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Maier Residence
Berlin, Nazi Germany
January 31, 1945

 

Dieter Maier pushed his food around his plate with his fork, staring blankly at it as his mind raced. Hermann was a friend, a fairly good one, though it was the wives that were the real friends in the relationship. But, however he felt about the man, he was a good one. A hard worker, loyal, and never one to question authority or the cause.

Like most, he just kept his head down and did his job.

He had seen him a few days ago, both of them eager to return home and see their wives, jokes exchanged about how they didn’t plan on leaving the bedroom the entire time.

It had been a friendly moment.

And there had been no indication he had been delayed.

Yet things could change in a heartbeat in today’s Germany. It was common knowledge, though not spoken about, that the war was going badly, that the Russians were closing in rapidly from the east, the Americans, Brits, Canadians, and who knew who else, from the west and south.

A simple transport run could result in death, either from above, or a bombed track ahead.

But surely they would have notified her.

Notifications used to be swift, though with the casualties growing rapidly, he had heard of delays, but that would be from the front. Not an engineer on the rail. If a train were attacked, there would be little confusion as to who the engineer was when identifying the body.

Notice should go out immediately.

Which was why he was certain he hadn’t been killed.

Or at least not in the traditional method.

His mind kept returning to the locomotive he had been tasked to recover. It had been attacked, the engineer confirmed dead by the SS colonel, yet he had heard no mention of it when he had returned to the rail yard. Obviously, someone knew the engineer was dead, otherwise he wouldn’t have been dispatched, but usually, when one of them died, there was some chatter.

This time there had been none, though he hadn’t paid it much mind, instead rushing to catch his transport back to Berlin so he could see his wife.

At the time, he couldn’t care less who it was.

But now, he wondered if Hermann had been the victim of the partisans.

Yet that still wouldn’t explain why Erika wouldn’t have been notified, or why Gestapo would be following her.

“You’ve barely eaten anything. What’s got you so distracted?”

He looked up at his wife. “Huh? Oh, umm, nothing.”

She frowned at him, jabbing a fork in the air. “You still haven’t given me an explanation for yesterday. You were so rude to Erika! It was inexcusable.”

He stared at his plate. “I had my reasons.”

“And who are you to tell her to never come back? She’s my friend! Probably my best friend. God knows she’s about the only one I can talk to around here without being worried someone will report me to the Gestapo.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, putting his fork down and staring at his wife. “Who do you think was in the car following her?”

His wife returned the stare for a moment before her eyes bulged. “You don’t think…”

“I do think. Which is why I don’t want you talking to her ever again. If the Gestapo is watching her, then she’s done something wrong.”

His wife batted his accusation away with a flick of her wrist. “Nonsense. What could she have ever done wrong?”

“You know her better than I do.”

“Exactly, I do. She’s a simple, hardworking woman, just like her husband.” She put her fork down and wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “And I thought you and Hermann were friends? How could you treat your friend’s wife that way?”

“We were friends.”

“Were?”

He tensed, remembering his final orders from the colonel.

Discuss with no one what you saw here today, or even the fact you were here.

“Leave it.”

Her eyes widened. “Leave it? Why? What’s going on? What haven’t you told me?”

He immediately regretted his words, and searched for something he could say to end the conversation, when an entirely new problem presented itself.

Three firm raps on the door.

His wife turned in her chair, staring toward the entrance. “Who could that be?”

Dieter wiped his mouth on the back of his hand then rose, heading for the door, his heart pounding. Unexpected guests were rare these days, unless the news was bad.

He drew a breath of courage, then opened the door. He paled, his body going weak at the sight of a trenchcoated man in front of him.

“Herr Maier?”

Dieter nodded. “Umm, yes.”

“I am Detective Inspector Wolfgang Vogel from the Kriminalpolizei. May I come in?”

Dieter suppressed the sigh of relief as best he could.

Not Gestapo.

And this was confirmed by the fact the man waited patiently for his reply.

Gestapo would have simply entered without waiting.

“Umm, of course.” Dieter stepped aside, letting the man into the apartment, then closed the door. “Ahh, what can I do for you?”

