The Shadowboxer Page 18

  “Spangler your agent?” von Schleiben replied languidly. “How ingenious—and how unfortunate.”

  “No, you fool,” Kuprov said savagely. “You’ve murdered my primary agent at Westerly—Hilka Tolan. Vetter was the decoy. We knew the Americans would be watching him. We wanted them to watch him and intercept or tamper with his messages. With their attention on Vetter, the Tolan girl could operate more freely. But you put an end to that. You killed her for me, didn’t you? And before she got out anything useful except for some random details—like who her lover was.”

  “As I remarked before, how unfortunate.”

  “The man you murdered was her lover, the colonel in command—a man named Kittermaster—not your precious Spangler.”

  Von Schleiben paled and grew rigid. “Where is Spangler? You provided his description—it checks with the coroner’s report.”

  “A description concocted by the Americans. I told you they were tampering with Vetter’s messages. His description of Spangler had been changed to fit Kittermaster.”

  “I should have been told.”

  “We didn’t know for certain until two days ago.”

  “I want accurate information on Spangler.”

  “Then this is what you do, my little shrunken Caesar,” Kuprov said, rising and ripping off his cape. “Go do your own handiwork and find out. Go whisper in the corpses’ ears—Tolan now, Vetter shortly. Maybe their dead lips will reveal a secret.”

  Kuprov stopped at the door and turned back to von Schleiben. “You are a vain, stupid little peacock, Goliath. You don’t even have good jokes any more. I am beginning to tire of you. Don’t let me tire of you, Schleebund. Now that you’ve slaughtered my agents, you find out what the Americans are up to at Westerly—or you’ll be strutting from the end of a rope when we overrun Germany.”

  Von Schleiben watched at the window as Kuprov descended into the blacked-out side street. The German General nodded. Four men emerged from doorways and started after the Russian.

  PART THREE

  The Spangler Proposition

  38

  The three-car “express” from Copenhagen ground to a stop outside Flensburg. Teams of green-uniformed Frontier Police hoisted themselves into the carriages and started along the low blue-lit passageways.

  The compartment door squeaked open. A gloved hand shook Spangler awake.

  “Passport. Papers,” a youth with peaked felt cap and leather elbow patches demanded in German. “Passport! Papers!” he repeated in Danish.

  Spangler reached into his rewoven, threadbare wool jacket and handed up the packet. The boy thumbed through it with practiced efficiency.

  “Hans Kieland,” he droned as his confederate standing in the doorway began printing on the form attached to the clipboard. “Danish. Passport number 2735.” He started on the other documents without dropping the chant: “Volunteer worker permit S-1521. Point of departure: Copenhagen. Point of arrival: Hamburg. Destination: Zermastoff Labor Battalion.” A thin paper was unfolded. “Travel permit issued Copenhagen, 19 February 1944, Gestapo, Amt Four E Four. Ration card and currency receipt in order.”

  The documents were stamped with various seals.

  “Luggage?” inquired the youth.

  Spangler pointed to the rack over his head.

  “Get it down.”

  Spangler did as he was told. The battered cardboard contained a worn, colorless shirt, two pairs of mended woolen socks, suspenders, a straight razor, three apples, a half-eaten loaf of dry brown bread and a pouch of ersatz coffee.

  The youth nodded and pasted a customs sticker to the side of the box. “Are you all right?” he asked, gazing at Spangler.

  “Yes.”

  “You look warm. Don’t sit so close to the window or you’ll get a chill. We can’t afford to have our volunteers sick. Heil Hitler!”

  The inspection team descended on the next passenger.

  An hour and a half later the flag was waved and the switch thrown. The train began to rattle slowly forward.

  Flares stopped the locomotive just before Neumuenster. Spangler could see German police officers on the tracks below his window talking with the conductor and pointing to the north. The compartment doors were open.

  “Outside,” the engineer urged him. “Everyone outside. Kiel is being bombed. The British might pass this way on their return. Everyone out.”

  Spangler lowered himself to the roadbed and limped into the field with the other passengers.

