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I HIKED THROUGH THE woods with grim determination to put as much distance between Dornstetten and myself. A kilometer out of town, I stuffed my identifiable fedora into a hole of a passing tree and covered my hair with the ugly scarf.
I’d made it a fair way into the woods before I heard the dogs. It seemed far off and might have been only two of them, but I couldn’t take the risk and set about laying a false trail. It took extra time that I could have used to get farther away, but it was more important to get the dogs off my scent. I started by going about in a wide circle, then weaved in and around a thick stand of trees. One of the best ways to throw off the dogs would be to walk through one of the many streams passing through the area, but the small ones I came upon were frozen. My next option was to go up.
I’d been an avid tree climber as a child. As a young teen, I remembered my mother yelling at me to come down out of the big oak in our front yard and berating me for my “unladylike” behavior. The muscles might have been out of practice, but with dogged persistence, I climbed up, basket tucked high under my arm, and carefully crawled across a sturdy branch. I didn’t look down or give myself time to think before leaping across to a branch on an abutting tree. The entire tree shook with my weight as I clawed at the rough bark. The dogs’ howls were now consistently in the background and less than a few kilometers away if I had to guess. Once the swaying stopped, I slowly crawled to the trunk, identified another solid branch that hooked up with the tree next to it, and took another death-defying jump.
I shimmied to the ground and, praying I’d done enough to confuse the trail, set out at a jogging pace heading north. An hour later, I no longer heard the bark of the dogs.
My travels came to an abrupt halt at a razor-wire fence line. Using the brush and trees as cover, I followed the barrier north until the forest thinned and revealed a barren field. In the middle of the field rose three concrete mounds covered in green camouflage. From my vantage point, I could barely make out a white sign that read ACHTUNG MIENEN! I guessed it was some sort of bunker, only I couldn’t see an entrance from where I stood. Each concrete bunker had a large black swastika painted on the side. In the northeast corner stood a large barbed wire gate with a paved road leading to the installation. Sandbags surrounded a machine gun nest, covering the gate. A variety of military vehicles including two camouflaged tanks, transport trucks, and a handful of cars were parked inside the fence under the overhang of trees, and leaning against the bumper of a troop transport truck stood an enlisted man smoking a cigarette. He stared at the sky as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
Reconnoitering the bunker north would have me hiking kilometers out of my way. Depending upon how far south the fence line ran, I would have to cross a river and risked running into another village. There was no way I’d willingly cross the road leading to the bunker during daylight, so I decided the best course of action would be to stop and remain hidden until nightfall.
I slunk back into the forest, distancing myself from the installation. Deeper in the woods, I found a well-concealed bower beneath an evergreen tree. One of its roots stuck up out of the ground like a giant’s bent knee. I lowered myself on the perch and uncovered the basket. While the chewy bread coated in apricot marmalade and a slice of hard cheese slaked my appetite, it was the chilled bier that settled the anxiety roiling in my stomach.
The respite was welcome, but thoughts I’d held at bay while I navigated my way through the forest now bounced around my conscience like one of Dagobert’s rubber balls.
What gave Otto away? Were we observed passing our notes, or was he careless leaving them to be found? Why was the SS and not the Gestapo at Lenz’s? The Gestapo’s network of neighborhood spies was well known. What led the SS to Lenz’s home? Did I say something? Behave in an abnormal manner?
Interactions with Otto in the past month ran through my head. Our conversations were always brief, spoken in code when I had information for him. He palmed my communiqués as I passed him money and ration cards. Any responding information would be passed back inside the bread. Did I slip up? Did an observer note the regular conversations about the weather and report it? Am I responsible? That last question gnawed at me, incessantly grinding away like a rat chewing through a block of wood.
