Black Cross

33

When the door to the cottage banged open above him, McConnell threw down the diary and grabbed his Schmeisser. He heard Anna’s voice, then a man’s voice speaking German. He crept to the top of the cellar stairs and opened the door a crack. Stern was standing in the kitchen in his SD uniform, furiously rubbing his hands. His face was red and his eyes full of tears, as if he had run for miles in a cold wind.

“Kaffee, bitte,” he said to Anna. “Where is the doctor? Sleeping?”

Anna moved to the dented pot steaming on the stove.

“I’m starting to think you don’t really mean to attack that camp at all,” said McConnell, stepping into the kitchen.

Stern’s eyes went to the Schmeisser. “You’d do better to hold that by the barrel and use it as a club.”

“Go to hell.” McConnell took a seat at the table.

“Danke,” said Stern, accepting a hot cup from Anna. “If your Christian Hell exists, my friend, I’ve just been there. And you know what? It’s full of Jews.”

“What do you mean? You went into the camp?”

Stern raised the cup to his windburned lips, watching McConnell over the rim. “Camps are made to keep people in, not out.”

“So how did you get out?”

“Underneath a medical supply truck. A rather odd time to take deliveries, don’t you think?”

Anna said from the stove, “There are as many Christians as Jews in Totenhausen, Herr Stern.”

Stern surprised McConnell by not responding to this statement. The young Zionist seemed preoccupied, his hair-trigger temper nowhere in evidence.

“So why didn’t you attack the camp?” McConnell asked.

“Too much wind,” said Stern, his eyes fixed on the table.

“I see. Did you learn anything useful?”

“Useful how? You don’t want this mission to succeed, remember?”

Anna looked over Stern’s shoulder at McConnell. Her eyes seemed to be asking if this was still true.

“I have a proposition for you, Doctor,” Stern said in a neutral tone.

“I’m listening.”

“It’s obvious that I can’t carry out this mission as planned without your help. So, I propose a compromise.”

Anna set a cup of barley coffee in front of McConnell. He nodded thanks. “What kind of compromise?”

“If you will help me to gas the SS garrison, I will do everything in my power to save the lives of the prisoners.”

McConnell sat back hard in his chair. Had he heard correctly? Anna’s eyes were riveted on him. Obviously she had heard the same thing. “Well hell,” he said, “talk about Saul on the road to Damascus—”

Stern’s chair crashed back against the stove as he came to his feet.

“Whoa!” said McConnell, raising both hands. “Take it easy! Four hours ago you were ready to kill everybody in the place. Now you want to save them?”

Stern felt his hands trembling. When he embraced his father for the first time in eleven years, it was as if a jacket of ice had melted away from his heart. Everything he had planned to say if he ever got the chance — how stupid and stubborn Avram had been to remain in Germany, how cruel to make his wife and son strike out for Palestine without his protection — all went out of his mind the moment he saw the pathetic state his father was in.

Avram Stern had not even recognized his own son. When Jonas spoke his Hebrew name, and the name of his mother, the man known as the shoemaker had nearly fainted dead away. While Rachel Jansen kept the other women back, they spoke of many things, but Jonas had come quickly to the point. In an almost inaudible whisper he asked his father to come out of the camp with him.

Avram had refused. Jonas could not believe it. It was Rostock all over again! Only it was different. Ten years before, Avram had refused to believe that Hitler would betray the Jewish combat veterans. He no longer labored under such delusions, but he remained as stubborn as ever. Now he claimed it was impossible for him in good conscience to abandon his fellow Jews to the fate that awaited them in Totenhausen. Jonas had argued violently — and in fact came very close to revealing his true mission — but Avram had not been moved. The only concession he made was that if Jonas could somehow help the others to escape, he would go also. And so, brimming with anger and frustration, Jonas had told his father to sleep in the Jewish Women’s Block until he came again.

Trekking back across the hills, Stern had calmed himself enough to settle on a plan. Because of his father’s hardheadedness, he now had to try to accomplish something even the chief of SOE believed to be impossible: find a way to kill Totenhausen’s SS guards with poison gas while sparing its prisoners. To do that, Stern knew, he would need McConnell’s help. He hated this new dependence almost as much as he hated himself for being unable to follow through with the original plan. And he had no intention of revealing his weakness to the American.

“I am willing to try to save the prisoners,” Stern said through tight lips. “If you will help me kill the SS men, get the photos the British need, and steal the sample of Soman. But I will still carry out the attack alone if you refuse to help me. Everyone will die then, perhaps even you and Fräulein Kaas.”

“Calm down,” McConnell told him. “Just sit down and be still for a minute. Please.”

Anna righted Stern’s chair and set it behind him, but he did not sit.

