Target Churchill

Chapter 14

Miller had barely left his room in the last two weeks, except to make his call and eat sandwiches at the Peoples Drug Store across the street from the Y. He had been pinned on the razor’s edge of confusion. Abruptly, like a surgeon who cuts out a cancer, he had sliced Stephanie out of his life — or had tried. The pain of the incision was relentless.

At first, he thought it was a ploy. They, the mysterious Soviet intelligence forces that hovered over his life, had deliberately aborted the affair. A Jew — what could be more clever? She had done her job well. But a Jew?

Yet the logic of it evaded him. Perhaps she had been what he had deduced all along, a counteragent, an American plant. It was another suspicion he could not reconcile rationally.

His hatred of the Jews expanded in his mind. They were cunning, always one step ahead. No matter how many were killed, there were always more. Who knows how many they needed to sacrifice to achieve their dream of world domination? He remembered The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which he had read again and again.

No, he decided, she could not be a Jew. She was posing as a Jew to force him to deliberately break it off, which he had done, ruthlessly, refusing all contact.

This theory seemed to gain headway in his mind as he turned it over and over. Besides, she didn’t look at all Jewish. Physically, she was the perfect Aryan woman. Had they deliberately cast her to lure him on? She did not carry the obvious stain of their likeness: the jet-black kinky hair, the long hawk-like nose, the mark of their predatory nature, the smell — this latter characteristic based upon his own instinctive scent, which confirmed he could distinguish a Jew by some special olfactory emission like that given off by a nigger.

She was a genuine blonde. He had seen her light patch of pubic hair, and his uncut penis was evidence of his racial truth. Considering how she had lavished attention on that part, she certainly could have no illusions about his origins. Why had she chosen that moment? Nor had she raised any questions about her own antecedents or political views, telling him that she avoided such information as too upsetting to dwell on.

“I do not dwell on the dark side of the human condition,” she had told him once. “I am in the healing business.”

He hadn’t challenged such statements, which — thinking about it in retrospect — could have been yet another ploy to avoid any subject that might make him suspicious of her motives. On his part, he did not reveal anything of his own views, anything at all that might give himself away.

On the other hand… he was full of “other hands”… she might have reported to her superiors that he was not worth the surveillance, that it was time to drop him as a suspect. A suspect who did or will do what? No matter where his thoughts and suspicions took him, he could not abort his longing. She had cast a spell over him, made him crazy with an overwhelming sense of possession and, now, loss. Or was it lust? Even that accusation was flawed. He knew what real lust was; he had had lots of experience with lust, the sexual compulsion that drove one to pursue immediate gratification. Whether forced or consensual, the objective was never considered beyond the act of pleasure itself, like masturbation, except with a piece of living female flesh.

There was more here than merely that. Perhaps they had perfected a love potion that had enslaved him in this terrible emotional prison.

His first instinct, when she told him, was to put his hands on her throat and crush it between them. It took all of his willpower to resist the temptation. Instead, he turned the idea around, cursing himself for his naïveté. He should have obeyed his first instincts before he had become enmeshed in this emotional booby trap. Dimitrov had warned him. He should have heeded his advice.

That first night after the confession was torture. He had dropped her off at the hospital without a word.

“I understand,” was all she said in parting, obviously misreading his reaction.

He had held back from taking any action. He needed to think it through, but after a sleepless night of contemplating a plethora of scenarios, he was no closer to a definitive conclusion than he was at the moment of her revelation. Actually, it was less of a revelation than a rejection. Something was wrong here, something sinister and dangerous. A ruthless Jewess was fucking up his head.

When he came down the following morning to make his daily call, the clerk at the desk signaled with his eyes toward the reception room where they had first kissed. She was sitting in the corner of the badly lit room. Her face was pale, and she was unmistakably upset and forlorn. Her eyes were puffy and red. Quite obviously, she had been crying. Seeing her in this condition, all the angst of the night before swept away. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. At the same time, he was ashamed of such weakness and sentimentality.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” she said, her voice tremulous. “I should have told you. But….” She paused. “I… never expected. I mean… I was the aggressor here. I didn’t think. Then the reality hit me.”

“What reality?”

“You could never understand, Frank. Maybe it will be different someday. But Jewish parents, my parents, would never accept the idea. Never. I had never gone out with a gentile boy. They would have disowned me.”

Again he held himself back. Disowned you? Run you out of their disgusting tribe. Once a Jew, always a Jew. Such talk was beyond logic. There was only one conclusion. America was infected with these people. They controlled everything, directed everything. When would the Americans wise up? There was an evil disease in their midst. He told himself this, but observing her now, he could not reconcile such thoughts with the present reality.

They were a dangerous people. Hitler had been right to characterize even the slightest hint of their tainted blood as a plague, worthy of elimination. The method of disposal, gassing and burning, had been exactly correct. Reduce them to ashes. That was the only way.

“It hit me suddenly. There’s no future for us, Frank. I faced the reality of it, and it’s very painful.”

She looked up at him with tearful eyes.

