Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

Chapter 3

“Looks like I’m going home,” Ike announced, a letter on official stationery flapping in one hand. His expressive face was bunched up in a scowl. Not for the first time, Ty had the thought that Ike would make a lousy poker player because his every reaction was plain to see.

“Excuse me, sir?” Ty was the first of General Eisenhower’s staff to speak up, even though more than a dozen others were within earshot. “What’s this about going home?”

“I’ve been ordered to Washington for a two-week vacation,” Ike said. “How about that.”

Ty knew that there were just two people who outranked Ike — General George C. Marshall and the president of the United States. The orders must have come from one of them. “Are you going home for good, sir?”

The general shook his head. “Hell no, son. This is what amounts to a two-week working vacation.”

He handed Ty the letter. One glance at the signature line told him it was from Marshall. The commanding general was direct as always. “You will be under terrific strain from now on,” Marshall wrote. “I am not interested in the usual rejoinder that you can take it. It is of vast importance that you be fresh mentally and you certainly will not be if you go straight from one great problem to another. Now come on home and see your wife and trust somebody else for 20 minutes in England.”

As the news spread through headquarters, activity came to a standstill. Uniformed men and women stood quietly, not sure what this news meant. Not everyone had heard. From a neighboring office they could hear someone shouting into a phone about how they needed that supply train to arrive, no matter what. For some reason, as the room grew quiet, Ty became more aware of smells damp wool, armpits, reheated coffee, Brill Cream, and over it all a cloying fog of stale cigarette smoke. Normally, Ike might have made some joke and told everyone to get back to work. Instead, the general was looking at Kay Summersby as if she were the only person in the room. “I’m wanted at home,” he said quietly, as if just to Kay, and not sounding altogether happy about it. Then, in a louder voice into which he forced a cheerful tone, he added, “You’re coming with me, Ty. You and Smithers and Henderson. And Joe, of course.”

He didn’t mention Kay. She looked away.

Ty understood then that it wasn’t necessarily General Marshall or President Roosevelt who wanted the general home. It might be Mamie Eisenhower. Ike kept his personal problems to himself, but it was no secret that he and his wife had a strained relationship. There had been many hints in the press about the general and his pretty English staffer and driver, of how they stayed up late playing bridge and were almost inseparable. Photographs showed the two of them together, smiling against what could almost be called a romantic backdrop — wartime London. Kay served as his escort to parties and dinners. Platonic or not, it had all the outward appearances of an affair. Two thousand miles away on the other side of the Atlantic and all alone, Mamie had made it clear in her letters to Ike that she was not happy with the situation. It was almost a certainty that she had badgered Marshall into finally telling Ike to come home for a visit, however brief.

Slowly, headquarters got back to work. Someone started to peck at a typewriter; a telephone rang, then another. Ty was reminded of a symphony warming up. Joe Durham, Eisenhower’s whip-cracking chief of staff, began cruising the room like a grumpy walrus at feeding time, drawn to the scent of inactivity rather than fish. Ty moved to Kay’s side.

“I’m sorry you won’t be coming with us,” he said. “I would have liked to show you around.”

Kay’s smile was forced. “Maybe when the war is over,” she said.

Ty wanted to say more — he and Kay had grown close after months of working together — but they couldn’t talk in the middle of the SHAEF headquarters. What Ty had to say was not something he wanted to be overhead, such as the fact that the general was someone who took his commitments seriously. He might be in love with Kay, but he would never leave Mamie for his pretty English assistant. “Listen, let’s have a drink later on,” he said.

Kay nodded but avoided his eyes. “That would be lovely, Ty. Right now I’m going to find a cup of tea.” She practically fled from the room.

Ty glanced at the general, but he had not been watching Kay. Ike’s good spirits had returned and his famous grin stretched from ear to ear as staffers joked with him about going home. Home. After nearly two years in Europe the word had taken on an almost magical quality. Ty thought of Washington’s streets, how they would be slick with rain on a night like this. Because of the war, the streetlights were dark and the monuments weren’t lit, but there was enough of a glow in the sky to illuminate the long stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue. The sidewalks would be filled with men and women in uniform, or else suits and briefcases, hurrying about the business of government in wartime. Everywhere there was a sense of urgency, of important things about to be done.