  “If you hear engines,” a one-legged Wehrmacht captain in a muffler told them, “lie face down on the earth. Do not light matches.”

  “What about the flares?” said Spangler. “If you’re worried about British planes spotting matches, what about the flares burning out in front of the locomotive?”

  The officer turned and shouted an order. The flares were extinguished. The man studied Spangler momentarily, nodded and left.

  Faint thuds were heard in the distance. Suddenly the ground beneath them shuddered. It was almost a full minute before a red glow flickered in the north.

  “Petroleum,” whispered one of the passengers.

  “Perhaps it was ammunition,” offered another.

  “No, it is petroleum. Little ammunition is kept in Kiel these days.”

  “Petroleum,” a third confirmed softly. “Only petroleum burns that high or hot. If it was ammunition the glow would not linger in the distance. There would be a white flash and that would be that.”

  More explosions were felt, then heard. The red glow in the north grew brighter and higher. Distinct bands of blue shimmered across the sky. Gentle pillars of black began curling upward and drifting into the red, like ink into blood.

  “It’s petroleum,” the dissenter conceded.

  The concussions lasted another twenty minutes. Half an hour later the officer returned. “They have left. You can go back to the cars,” he told them.

  “I heard no aircraft,” the first passenger said, almost in disappointment. “They usually pass back this way.”

  “They’ve gone on to Hamburg.”

  “Hamburg?” the passenger muttered to Spangler as they started back to the tracks. “What is there left in Hamburg to bomb?”

  The train moved steadily through the night. The rails had been destroyed beyond Ulzburg, so the “express” was shunted west to Elmshorn and then southeast through Pinneburg.

  Spangler’s headache spasmed from time to time. The pain in his left shoulder was easing but noticeable.

  The Elbe was sighted by dawn. The outskirts of Hamburg appeared a few minutes later.

  Spangler stared out at the ruins of the Hanseatic city. Two seared cranes were all that remained standing of Europe’s largest shipyards. The train reduced speed and wound among gutted oil tanks, razed refineries and twisted machinery. They moved along an elevated track and entered Hamburg proper. Hardly a building remained standing. Block after block of dust-covered debris and neatly piled brick passed the window.

  The elderly woman sitting opposite Spangler gasped in disbelief at the vast destruction.

  “Don’t be so concerned,” her husband said, patting her on the knee. “Just think what we are doing to London.”

  Whistles blew. The train slowed and pulled into the roofless terminal.

  The bus was late. Spangler arrived at Lueneburg in early afternoon. He paused outside the post office while he had a mild attack of asthma, then he entered and presented his receipt.

  “The parcel arrived five months ago?” the clerk asked curtly.

  “I have been on a work battalion. We were kept longer than anyone expected.”

  “Even so, we are not a storehouse.”

  “I would have been longer,” Spangler tried again, “but I lost my brother. He was with the Reich Division. They let me attend the funeral. He had won four Iron Crosses.”

  “Four?”

  “Four.”

  “You will still have to wait. The parcel is in ‘no claims,’ if it hasn’t be
en returned. I don’t have time to look for it now.”

  It was midafternoon before the suitcase was located in the cellar storage room. It was addressed “Hans Kieland, care of General Delivery.” The sender was listed as Hafdan Kieland, SS Division Das Reich.

  “The one with the four Iron Crosses?” the clerk asked, reaching for Spangler’s passport and identity papers.

  “Only two. This is my other brother. We think he’s still alive.”

  The postal form was quickly signed, stamped and recorded. The suitcase was released.

  Spangler caught the evening bus to Dannenberg. He arrived slightly after eleven and limped to the woods beyond the town limits. He stripped off his clothes, opened the suitcase, took out an SS major’s uniform, boots, cap and overcoat and put them on. He oiled the Luger, checked the clip, and pushed it into his holster. The wallet contained five thousand Reichsmarks. The passport and papers were in the name of Richard Wendorff, Obersturmbannfuehrer SS, R. S. H. A. Spangler opened a packet of cigarettes he had brought with him, peeled off the inner layer of paper, slid out a photograph of himself and pasted it in the passport. He transferred his Danish clothing to the suitcase, folded the carton inside and started back to Dannenberg.

