Hotel Turmberg
Nuremberg, Germany
December 8, 1945
Walter rolled over and looked at the
ticking alarm clock. It was 8:30 a.m. Between the lumpy mattress
and his dilemma over what to tell Ingrid about Heinrick, he was
operating on three sporadic catnaps of maybe fifteen minutes
apiece. The lousy bed aside, his insomnia was mainly over
Ingrid.
By 9 a.m., he was staring in the bathroom mirror at a face half covered with shaving cream. His hope for a relaxing, hot shave was chilled when the hotel’s “hot water” felt more like a splash of iced tea from back home. At least the hotel’s steam heat was working; so well, in fact, that the room was getting downright hot.
As he scraped the razor across his face, the same questions that had tormented him all night pounded the inside of his skull so hard that he experienced something rare for him, a headache.
Should I tell her or not? If so, should I admit that I killed Heinrick? I know I shot him. I don’t really know that he died. I mean, I ran out of there. No one took his pulse. For all I know, the German medics could have pulled him out after we ran and resuscitated him. I don’t know what happened to him.
He dragged the razor across the pronounced dimple on his chin, drawing blood—again.
Come on, Walter. You fired half a dozen rounds into the stomachs of each one of those officers. Then you tossed a live grenade at them. The grenade blast alone would have taken them out even if the bullets did not rip their internal organs to shreds. It’s a miracle the letter didn’t get shredded or charred. Don’t fool yourself, Walter. Of course he died. Both of ‘em did.
He redirected the razor in a path from the midpoint of his throat just above his Adam’s apple to just under his chin.
Ouch! Blasted freezing German water!
Tapping the razor three times against the white tile basin, he flushed a heap of stubble down the drain.
Besides, I’ve already accomplished my mission by delivering the letter, haven’t I? It’s not my fault Ingrid read it wrong and won’t see the obvious. I mean, a reasonable person would’ve concluded that Heinrick died. She doesn’t need me to tell her that, if he had survived, he would be home by now. Why not meet the children, have a nice dinner, and get the heck out of here? I came here to make sure that a dead soldier’s last message got to his wife and kids—not to masquerade as a messenger of death and certainly not to confess to being the killer!
Dragging the blade across his face for one last swipe, he nicked his chin once again.
He wiped the blood with a cold washcloth, stuck some toilet paper on the nicks to clot the bleeding, then walked to his window and looked out at the street below. The sound of mechanized armor turned out to be a British Army bulldozer plowing ice and snow off the streets. Yesterday’s storm was gone, yielding to clear skies and an eastern sunrise.
He decided to take a walk to try and clear his mind. He threw on a pair of long johns, a thermal undershirt, a flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and an overcoat. His gloves were mostly dried out from the night before though still a bit moist in the fingertips. At least it was warm moisture. The hot steam radiator in his room ensured that everything he was wearing felt warm.
He went downstairs to the front desk where a slim but otherwise very plain British female corporal had taken over the morning shift at the front desk.
“I’m Walter Brewer. I’m staying upstairs in room 201.”
“Ah yes, the American. I believe it’s Captain Brewer, isn’t it?”
“Word travels fast,” he said.
“Corporal Montgomery mentioned you were here. We don’t get too many Americans in this hotel. Mostly just BBC. Could I offer you a cup of hot coffee, Captain?”
“Thank you, Corporal . . .”
“Stephenson.” She handed him a cup. “Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?”
“Corporal, I’m going to take a walk, I think. Anything worth seeing around here?”
“We aren’t very far from the old city centre. About ninety percent of it was leveled to rubbish by our respective air forces back in early January. You might enjoy some of the sights down on the river. A few medieval castles are left standing.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? A city that’s the cradle of Protestant Christianity becomes a cesspool for the Jew-hating, bellicose rhetoric of Adolph Hitler and winds up getting bombed to smithereens,” he said.
“So true. From Martin Luther to Adolph Hitler. One must wonder how what was once such a beautiful city could have, in just a period of four centuries, hosted such diametrically-opposed philosophies. They once called Nuremberg das Deutschen Reiches Schatzkästlein, which means the Treasure Chest of the German Empire. Anyway, I’m afraid you won’t find much sympathy from me, Captain. My uncle and two cousins died in the Nazi blitz against London.”