McConnell tried to penetrate the crystalline shine of Stern’s eyes, but it was like trying to read through black quartz. Stern’s reasons were his own, and for the time being at least, would remain that way.

“All right,” McConnell said after a moment. “That sounds like a fair bargain to me. You’ve got a deal. I’ll help you.”

Stern was more shocked by this reversal of position than McConnell had been by his. He reached awkwardly for a chair and sat down opposite McConnell at the table.

“Easier sell than you thought, huh?” said McConnell. “Well, don’t look so pleased with yourself. I want to know how you propose to kill a hundred and fifty SS soldiers without killing the prisoners as well.”

“You’re the one who wants to save them,” Stern said, almost too quickly. “You find a way.”

A fleeting intuition told McConnell that Stern’s words had very little connection to what was in his heart. He had no evidence of this, but because Stern almost always said exactly what he thought, his words invariably had the ring of conviction. But his last remark had sounded forced, overdone. And yet, what could he possibly be hiding?

“You’re supposed to be the genius,” Stern went on, filling the silence McConnell had left. “Let’s see you prove it.”

“I will,” said McConnell, his eyes and ears taking the measure of the new personality before him. “I’ll find a way.”

Half an hour and a second pot of coffee later, McConnell still had no answer. The three of them sat around the table like students trying to solve a complex calculus problem. Stern had suggested a couple of desperate commando-style plans to free the prisoners before gassing the camp, but each would have required at least a dozen men and split-second timing. His ideas brought McConnell no closer to a solution, but they did confirm his suspicion that Stern — for whatever reason — suddenly possessed a heartfelt desire to save the prisoners’ lives.

It was Anna who put him on track. Stern was telling them about something his guerrilla band had tried against a British fort, when she broke in and said, “Ach! The E-Block!”

Stern stopped talking. “What?”

“The Experimental Block. It’s the sealed chamber at the rear of the camp, where Brandt’s gas experiments are carried out.”

“What about it?” asked McConnell.

“The SS avoid it like a plague ward. I was thinking, what if we could slip the prisoners into it a few at a time, maybe half an hour before you attack? When the cylinders detonated, the prisoners would be safe inside the E-Block while the SS troops choked to death outside.”

Stern gaped at her across the table. “That’s brilliant.”

“Just a minute,” McConnell interrupted. “How big is this chamber?”

Anna’s smile faded. “I’ve never been inside it, but you’re right . . . it’s small. From the outside it doesn’t seem so small, but it’s a double-walled chamber. A room inside a room. Let me think. I’ve seen the numbers on test reports. I think . . . nine square meters.”

“That’s only a hundred square feet,” McConnell said. “How high is the ceiling?”

“Just enough room for a tall man to stand. Two meters?”

“Six and a half feet. How many prisoners in the camp?”

She shook her head. “After today’s reprisals . . . two hundred and thirty-four.”

“It’s impossible.”

“You’re right,” said Stern. “You couldn’t squeeze even half of the prisoners inside. Damn! There’s got to be a way.”

McConnell spread his hands flat on the table and sat still for nearly a minute, his mind exploring every possible variant of Anna’s idea. “Maybe there is,” he said finally.

“What?” said Stern. “You have an idea?”

“Anna is right about the E-Block — in principle. The essential problem is exposing the SS to the gas while protecting the prisoners from it. But she’s thinking backwards.”

“What do you mean?” asked Anna. “Get the SS to go into the E-Block and kill them with the gas while the prisoners are safe outside?”

“In theory, yes.”

“But the SS won’t go near the E-Block! Besides, there are a hundred and fifty of them.”

McConnell couldn’t resist a smile. “I’m sure you’re right. But I also feel sure that the architect who designed Totenhausen was thorough enough to include a bomb shelter in his plans.”

Her eyes played over his face as she absorbed the full import of his words. “My God, you’re right. It’s a long tunnel, and it will hold more than every SS man in the camp.”

“That’s it,” said Stern, his voice almost crackling with excitement. “We sneak two cylinders into the bomb shelter, trick the SS into it and auf Wiedersehen — mission accomplished. I’ll bet that gas is twice as effective in an enclosed space.”

“Probably ten times as effective,” said McConnell. “Plus, the wind ceases to be a factor in the plan.”

Stern shook his head. “Smith was right, Doctor. You are a bloody genius.”

McConnell bowed in mock humility. “How many entrances does the shelter have, Anna?”

“Two. The main entrance is in one of the SS barracks. The other is in the basement of the hospital. The morgue.”

“Do you think you could block the morgue entrance so that no one who entered from the SS barracks could get out that way?”

“I think so, yes.”