  The inn was full. The proprietor could find no other room in the city. Spangler demanded to see the local Kripo representative. The officer was called to the inn. When he arrived Spangler presented his credentials and ordered him to find immediate sleeping quarters or else arrange transportation to Wittenberge. The Kripo man ran back home and returned with his car. Little was said during the drive. Even after he had deposited Spangler at the Wittenberge hotel, the officer never thought of asking how he had managed to get stranded in Dannenberg in the first place.

  Spangler slept late, breakfasted in the hotel dining room, sat for a haircut and shave, and stole a car. That night he slept in Berlin.

  He was at the post office by eleven the next morning. The cardboard carton with his Danish clothes and papers was mailed to Major R. Wendorff, General Delivery, Luebeck. The rest of the day he spent leisurely touring Berlin.

  After a mediocre dinner he took a walk. What he had hoped for happened: air-raid sirens began to wail. By the time the first bombs hit, Spangler had broken into the offices of Amt IV-B-4, Department of Jewish Affairs, R. S. H. A., and was studying the transportation files. He moved on to the storeroom of the Documents Division, located the blue forms, filled one out and returned to the outer office for the stamp.

  After the all clear, Spangler stole another car and started driving east. Despite his chills, he stopped only for gas until he reached Budapest. There was no time for sleeping. He ate breakfast at 7 A.M. The shop opened at eight.

  “I would like something for my nephew,” he told the clerk. “He’s just about my size.”

  “Work clothes or dress?”

  “Something in between,” Spangler answered, placing the ration book on the counter.

  39

  The blue signs had been posted in Szogor for a week. They were printed in both Hungarian and Yiddish.

  ATTENTION!

  SPECIAL REICH DECREE

  to

  ALL PERSONS HOLDING BLUE PAPERS

  Prepare for emigration to relocation settlements on or before

  FEBRUARY 23

  Each emigrant will be allowed one suitcase and should bring warm clothing and extra shoes. Money, jewelry and other valuable possessions will be allowed. Artisans and professional men will be allowed to bring the tools of their craft. A two-day supply of food will also be needed for the trip.

  The auxiliary police moved in at dawn. The local Jews were already queued up to show their blue papers and receive embarkation numbers. Columns of Jews from nearby towns began marching in for processing. The checkoff system was flexible. Certain persons were missing. They were searched for. Others carried blue cards, but their names did not appear on the lists; their names were added.

  The Hungarian auxiliaries crowded the Jews into the seven side streets north of the main thoroughfare. All were ordered to sit or squat. Those who responded slowly were kicked or beaten. Speaking was forbidden.

  Ragged columns of exhausted Russian war prisoners trudged into Szogor from the east and filled the side streets south of the main road. They were forced to lie flat on their faces. Infractions were dealt with harshly. One young boy was pummeled to death. Two prisoners were shot.

  German SS officers arrived. The Hungarian auxiliaries guarding the Jews were curtly ordered to put their machine pistols back into their leg holsters. The SS moved among the terrified civilians apologizing for the Hungarians’ stupidity. The Hungarians, they told them, treated everyone like war prisoners, like Communists. But the Jews were emigrants, not prisoners, the SS said, and Jews were free to stand or sit or do whatever they liked as long as they remained on the side streets. The SS officers began mingling openly with the yellow-starred civilians. They held friendly chats, offered sweets to the children, cigarettes to the adults. An old woman was escorted back to her house to retrieve the pet canary the Hungarians had so rudely forced her to abandon.

  The tension eased. The SS officers continued their fraternization. They reiterated that the Reich had nothing against Hungarian Jews, or even the few Italian and Greek Jews among them. It was the Polish Jews who had forced them to apply restrictive laws; they had all suffered because of the Poles. But at last something could be done to ease the situation. The Reich was short of labor; the Hungarian and Italian and Greek Jews could prove their loyalty by working for Germany. It was a rare opportunity. They must do their utmost for the Reich wherever they were sent.