Magda. I squeezed my eyes shut. Magda, an innocent in the churning underground of espionage. Magda, the matriarch of the household, who had innocently poured out her problems and taken me under her wing like a daughter. I couldn’t wipe the vision of a pair of Stormtroopers escorting her from the house, fear marring her kindly features as she was led to the car. She’d been with the colonel’s family for close to ten years. Would he protect her or be angry at her betrayal? How would she react under interrogation? The thought of the angry visage of the Nazi screaming at Lenz, interrogating poor Magda, her white hair coming loose from its chignon, dread and anxiety writ in her faded eyes, made me nauseous. I rubbed at my own eyes in an attempt to block out the awful image.
It was terrible enough Lenz and Otto had been captured, perhaps by my own mistakes; however, they both knew what they were getting into. They recognized the risks and the repercussions. Magda had been nothing but kind and an innocent, and I had drawn her into a swirl of intrigue of which she knew nothing. It became a relief when the sun set and I forced myself to close those thoughts in order to focus on the task at hand.
The night darkened, and before the moon rose to its zenith, I headed warily northwest, finding relief in the shadows of the vegetation. The woodland came alive with noises; branches cracked, broken by animals or the breeze, I did not know which. It kept me on edge, regularly slowing my steps as I paused to listen. Finally, I came upon the road that must lead to the bunker. It wasn’t straight, instead winding and curving through the overgrown trees, and from the direction which I approached, the front gates couldn’t be seen. I searched the night sky for lights but saw none. It seemed the Nazis wanted to keep their installation secret, which was fine by me. If I couldn’t see them, I surmised they couldn’t see me.
My own journey was no longer the quiet padding it had been along the frozen lanes of last night, and I prayed the snapping twigs blended with the forest sounds. In the distance, booms of exploding bombs met my ears. The Allied advance through France kept the nightly shelling commonplace, although the trees played tricks on my ears, and I couldn’t be sure if the noise came from the east in Stuttgart or farther north. I hoped the explosions helped to cover my own noise.
My initial thoughts fleeing Oberndorf had been to head south, to try and cross into Switzerland and get to Zurich, an area I knew well from my finishing school days and one that promised help. However, I soon realized, if I navigated my way south, reached the border, and could outwit, cajole, or flirt my way past the German border guards, without proper papers, the Swiss would turn me away and send me right back into the hands of the Nazis.
Switzerland had been flooded with refugees before the war broke out in earnest. After Germany invaded France, limitations of resources made the government become quite strict with their refugee policies. When I accepted the nanny position, I’d been warned that I would be in the belly of the beast, and that, unlike my former missions in occupied France, the Office of Strategic Services had no organized escape routes from the town of Oberndorf and a limited network of spies. As far as I was aware, I’d been the only OSS operative in the area. Even the agent who had gotten me the phone operator job remained behind in Stuttgart.
The Germans I’d dealt with were sympathetic to the Allied cause, having lost relatives or friends to the camps, but I’d never been introduced to any other contacts besides Lenz and Otto. One assumed there was a network of assets and operatives connected to Lenz, but we’d been kept apart, compartmentalized, for everyone’s safety. I now cursed the very secrecy that was supposed to keep me safe as it would lead to my downfall. Papers—with a new identity that would have allowed me to board a train to Switzerland—along with a silk map, remained hidden behind an oil canvas of a mountaintop landscape hanging in the nursery of the colonel’s home. As I was unwilling to travel farther into Nazi territory, my fleeing steps instinctively took me in a northwesterly direction away from the Neckar River.
The clear moon only provided intermittent light, and I stumbled my way through the dense timberland, regularly tripping across roots hidden by snow and darkness. When I dropped into France, we’d been given Benzedrine pills to reduce appetite and combat fatigue. What I wouldn’t give for a couple of those little yellow pills right now.
Distracted by a rustle of underbrush, what I’d been dreading happened; I slipped into a rabbit hole and something popped. I bit down on my lip, cutting off a cry of agony, and tasted the salty tang of blood as I collapsed on the hard ground. Tears sprung to my eyes.
After the initial agony passed, I loosened my bootlaces to massage the site of the strain, which had already begun to swell. Pushing to my feet, I tested the injury. The ankle seemed able to bear weight, with moderate teeth-gritting, leading me to believe it wasn’t broken. I convinced myself the pain was nothing I couldn’t handle, so I re-laced the boot as tight as tolerable and gathered my things to limp along at a turtle pace.