Vogel strode through the apartment, his head on a swivel as he took everything in, bowing slightly to Michaella. “Ma’am.”

She nodded, clearly terrified as her hands wrung the napkin still clutched in them. “Sir.”

Finally, the detective stopped near the window, peering down at the street below. He turned toward them. “You and your wife are friends with Frau Erika Lang?”

“No,” replied Dieter on instinct, his wife simultaneously contradicting him. He glared at her.

Vogel smiled. “Well, which is it?”

Dieter held out a finger at his wife, silencing her, he hoped. “We were friends, but no longer.”

“Oh, why is that?”

Dieter shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a falling out. These things happen.”

“Did she do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Did she say something that made you dislike her?”

Sweat beaded on Dieter’s brow as the detective continued to pelt him with questions, the tone thankfully remaining neutral. “Umm, no.”

Vogel turned to Michaella. “She was here yesterday, wasn’t she?”

“Y-yes.”

“So it must have been something that happened during that visit that made you end your friendship. What was it?”

Michaella spun toward Dieter, her hands clasped in front of her chin. “Please, just tell him!”

Dieter glared at his wife as a wave of nausea swept over him. He implored her with his eyes to keep silent, yet it was no use.

The floodgates were open.

Michaella rushed toward the detective. “She’s my friend! She still is, but she was being followed yesterday by men in a car. I think it scared my husband. Please forgive him for lying, but he—I mean we—just didn’t want to get involved. What’s going on? Is her Hermann all right?”

Vogel smiled as Dieter’s shoulders slumped, his idiot wife finally sealing their fate. The detective turned toward him.

“You think the men in the car were Gestapo?”

Dieter paled even further, but nodded.

“Then you’d be right.”

Dieter almost soiled himself, his knees shaking.

“I confronted them last night out front of Frau Lang’s apartment. You were right to be concerned. If she is being watched by them, then you should be careful with your interactions with her, otherwise you too could become of interest to them.”

A surge of vindication flowed through him, and he jabbed a finger at his wife. “See! I told you!”

Michaella said nothing, instead staring at her feet.

Vogel jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the window he had looked out earlier. “Unfortunately, it would appear you have already become an item of interest to them.”

Dieter paled, his stomach flipping as his eyes darted toward the window. “Wh-why do you say that?”

“There’s a car across the street, with two men inside and a pile of cigarette stubs outside each window. They’ve been here for some time. My guess is since shortly after Frau Lang was here.”

Dieter managed to curse through his trembling lips. “I-I knew that woman was going to be trouble.”

Vogel stared at him. “Why?”

Dieter had said too much, and joined his wife in staring at the floor as his heart slammed and his ears pounded. The Gestapo was outside, the police were in his apartment, and he was mixed up in something he didn’t understand. How he would get out of this, he had no idea. He knew from the stories he had heard, that once you were on the radar of the Gestapo, the only way you left it was death.

He glanced up at his wife, praying they’d leave her alone.

I’ll confess to anything they want, as long as they don’t touch her.

“You know something, don’t you, Herr Maier?”

“No.”

“Oh, I think you do, and I think it’s about Herr Lang.” Vogel stepped closer. “You’re aware that he still hasn’t returned home.”

Dieter shook his head.

“Well, he hasn’t, and I believe that his wife deserves an explanation, don’t you?”

Dieter glanced up at Vogel, then back at the floor. “I-I can’t say.”

“You can’t?”

Dieter cursed to himself for the poor choice of words.

Why did you say, “can’t?”

“I…umm, well, it’s probably nothing.”

Damn!

“If it’s nothing, then why can’t you tell me?”

Then it dawned on him.

“Orders.”

“From whom?”

Does this man ever stop asking questions?

His entire body shook as terror overtook him. “The SS.”

Vogel took a step backward, and Dieter stole a glance, taking at least some satisfaction that even this man seemed slightly flustered with the admission. If there was one group that terrified him more than the Gestapo, it was the SS. They were insane. Fanatical.

And not to be trifled with.