  Picture postcards were distributed, depicting pastoral bliss, neat resort cottages beside tranquil lakes or verdant hillsides. The messages on the back were even more serene.

  At the first sound of the locomotive a band began to play. No one knew it had been there. Now they could see the military musicians strut down the main street. The first selection was from Mendelssohn. The Jews filed out and fell in behind the music. The SS encouraged both spectators and marchers to wave to one another.

  A festive mood began to germinate. The venerable village doctor ambled from the sidewalk to embrace his young neighbor, to give him his scarf and what little money he had in his pocket as a memento. An SS officer looked on smiling and even slowed the march so that the aged doctor could keep pace. The Germans commented audibly, and in impeccable Hungarian, on the beauty of friendship. Others from the village now dared call to their departing friends. The marchers responded with growing good humor. Laughter was heard, the paraders began marching in step. The Russian prisoners remained behind, lying face down on the side streets.

  The Jews were marshaled into the stock pens at the railroad yard. The band continued to play. Neighbors and friends hung on the surrounding fences, calling out good wishes. The Hungarian guards looked on in confusion, the SS officers in satisfaction. Assigned numbers were called off. The emigrants were divided into groups of a hundred and ten, and moved into smaller pens. An officer passed among them with a large white sack. Blue transit slips were dropped in.

  A gate opened and the first group of emigrants, clutching their belongings, hurried out over the tracks and clambered into the windowless boxcar. The door slipped shut and was sealed.

  Spangler found himself a corner, squatted down and waited for the trip to begin. His headache had subsided somewhat. The pain in his shoulder remained.

  40

  The train slowed, then stopped. The spotters at the peepholes reported that dawn was a half hour off, that the countryside was covered with deep snow, the thick hilly forests could be distinguished in the distance.

  The cold was bitter; the emigrants huddled against one another for warmth. The two-day supply of food had long disappeared. So had conversation. Now they waited in darkness, chill and silence.

  The train crept forward. The spotters announced that they were passing under a large wooden arch, passing through metal gates,
that lights could be seen ahead, that the tracks had spread into three spurs, that the ground was frozen and littered with debris, that double lines of barbed-wire fences could be seen on either side, that barracks stretched endlessly beyond. The car bumped to a stop. Shouting was heard outside. The door slid open. The light was blinding.

  “All out, good friends, all out,” ordered the smiling man in striped cap and overcoat. “Welcome, and bring your possessions with you. Deposit them at the other side of the ramp. Claim them later. All out quickly, and form nice lines, five abreast. Do what you’re told. Nothing to worry about if you obey quickly. Treat you better than you think here. Plenty to eat,” he assured, patting his double chin.

  The passengers poured out under the glaring shielded white and red bulbs strung over the long platform. Baggage and possessions were quickly deposited in front of a detachment of prisoners in striped uniforms.

  “Achtung! Achtung!” a voice called through a megaphone as the new arrivals hurried to form in lines. “We must have silence. You will obey immediately on command. You have arrived at Concentration Camp Birkenau. The motto of Concentration Camp Birkenau is ‘Work frees you.’”

  Columns of prisoners in striped overcoats marched, arms swinging rigidly in unison, between the scurrying new arrivals and the empty carriages. SS men sauntered nonchalantly along, hands behind their backs, observing the proceedings, barking an order every now and then.

  “If you work hard, there is little to fear,” the voice from the megaphone continued. “Hard work and obedience are rewarded. Food and lodgings are abundant.”

  The prisoners in striped overcoats stopped, did a sharp right turn and walked briskly forward to begin searching the empty cars. The line of new arrivals already stretched well beyond the length of the train.

  “A hot meal is waiting. You will fall into two columns to speed things. If your name is called, move to the left of the ramp. No talking in ranks. Eyes straight ahead.”

  The line to the right was still lengthening when the first seventeen names were read. Only sixteen men moved across the ramp. The missing name was repeated. Someone announced that the man had died in transit.