Authors: John Anthony Miller
York handed his papers to the officer, ensuring he made eye contact, and offered a polite nod.
The officer ignored the greeting, took the documents, and studied York for a moment, no expression on his face. He looked at the papers, squinted, and removed his spectacles, polishing them with a handkerchief. He then took the documents between his thumb and index finger, rubbing them tenderly, checking the texture and ensuring the minutest details were correct.
“Why were you in Freiburg?” he asked.
“I was visiting family, sir,” York replied cautiously.
If he found York’s accent unusual, or his pronunciation strained, he didn’t show it. He continued to review the documentation, now checking the seal. He brushed his finger across it, lifted it to his nose to smell it, and then lowered it, seeming satisfied.
“What family?”
“An aunt and uncle.”
“On your mother’s or father’s side?”
York hesitated. He wasn’t prepared for the question. “Mother’s,” he said haltingly.
The officer’s eyes left the papers and zeroed in on his. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Dietrich,” York said, trying to think quickly, giving the first name that came to his mind.
“Just like the movie star,” the man said sarcastically. “How convenient.”
York felt beads of cold sweat on the back of his neck. How could he be so stupid? He couldn’t invent a better name than that?
The officer’s gaze was intense. His eyes wandered, searching for anything suspicious.
York maintained a puzzled look, as if surprised he was being questioned.
“You were stationed in Africa?” the officer continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you returning to duty?”
“Not at this time.”
“Why not? Any good soldier wants to return to duty.”
“And I do, also, sir,” he replied, pointing to the cane. “But I was badly wounded.”
“Where are you traveling to?”
“Berlin.”
The officer looked at York’s clothing, the buttons primarily, to ensure they were cross-stitched, which was different than the English and American style. He studied the bag in the overhead compartment, York’s shoes, the crease in his trousers. When satisfied all were German, he returned the papers and started down the aisle.
York exhaled slowly. It had been harder than he thought, the officer smarter than expected. He sat rigid, cautious and alert, while the officer checked the remaining passengers. A few moments later he walked briskly down the aisle and left.
It was another five minutes before the doors closed and the train began to pull away from the station. York relaxed and read a newspaper, idly passing the time while occasionally gazing out the window at the rural landscape.
He changed trains when he reached Stuttgart, using the same tactics, blending in and keeping a modest profile. No one sat beside him, which he preferred. He didn’t want to be bothered with conversation. He opened a book, Hermann Hesse’s
Steppenwolf
, and started reading.
When the train was thirty minutes from Berlin, a German colonel came down the aisle, returning from the dining area. Strutting through the car, his posture ramrod-straight, he arrogantly eyed each passenger, as if they shouldn’t occupy the same space that he did. He stopped in front of York.
“What are you reading?” he asked sternly.
York tensed, sensing danger. He held the book up, showing the cover, and cast an innocent glace at the colonel.
“Did you know that author’s books are banned?”
“No, sir, I didn’t,” York said uneasily. He didn’t need trouble. But now he didn’t know how to avoid it.
“His wife is a Jew,” the colonel said with disgust, as if the mere pronunciation of the word was distasteful. “The Reich has a new policy. Even Jewish vermin married to good Germans have been identified for resettlement. Greater Germany will finally be free of all Jews, regardless of who they’re related to.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware. I bought the book in Freiburg while visiting family.”
There was an awkward silence as York observed him. He didn’t seem to care where the book was purchased. Trying to appeal to his sympathies, York added, “After recovering from my war wounds.”
The colonel’s expression changed. “Where were you wounded?” he asked, his tone softening.
“North Africa, sir.”
“And you’re fully recovered and ready to serve the Fatherland?”
York sighed, showing disappointment. He raised and lowered his right arm. “Bullet to the shoulder, but fully recovered.” He extended his left leg, pain mirrored on his face. “Machine gun. The bullets ran right up my leg. It will never be the same.”
The colonel grimaced, watching the limited movement of the limb. “See a good doctor in Berlin. They may be able to help. And give me that book. Before the wrong person sees it.”
*
York caught a taxi at the Berlin terminal, sickened by the Nazi flags draped from buildings, hanging from streetlamps, and affixed to the bumpers of government vehicles. He went to Charlottenburg, to the west of the city center, and found a family-owned hotel in an old building on the Kurfürstendamm. Known locally as the Ku'damm, it was a broad avenue, fifty meters wide, lined with towering plane trees, some as high as forty meters; it was Berlin’s Champs-Élysées.
The architecture was distinctive, blocks of five and six story buildings with ornate cornice and fascia, decorative brick and stone facings adorned with cherubs and gargoyles, balconies and overhanging bay windows and walls. Flower boxes hung from upper story windows, blotting the buildings with splashes of color − lavender, gold, crimson and blue. The ground floors contained cafes, antique shops, boutiques and restaurants, ensuring the pavements were filled with pedestrians, regardless of the time of day. The boulevard, which ran for over three kilometers, was crowned by the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, a towering structure of Romanesque Revival design, with a steeple that stretched almost to heaven.
York registered, planning for an indefinite stay, and brought his bags to the room. It was sparsely furnished, a bed and nightstands, an oval table with chairs under a window, and a worn couch beside a bureau against the far wall. The drapes were dated, the plaster on the wall chipped near the crown molding, but it was functional and would easily meet his needs. He unpacked, leaving the money hidden in the baggage lining, and then went to a café around the corner and had some soup and sauerbraten.
The following morning, he took a taxi to the cemetery. It was in a beautiful location, thick with trees, and sprawled around the Sausuhlensee, a small lake named for wild boar. It sat in the shadow of the site used for the 1936 Summer Olympics, on the western edge of the city. York followed the directions given by Max and was soon standing before the tomb assigned as the drop. He studied the landscape, looking for places where someone might be hiding, watching. When satisfied it was safe he studied the lane and those that crossed it, but saw no one visiting tombs. He waited for an older woman, walking from a grave, to pass from sight, and then removed the cap from the newel, as directed. He reached into the cavity. Empty.
