The Shadowboxer (8 page)

“Begin with the exchange proposal,” was von Schleiben's mandate.

6

The platoons of Totenkopf elite tiptoed through the darkness. An order was whispered. The steel-helmeted guards stopped. Bayonets were attached. The wait began. The sleet tapered off. A second whispered order was passed along. Rifles were raised to hip level. The stop watch moved to 05, 04, 02 … Floodlights sparked on. Barbed-wire gates were pulled open. The platoons ran double-time into the compound and ringed the roll-call area. The lights in barracks S15 through S21 went on. Padlocks were opened. Kapos burst through the doors. Prisoners were roused, pulled, tugged, kicked.

The perimeter of poised weapons began filling with dazed shivering inmates. No overclothing had been allowed. No personal effects other than crude eating cups and spoons had been permitted.

Selection began. Eight hundred of the fifteen hundred prisoners were picked. They formed into ranks of four.

Webber and his aides meandered through the ragged contingent. Faces were studied, clothes examined, notes taken. Then the officers returned to their armada of cars and drove off.

The sleet began again. A Totenkopf captain raised his arm. The column began marching out of Kreisberg.

Steam gathered force. Drive shafts locked. Engine wheels skidded and sparked along the siding rails. Passenger wagons banged into one another. The train came to a stop. The regiments debarked, checked their battle equipment and clambered onto waiting trucks. By 0900 hours they had reached Zone B. Deployment began.

At 0926 hours a seven-man detachment approached the farmhouse.

“How many volunteer laborers do you have?” a captain demanded.

“Five,” answered the nervous farmer.

“How many bonded laborers?”

“Twelve.”

“Are there other employees?”

“The cook, only the cook.”

“How many in your family?”

“Three, just three. My daughter, my wife and myself. The cook is a third cousin, though. I suppose you could count her. She's paid, you know. Our son is in the Army. He is a hero. He has two medals. I have them upstairs. I can show them to you. He has been wounded three times. Wait, I'll get the medals.”

“By order of the Gauleiter, this farm and all on it are hereby placed in a state of quarantine.”

“What—what does that mean?”

“Neither you, your family nor your laborers are permitted to leave your living quarters unless notified.”

“But—but what have I done?”

“In addition, you will quarter six of my men. Compensation will be paid.”

“The farmwork? The animals? The fields? What will happen to them if we can't go out?”

“My men will allow what they feel is necessary. Do you own a telephone?”

“Yes. It's in the kitchen.”

“It will be disconnected.”

“But why? What have I done?”

“As to supplies, foodstuffs and other essentials, you will provide lists and money. We will see that they are purchased.”

“How long will this go on?”

“Heil Hitler!”

By dusk eighty per cent of Zone B was secure. By midnight the job was complete. Radio communication was established with Zones A, C and D. The first phase of the Webber Proposition had been accomplished on schedule.

7

The signal rocket arched high into the subzero night and burst into a shower of steel-blue phosphorescence. The artillery duel stopped. A yellow aerial flare was launched, reached the prescribed altitude and ignited. It was answered by a green missile. The forty-minute cease-fire was in effect.

The exchange prisoners, a quartet of captured Soviet espionage agents, were lifted out of the slit trench and stood on their feet. The leg irons were removed and blindfolds applied. The ropes binding their hands behind their backs were tightened. The lead line looped around their necks at four-pace intervals was tugged.

A lieutenant, bundled up in his greatcoat, guided the captives up past steaming 88s, littered shell casings, exhausted gun crews, shattered trees and ice-crusted machine-gun nests to the observation post where von Schleiben and his aides waited. The exchange prisoners were laid face down in the frozen mud.

The spotter raised his arm in the direction of the opposite ridge. Von Schleiben focused his Zeiss field glasses on the shadowy forms of retreating Russian soldiers staggering and stumbling back up over the crest. Traces of shell smoke hovered indecisively overhead, caught a descending crosswind, slid down the long slope and settled atop the blanket of thick warm undulating ground fog.

Von Schleiben handed his pistol to the spotter and grasped a white flag in his hand. Cautiously he started down the steep hillside, cold in the fur-lined, red-lapeled greatcoat of an infantry general.