By the time the darkness grayed into predawn, my eyes ached with the grittiness of fatigue. The winds had calmed and the scent of oncoming snow drifted through the air. My ankle had swollen so much that I’d lost the feeling in the toes of my left foot, and the ache of the sprain that radiated up my calf caused muscle spasms. The basket I carried dragged at my arm, heavy as a typewriter, but its meager rations were so important to my survival I daren’t let it go. I spied a small hut, its white siding flaked and chipped enough to show the brown boards beneath. The front door faced east. I cautiously navigated my way around to the south, tucking myself behind a thicket of frosty underbrush, to wait and see what signs of life would stir with the sunrise.
After twenty minutes, my knees and muscles had stiffened from crouching beneath the frigid, weak winter sun. No smoke rose from the tiny chimney, and in the lightening sky, a woodpile took shape along the front. A layer of undisturbed snow lay across the top. The fatigue and pain spurred me to creep closer to take a look. I gathered a handful of pebbles with my numb fingers and tossed them. They rained against the weathered door, and I held my breath as they rattled to the ground. Nothing. Growing braver, or perhaps more desperate, I threw a rock the size of a pecan. The thwap resounded through the forest, and a small animal scrabbled back into its hole.
I snuck up to the miniscule front window and furtively peeped in. I couldn’t see a thing through the filth. The lock was broken and the hinges squealed in protest as I pulled the door. To my relief, the scent of stale air with a hint of old burnt wood greeted me. Across from the door was a small stone hearth, with a cot next to it. A plain wooden table with two chairs stood beneath the dirty window, and a petite shelf housed clay mugs, wooden dishes, and random utensils. A pot and kettle rested on an iron grate inside the fireplace, and a thick layer of dust covered everything. It wasn’t much, but in my now exhausted, shivering state it looked like a reprieve from heaven.
An hour later, I huddled in a chair next to the crackling fire, unshod feet propped up on a settle, a mug of hot water gripped in my hands. Wrestling the boot off my injured foot had been a painful process that I didn’t look forward to repeating any time soon. I’d packed some snow around the swollen joint and wrapped it with the towel from my basket.
Two pairs of antlers hung above the mantel, and I figured the tiny building must have been a hunting cabin. The wooden plate sitting on my lap held half a boiled potato and a few bites of the cheese. I dunked some of the hard bread into the water to soften it. The hunger that had been gnawing at me since the wee hours of the morning was barely appeased by the paltry meal.
Admittedly, rationing had become stringent for the Germans; however, working in such a prestigious household allowed for special dispensation, and our cook often received extra ration cards or “gifts.” Even though the Germans complained about the strict rationing, they knew nothing of hunger. Nothing like what I’d witnessed and experienced during my time in France, where the Germans had systematically stripped the French of all their prime meats, vegetables, and wines, practically starving the population. Some might say my position in the colonel’s house could be described as a cream-puff assignment. They’d be correct ... if it weren’t for the extreme danger of being caught and shot in the head.
The mug clunked to the floor, and I jerked out of a semi-consciousness to slide onto the cot and pull the blanket up to my shoulders. The crackling wood reminded me of the fires in our rooms at finishing school, and I fell into a restless sleep riddled with reminiscent dreams.
♠♠♠♠
NOVEMBER 1938
Château Mont-Choisi
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A LOG SHIFTED AND THE fire hissed. Visina snored quietly into her pillow as I stared up at the ceiling. I was more than halfway through my sentence at the Château, although, if I was honest, the program wasn’t so bad. Last month, I danced with Laurence Olivier during one of our outings to Geneva. The point of finishing school was to build confidence, and it certainly achieved its aim. I’d feel comfortable running a large castle or preparing for a diplomatic formal dinner party. Mother would be so proud.
The day had gone like any other day, floral arranging and cookery in the morning, swimming and riding in the afternoon. It had been an exhausting afternoon, but my mind wouldn’t settle into sleep. It kept going over and over the events of the evening.
