Padlocked, page 25
“Quiet,” Piotr said suddenly.
As they all ceased their conversation and looked in the direction Piotr pointed, a light flashed twice and stopped in the far distance to the south. It was so faint that Hank wondered whether he had seen anything at all. Then, another light flashed twice to the east. Piotr flashed his light twice in response before springing up.
Hank, Rafe, and Matylda each scrambled to their feet and grabbed a reel of wire. Though they could not see the others in the distance, they had to assume each group performed as directed. Hank focused on his reel, racing to what he thought would constitute a mile inside the train tracks, while Matylda and Rafe ran in the opposite direction.
When the line ran out, Hank tucked it inside the tracks and ran back to where the wire began. Piotr was already attaching the timed detonator. Hank attempted to watch, mesmerized by how the man could perform such delicate work in pitch-blackness, but Piotr hoarsely ordered him to get out of there.
Hank didn’t have to be told twice. He raced to the west, stumbling over the uneven ground, away from Piotr, Matylda, and Rafe. He stopped along a ridge to catch his breath and look over his shoulder. Two figures raced along the same path he had taken. One was shorter than the other, and the taller one appeared to be supporting the first one by its elbow. This, he thought, had to be Rafe and Matylda. When they disappeared into a ravine, Hank turned back to the west and continued his escape.
When the first explosion detonated, the ground shook as though an earthquake had struck, causing Hank to tumble off his feet. He instinctively covered his ears to stop the ringing as the skies lit up in a fireball of red, orange, and yellow. Strong winds carried the heavy smoke, so it appeared as though a thick fog had settled across the landscape.
He lay still for a moment, stunned by the magnitude of the blast. It had happened like clockwork. He had laid the wire; another man, whom he would never know, had attached it to the explosives, and Piotr had installed the timed detonator.
Shouting began in the distance, and he hunkered down in an attempt to identify their location. Then he spotted lights in the distant east, watching until he realized he was staring at a long line of headlights heading toward him. He was unable to see Rafe, Matylda, or Piotr’s positions.
He had just begun to stand when a second explosion rocked him, and he tumbled back down. This one was smaller in comparison, but only due to its proximity to him. As he stared toward the east, the headlights seemed to lift off the ground and become airborne, enveloped in the fire and smoke amid men’s screams.
More headlights came from the north and south when a third bomb detonated. This one, he knew, was the one Rafe had set, as it was located in the opposite direction from his own. Then, the fourth and fifth explosions rocked, this time to the south.
“What the fuck?” Rafe yelled as he came over a rise. “Run, dammit it!”
Hank bolted up and raced after Rafe, who was half-dragging Matylda in an effort to keep her moving swiftly. They had nearly reached the edge of the farm property when the sixth and last explosion detonated. He glanced back but could see no sign of Piotr.
They burst into the farmhouse and raced to the trapdoor leading into the cellar. Rafe quickly pulled back the rug underneath the hefty dining table, held open the door, and waited for Hank and Matylda to scramble down the steps. Hank watched as Rafe fumbled with the rug, attempting to place the heavy material underneath a table leg as he lowered the door.
“I know I left a crease,” Rafe said. “I know I did.”
He made for the steps to climb back up, but Hank stopped him. “Listen.”
The sound of footsteps outside the house reached them as they held their breaths, boot heels clicking on the bricks. Then, the door opened and shut quickly. They heard the rug being tamped down and the table legs slamming back down.
“He’s staying up there,” Matylda said in horror.
They stared toward the door, though they could not make out its outline in the pitch-blackness.
Then Matylda moved toward the steps. “I should be up there. He should be here.”
“No,” Rafe said, pulling her back.
Hank moved around them to grasp the makeshift stairs and move them to the darkest part of the cellar. “Here,” he whispered.
They had no sooner joined him in the corner than the area outside the house lit up as though it were daylight. Streams of light found the most minor chinks in the foundation wood and cast white ribbons across the floor, over the printing equipment, and across the beds.
Rafe held his hand over Matylda’s mouth as men burst into the farmhouse. They heard Piotr’s voice, muffled and calm, while the others shouted over one another with conflicting orders and demands for answers. Hank stood as still as a statue, his back pressed against the wall, as he waited for the table to be moved and the Gestapo to order them out.
Yet, the door was never opened.
They listened to the sounds of other doors opening, of contents being thrown about, and of furniture being overturned. The sounds grew fainter as they moved to the top floor. Through the murky light cast by the headlights outside, Hank saw Rafe with Matylda pulled in front of him, his arms enveloping her, his hand across her mouth, while tears streamed down her face and over his hand. Rafe rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes.
Then Piotr’s voice rose above the others as he was led outside, proclaiming his innocence.
Within minutes, the headlights pulled away, and they were left in utter darkness.
They waited for an unbearably long time before placing the steps back in place and climbing up, then wrestling with the door, which Piotr had effectively blocked. When they finally emerged, they discovered the house had been ransacked. The table had been turned on its side, with its heavy top against the door, and chairs were strewn around it. In their fury, the Nazis had inadvertently hidden the trap door even more.
