January 1918, Essen, Germany
Julian’s eyes no longer stung, and his throat no longer burned, but each breath seemed to draw insufficient air. He could move his arms and legs, but he felt weak and empty, as hollow as the center of a mortar, and he doubted he’d recover much strength on the pitiful prison meals. Warren had suggested the Germans might kill them by starvation instead of a more traditional execution, back when he was joking. But he didn’t joke anymore, hadn’t said anything remotely funny for over a week.
They took turns sleeping on the wooden bench. Warren often paced when it was Julian’s turn. Julian was getting used to falling asleep to the pilot’s shuffling feet. While Warren slept, Julian sat on the floor, debating whether he looked forward to the German lieutenant’s return because it would mean an end to their limbo or whether he dreaded it because execution would shortly follow.
Few things encouraged talk of religion the way impending death did. Julian had told Warren he believed in God but wasn’t sure if God was merciful or vengeful. When he saw Dorothea Kallweit speaking with the jailer one morning, his suspicion tipped toward vengeful.
She held a basket in her hands and looked much the same as she had the day Julian was arrested. Her clothes were too big, and her face was still etched with a permanent melancholy. A feeling of horror came over him as he thought of all the lies he’d told her. What would she say? Was she here for revenge? To demand justice?
The sergeant waved Dorothea back. There were other cells with prisoners, but she walked straight to Julian’s. He stood, still wobbly on his feet, and held the bars for support. He waited for her to lash out, to call him names and curse him for lying to her family. Instead, she reached into her basket and brought out a loaf of bread.
“Here.” She handed it to him.
Astonished, he reached for it. “Thank you.” It wasn’t the fine bread Herr Sauer occasionally brought from Berlin, but it was far superior to their typical prison fare.
“You look ill. Did they beat you when they arrested you?”
“No. I was exposed to something at the testing range. I’ve not been well since.”
“Is that why your voice is changed?”
Julian nodded. He hadn’t noticed a difference in his voice but assumed any change Dorothea heard was from the gas.
“I should have come sooner.” Her lips pursed together. “But it took me this long to forgive you.”
“You have reason to be angry. I’m sorry I lied to your family.”
“Yes, you did lie to us.” Dorothea’s gaze dropped to the floor. “But you also shared your rations with us, planted a garden so we wouldn’t starve, and gathered wood so we wouldn’t freeze. You stayed up all night with my children when they were sick. And you encouraged Willi when I had no idea how to help him. You are our enemy, but you’ve been good to us.”
Julian looked away and cleared his throat to keep his emotions in check. He almost winced—clearing his throat was now a painful ordeal. “How is Willi? I’ve worried about him.”
“Willi is adjusting. He was too proud to come today, but he understands.”
“And Franz?”
“Franz is confused. He looked up to you a great deal, but you’re his enemy. It’s given him something to talk to his brother about, and perhaps that’s a good thing. Those two boys need each other.”
“And your father?”
Dorothea frowned. “My father is ashamed he was fooled so completely for so long. He has said more than once that he hopes you are shot.”
“He will probably get his wish.”
Dorothea glanced at the guard. “Yes, he probably will.” She turned back to Julian. “I’m not sure if I’ll come again. My father wouldn’t approve. But I thought you would like to know that Frau Von Hayek disappeared before anyone could question her. And most of all, I wanted to say thank you.”
“You’re a good woman, Frau Kallweit. Thank you for the bread. And for the forgiveness.”
“I will pray they show you mercy,” she said. “And if they do not, I will put flowers on your grave in the spring.”
* * *
Leave ended for the German lieutenant, and on his first day back, he scheduled a trial for Julian and Warren. Julian had two days, and then he would be condemned. Maybe Warren would get off with a lighter punishment, but no one liked spies or those who assisted them. The future looked bleak and short.
The afternoon before their trial, Julian sat with his back against a wall while Warren slept. Despite Julian’s best efforts, each breath seemed unable to satiate his body’s needs. Someone walked into the front of the prison, but Julian couldn’t see who without moving, and he was tired, so he stayed where he was. He could hear the sound of a conversation but not the words, until they came closer.
“Knew him in the factory. Never figured him for a spy. I owe him a bit of money—he bought me a few beers one night when I was broke. So I thought this would make up the difference. Spy or not, I don’t like being indebted to anyone, even someone who will be dead by the end of the week.”
Julian wondered who they were talking about. The man in the next cell was charged with desertion, not espionage, and the third cell held a pair of petty thieves. No one from the factory owed him money, but as the men came into view, it took all Julian’s willpower to hide his shock. With the guard was the Dutchman who had smuggled McDougall in and out of Germany so often.
The Dutchman stood slightly behind the guard. He met Julian’s eyes and winked. “Becker, or whatever your real name is, I know I owe you a beer, but I thought this might be more appreciated under the circumstances.” The Dutchman’s perfect German echoed around the cell.
Julian pushed himself to his feet and walked to the bars, where the man handed him a heavy loaf of black bread.
“We’re even now?”
“Yes,” Julian said for the guard’s benefit. “Have a few rounds in my memory, will you?” Julian had no idea if that was a normal tradition in Germany, but he hoped it would give the right impression.
The Dutchman nodded and turned to leave.
“Thank you,” Julian called after him.
With another wink, the man strode off and was soon gone.
Julian suspected there was something special about the bread, but he waited, not wanting the guard to see. Staring at it, he could make out a tear along one edge, like someone had ripped the bread apart and pasted it together again. Julian would eat it regardless of the paste and knew Warren would too. The bread the guards gave them was often moldy, usually dry, and always given in meager quantities. The occasional soup was mostly water, sometimes with a few pieces of cabbage or turnips floating inside.
When Warren woke, Julian motioned for him to sit between Julian and the front of the cell. With Warren blocking the guard’s view, Julian gently tugged at the end of the bread. It came off in one chunk, confirming Julian’s guess that it had been cut before. Shoved inside the loaf was a tiny revolver with a piece of paper wrapped around the grip. The weapon was so small that Julian could hide it under his hand. He met Warren’s eyes and saw something there that had long been absent for both of them—hope.
Julian passed the revolver to Warren, who checked to see that it was loaded, then slipped it in his pocket. Slowly, so the paper would make no noise, Julian unfolded it and read the message, then showed it to Warren.
Uniforms, ammunition, cash in the Essen safe house. Sorry I can’t do more for you. Good luck. HM
“Thank you, Howard McDougall,” Warren whispered.
Julian slowly tore the paper into shreds and hid the pieces in the latrine bucket in the cell’s corner. It wasn’t much—a weapon and the promise of more supplies if they could sneak into the right apartment—but it was something.