“If it is more effective in a closed space,” Stern reasoned, “one cylinder should be enough. But I’ll use two to be sure. It’s a simple matter of taking them down from the pylon and. . . ”

“What’s the matter?” asked McConnell. “We can’t get them down from the pylon?”

“No, we can do that. The problem is getting the cylinders into the camp. I dropped inside the wire from an overhanging tree limb. I can’t do that with steel cylinders.” Stern looked down at the table for a moment, then raised his eyes to Anna. “There’s only one way to do it,” he said.

“A car,” she said quietly.

He nodded. “Can you get one?”

Anna bit her bottom lip as she considered this. “I have a friend, Greta Müller. Her father is a farmer who supplies food to the SS Oberabschnitt at Stettin. He not only has vehicles, but petrol to run them.”

“With a car we could lay the cylinders flat on the backseat, or sling them beneath the undercarriage with chains. That would be better.” Pure energy radiated from Stern as he visualized the plan. “You could drive in late tomorrow night and park by the hospital. I’d be waiting for you. After I unchained the cylinders, you could lead me to the morgue entrance of the bomb shelter. All I’d have to do is move them in and set them to detonate at the proper time.” He leaned toward Anna, the full weight of his personality radiating from his dark eyes. “Can you get a car?”

“I’m almost certain I can,” she said, looking back at him with a strange fascination. “Greta thinks I have a lover in Rostock. A married man. I’ve kept up that story so I can get the car sometimes without her asking questions. I’ve used it three times before. Though usually with more notice.”

“Tell her it’s a crisis. He’s trying to end it with you.”

“Just a minute,” McConnell interjected.

“It’s the only way,” Anna said.

“I realize that. But you’re both overlooking a serious problem.”

“What is it?” Stern asked impatiently.

“To get the SS troops into that shelter, we need an air raid.”

“Why? I can set off the siren myself. The SS won’t know if the raid is real or not. They’ll run straight into the gas.”

McConnell glanced at Anna. She did not look confident.

“We’ve had only one air raid in the years I’ve been here,” she said, “and that was a false alarm. All drills are scheduled. Also, there are officers for every phase of the raid. Soldiers who man the alarm, who fight fires, who make sure each building is evacuated — not including the prisoners, of course. They’re left exposed.”

“You’re saying it wouldn’t work?” asked Stern.

“I’m saying that if no bombs began to fall, many soldiers would probably never go into the shelter. I doubt very seriously whether the entrances would be closed unless bombs were actually falling. You couldn’t rely on it.”

“For God’s sake,” Stern muttered. “There’s got to be a way.”

“There is,” said McConnell. “A real air raid.” He tapped the tabletop with his fingers. “And I think we can get one. Brigadier Smith knows the exact coordinates of Totenhausen. He’s the one who started this whole thing. The least that bastard can do is to send a handful of bombers over to help us finish the job. All we need is a radio.”

“That’s just what we don’t have,” said Stern. “McShane cached one for us, but it’s useless. I dug up the parachute container on my way back from the camp, to take out the climbing spikes and harness. The container was cracked and half filled with water. The parachute obviously didn’t open properly. Our signal lamp for the submarine was dry, but the radio was drowned and its vacuum tubes smashed.”

Stern leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Even if we get a radio,” he said, “a real air raid gives us another problem. We can ask Smith to schedule the raid at a precise time, but there’s no guarantee the bombers will arrive at that time. You see?”

“I do,” said McConnell. “There’s no way to time the cylinders in the bomb shelter so that they’ll detonate just after the bombs have fallen and kill the SS men who’ve run for cover.”

“Right.” Stern relaxed his neck so that his head hung limp over the chair-back. “Unless. . . ”

“Unless what?”

Stern straightened up and gave him an odd smile. “Unless I’m waiting inside the shelter with the detonator in my hand.”

“What?”

“It’s the only way,” said Stern. “I’ll wear one of the gas suits you brought from Oxford.”

“You’re certifiably nuts.”

“Are you saying the suit and mask you designed won’t protect me?”

“In a sealed room full of nerve gas? I damn sure won’t offer you any guarantee. Hell, that’s like playing Russian roulette.”

“I rather like the idea,” Stern said, glancing at Anna. “The simplicity of it. And I’ll be there to watch all those SS bastards claw each other’s eyes out.”

“Jesus,” whispered McConnell. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“It’s settled then.”

“Which brings us back to the radio,” Anna said softly.

Stern smoothed back his dark hair and gave her an appraising look. “You have a radio, don’t you, Fräulein Kaas?”

She shook her head. “The nearest radio we can use belongs to the Polish Resistance.”

“The Polish Resistance is operating nearby?”

“No, they’re in Poland.”

“But the border is two hundred kilometers away! You’d need a radio just to contact them.”