And there was Eva. He wondered if they might pick up where they left off. They had kept up a steady stream of letters. He would write her again that night to let her know that he was coming to Washington. He imagined being in bed with her on a winter afternoon, pale sunlight streaming through the tall windows of her house on Connecticut Avenue. He shook his head to clear it. If he kept that up, he was going to need a cold shower. Not that there was any other kind in London.

He went over to Ike. “When do we leave, sir?”

“We need some time to wrap things up here. Let’s say December 31. That gives us ten days. I want to get some things finished here first. It’s kind of like banking a coal fire for the night.” The general paused. “It’s going to be something, isn’t it, Ty, to get home for a while?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I can’t wait,” said Ty, thinking again of Eva. “I’ll start handling the details right away.”

“I know you will, son.” Ike laughed and flashed his famous grin. “I’ll be damned. We’re going home!”

The letter for Eva Von Stahl arrived in Washington several days later. She read it in the parlor of her grand house on K Street. By the time she finished, her hands were shaking.

Eva smiled, thinking of Ty Walker. It was just like him to write such a sentimental letter. She had met him in the fall of 1942 at a party given by one of the officers on General Marshall’s staff. Ty was all alone in a corner drinking a glass of champagne much too quickly; he was an awkward captain trying to seem at ease while his boss, General Eisenhower, chatted amiably with the most powerful men in Washington. It was Eisenhower that she had gone there to meet, but his wife hovered nearby, a genuine wallflower with jealous eyes, so Eva had done her hunting elsewhere.

“Those bubbles will go right to your head if you are not careful,” she had warned as Ty plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter.

“I don’t care much for these parties,” he had said. “But it’s all part of the job.”

“What job is that, Captain?”

“I’m on General Eisenhower’s staff.”

“Really?” Eva touched his arm and let her hand linger. She could have sworn that the young captain jumped as if touched by an electric current. “That must be very interesting. I hear that the general has only the best young officers on his staff.”

They had another glass of champagne as Eva asked Ty all about himself. She found it was the favorite subject of most men. They smoked a cigarette on the patio. Later that night, Eva took him to bed.

That was the beginning of their affair and it lasted all through the fall. Ty must have thought it had the intensity of any wartime romance. Eva felt a little guilty because she had a soft spot for Ty and he fell hard for her. He was an earnest young man like many she had known in Germany. And he had a youthful enthusiasm for sex. They made love at night before they went to sleep and first thing in the morning when they woke up. Sometimes they spent an afternoon under the covers or else she was awakened deep in the night by Ty’s touch between her legs. Half asleep, she would take him into her as if in a dream. They always slept naked, even though winter was coming on. She liked going to sleep feeling his hard belly pressed into the small of her back, one of Ty’s hands cupped around her breast.

Since then, Eva had welcomed many men into her bed. Most did not spend the night. But unlike most of the men she saw, Ty was not cheating on a wife safely at home in Pittsburgh or Boston. Those men seemed to see Eva as nothing more than a wartime diversion. They still talked too much and told her information they shouldn’t have, usually to make themselves seem important. Ty had no secrets. But he would be on Eisenhower’s staff in London, and talk was that the general was the man who would be running the show in Europe.

A few years ago, if anyone had suggested to Eva that she would soon be a spy and a whore, she would have laughed — and, on further reflection, would likely have slapped his face. But war had changed everything, including her own destiny. She was still Eva Von Stahl — skin the color of milk, blue eyes, platinum hair — who had caught the eye of Albert Speer and then of Adolf Hitler himself. The same Eva Von Stahl who had been an actress appearing on the silver screen with Marlene Dietrich. But Eva also wasn’t one to fool herself. She’d never had any leading roles, and the bigger the movie, the smaller her part had been. That was one reason why, when the Abwehr had approached her in the late autumn of 1939, that she had agreed to play the greatest role of her life.

How well she remembered those heady months of the previous summer. They were like a golden time. All through Europe, it was the best weather than anyone could remember. Sunny blue skies, just enough rain. It was as if winter would never return.

That had been the summer of the big Nuremberg rallies. Thousands of men, rank upon rank, and presiding over it all was the Fuhrer on the marble dais. Seeing the massed power of Germany and the strength of its people, it was easy then to believe in the Third Reich and Hitler’s dream of a German empire that would last a thousand years. That was the summer that she had met Kurt Von Stahl.