He retraced his steps and made sure he was in the right place. He was. Disappointed, he returned to the hotel, purchased a newspaper, and went to the same café to order lunch. He opened the paper and read the headline:
Berlin
String
Quartet
Injured
in
Train
Wreck
.
The mood in the hospital room was somber and sad, the gloom not impacted by bright arrangements of carnations and chrysanthemums. Baskets and vases lined the ledge along the window; displays on metal stands were scattered around the room. A huge array containing a hundred roses stood on an ornate pedestal that looked like lace, the placard boldly stating:
My
thoughts
are
with
you
and
your
speedy
recovery
,
Adolph
Hitler
.
Amanda Hamilton lay in bed, pillows propped under her head, staring listlessly at the white ceilings and walls. She saw no future, could envision no time when a smile would ever appear on her face, and only focused on what could have been, the life she might have had.
A curtain was drawn beside her, providing separation and privacy from the neighboring bed, which was sandwiched into a slender area by the door. Amanda had far more space, which had grown by the hour as more floral arrangements arrived. But it seemed dismal, the drapes partially drawn, even though a twelve-pane window allowed sunlight to bathe the room.
Behind the curtain, Erika Jaeger sat up in bed, her nose in a book of poetry. Although bruised and battered, she was recovering. Musical scores were scattered about, along with two books sitting on her nightstand. A vase of flowers was perched beside the books, sent by her mother, while a large arrangement stood next to the bed. It was from the Richters − Amanda, Manfred and Kurt. There were no other flowers, just as there were no visitors.
Erika wasn’t offended by the privacy curtain; she knew it wasn’t personal. Nothing had been more important to Amanda than having a child. It would have been the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, the family intimacy that she had never known, a new beginning with Manfred. And now, because of a sadistic saboteur, and being on the wrong train at the wrong time, she had lost her baby.
She knew Amanda needed time alone, just as Erika had when her husband Wilhelm died. And even though her friend’s sobs broke her heart, she didn’t interfere, only offering kind words to comfort her. She knew the time would come when Amanda needed her. It just wasn’t now.
The door opened and a handsome man entered, black hair graying at the temples. A boy was with him, sixteen years of age, resembling the father but tall and lanky, like a faltering colt.
“Manfred, how are you? And Kurt,” Erika said, her eyes showing deep compassion. “I’m so sorry about the baby.”
Manfred moved to the bed and gave her a hug. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s hard to accept, especially after months of elation. And then it’s shattered, gone in an instant.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help,” Erika said.
“Thank you, I appreciate that. You’re a good friend.” He smiled weakly, showing his appreciation. “And how are you? Not hurt too badly, I hope. You look well, for the most part.”
“A bit bruised and sore, but otherwise all right. Very fortunate, I suppose.” She glanced at the drawn curtain. “Amanda was awake a few minutes ago. I think she’s been waiting for you.”
“I was in secret meetings,” Manfred said. “That’s why no one could reach me. I left strict orders not to be disturbed.”
Erika didn’t believe him. She knew what Manfred was like. He had even made advances towards her, which were swiftly refused. Manfred had laughed, pretending it was a joke. She never told Amanda; she knew it would break her heart.
“It took almost two days to find you,” she whispered, her tone accusing. “And for a while the doctors were afraid she wouldn’t make it.”
Manfred nodded politely; he owed Erika no explanations. “Get some rest,” he said, as he and Kurt moved past the curtain.
They found Amanda lying in bed, a purple blemish on her jaw, her right eye blackened and swollen shut. As soon as she saw them, her lip quivered and she started crying.
Manfred moved to her side, hugging her. “It’s all right,” he said softly.
“No, it isn’t,” she said between sobs. “Where were you? No one could find you.”
“I was with the Fuhrer,” he said. “It couldn’t be helped. But I’m here now. And you are all right. That’s what’s most important.”
The tears trickled down her cheeks. “But I lost the baby.”
“I know,” he said softly. “It’s horrible. It really is. But in time the pain will ease. There will be other babies.”
They cried together, and then Kurt, a boy trying so hard to be a man, joined them.
*
Captain Klein and the men of the Berlin String Quartet fared better than the women. Seated in the rear of the rail car, against the wall that formed the baggage compartment, they suffered only minor bruises and sprains. Albert Kaiser had a laceration on his scalp, the blood staining his white hair, but it was easily mended with a few stitches. Captain Klein sprained an ankle, which caused him to lean on a cane for a few weeks, and Gerhard Faber had a swollen lip and bruised ribs. They were very fortunate, and returned to Berlin the next day.
Erika Jaeger and Amanda Hamilton remained in the hospital for two more days, along with a hundred soldiers wounded in the train wreck. The train’s conductor, engineer, and coal handler were killed, along with seven soldiers in the front of the car. In retaliation for the sabotage, the Nazis executed fifty people from the closest village − men, women and children.
It was three weeks later when the quartet performed again. Most of the physical wounds had healed, bruises faded, sprains recovering. The mental anguish and emotional scars that Amanda suffered still lingered, like any nightmare would.
Those in the audience, including the Fuhrer, would never notice they were not quite at their best. When Amanda Hamilton stood, playing her first solo, the notes were moving and emotional, leaping from the strings and gripping the listener’s heart, holding it and caressing it. She played with her soul; the others played with their fingers.
As for Michael York, a British spy, music lover, and amateur pianist who sat in the last row of the upper balcony, her performance brought tears to his eyes. He knew which member of the string quartet he wanted to approach first.