An odor became evident, persisted, grew stronger. He descended into the thinning fog cover, breathing through his mouth. He emerged below and froze to a stop. Perspiration rose on his brow and turned to ice.

As far as von Schleiben's gaze would carry, no earth could be seen. No earth, no mud, no grass, no shrub, no tree, no crater. Nothing. Only bodies. Bodies which were the remnants of thirty-one unsuccessful Russian assaults in forty-eight hours. Body on top of body, layer upon layer of whole and partial and twisted and mangled and dismembered and torn soldiers, starting at von Schleiben's feet and stretching out along the valley floor, rising up the opposite slope and disappearing into the overcast. Most were dead and frozen in postures of agonizing and fearful mortality. A few still lived, groaning and near death.

“Schleebund—over here, Schleebund.”

Von Schleiben turned slowly to his right. Kuprov leaned, cross-legged and open-jacketed, against a wall of frozen dead. His gloveless hands held a smoking cigarette. He wore the uniform of a Russian private.

Von Schleiben picked his way across the carnage.

“Good to see you, Schleebund, always good to see you. I miss the happy times we have together. Have you heard any funny jokes lately? What has them laughing at Berchtesgaden these days besides you in an infantry uniform?” Kuprov said. He nodded toward a mound of tangled ice-covered bodies. “Sit down and tell me a funny joke, Schleebund. Sit down and we'll have a chuckle or two together.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Is something the matter with your voice? Do you have a cold, Schleebund?”

The German tried breathing through his nose. “Nothing is the matter,” he replied, half gagging from the stench. “I don't have a cold.”

“Good, Schleebund, very good. I wouldn't want anything to happen to an old comrade like you. Who would tell me jokes? Did you bring the cigarettes?”

Von Schleiben thrust a gloved hand into his greatcoat pocket, brought out a pack of Lucky Strikes and tossed them to the Russian espionage chief.

“American? Hurray for you, Schleebund. You are a reliable man. I'll think of both you and the Americans when I smoke these. Now what about that funny joke?”

“I have none.”

“Then I suppose we should get the preliminaries out of the way, eh? What prisoners did you bring me?”

Von Schleiben reached into his cuff, withdrew an envelope and handed it to Kuprov.

“Only four?” the Russian said, reading the page. “You have only four men of mine?”

“The Army shot the others before I could get to them.”

“Ah, Schleebund, such is war. Or should I say such is spying?” Kuprov laughed briefly at his own joke. “And how many Germans do you want in return?”

“Twelve. It will have to be three to one.”

“Pretty high, isn't it?” Kuprov smiled as he passed von Schleiben the Russian list of captured Reich's agents. “You sound as if Germany were still winning.”

“The Oberkommando is against
any
exchange. They finally agreed to a three-to-one ratio.”

“Then three to one they shall have. We must show the Oberkommando what a clever negotiator you are, mustn't we? Which men on that paper do you want?”

Von Schleiben read down the columns. “Walters, Dietz, … Wagner, … Mazer. The balance are not important.”

Kuprov nodded. “Then Walters, Dietz, Wagner and Mazer will be shot, and I'll give you whoever I damn well please. And tell the Army that since we are capturing ten Germans to every one Russian they take, in the future I'll shoot ten captured agents for every one of my men executed. After all, Schleebund, to the victor goes a certain privilege in ratio. Your teeth are chattering, Schleebund. Jump up and down, it helps the circulation.”

“I'm not cold.”

“Then perhaps it's the meeting place I've chosen that makes you tremble?” Kuprov looked sadly around him. “I know what pains you took in selecting our last rendezvous point. I was only trying to reciprocate, only trying to make you comfortable, Schleebund. I wanted you to feel at ease, at home, as if you had never left Germany. I have failed.”

“Neither the temperature or location bothers me. I am perfectly well.”

A hand brushed weakly against von Schleiben's boot. He jumped back and stared down. The Russian soldier he had been standing on was not quite dead.