The young Wehrmacht captain was from an aristocratic family near Munich. His grandfather was a baron, a proud old man who had helped command the Kaiser’s armies to disaster in the Great War. Eva had wondered at the time if the baron had helped lead to her own father’s ruin, but she was too caught up in a summer romance to worry much about that. Eva wasn’t making any films that summer and so they did what a thousand other couples did on the brink of war — they lived as if there was no tomorrow. Those months were a blur of champagne and music, sunshine and dancing. They were married in August. Someday, Eva would be a baroness.

And then the war came. Blitzkreig. The very sound of the word made sense when you thought of the German legions rolling across Poland, Belgium and France. How Eva had come to hate the sound of that word and her own naiveté about war — and Kurt’s as well.

On September 1, 1939, one of the most symbolic incidents of the war had taken place when Polish cavalry attacked German tanks leading the blitz at a town called Krojanty. Kurt’s own Panzer was among them. The Poles on horseback were no match for tanks and machine guns. They were cut down mercilessly. Eva imagined sometimes how it must have been — horses screaming in pain as they were torn apart, men out of another century brandishing lances and revolvers as they died under the machine guns. It helped her understand what Kurt had done. Taking pity on a wounded Polish officer whose leg was pinned beneath his dead horse, Kurt ordered his tank to stop and climbed down to help the man. According to the tank crew, Captain Von Stahl had walked up to the wounded man unarmed. The Polish officer had then shot him dead at point blank range.

When the Abwehr sought her out a few weeks later, Eva said yes.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Petra entered the parlor to bring coffee. Eva set the letter aside as Petra put the tray on the table next to her: pot, cup and saucer, cream, sugar and plate of cookies. Eva sighed. “Take the cookies away,” she said in German. “You’re always wanting to fatten me up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was the girl who could have done with a little fattening up, Eva thought. She was too thin, her bony shoulders like coat hangers holding up her dress. Blond and blue-eyed, Petra might have passed for a poor country girl from the farms around Frankfurt until she spoke and mangled perfectly good German with her Polish accent. Petra claimed that her grandparents were ethnic Germans, part of the wave that had settled in Poland in the nineteenth century for the rich farmland there. She had come with Eva from Germany, a refugee of the blitz.

Even now, Eva felt as if she hardly knew the girl. Petra would only let her go so far into her personal life; talking to her was like walking into a house full of locked rooms. Eva understood now how war could do that to someone. Petra never had much to say to anyone. She was plain-looking and tended to break out in red splotches of embarrassment around men. Nonetheless, Eva knew for a fact that two or three of the delivery boys who came to the kitchen had taken Petra out to the movies or on picnics. How far they had gotten with their Polish date was hard to say. Her English was rudimentary at best, but you didn’t need to speak the language to know what the boys were after.

Petra glided silently out of the parlor, bearing the cookies away. Eva took a sip of coffee, annoyed at the interruption and with herself for speaking in German. They were alone in the house but speaking German was a bad habit to get into. No one would be surprised — everyone knew she was German — but Eva had made every effort to give the outward appearance of having embraced all things American. That included refraining from snapping at the servant in Deutsch. No good would come from reminding everyone that she was still German at heart.

She went back to Ty’s letter. I will be coming back to Washington on New Year’s Day. I know I can’t presume for us to pick up where we left off. Too many months have gone by for that. But perhaps we could still spend some time together. I would like that. Of course, I will have to work around the general’s schedule while he is in Washington. He is supposed to be on vacation but a man like Ike won’t sit still for long and I’m sure he will be busy at the War Department…

Eva’s hands shook. The coffee sat forgotten, growing cold as the winter shadows lengthened in the room. Eisenhower was coming to Washington.

For some weeks now, she had been told to be alert for any such news. This was the opportunity that Eva had awaited. Finally, she could be useful to Berlin. She would radio the information to the Abwehr tonight.

Eva heard the doorbell ring. A man’s voice echoed in the hallway. Alarmed, she thought for a moment that it might be Colonel Fleischmann. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. Eva jumped up from the chair and put Ty’s letter in the fire. The thin military stationery turned to ash almost instantly. She wished she had time to scatter them with the poker. Fleischmann was the type who only had to sniff the ashes to know what the letter said. Then, with a certain amount of relief, she recognized General Caulfield’s voice. He slipped away from the War Department whenever he could, reminding Eva of some stray dog, gray around the muzzle, that kept turning up at one’s door.

As the general came into the parlor, Eva turned to him with a radiant smile and said, “Darling, I was hoping you would come.”

