“Well, yes.”
“What I really mean is, a man of discretion,” I clarified. “As the nurse mentioned, some of us are on important missions.” I lowered my voice. “Perhaps even for the Führer himself.” I removed the folded sheet of paper from my interior coat pocket.
“Oh, yes, I am quite discreet,” he assured me, looking curiously at the paper.
“Then I can trust you to read this letter and speak of it to no one.” I handed him the letter and he began to read. The tops of his hands were baked in crusty red blisters. Just the sight of them made me itch. I scratched the back of my neck.
The sailor looked up and started to salute.
“Don’t do that. You’ll draw attention.”
“Oh, yes, Herr Beck. I understand. Yours is a secret mission.” His face glowed with conspiratorial excitement.
“I can’t be diverted with other work or inquiries,” I told him. “I have to board a ship and preferably somewhere out of sight. But some of these officers, they might want to recruit me for their own efforts, to pull me off my assignment. The others here, you can take them to registration. But if you can assist me with a discreet registration, I will recommend you to Gauleiter Koch for commendation and even—to the Führer.”
I had his attention.
“I see that the Reich has very efficient and organized practices here, sailor, but perhaps a man of your talents can provide options?”
His lips twitched into a grin. “I might have some extra boarding passes. Taken only as mementos of course.”
“Very smart of you,” I assured him. “And you have these passes with you?”
“Alas, I do not. But I can get them. They are under my bunk.”
“Then take these important people and get them registered for the nurse. Come find me at the movie house just into town. Knock three times, twice, and I’ll open the door.”
His fingers began to flutter. “Knock three times, twice. Yes, Herr Beck. I’ll do it.”
I gave him my best serious look and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Heil Hitler, sailor.”
“Heil Hitler, sir.”
alfred
I had read about these young recruits in spy journals. The Party identified them early and bestowed them with important missions. And this one—sent by Gauleiter Koch himself. He was worthy of my favor.
The knobby white-haired man with the little boy asked me to stop. “Please, wait for the rest of our group.”
The expectant mother, quite young, with tawdry lipstick, was crying and clinging to the young recruit.
“Don’t cry,” the recruit told her. “I’ll be on the ship later.”
“Ah, I see. She is carrying your child,” I said to him.
“No,” they both replied in unison.
“She’s Latvian,” said the recruit. “A friend of the nurse. She’s concerned because she doesn’t speak German. She understands a bit, but is not able to speak.”
“Many in this evacuation share your handicap,” I assured her. “We have Croatian deckhands on the ship. They don’t speak our language either, but somehow we communicate.”
“Remember, her condition is fragile. The doctor gave you specific instructions to get her on board,” the recruit said to me.
“We will watch over her,” said the old man, putting his arm around the young mother. He gently pulled her from the recruit, who disappeared into the crowd.
Tears streamed down her face. Such weakness. What was I to do with this crying woman? The little boy stood on one side, the old man on the other. The boy offered her an ugly stuffed rabbit. A feeling of pain and misery surrounded her entire spirit. It then occurred to me that this besotted and hormonal creature could present an opportunity.
Despite her tears, she was Aryan, a fine specimen of the master race.
She could be saved.
Yes, Hannelore. Amidst the grips of war, the beast of man emerges to conquer the ever-lurking infidel inside. My sword is drawn. Death to the man who tries to harm this Dulcinea.
joana
Throngs of wounded were emptied from the cars. As the trains unloaded, a convoy of ambulances arrived. Soldiers, still wrapped in mud-encrusted field coats, had been brought straight from battle. They howled with pain, reaching for me, for anyone, with desperate eyes.
Some I could identify quickly—typhus, dysentery, pneumonia. Others required the opening of their coat to discover missing limbs, gunshot blasts, and tank treads.
Dr. Richter’s instructions were explicit: “If you are certain they can survive the voyage, log them for registration. Only if you are certain.”
Many would not survive the voyage. They wouldn’t survive the hour. Their bodies and voices trembled with the delirium of death.
“My son wants the book Max und Moritz for his birthday,” a soldier repeated, eyes closed, blood leaking from the sides of his mouth. “Please, Max und Moritz for his birthday.”
“How many do you have?” asked the doctor following our rapid examinations.