“Of course you're perfectly well, Schleebund,” Kuprov agreed. “Just because you are a midget I keep thinking that you have the endurance of a midget. I forget that you are a giant, a gladiator—a Goliath. Interesting isn't it, Goliath, how deceiving appearances can be? On looking at you, who would realize what you really are, eh? Well, enough of that. Tell me about this Spangler situation.”

“Didn't you get my message?”

“Of course I received your message, Schleebund. It cost me a tooth. I also read that endless dossier you sent on. Both failed to say what happened to Vetter after he was taken from Gusen.”

“We won't know that until after Spangler is captured.”

“But I don't want him captured.”

“What?”

“Schleebund, who is this Spangler working for?”

“We're not certain he's affiliated with anyone. He may be just another of those madmen who appear during wars and cause trouble.”

“No, Schleebund, no. The cold must be numbing your mind. This Spangler person may have been independent in the past, but now he is connected. What organization or what country, Schleebund, is suddenly interested in both Vetter, a German Communist leader, and Hilka Tolan, the daughter of a disgraced right-wing German politician?”

“I don't know.”

“But now we can find out, eh, Schleebund? Let this Spangler bring out the Tolan girl and he will lead you to the answer.”

“That's impossible.”

“Schleebund, an odd collection of German exiles has suddenly begun disappearing from various parts of the world. First it was former newspapermen, writers, intellectuals and technicians. Next actors and historians. Now it appears to be the politicians' turn. Thomas Hutch has just vanished from Rio de Janeiro.”

“Hutch the Socialist?”

“Socialist, forger, extortionist or whatever. So you see, Schleebund, something is up. Perhaps our friend Spangler will lead us to the source.”

“No. It is quite impossible to let him escape—whatever the reason.”

“Schleebund, Schleebund, Schleebund. Possibility or impossibility have nothing to do with it. I order you not to capture him. He must be followed.”

“The order is disregarded.”

“If it is, the Fuehrer will learn that one of his highest-ranking police officials is a traitor.”

“Don't be naïve, General Kuprov. Part of my job is to stay in touch with enemy agents of comparable rank. Everyone knows I am meeting you here for a prisoner exchange. Every meeting we have ever had has been known of—and recorded. If all points of discussion were not included in my reports, who is going to know the difference—and who is going to believe you? The fact of the matter is, my revolutionary friend, it is assumed in high places
you
are on the verge of defecting to the Reich, not that
I
have begun cooperating with the East.”

Kuprov smiled faintly. “Schleebund, I want this Spangler followed—not captured.”

“Spangler's adventures with political inmates could mean an entire revamping of our detention system. It could also result in my removal as chairman of the council. If you value my future services I would suggest avoiding such a replacement. The best possible insurance for my holding this mutually beneficial position in the Reich's police affairs is the capture of Herr Spangler.”

“And what if he eludes your trap?”

“Then I will either have to place the blame on someone else, come up with a new plan or resign. There is always the probability, on the other hand, that I will be imprisoned—or shot. If this is the case, then I shall have to choose between prison, death or Russia. At present, they seem equally unappealing.”

Kuprov considered. “All in all, Schleebund, I think it would be better if he were not captured.”

“All in all, Kuprov, I must refuse you. Is there anything else?”

Again the Russian thought. “Until this Spangler thing is settled—one way or another—I think it good we bring as many German Communists out of the camps as possible.”

“Political prisoners cannot be touched at this time.”

“It sounds as if you're raising the stakes. Is that what you're doing? All right, I'll pay you twice the price for each.”

“They cannot be touched. If Spangler is taken, that may change.”

Kuprov shrugged, pushed off from the wall of dead and started toward his own lines. He stopped and turned back. “Schleebund,” he called, “there was something interesting I forgot to tell you. One of my men infiltrated a Catholic resistance organization in the east of France. He knew this man Tramont. You remember Tramont, the one your dossier says Spangler killed in a Gestapo prison. My man says this Tramont was a mountaineer, a good trapper and hunter and all that, but he didn't know of his being connected with any underground or group. Tramont would go on long hunting trips, though. My man says that Tramont lived in a cabin with a son. After Tramont disappeared for good there were rumors that someone came and took the son. No one knew who it was or much cared at the time. We're following up on it now. If I get something I'll send it to you.”