Hank looked up to see Matylda staring out the window at the red skies filled with fire and smoke. “They took Piotr,” she said in a stunned, quiet voice.
“They didn’t kill him,” Rafe said as he hastily moved to her side. “There’s still hope we can get him back.”
She turned to them both. “It might have been more merciful, had they taken him out and shot him.”
Hank gasped.
“Why?” Rafe breathed. “How could you say that?”
“They will take him now to their torture cells. They will try to force him to identify his co-conspirators. And they will kill him anyway.”
A jolt went through Hank’s body, and when he spoke, it surprised him how authoritative he sounded. “Then, we have to get out of here. If they find Matylda, they will have all the leverage they need to get Piotr to talk.”
“He’s right,” Rafe said. He started back toward the cellar. “I’m grabbing our bags. We’ll fill them with as much food as we can. Matylda—Matylda—” he stopped as she turned back to the window.
“I can’t leave,” she said quietly. “Not as long as there is a chance...” Her voice faded into a sob.
Rafe and Hank exchanged a tortured look. “I’ll get a third bag,” Hank said finally. “Go, Rafe. Get our stuff.”
Hank found another duffel upstairs and filled it with handfuls of clothing from Matylda’s bedroom, which were now strewn across the floor. He had just descended the stairs and had begun filling a burlap bag with food when the distinct stench of petrol reached his nostrils. Rafe scrambled up the steps before pushing them further into the cellar.
“Come on,” Rafe said, grabbing Matylda. “Hank, get her out of here. I’ll be right behind you.”
Surprisingly, Matylda did not protest. Her face was filled with pain and resignation as Hank brought her outside. “Which direction?” Hank demanded.
She nodded toward the edge of the field as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “That way. There is a tunnel about five kilometers from us.”
Rafe joined them outside. “Hurry!” he said as he grabbed Matylda’s hand.
As they raced across the field, another plume of smoke ascended behind them, consuming the printing equipment, the cots, and finally, the entire house.
32
Max
Perhaps the best thing about having sex with a former milkmaid is that they definitely knew how to use their hands.
Max was propped up against the headboard, his head and shoulders on his pillow, as he watched Anke Bauer dress. She was not an attractive woman; her long, dishwater blond hair was too severely pinned into a bun that was tighter than a schoolmarm’s, and her figure was too squat and chunky, her breasts too flat, the difference in measurement between her hips and waist too scant. But it was her facial expression that most concerned him.
Her eyes were dark green and tended to appear almost black in inadequate light. They were soulless and as hard as ice. Her lips were, too; he’d never seen her smile or laugh, but as the years had crept past, they grew thinner and tighter with deep lines etched permanently around them as if she constantly pursed them. The lines around her eyes were deeper today, too, and she had dark bags beneath them.
She was not the type of woman that a man grew to love. Although she passed herself around a circle of officers in and out of camp, Max had never seen her on the arm of a man on the way out to dinner or the theater or casually walking about town. Anke Bauer did not move casually in that way that women did, swaying her hips and smiling coquettishly. She walked with a hand on her hip pistol as if she might need it at any moment, and even those she had been intimate with were greeted with suspicion.
He supposed that others used her just as he did because of those hands.
Anke leaned toward a piece of paper on the dresser. “What is this?” she asked pertinently.
Max surprised himself at how quickly he could jump out of bed and retrieve the paperwork, berating himself for leaving it there. “There is a guard in Auschwitz, a woman called Agata Heinrich. I am told she works for you.” Max said, casually sliding the paperwork into his sock drawer.
She had abruptly stopped pinning her hair when he approached, and now she took turns eying him and the closed drawer with equal suspicion. “You cannot be asking me about another woman.” Her eyes narrowed, and her cheeks grew flushed with anger.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Max said, his voice rising. “It is purely business.”
“Ha!” She placed her hands on her hips. “Then tell me, and I will take care of her. Follow proper channels.”
Max leaned against the bedpost. “You’re an idiot. You are only her superior inside the camp.”
“I am—”
“Don’t fuck with me. I am not in the mood for it. Besides, I am following orders from Berlin.”
There was a flash of light in her eyes, and she moved closer to the bed. She smiled for the first time Max could remember, but it was a mirthless, sinister smile. Her eyes narrowed further, and her lips tightened. “Is she in trouble?”
“You would love that, wouldn’t you? It turns out, she is very valuable to Berlin, so tread softly.”
He detected her expression turn to disappointment before she turned back to the mirror. “Then, why ask me about her?”
“When you return to camp this afternoon, tell her to come to my office after her shift today.”
“You can’t be serious.” She turned back around. “Go to the camp and fetch her yourself.”
“No wonder they call you the Ausch-Bitch. You forget that I hired you, and I have the power to fire you.”
“You forget that I have connections in high places.”
“No, Anke. You have connections in low places. I could fire you, forbid you to leave the city, and you could do what you do best every day and every night. I doubt anyone would pay you after getting it free all this time.” When she did not respond, he reiterated, “Instruct the woman to come to my office at the end of her shift today.”
Anke stood for a long moment, her face impassive as she stared at Max.
“Did I make myself clear?” he asked.
