Enemies, page 15
Chapter Thirty-One
Brandenburg an der Havel, April 12, 1942
Joseph Schmidt slung his duffel over one shoulder and boarded a streetcar. Taking a seat near the rear, he dropped the bag to the floor as the car eased forward toward Quenz Lake. Schmidt was skeptical of the whole project. He didn’t much trust this flabby lieutenant, Walter Kappe. The man seemed incompetent, overcome by an inflated sense of self and an ideological fervor. Schmidt was a far more practical type of man, but any chance to get back out of Germany was worth investigating. He’d keep an open mind. For the time being, this “school for sabotage” might not be so bad. Three weeks with a roof over his head and three square meals per day sounded all right. Plus, it was hard to turn down the chance to spend some time playing with explosives. In fact, that part sounded like a whole lot of fun.
The streetcar moved through the outskirts of town, with Schmidt’s fellow passengers disembarking a few at a time until he was the only one left on board. At the very last stop, he lifted his bag and climbed down the steps before ducking his head back inside and calling out to the driver. “Quenzsee?” he asked, unsure where exactly to find the lake.
The driver pointed down a small road. “Dieser weg.”
“Danke.” Schmidt adjusted his shoulder strap and began walking down a country lane hemmed in by forest on either side. When the road eased to the left, he saw the lake to his right, spread before him like an inland sea. Further on he came to a compound, hidden behind a tall fence topped with barbed wire. “This must be the place,” he said to himself. When he found the front gate, two armed guards demanded to see his papers. Schmidt pulled the documents from his bag and handed them over. After a close examination, the guards waved him through.
Moving past the sentries, Schmidt couldn’t help but scowl. He’d never cared much for authority. It was a way of life in Germany these days, a country that seemed addicted to the power of the uniform. Schmidt preferred the wilds of Canada and living by his wits. Well, you had to make do with the reality you faced, he thought. As he continued through the property, forestland gave way to tilled fields until eventually he came to a large, two-story farmhouse facing the lake, with a few outbuildings on one side and a large barn nearby. From a distance, he saw two men standing on the front porch of the house. As he drew nearer, Schmidt laughed. If it wasn’t his old shipmate, Herbie Haupt himself. Kappe hadn’t mentioned this detail. When Schmidt turned up the front path, young Herbie’s face lit up in recognition.
“Schmidt!” Herbie exclaimed. “How’d they ever let a rogue like you in here?”
“Look who’s talking, the skirt-chasing boy wonder from Chicago!” Schmidt climbed the steps, sizing up the third man with a critical eye. This fellow was tall and thin, with a slight stoop and a pronounced gray streak running through his hair.
“This is Dasch,” Herbie introduced him. “George Dasch.”
“How are you, George?” Schmidt reached out a hand.
“Very well, thank you!” Dasch flashed a smile as he pumped Schmidt’s arm with a frenetic energy. “It’s good to meet you. Why don’t you come inside and we’ll get you settled?”
“Lead the way.”
The three men moved on into the farmhouse. While Schmidt was happy to see his young friend, he couldn’t help but question the wisdom of including the kid on such a mission. This was serious business. Could the kid really be trusted to keep his mouth shut? Or would he give the whole thing away, bragged about it to a couple of girls in a Chicago bar? This Dasch character didn’t inspire much confidence either, from the looks of him. He wasn’t the hardened type. You could see it in his eyes. Dasch was the sort who thought that book smarts were the measure of a man. He was soft, that much was clear. A man who belonged behind a desk, not on a secret mission in the field. His quick smile was a sure sign of insincerity. Schmidt was not enthused, but at least the farm was nice. Spending some time in this place wouldn’t be bad. Whether he’d ultimately take part in this mission was another question entirely.