“My condolences for your loss. And my compliments on your knowledge of the area.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Those big Nazi rallies—Where were they held?”
“To the southwest of the city. Not within walking distance of here, I’m afraid. We’re told that nearly half a million people came out to support that Austrian corporal.” She spoke with a tinge of sarcasm in describing Hitler.”
“That Austrian corporal. What an appropriate description of the little bloodthirsty megalomaniac,” Walter said.
“Actually, British intelligence has learned that some of the more moderate elements in the German High Command, such as the late Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, disdainfully referred to Hitler behind his back using that very phrase.”
“I take it you’re with British Army Intelligence?” Walter asked.
“Yes, sir. The Army has a number of us stationed here because of our fluency in German.”
“My compliments to the British Army. And it’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Corporal Stephenson.”
“Captain, before you go out into the cold on your walk, why don’t you let me sketch you a map? You may find it useful. It’ll just take a second.”
“You’re right. I’d gotten so carried away by our conversation that I forgot to ask for directions,” he said.
“The pleasure is mine, sir.” She sketched out a simple map and handed it to him with a smile that transformed her looks from plain to pretty. When he smiled back, she blushed. “Cheers, Captain.”
“Cheers to you, Corporal,” he responded then took the map and headed out the front door of the hotel, walking north in the general direction of the Pegnitz River.
The cold air felt invigorating to his face, but the sun reflecting off the snow was blinding. He donned a pair of shades, then headed north on Färberstraβe, past Breite Gasse, Ludwig, and turned right on Käiserstraβe.
Let’s see, the river should be near here.
As he glanced at the primitive map for the first time, his eyes barely noticed the lines that had been drawn representing the streets around the hotel and leading to the river. It was the handwritten note scribbled on the bottom of the page that grabbed his attention.
I enjoyed meeting you, Capt. Brewer. Hope you enjoy your stay. My number is 08-97651. Feel free to call if you need anything or if you would just like to talk. Cheers!
Alice Stephenson
He read the note again. Then he reread it once more.
“Alice,” he mumbled to himself.
Not Corporal Stephenson, but Alice. A signal that she would like to remove the formal barrier of military rank separating us? An officer isn’t supposed to be fraternizing with an enlisted person, but then again, I’m not on active duty and she is British, not American. Plus, she is so knowledgeable—a fascinating conversationalist. And that accent and her smile. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the company of intelligent women. It’s amazing how much prettier she became within a period of about thirty minutes.
Mission accomplished. Walter was trying to get Ingrid off his mind for a while. Alice Stephenson had done just that.
I wonder if I should call her before I leave. Nah, she’s got to be ten years younger than me. Of course, she’s bound to have figured out there’s a slight age difference here. Maybe I should suggest a lunch. Or maybe a dinner? Ellie would never know. Wait a minute. Why should I care if Ellie knows? I’ll have to think about it.
He strolled along the banks of the Pegnitz most of the morning, thinking. It was a refreshing walk. His mind wondered and soared. He thought of Alice, of Ellie, his children, the war, and yes, Ingrid.
By early afternoon, after having walked seven or eight miles up and down the river, he headed back to the hotel.
“Captain Brewer?” the British corporal smiled as Walter walked to the front desk.
“Yes, I was looking for Alice.” Walter had mustered enough confidence to suggest at least a lunch to the young-but-well-spoken and smiling Brit. If he could find her.
“Alice?” Corporal William Montgomery, British Army Intelligence, looked confused. Then the light bulb seemingly ignited. “Ah, yes. You mean Corporal Alice Stephenson. I’m sorry, Captain. She’s off for the rest of the afternoon. Is there something I could help you with?”
Walter was disappointed. He could not, however, respond to Montgomery’s question with a no. To do so would suggest that he wanted Alice for something other than official business.
“Ah, yes. Corporal, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m going to bunk down for a few hours. But I need to be up by eighteen hundred hours. Do you suppose you could ask the clerk to give me a wake up call then?”
Montgomery spoke to the clerk in German then looked at Walter. “You can expect a ring at eighteen hundred hours, sir. Anything else I can do for you?”
You can ask Alice to give me a call.
“No, Corporal. Thank you.”