“You did.” She gathered her fur-trimmed coat and a matching hat. It was too good for the camp, and Max knew she only wore it when she was about town. He wondered about this, as she was the type to flaunt it in front of its former owner. Without another word, she walked out of the bedroom. He heard her footsteps, heavy with her chunky heels, as she made her way through the living area and down the steps. He waited until the door closed behind her before he made his way to the window to catch a glimpse of her as she clomped across the courtyard like a farmer in a field.
He had never paid her, and to his knowledge, no one else did, either. He wondered about her motivation. If she had wanted a high camp position, she could have targeted one or two. Instead, she was a joke.
But she was a dangerous joke.
Max stood in the shadows, the glimmer from his cigarette the only sign that he was there. The air had grown chilly; the wind was brisk as it swirled through the courtyard, seeking a way out. He pulled his collar higher around his chin and watched as Agata made her way down a side street toward the courtyard.
He could not see details in the waning light, but when her figure moved beneath each amber streetlight, his eyes moved appreciatively over her. Her thick coat hid her curves, but he allowed his mind to envision what she might look like under it. Soon enough, he would have that coat off her. Her camp uniform should fit her snugly, as was the regulation.
As she walked, he realized there was a great deal of difference between the gait of an upper-class lady and that of the lower classes. The latter strode with the urgency of work that needed to be done, their gait flat-footed even when wearing heels. Their arms tended to swing as Anke’s had, and their hips remained fixed as if stationary under their spines.
An upper-class lady could be spotted in the distance. They didn’t tend to hurry, but when they did, they glided. Their legs, accustomed to slender heels, moved differently. Their hips swayed, and they didn’t swing their arms; instead, they held them close to their bodies, often folded in front of them. When an arm did manage to move outward from the body, it did so with a sensuous, fluid motion.
Agata reached the courtyard and paused for a moment as if attempting to identify which building was the office she had approached so long ago. He should have known then that there was something odd about her desire to work in the camp. But then, he thought as he dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground, he’d had a quota to meet. And that quota had only risen.
He moved beyond the shadows. He knew he’d caught her attention because her head swung in his direction. Her face was in shadows, and he wondered if she was attempting to identify him. They both began walking at the same time; her movements were quickened, while his were measured.
He reached her before she had come close to his office. Instead, she was tantalizingly close to his apartment.
“Fräulein Heinrich,” he stated. He knew she had heard his voice, though he’d intentionally kept it low.
She slowed her gait but did not stop.
He fell in beside her. “I believe you are here to see me. Herr Max Kursell.” He stepped in front of her, effectively cutting off her path. Her eyes displayed recognition, though she hesitated, and he held out his arm toward his apartment door. “This way.” He placed his hand firmly on her outer arm, which had the effect of wrapping his arm around her from behind as he led her to his door. It was already unlocked, as he had carefully planned his movements while he awaited her arrival.
As she dutifully stepped inside, she halted. “This is not your office.”
“Your German has become much better,” he said. He switched to Polish. “Or, shall we drop the charade and speak in your native language?”
Her eyes flitted from one side of the narrow stairwell to the other before landing on the door. He turned and locked it and then made a point of tantalizing her by holding up the key. He then motioned to the stairs. “This way, please,” he continued in Polish.
He thought for a moment that she was going to attempt to bolt. He remained positioned in the doorway, but the frosted glass did not provide them with the privacy he needed. It could also be easily broken if she wished to clash with him there. “Please,” he repeated cordially.
After a moment, she made her way slowly up the stairs. He remained a few steps behind. He felt more than saw her head turn slightly, as if she were striving to ascertain his position.
When she reached the apartment, she stepped just inside before stopping and turning to him. “Fräulein Bauer told me you wanted to see me.” She said the name as if emphasizing that someone knew where she was, which was not lost on Max.
“Yes,” Max said. “Please. Sit.” He strode further into the room and gestured toward the off-white, wing-backed chairs. “May I take your coat?”
Before she could respond, the housekeeper walked swiftly into the room and then stopped abruptly. “I beg your pardon, Herr Kursell,” she said. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“Fräulein Heinrich was just taking off her hat and coat,” he said, slipping easily into German. “Can you take them from her, please?” His voice was smooth. “Frau Rökk, you have done an efficient job with the fireplace, as usual.”
“Thank you, sir.” She crossed the room. Without asking, she began to assist Agata with her coat. Perhaps because the older woman was present, Agata appeared to relax a bit. She removed her hat and handed it to the housekeeper. “May I get you something to drink?”
Agata’s eyes moved to Max.
“Volksgetränk,” Max said.
“Yes, sir.” Frau Rökk bowed slightly as she moved to the coat closet and carefully hung up Agata’s coat and hat before returning to take Max’s coat. As she did, he gestured to one of the upholstered chairs.
“Please. Sit.” He sat in the opposite chair before waiting for her to take her seat.
Agata slowly sat in the chair closest to the fireplace, her attention on the flames. It was unusual for a fireplace to be maintained with high flames, as rationing was a way of life. But he was Max Kursell, and the rules did not apply to him. He watched as her eyes roamed from one picture to another before settling on one in particular.