“I can contact them, Herr Stern. But you will have to take my word for that.”

“Why?”

“Because as reckless as you are, you might be captured. I cannot expose others to that risk.”

“You think I would tell the SS anything?”

Anna regarded him with suspicion in her eyes. “There should be no question of your talking, Herr Stern. I’m sure the British provided you with a cyanide capsule. They went to great lengths to provide me with one. Are you telling me you would not take your capsule if you were about to be captured?”

“They didn’t give me a cyanide capsule,” said McConnell. “Not that I want one or anything.”

Anna cut her eyes at Stern, but he avoided her glance.

“Do you have one?” McConnell asked him.

“Damn it,” Stern snapped, “I want to know how you’re getting word to these Poles. I must know if there’s any real chance to get word to Smith.”

“Word will get through,” Anna said with serene confidence.

“I know Smith has someone else inside that camp,” Stern insisted. “I know the codes for this mission. They were taken from that Clark Gable picture. We are Butler and Wilkes. You are Melanie. Smith’s base in Sweden is Atlanta, and Totenhausen is Tara. So tell me please who is Scarlett?”

Anna said nothing.

“You don’t have to give me a name,” Stern said, “just tell me the method of contact.”

She sighed. “Telephone. All right? Someone will call them for me.”

“From the village?”

“I will say no more.”

“I knew it!” Stern exulted. “Major Schörner is Scarlett. He is, isn’t he? Tell me! I knew you didn’t set up a link to London on your own.”

Anna went into the foyer and put on her overcoat. “Think what you wish, Herr Stern. There is only a little darkness left. I must be on my way.”

Anna arrived at Totenhausen winded and nearly frozen through from her bicycle ride over the hills. She had been rehearsing her excuse all the way: I neglected to properly store some tissue samples in the lab. . . . The words were on her tongue as the guard stepped up and peered at her through the electrified wire, but he just smiled and signaled for his comrade to open the gate.

She rode straight across the deserted Appellplatz to the hospital and entered through the back door. She made no attempt to move silently; stealth would draw more attention than noise. The hallway on the second floor was dark. She felt her way along the wide corridor until she came to the door she wanted.

She tapped softly, knowing it would be locked.

Almost instantly a threatening whisper said, “Who’s there? I have a gun pointed at you!”

“It’s Anna. Open the door.”

She heard a click. The door was pulled back. Ariel Weitz stood there in his shorts, a pistol in his hand. She walked past him into the room. It was hardly more than a broom closet, but it had hot and cold running water — luxury compared to what the other inmates endured. The smell of cigarettes and cheap schnapps hung in the air.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I need a crash meeting.”

“With who?”

“The Wojiks. And they must bring the radio.”

“You are crazy! You want me to call them?”

“Yes. Tonight. Right now.”

“I won’t do it.” Weitz shook his head with theatrical exaggeration.

“You must do it. Everything depends on it.”

His feral eyes suddenly lit up. “The commandos are here?”

“Just make the call, Herr Weitz.”

“How many? They are going to attack the camp?”

“Tell Stan to meet me at the same place as before.”

“I can’t,” Weitz said stubbornly. “Schörner will catch me.”

“I doubt that. He’s probably in bed with the Jewish woman.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “You know about that?”

“I know many things. Why are you so anxious? I thought you were the nerveless one.”

“It’s Schörner. He’s changed. He hardly drinks anymore, always watching everything.”

“What do you expect, after one of his men is found murdered and wrapped inside a British parachute?”

“That was bad, you’re right. But I think it’s the Jansen woman as much as the parachutes. Schörner has come alive. He thinks he’s in Russia again.”

Anna summoned her most persuasive voice. “Herr Weitz, everything you have done up to this point has led to this one moment. Everything is ready. But nothing will happen if you don’t get the Wojiks to meet me tomorrow.”

He hugged his hands to his chest like a mountaineer fighting hypothermia. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“You’ll do it. As soon as I leave.” Anna moved toward the door, then looked back. “And Herr Weitz . . . don’t drink so much.”

Weitz nodded, but his eyes were already far away. “I’m so tired,” he said, his voice modulating into a feminine register. “Everyone thinks I’m a monster. Even Schörner. My own people hate me worse than they hate the SS.”

“But that is what has allowed you to do what you have done.”

“Yes, but . . . I just . . . it can’t go on. I must explain. Make them see how it really is.”

Anna walked back and laid a hand on his bony shoulder. She tried not to recoil from the feverish skin. “Herr Weitz,” she said softly, “God sees how it really is.”

The bloodshot eyes opened wider.

“The Wojiks will be there tomorrow?” she said again. “Mid-afternoon? With the radio?”

Weitz closed his clammy hands around hers and squeezed. “They’ll be there.”