“The truth is that I can’t….” She started to cry, her face a portrait of suffering. “I love you, Frank. I love you with all my heart and soul. I love you, and I don’t care what my parents or anyone else thinks. I want to be with you.”

He watched her for a long moment. He was at odds with himself. He wanted to move forward, embrace her, smother her with kisses, and ask for forgiveness, although he could not find a reason. Was it possible for her to exist outside the circle of his hatred for her people? No, he decided. He could not excise his convictions. He had been invaded, attacked.

“Leave me alone,” he said after a long pause. “I don’t want to see you again.”

“But Frank…,” she began, her eyes clouded with confusion.

She seemed stunned by his assertion, but he had made his choice and was determined to stick to it. Besides, she was in love with a fiction. She had no idea of his background and his mission. Or did she? She had been only mildly curious, which could have meant that she knew who he was and why he was here and the truth of his intentions.

Yet, despite his assertion, he continued to stand there as if attached to the floor. He watched her nod, a gesture that bespoke an abject total surrender. A sob began to trickle up from somewhere deep inside him. Finally, he found the strength to turn away.

“I understand, Frank,” she whispered. “Believe me, I will not bother you. I’ll respect your wishes.”

After two weeks of agony, and despite his meandering analysis of her intentions, he still did not reach any conclusions, nor could he get her out of his mind. She dominated his thoughts and emotions more than ever, as if she had injected him with bacteria, which was devouring him.

As for his so-called mission, after so many months, he began to believe that it had been put on the shelf. Was he free of them, he wondered? What were their intentions? He had been fully prepared to do whatever deed he was assigned. After all, they had him by the balls. All he wished for now was to get it over with.

Other thoughts began to plague him. Suppose he was freed from their clutches? Was it possible to start a new life here? Had she planted such thoughts in his mind? Months before, as he was herded into that prison in the dead of winter, he was certain that his life was over. Along with his fellow officers, he was resigned to such a fate. The war was over for him. Life was over. Obersturmbannführer, you are dead meat, he assured himself, although for some reason, he was unwilling to accept the idea. Instead, he had opted for a chance at life and did his dance before Dimitrov.

But what kind of a life? Then he had seen himself as preserving his life for the extension of the real war, the war against the Jews. Was he relenting suddenly, mesmerized by this manipulative, sinister Jewess?

Eight weeks had passed since his arm and ankle had been put in a cast, two weeks since the cast on his arm was removed. It was still not perfect, but certainly workable. He could aim a rifle and pull a trigger.

He had been warned that the ankle would take longer, and his mobility was still constrained, although he was able to clump around easily and without pain. He decided he would remove his ankle cast himself. He was strong. He was lucky. Surely, the bones had knit enough for him to take a chance. Besides, he did not wish to go back to the hospital. The sight of her might be a match to dry tinder. Why tempt fate?

Instead, he went to a nearby hardware store and bought a wooden mallet and a rug cutter that might be adequate for the job. In his room, he managed to slice through the plaster and remove the cast. Although it was a relief to remove it, as he expected, the muscles and tendons had atrophied. He was able to walk, somewhat unsteadily, but that, he was certain, would get better with time.

Although the accident was the cause of his present dilemma, he had the urge to show Stephanie his unfettered self. She had only seen him as an invalid.

He began a process of self-rehabilitation, taking walks, first for short distances, then longer. The arm was growing stronger, and he was quickly regaining full mobility. The ankle was healing more slowly. Each morning, he seemed to need more and more time to unstiffen the ankle and get moving. He was conscious of a progressing limp. Yet he felt certain that he would work his way through it. He began to rely more and more on aspirin to relieve the pain.

The weather had turned icy cold. Although he tried in his mind to resume his so-called research into the president’s schedule, he noted that, at least on very cold days, Truman did not take his walks. Miller also found it difficult to renew his interest in world events.

Still, although he fought against it, railed against it, hated it like an addict hates and loves his habit, he could not resist the temptation to pass the hospital where she worked. For days, he stood outside in the cold morning air to catch a glimpse of her as she came off duty, cursing himself for his weakness. He likened his situation to being caught in a magnetic field, unable to resist the unseen power of its pressure.

Hiding behind a car or a tree, he occasionally caught a glimpse of her, watching her move into the distance. His heart jumped in his throat, his knees trembled, but he could not bring himself to reveal himself.

His mood shifted between longing and boredom. He felt as if he were in a state of suspended animation. At times, he felt a loss of identity and would often wake up from a nightmarish dream panicked and in a cold sweat, wondering who he was.

His leg pain was increasing and his dosage of aspirin had to be increased. He acknowledged that he might have been premature in removing the cast, but he felt convinced that his luck would not desert him and that the ankle would heal with time.

One morning in the lobby of the Y, just as he began his call, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a man who was vaguely familiar. He was clean-shaven and wore a fedora pulled low over his head and a light topcoat. For a brief moment, Miller was puzzled, and then it struck him.

“We meet again, Obersturmbannführer.