The full contingent gathered in the morning to begin their training. The classroom was located in one of the outbuildings, with a desk for each man, a podium in the front and a chalkboard hanging on the wall. Sitting in the back of the class, Schmidt sized-up his fellow saboteurs. There was Herbie, who he already knew quite well. Then there was Dasch, whose ingratiating demeanor could only spell trouble. Burger was the quiet one, eyeing the others with suspicion. Neubauer, injured in the war, seemed eager to make a good impression. Kerling, the handsome one, was a die-hard supporter of the cause whose enthusiastic “Heil Hitler” salutes let everyone know it. As for the rest, Quirin, Heinck and Thiel, there was nothing much to distinguish them. Working-class one and all, they would do as they were told. Recently returned from the Russian front, Ernst Zuber seemed in a constant fog, an enduring case of shell-shock haunting his every thought. The last man, “Scottie,” was small and wiry, with eyes that darted nervously to and fro. He was an incessant talker with a thick Scottish accent, constantly punching at the air as he discussed boxing and all of the fights he’d promoted in his day. All-in-all, Schmidt was none too impressed, yet a trip back to North America was at stake. How hard would it be for him to slip unnoticed back across the border into Canada and merely vanish? For the moment, he would keep an open mind.
When the door opened, Kappe strode into the room wearing his lieutenant’s uniform, followed by a thin, weathered man in civilian clothes. The trainees fell silent, sitting up a bit straighter at their desks. “Good morning, gentlemen!” Kappe addressed them. The other man passed out notepads and pencils before taking his place beside the lieutenant at the lectern. “Welcome!” Kappe continued. “The mission we will prepare you to undertake is a dangerous one, but I cannot stress enough how important it is to the war effort. The Fuhrer himself is counting on each and every one of you.” Kappe paused to eye each man for effect. “During your training, we will speak in English at all times. I want each of you to become re-accustomed to speaking in this language. That means no German from this moment on. Once the mission begins, you will be operating in two groups. Each group will be transported aboard a submarine to the United States where your primary task will be to cripple aluminum production. No aluminum means no airplanes. No American airplanes means we win the war. It is as simple as that. According to our experts, if the electrical power to an aluminum factory is cut off for as little as eight hours, the molten aluminum will harden inside the baths, completely destroying them. One bomb carefully set at the base of an electrical tower can render an entire plant useless for three months or more.” Kappe peered around the room to let this information sink in. “Now, let me introduce one of your instructors, Doktor Konig!”
The man beside Kappe raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Good morning.”
“Please open your notebooks,” Kappe went on. “Doktor Konig will begin your first lesson on how to build a bomb.”
Konig lifted a piece of chalk and began to draw a diagram on the board. “Our first incendiary device can be made from materials purchased at any neighborhood drug store.”
Schmidt lifted his own pencil to copy the diagram into his notepad. One never knew when the ability to make a bomb from household products might come in handy…
In the evening, the men’s time was their own. A thirty-minute walk through the woods led to the nearest village pub. Once they’d settled in at a table near the back, the group ordered one round and then another, with Scottie chasing each beer with an additional glass of whiskey. Speaking to each other in English, the men drew quizzical looks from regular patrons. Most pretended not to notice. They’d learned not to ask questions. Just as they hadn’t said anything when the village’s Jewish residents were rounded up and loaded onto a train a few days before. No, the locals didn’t question what was going on at the farm on the lake, formerly home to a longstanding Jewish family and from whence they now heard gunfire and explosions emanating at all hours of the day and night. These things were none of their business. Just as these newcomers gathered in their local pub, speaking the language of their enemies, was none of their business. In Germany, keeping one’s head down was a means of survival. The trainees and the locals did their best to pretend each other did not exist. All except for Herbie. When two unaccompanied women entered the bar, his attention was drawn. The girls were a bit older, yet still attractive. One was tall and strong, with blue eyes and long blond hair weaved into a braid. The other was petite, with dark hair hanging loose over a white blouse. The pair ordered two small beers and shared a single cigarette, handing it back and forth as they lost themselves in conversation.