Following dinner, four of us had gathered in Camilla’s cozy room to listen to her radio. She’d twirled the dial and settled on the National Swiss radio station broadcasting in German.
“Can’t we find something else? My German isn’t good and I’m so tired of hearing about the terrible Nazis,” Isabella complained.
However, Camilla and I stayed her impatient fingers. The correspondent was reporting on the aftermath of what would be labeled Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass. A night in which paramilitary and civilians attacked Jews and Jewish businesses, breaking windows, burning synagogues, ransacking and demolishing buildings. Anything to do with the Jews seemed to be on the list. So far fifty fatalities had been reported, and thousands more were incarcerated by the Nazis.
When the report ended, Camilla, with a shaking hand, flicked off the radio. “Ladies, I’m not feeling well. Please give me some privacy.”
Isabella and Visina, taken aback by her abruptness, rose and stalked out of the room without a second glance.
I closed the door behind them. “Who? Who do you know in Germany?”
Camilla pinched her lips and stared hard. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“I lived there too, Milla. Don’t shut me out. I fear for those I knew.”
She raised a still-trembling hand to her blond brow.
“Come now, you know me, I’m not one of the gossips around here. I can keep my mouth shut.”
“Friederich,” she breathed.
“Who?”
“Friederich Dantzig. We met in Vienna, two years ago. He plays the violin for the symphony. It ... it was a fling, an April-May affaire. Mother was so angry when she found out because he is Jewish. She raked me over the coals and told me to forget him. But ... we still correspond in secret.”
“Where is he now?”
“Berlin.”
I sat on the love seat next to her and held her hand. Ever since the Anschluss of Austria, the news from Germany became more and more disturbing.
“Father says they are preparing for war ... again.”
“I know.” I rubbed her hand. “Adelene was called home to Paris. The French are shoring up the Maginot Line.”
Camilla’s frightened brown eyes stared at me. “What will happen to us?”
“Shh ... we are safe. Nothing is going to happen.”
“That is easy for you to say. Your home is all the way across the Atlantic. What can the Nazis do to you?”
I patted her hand but had no reassuring words to provide. She was correct. Half of Europe and an entire ocean created a barrier between the U.S. and Hitler.
After leaving Camilla, I penned a letter to Father asking if he’d heard about the attack on the Jews and what the Americans were doing about it. The disturbing report had brought to memory a little girl in Munich, Sacha, one of my girlhood friends. While we attended a Protestant church, Sacha went to synagogue. Religion meant little to me at that time, and I only had good memories of my mischievous playmate. I remember Sacha and I climbed the fig tree in her yard to get away from her annoying little brother, Elijah. We received a dressing down from her mother for throwing figs—not because we threw them at Elijah—because we were wasting the fruit. I wondered if she was still there or if her family had fled from persecution, like so many others. I’d read, in the Swiss newspaper, of trains filled with Jewish children traveling to countries beyond German borders, to Belgium, France, and Britain.
The thump of footfalls pulled me from my thoughts of Sacha and Camilla and her secret beau. The steps stopped outside the room, and a brief rap tatted against the door before it swung open.
“Mademoiselle Lily, se réveiller.” Miss Lily, wake up.
The lantern swung above me and I squinted against the light. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” What is wrong?
Augustine, the housekeeper, pulled back the eiderdown and spoke quickly in French. “There has been a telegram from your father. Your mother is unwell. You are to dress immediately for travel.”
Nothing Augustine uttered could have woken me more quickly than mother and unwell. I rose from bed and pulled off my heavy cotton nightgown in a blink. The coughing episodes that nagged Mother during our shopping trip to Paris, and her subsequent denials that it was something to be concerned about, played over in my head. Father had written a few weeks after they returned to the States assuring me her health was improving.
One of the maids, Berthe, I think, arrived carrying my valise.
“What’s going on?” Visina whispered.
Augustine shushed her and told her to go back to sleep.
“How am I to get home?” I pulled up my stockings.
“Your father has made arrangements. Once you’re dressed, go to the headmistress’s office. She will provide you with everything you need to know.”