Machine gun fire rattled after the Junkers Ju 52 as the twin-engine plane swept down the icy runway. The Russians pushed harder every day so that even the airstrip had come under attack. Hess braced himself in his seat. He didn’t like the idea of being shot at but not being able to shoot back. The Mosin-Nagant rifle was gripped in his hands, but it wasn’t much use. He was seated near one of the few windows and watched at the ground beneath rushed past in a white blur. Snow and ice. Hess would be glad to be someplace warmer for a while. Even Berlin sounded tropical compared to Stalingrad. Then the engines surged as the Junkers rose and banked heavily to avoid puffs of anti-aircraft fire bursting at the end of the runway. In the seat beside him, he noticed that Colonel Brock had shut his eyes tight.

“You don’t like to fly, Herr Obersturmbahnfuhrer?”

“I wise man once told me that falling wasn’t so bad, Hess. It’s hitting the ground. I think of that wisdom whenever I’m in a plane.”

“Don’t worry. If we get hit the plane will blow up long before we ever reach the ground. I’ve seen it happen many times.”

Brock opened his eyes long enough to look sideways at Hess. He was disturbed to see what might have been a smile on the sniper’s face. Either Hess had cold water running through his veins or the months of fighting in Stalingrad had made him mad. Maybe a little of both. Brock shut his eyes again and tried to imagine that he was somewhere else.

Hess looked around the crowded belly of the Junkers. The plane was mostly filled with wounded going home. Many of the bandages hadn’t been changed in so long that they were crusted over with dried blood that was hard as oak bark. The frigid air in the plane smelled of wood smoke and sweat from dirty uniforms, damp metal from the puddles of melted snow at their feet, along with a whiff of cordite. One man cried out as a bursting shell made the plane shudder.

The colonel wasn’t the only man who was nervous. Hess could see fear etched on the faces of several who were clearly combat veterans. Teeth clenched, eyes focused on something only they could see. Someone mumbled a prayer. A few soldiers sat on their helmets, apparently hoping it might give them some protection from what the Russians were throwing at them. The propellers clawed at the icy air, trying to carry them above the worst of the flack guns. Another shell burst nearby and the plane rocked but kept climbing desperately. Hess had the feeling that not many more planes were going to make it out of Stalingrad.

He looked out the window again. The city grew smaller until it was like a collection of buildings in a child’s train garden, shrouded under dirty snow. The Volga wrapped around it all like a smooth brown muscle. It seemed impossible that this was the city where he had crawled on his belly from one sniper’s den to another, hunting Russian after Russian, every day a game he played with his very life. Stalingrad. In a strange way, he missed it already.

Propped on one elbow in her big feather bed, Eva used a finger to trace a pattern on General Harlan Caulfield’s bare chest. If Caulfield had been paying attention instead of staring at Eva’s breasts, no doubt lost in some fantasy, he might have noticed her fingertip was drawing a perfect swastika — the symbol of the Third Reich — on his chest.

Caulfield was a fool, but he was kind compared to that beast, Colonel Fleischmann. As long as Caulfield was in her bed it meant that Fleischmann was not, which was fine with Eva. Even Fleischmann wasn’t depraved enough to consider a ménage a trois — he wanted Eva all to himself.

“You look tired,” Eva said, feeling like an actress once more as she gave him a look of concern. “General Marshall has been working you too hard.”

“It’s been busy the last few days. Marshall hasn’t been giving us any rest. The man practically lives there.”

“What could possibly be keeping you so busy? Eisenhower has won in Italy. The Nazis are retreating, aren’t they?”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.” Caulfield gave a soft laugh that ended in a cough. “I’m afraid the Nazis aren’t beaten yet. You’ve seen them firsthand. Do you think they are going to surrender because they lost Italy? No, my dear, they will fight for every last inch of ground.”

Eva felt angry, and just a bit alarmed, that Caulfield had brought up her German past. She stopped tracing patterns on his chest. “I just wondered why you were so busy. You’re looking thin.”

“A steady diet of coffee and cigarettes will do that to you.”

“Darling, next time you’re here I’ll have Petra cook you a nice steak dinner.”

Caulfield raised his eyebrows. “Where you do get steak? I haven’t had a decent steak in months.” With rationing, it was hard to get much more than hamburger. There did seem to be plenty of pork.