Vogel stepped closer, lowering his voice. “An SS officer told you not to say anything?”

Dieter nodded, unable to control the trembling.

“Is it related to Herr Lang?”

Dieter shrugged, not exactly certain. “Possibly.” He had his suspicions, yet that was all they were. But Hermann was missing, obviously there had been no notification otherwise this detective wouldn’t be here, and now the Gestapo was on their doorstep, something that hadn’t begun until Hermann’s wife had shown up here, a woman already under surveillance.

It all had to be related.

Vogel lowered his voice further. “Is he dead?”

Dieter’s chest tightened as a thought occurred to him. Could the Gestapo be listening to them? He glanced about the apartment, searching for anything out of the ordinary, realizing a bug could have been hidden anywhere, and they wouldn’t know it.

And looking for it was out of the question.

It would merely confirm their guilt.

He made a decision.

 “I’m sorry, Detective, but I have my orders. I can say nothing to you.” He walked toward the door and grabbed a piece of paper and pencil off a side table, quickly scribbling a note as he continued to speak. “Now, I’ll have to ask you to leave. We are loyal Germans, loyal to the Reich and the Führer, and I have nothing further to say.” He handed the paper to the detective who quickly scanned it, his eyes widening.

“Very well, Herr Maier, I understand completely. If you are under orders not to speak, I cannot compel you. I wish you a good day.”

Dieter opened the door, and Vogel bowed to Michaella before leaving. Dieter closed the door and locked it, his entire body shaking. Michaella rushed forward, opening her mouth to ask him something he was sure would get him shot. He slapped a hand over her mouth, silencing her.

Yet he feared it wouldn’t be enough. Whatever had happened last night was serious, and now someone knew that he had a secret.

And the Gestapo was outside, probably listening in to make certain he would keep it.

He again glanced about their humble home, then pulled at his hair as he realized there could be a listening device anywhere, and there was nothing he could do about it. He wanted to search for it, to tear the apartment apart if need be, yet he couldn’t.

Innocent men don’t worry about being listened to.

Not in today’s Germany.

His chest was tight, and he could sense he was about to explode, his hand still over his wife’s mouth, a wife who appeared to be getting impatient and scared.

He had to get out of there.

He had to think.

He grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, shoving his feet into his boots and lacing them up.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Where?”

“Just for a walk. I’ll be back shortly.”

He unlocked the door and left, leaving his poor, confused wife inside. He buttoned up his jacket as he hurried down the stairs, taking the rear entrance to avoid the Gestapo out front.

Then paused.

Would this make him appear guilty?

He rushed back inside and exited the front of the building, in full view of the car the detective has spotted, and its occupants. He turned left, walking toward the main street, toward the market where he might reasonably be expected to head at this hour, though it would normally be his wife.

But if they were listening in, then they would already know it was a lie.

He used the excuse of crossing the street to check on the car behind him. It was following him, slowly, though that wasn’t what had his heart hammering.

It was the two men in leather trench coats that were now crossing the street, making no effort to conceal themselves.

They’re going to kill you!

He picked up his pace, and the footfalls behind him did as well. He had nowhere to go. He had to try and lose them somehow, then get back to the apartment and save his wife.

But how?

They were four men, he was just one.

And they would have weapons.

He spotted an alleyway narrow enough that he could at least eliminate the car from the equation. It opened into another street that if he could just reach it first, he might lose them in the heavy foot traffic.

He bolted.

The engine roared behind him, but it didn’t matter. He ducked into the alleyway and sprinted toward the end, checking over his shoulder to see his pursuers close behind.

His foot hit something and he tripped, crying out as he slammed into the cold, hard ground.

And they were on him.

Boots rained down on him, kicking him and stomping him. He curled into a ball, crying out for help, yet no one would come. They’d see who was delivering the beating, then go about their business, terrified they could be next.

A heel crushed the side of his head and he began to pass out, a welcome respite from the excruciating pain.

Please, God, please save my wife!

He opened his eyes for one last look at evil, a heel filling his vision before his world went dark.

Forever.