Augustine worked quickly to help me into a pale gray wool travel suit while directing Berthe on the appropriate clothing to pack in my valise. “Here, mon petit, take your heavy coat. It will be cold on the ship.”
I traversed the dark, silent hallways to the headmistress’s office, where she explained my travel arrangements. A car would take me to Geneva, where I would get on a flight to Paris. An American family stationed at the Paris embassy happened to be transferring back home and had tickets on a cruise ship leaving Le Havre, two days hence. My father had been able to secure me passage, and the family would chaperone me to New York.
The flight from Geneva to Paris went smoothly, and an embassy vehicle picked me up from the airport where the driver told me that the Caton family had already left for Le Havre. He would not be taking me to the embassy but would drive straight to Le Havre, where a hotel room had been arranged for me until the ship left. I was pleased by this information; the farther west I traveled, the closer I got to my mother.
The Catons turned out to be a kind family. Julia was in her mid-twenties and mother to a pretty little five-year-old girl named Elise. I estimated Henry, Julia’s husband, to be in his mid-thirties. He spent his days reading reports and smoking in the men’s lounge. The only time I saw him was during dinner, when we dined at the captain’s table. I couldn’t blame him. Two days into the crossing, Julia and the nurse they’d brought to watch after Elise succumbed to the rocking of the ship. I ended up spending my days walking the decks and having tea parties with Elise to keep her occupied while the ladies lay miserable in bed. I didn’t resent having to look after Elise. She was a spirited little girl, and keeping her occupied served to keep my own mind from dwelling on the fears that would sneak up on me when I was alone.
The fourth night on the ship, I dreamed of Mother. She was her beautiful old self again; her eyes sparkled like the sun on the Aegean Sea, her cheeks had filled out, and her smile could entice birds to sing. She and I were having a picnic next to the river Danube, and she told me how much she loved me and how proud she was to be the mother of such a lovely young lady. She told me that Edward would need my help and asked me to watch out for him. I promised I would. Then she proceeded to give me fashion advice. I awoke from the dream refreshed, and for the first time since that dreadful night at the Château, the gnawing in my gut dissipated. I considered the dream an omen—that my mother had turned a corner and her health was on the upswing.
On the seventh day, our ship docked in the bustling New York Harbor. Mr. Caton escorted me to the train station, where he pressed a gold and cloisonné bracelet into my hand. “A gift, for taking care of Elise.”
Father sent a car to pick me up at Union Station in D.C. The trip from the station to my parents’ new home in Georgetown took less than thirty minutes. It was past nine when I finally arrived. A young, apple-cheeked maid answered the door and ushered me into the front hall.
“My little world traveler, you are a sight for sore eyes.” Edward, wearing a black suit and no tie, stood in a doorway on my left. Though he’d gained some weight since I saw him in England, the haggard look around his mouth hadn’t changed, and his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red. “I’m so glad you have arrived.”
He came over and pulled me into an unexpectedly tight embrace. I returned the hug.
“How was your trip?” he asked as I handed off my rain-dampened coat and gloves to the maid, who promptly disappeared through a green baize door.
“Long,” I sighed.
“Come into my study. Let me get you a drink. Would you like a brandy or sherry?”
“Sherry, please.” I stared up at the staircase, wanting to protest and insist on seeing Mother; however, my etiquette training kicked in, and I followed him into the large study, surrounded by mahogany bookshelves. Two burgundy velvet wingback chairs rested by a fireplace, and I sat in one of them, enjoying the warmth emitted by the burning logs.
“How was the trip with the Catons?”
“Fine. Mr. Caton gave me this bracelet for taking care of his daughter after the nanny and Julia became seasick. But please, don’t hold me in suspense, tell me how Mother is getting along?”
Edward handed me the sherry and sat across from me. “My dear...” He swallowed. “About your mother ... she ... she passed away,” he choked out.
“What?” I said in a high-pitched voice.
“I am sorry. It ... it happened three days ago.”
“Three days?” that silly high voice squeaked out.