“We have our ways,” she said. She poked him playfully in a love handle. “Some of the delivery boys like Polish girls.”

“Then I’ll leave dinner to you as long as you leave the war to us.”

Eva tried for what she hoped was a sweet smile, though she was ready to dig her nails into his pale flesh instead. That might wipe the smug look from his face. Caulfield always treated her as if she had cotton for brains. He was just the sort of man who was forever calling the women in the office “honey” and asking them to fetch coffee. Then again, Eva reminded herself, this was just why she found Caulfield so useful. He thrived on office gossip, loving a juicy tidbit the way some men must have loved their tanks and guns. He never thought twice about telling her military secrets. She was just an empty-headed woman, after all.

“You’re right, darling, I don’t know anything about war. I’m an actress, remember? That’s why you have someone brilliant like Marshall in charge of the army.”

The mention of Marshall’s name brought a hearty laugh from the colonel. “Honey, you really don’t know anything about the army if you think somebody like George C. Marshall is brilliant. He’s more like one of those adding machines that’s good at figures and at keeping the numbers in orderly rows. I’ll admit that he’s an organizer, efficient as hell, but he’s not much of a general, which is why he’s in Washington. Not like Eisenhower. He’s got the British eating out of his hand. And he’s a brilliant strategist. Hitler won’t last long now.”

“You say that, darling, but from what I hear Eisenhower has been taking his time getting around to attacking Hitler in Europe itself. Someone needs to stop that jack-booted monster.”

Caulfield chuckled the way a man did when he knew more than he was letting on. “Just you wait, my dear Eva. You’ll be back home in Berlin soon enough. Maybe I’ll even visit you there.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t start packing my bags quite yet.”

“No, but you might want to think about it this spring,” Caulfield said.

“What do you mean?” Eva went back to tracing patterns on his chest, trying not to show that she was too interested. This time, she drew out stars. The patch of gray hair there matched that on his head, or, for that matter, the gray web of frost on the windowpane. “Is that when Eisenhower is going to invade?”

“Let’s just say there’s a reason we’ve been so busy at headquarters.”

Eva’s heart pounded. This might explain why General Eisenhower was coming to Washington. Along with Marshall and his staff, Eisenhower must be in the early stages of planning the invasion of Europe. She would have to press Ty Walker on the subject, because she couldn’t let slip to Caulfield that she knew about Eisenhower’s impending visit. For obvious reasons, she was sure that was being done under secret conditions.

Caulfield took her hand and gently pulled her closer. “Don’t worry about all those generals, Eva. In fact, forget I even said anything. Loose lips sink ships and all that.” His other hand slipped down her bare back. “Besides, I’m planning an invasion of my own.”

When they had finished making love, Eva slipped quietly as possible from under the sheets and quilt. Caulfield was sound asleep thanks to his exertions — and a large glass of bourbon. The sun was fading from the sky and the web of frost on the windowpane had grown larger as if spun by wintry spiders. It would be dark soon enough. With any lucky, the colonel would sleep for hours.

Eva put on her robe and slippers, then eased out the door, careful to avoid the floorboard near the threshold that never failed to creak. If Caulfield woke up now, he would ruin everything. None of the lights were on in the hall and Petra was nowhere to be seen. Eva opened the door that led to the attic. A flood of cold air spilled down the steps and she gathered her gown tight around her. She pulled the door shut behind her. There was a flashlight on the stairs and she switched it on.

At first glance, the attic was no different from most. Boxes filled the bulk of the space. Some of her better things were hidden away in trunks. She had hung some of her summer dresses from the rafters and they stood out now like ghostly sentinels. There was an air of neglect and a tang of dust, which was just the way Eva wanted it. A single window in the peak of the eaves glowed with the last of the light like the eye of a Cyclops. Eva was careful never to switch on any lights up here after dark. She could have covered the window, but that might have made Petra suspicious. The flashlight didn’t give off enough light for it to be noticeable from the street below. She was unsure how long Caulfield would sleep, so she hurried to a wardrobe pushed against the tallest wall. She opened the door and shoved aside the old coats that hung there, smelling of mothballs, and then crawled through the hole she had cut in the back. She found herself in a cubbyhole under the eaves. That was where she kept the radio.

Eva checked the charge on the batteries, and then set the frequency. Listening carefully one last time in the near darkness, she made sure that she could hear no one moving in the house below. And then Eva switched on the radio and began to send her message.