the side, slamming into the doorway, and then hurtled backwards as it fought to right itself.
With a final lunge the car careened off a tree, its wheels grinding into the ground. But as it slid to a stop it leaned precariously and then toppled over, trampling trees and shrubs beneath it.
Amanda flipped and slid, beaten by luggage hurtling through the car. As she rolled and turned, fighting and falling, her mind was overcome with a jumble of images: her mother’s smile, Edinburgh in the rain, her first violin, her favorite photographs, the child in her womb.
*
The violin was her life. It always had been. She was a child protégé who went to the most famous music schools in England and, from there, to the grand stages of Europe. She could make the violin sing, the bow massaging the strings as her fingers caressed the neck. The instrument was an extension of her being; it could feel, connect, and communicate. She made the listener laugh or cry, mourn or rejoice. Or she clenched their hearts and pulled, coaxing emotions so deep that they didn’t know they existed. She made every cell yearn to hear more, anxious, anticipating, uplifted in appreciation.
But even though the violin was her life, the camera was her love. Seldom seen without it, she took pictures of people and places, buildings and birds, having an innate ability to catch living things in natural states, or people posing without knowing they were observed. She captured the ordinary, but expressed the extraordinary.
Rarely was one so gifted in two artistic pursuits.
“Doctor, her eyes are opening,” said a voice, dwarfed and distant.
Amanda saw the light above her, a halo wrapped around it. She closed her eyes a moment, and then reopened them, her vision focused on two faces that looked at her curiously. There was a sterile smell, like alcohol, and the walls and ceiling were white. She tried to rise but couldn’t, her body wracked with pain.