“Yes, on Thursday. The funeral is tomorrow.”
The glass slipped from my fingers. Its contents spilled unheeded onto the Axminster rug. The air must have been sucked from the room, because I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Edward clasped my numb hand and spoke to me in words I didn’t comprehend. A wailing sob bubbled from below, agonizingly working its way up my chest, until finally, I sucked in a breath and allowed the untamed cry to burst forth.
♠♠♠♠
I AWOKE ABRUPTLY. A chill pervaded the room, the fire burnt to embers. Peaks and valleys of late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the clouds and into the window, chasing away the unhappy memories. I rubbed my eyes and stretched stiff muscles. The drapery of fatigue had been removed by sleep, and it was now time for me to formulate a decisive plan.
My options were limited. Without papers, Switzerland was a no-go; I’d never make it over the mountains or through the checkpoints without help.
Heading east, farther into Germany, turned my stomach. My identification card was now useless, even dangerous. I lit a candle and watched the paper crinkle and blacken around the edges where the flame licked at it. Anneliese Kruse disappeared beneath the sparks, and I tossed it away into the fire along with the message for Lenz. My last connection to the nanny’s life floated gracefully up the chimney in a cloud of smoke.
I could remain in this hut in hopes that the Allies would eventually overtake the area and not shoot or bomb me on their way in. The hut was warm and had some provisions. A chest beneath the cot revealed a rifle with one bullet in the chamber, which I could use to find food. However, regular smoke could draw the enemy’s attention. My boots stood side-by-sided, like silent soldiers, next to the hearth. The information on the film hidden within held viable intelligence that the American forces needed. No. Staying put in this bungalow was not a practicable option. As much as I dreaded to admit, I needed to move.
But move where? The only choice seemed to be west, toward the front.
My last eavesdropping mission led me to believe the Allies were pushing through the eastern-most edges of France toward the Rhineland. Hitler had commanded his generals to send additional troops and armored divisions to fortify their position to keep the Allies from crossing the river into the Fatherland. The front, a constantly moving line, was probably one hundred to 150 kilometers away. If I could get back into France, I still remembered names that could reconnect me with French intelligence. Hell, I could walk into an Allied encampment, surrender myself, and hope my superiors back in Paris could sort it out before I was shot or imprisoned. I needed to find transportation if I wanted to get the vital information to the proper people before it was too late.
Unfortunately, all my plans were delayed by two factors. First, due to heavily falling snow. Second and more frustrating, I couldn’t get my boot over the swollen ankle. I spent the evening packing the injury with icy snow and propping it up on the chair, tricks I’d learned after a nasty tumble from a horse when I was a child.
Dinner consisted of a hard-boiled egg, apricot marmalade, and more hot water. Afterwards, I covered up the window with a blanket, snuffed the candle, and carefully banked the fire so it would burn through the night. I probably should have put it out; staying the night increased my risk of detection, and the fire was dangerous. However, its warmth balanced out the frigidness wrapped around my foot, and I hoped it would dispel the soreness plaguing my throat. The only good the snow brought was the hope that it covered any sort of trail the dogs might track.
In the flame’s glow, I fingered the miniature brass compass at my breast. It had certainly saved my life the past two days, guiding me like a beacon away from danger. Lenz, a jeweler by trade, had mounted the clasp and provided a chain so I could wear it as a necklace. I’d told him it was my father’s and, since it was made in Switzerland, not something that would give me away. It was just another one of the lies I’d told.
Oh, it was true, the manufacturer was Swiss, but it was never my father’s.
He gave it to me. I remembered our exchange as clear as if it were yesterday. I’d given him my St. Christopher medal, the patron saint of travelers.
“To keep you safe,” I’d told him.
He pulled the scratched and well-worn compass from his pocket. “I jumped into Normandy with this. It was my father’s. He used it in World War I.”
I’d pushed it back at him, insisting he needed it more than I, but he folded my fingers around the cool metal.
“Keep it. The military issued me a new one when I jumped into France. You can give it back the next time we meet.”
Was it any wonder that I dreamed of him that night?