“Hey, Schmidt,” Herbie said. “Look at those two.”
“Settle down, Romeo.”
“Aw, come on!” Herbie persisted. “Take your pick, I don’t care. You can have the blondie if you want.”
“Don’t forget what we’re on about here. Our training is strictly secret.”
“So? We don’t have to tell them nothing.”
“Keep your seat,” Schmidt growled. “This isn’t the time.”
Herbie’s dejection showed “So when is the time?”
“Don’t worry, my young friend, we’ll get you a woman. But not tonight.”
Herbie lifted his beer and drank half the glass. The one thing he wanted more than anything else was to be home. Chicago called out to him. His old life, his family and friends, Gerda. Just a few more weeks and he would be off to America. All he had to do was get through this training, land on a beach somewhere and then steal away from his group. He could do this. Yet for the present, loneliness filled his heart. It was the loneliness that a woman might cure, if only temporarily. Instead of pursuing it, however, he nodded to Schmidt. “Fine then, not tonight.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Koenigsberg, April 13, 1942
Standing beside an accommodating clerk inside the railway station, Wolfgang waited while she read a letter he’d received in the mail. Unable to entirely decipher it himself, he’d asked her to translate it for him. Wolf already suspected the worst, yet when the clerk read the text word for word, his heart still sank. “Wolfgang Wergin, you are hereby notified that you are called to duty in defense of the Deutsches Reich. Report to the main railway station, Koenigsberg, at 08:00, 23 of April, for transport to training camp, Sixteenth Army of the Wehrmacht. You are allowed one bag with civilian clothing for three (3) days. Heil Hitler!” And just like that, the trajectory of his life shifted once more. Wolf would not spend the war lugging bags for passengers in this out-of-the-way Baltic station. He would be right in the thick of it, fighting for a country he’d hardly known firsthand, in an army whose language he was still learning to speak. Maybe Wolf was born here in Germany, but he was an American through-and-through. Baseball, apple pie and the sounds of Glenn Miller. That’s what he’d grown up with. If this war dragged on long enough, he might even face his old schoolmates across the front lines. For the time being that wasn’t a concern, Wolfgang realized. He was headed straight for the Russian front, to bleed and perhaps even die for a cause he felt little connection to.
Less than two weeks later, Wolf stood on the platform, this time with his grandmother by his side. He glanced around with curiosity at his fellow inductees. Most were about his age, just out of high school or perhaps even a bit younger. A few were athletic, though others small and thin. Some had yet to work off a layer of baby fat. Adolescents is what they were, not really men at all. Most had parents along to see them off, and younger siblings bounding with energy along the platform. Some would never return. Which among them were saying farewell for the very last time? Wolfgang himself? He turned to his grandmother. Despite the gravity of the situation, he imagined that she must be relieved on some level. Taking care of him these past months wasn’t easy on her. Perhaps this was for the best. He tried to convince himself as the recruits began boarding the train. “Goodbye.” He gave his grandmother a warm embrace. Wolf was surprised when his grandmother used her sleeve to dab at tears running down her cheek.
“Du bist ein gutter junge, Wolfgang,” she said. You are a good boy.
“Dankeshoen. For everything.”
“Auf wiedersehen, mein enkel.”
The two stood staring at one another. Wolf hesitated before lifting his bag. He wasn’t sure what else to say, or even how to say it. His grandmother was distressed by his departure. Perhaps Wolf hadn’t understood the situation as well as he’d thought. Only now did he realize how much he’d eased her loneliness. His grandmother had a sharp personality, there was no denying it, yet that didn’t mean she wasn’t grateful for his company. Or was she just afraid that he might never return? The time for coming to any sort of better understanding was behind them. Instead, Wolf leaned close and kissed her damp cheek. He hoisted the strap to his duffel over one shoulder and moved across the platform, up the steps and into the nearest carriage. When he’d found a seat, he stuffed his bag in an overhead rack. The car overflowed with nervous energy as recruits waved to families out the window or sat chattering to each other in German. Never before had Wolf felt so out of place. What would they think when they found out he was American? A sworn enemy?
“Ich habe lange auf diesen tag gewartet!” the boy beside him said with glee. He was one of the skinny ones, barely old enough to be considered a soldier.
Wolfgang nodded, translating the words as best he could in his mind. I’ve been waiting a long time for this day.
“Endlich können wir uns auf den Kampf einlassen!”
“Javol,” said Wolf. “Endlich können wir kämpfen.”
The boy’s face dropped. His glee was replaced with incredulity as he processed the accent. “You are English?!”
“No.” Wolfgang looked around uneasily as the train lurched forward. “German. But I grew up in America.”
The boy laughed in disbelief. “America! But you fight for Germany?!”
“Yes.”
The boy thought this over and then offered a hand. “Otto. Otto Schreiber.”
“Wolf Wergin.”
“Welcome to the sixteenth army.”
Out the window, Wolf caught a last glimpse of his grandmother standing alone at the back of the platform, one hand in the air. He raised his own in return as the train eased out of the station. He’d come an awfully long way from the quiet house on South Wood Street, Chicago, Illinois. He wondered if he’d ever see that place again. Wolf didn’t have the luxury of saying farewell to his parents as he headed off to war. In fact, they had no idea what had even become of him. As far as his mom and dad knew, their son went to Mexico for a two-week vacation and simply never came home. There was a postcard he’d sent from Japan, but after that, complete silence. His heart yearned to contact them, to let them know that he was still all right. He had been able to get a letter off to Herbie in Stettin, just a few days beforehand, but there was no knowing if his friend would even receive it. Maybe if Herbie did get back to America, he could convey this news to Wolf’s parents. Herbie, who was bound to end up in a federal prison if he made it that far. In hindsight, however, perhaps Herbie’s was the better way. Just go home and disappear. Maybe the FBI would never catch on after all. As for Wolf, he’d do his best to survive, both the war and the deep homesickness that descended upon him like a fog. One day at a time, for as long as those days lasted. That was all he could do.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Quenz Lake, April 24, 1942
With less than one week to go in their training, Edward Kerling was not happy. He’d learned valuable lessons about building bombs and setting fuses. He knew how to blow up a rail line and take down a bridge. Kerling was eager to set about these tasks as soon as possible. The problem, as he saw it, lay with his collaborators. First there was his old friend Hermann, who still had metal shards lodged in his head. What if they led to medical complications? If Hermann went to an American hospital, he could never explain where this embedded Russian shrapnel came from. Then there was the Haupt kid, who cared about nothing but girls and money. And Burger, who’d previously been locked up in a concentration camp. How could his loyalty be trusted? Zuber and Scottie were another story entirely. The pair didn’t have more than half a brain between them. Scottie was drunk whenever he could manage it. Zuber left his cognitive abilities behind somewhere on the front, if he ever had any to begin with. Not only could he barely speak English, he didn’t even communicate in German very well. Perhaps worst of all was Dasch, who never shut up. Besides that, he paid almost no attention in their training courses. When tested, Dasch failed time and again, unable to remember how to assemble an explosive device, or set a fuse, or even follow through on a simple task, like sending a message with invisible ink. Worse yet, he was excruciatingly smug. When the group snapped to attention with a Heil Hitler salute, Dasch shoved his hands into his pockets, a sly smile on his lips. Could Kappe see none of this? Kerling worried that Dasch might actively betray the entire mission. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have some of these men removed. It was the reason Eddie sat facing the lieutenant in this empty classroom, doing the best he could to make his case about each of them. As Kappe listened to these concerns, the veins on his forehead throbbed.
“I see your point about Scottie and Ernst,” Kappe admitted. “I’ve had my doubts about those two. I am willing to send them packing, but as for the rest, I believe you’ve misjudged them.”
