The Shadowboxer Read online

  “It wasn’t I who thought of sending Jean-Claude to the Bubel,” Tolan replied calmly.

  Klempf blanched. “You cannot listen to him,” he said, grabbing Spangler’s arm. “Do you know who this man is? He’s worse than we are. He’s worse than any camp guard. He volunteered to spy on his fellow prisoners. He enjoys it! He has killed and tortured more inmates than the worst of the green-triangles. He volunteered to make the movies and train the girls. Von Schleiben wanted to put him in a prison where he’d be safer from his old political enemies—but Tolan refused. He loves the brutality of the camps.”

  “Who put the cross on the car?” Spangler asked, staring at Klempf.

  “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Then how did it get there?”

  “I—I—”

  Spangler motioned with his Luger. “Get going.”

  “No,” Klempf cried, “you must believe me—”

  “Start walking.”

  Tolan watched Spangler prod Klempf out into the orchard. The pair vanished below a rise. Several minutes later Spangler returned alone, holding a key. He unlocked Tolan’s handcuffs, turned and slipped into the car and started the engine.

  “You’re not going to leave me here?” Tolan shouted into the window.

  “You’ll find your way out all right.”

  “You can’t leave me!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you need me.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “But you came into the camp to get me.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  Tolan paled.

  Spangler shifted gears and started forward.

  “Wait!” Tolan shouted, running after the slowly moving car.

  Spangler stepped on the brake and waited.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” Tolan called, catching up. “It was a trap.”

  “What was a trap?”

  “The escape. The entire escape. I didn’t have to be bound or gagged. Klempf and I planned it that way.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out who you were. We thought you’d gain confidence in one or the other of us—that you’d say who you were or where you wanted to go. That was what von Schleiben wanted. He wanted positive identification.”

  “Then why did you betray Klempf?”

  “That was also planned. If you hadn’t revealed who you were by the time we arrived here, one of the farmers was to mark the car without Klempf’s knowledge, then I was to accuse him of lying to us.”

  “So I would break his neck?”

  “Yes. This place is partially surrounded. They’ll wait until we leave, then one of the farmers will check the body. He’ll notify the SS up ahead. Then they’ll take you. But we can get out of here, avoid them. Turn around and go back the way we came. No one’s back there. I’ll show you how to get out.”

  “What makes you change your mind now? Why have you decided to go against von Schleiben?”

  “I didn’t know what was involved. I hadn’t heard those records—no one ever told me about them. I didn’t know about the German Provisional Government.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I must be part of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, my friend, everything Klempf accused me of is true. There is even more that makes less pleasant listening. I admit everything. I deny nothing. I apologize to no one. I am who I am. Von Schleiben kept me alive for his own reasons. For that I am thankful—but there my obligation ends.

  “We—the storm troopers—created the Reich! Without us it never would have been. And what was our reward? We were murdered, tortured and humiliated, dispersed.

  “Himmler and Goering robbed me of my rightful position in Germany. Hitler allowed it to happen. Now I can reclaim that which was mine. I can take that place that was denied me.”

  “It sounds as if you want to take over the exile government rather than be part of it.”

  “Who is better qualified? I heard those names: Vetter, Nebel, Zahn. Do you know what they are? Runts. They are nothing to Germany and they mean nothing to Germany. It is I who have a following, the only following that exists in Germany today. There are two and a half million former storm troopers who have not forgotten what was done to them. They will rally to me when the time is right. Yes, that is why I will head the government in exile. That is why they need me so desperately. That is why they sent you for me.”

  Spangler began to laugh. “Get in,” he finally said.

  “Then you will take me to them?”

  “Why the hell not? You suit one another.”

  61

  Von Schleiben and his provost moved as quietly as they could down the slope of the mist-choked woods. Tolan was waiting with an armload of logs.

  “Where in the name of God have you been?” he whispered to the general.

  “Trying to locate you. You didn’t follow the agreed route.”

  “I couldn’t. He insisted on driving. We’ve been riding around in circles. Go down there and take him.”

  “Has he said who he is?”

  “Of course. He’s told me everything. Go take him.”

  “Everything?” von Schleiben questioned. “Why would he tell you everything?”

  “Because he trusts me. Because he wants to get it off his chest. He wanted someone to know all the details. Why talk about it now? Don’t waste time.”

  “What do you mean by everything?”

  “He admits to being Spangler,” Tolan said impatiently. “He told me how it all began—when he and someone named Tramont went to free three priests Gestapo had arrested in France. He claims the reason for all the aliases was because they had originally expected more people to join them—no one did—”

  “And the murders?” von Schleiben asked quietly. “What did he have to say about the murders?”

  “He won’t mention them, but what difference does it make? He killed Klempf, so you have what you need.”

  “He didn’t kill Klempf. He only knocked him unconscious.”

  “Look, I am telling you that we have Erik Spangler down in that cabin.”

  “And I am telling you we can’t be certain until he confesses to the murders—until he describes each one.”

  “He can do his describing after he’s captured. Take him now.”

  “We can’t. The troops aren’t here yet.”

  “How long will they be?”

  “Another two to three hours.”

  “We’ll be gone by then. He drives like a madman. If he gets away now and heads further into the mountains you may lose him for good.”

  Von Schleiben’s cheeks puffed out as he thought. “I suppose it is all up to you,” he said, pulling his pistol from the holster and handing it to Tolan.

  “I’m not going back down there. He’s insane. He trembles and shakes. He laughs and cries for no reason at all. I’ve done what I’ve said I will do and that’s it.”

  “But what other choice do we have under the circumstances? I can’t walk through the snow without his hearing me. If you can delay him until the troops arrive we have no worries. If you can somehow capture him, fire twice. If you find you must kill him, fire three times after the first shot.”

  “That wasn’t our agreement.”

  “Here,” von Schleiben said, holding out a packet of cigarettes, “these will calm your nerves.”

  Tolan stooped down and gathered up his logs.

  “By the way,” asked von Schleiben, “did he mention me?”

  “Several times.”

  “And what did he have to say?”

  “It was always the same. He thinks you’re stupid and predictable,” Tolan said descending down the misty path.

  Von Schleiben flushed and started back through the hillside woods with his provost.

  “Are the troops deployed?” he barked at the SS major hurrying to meet them.

  “We’re having difficulties, Obergruppenfuehrer. This is very difficult terrain. And
with the fog and ice it’s almost impossible to—”

  “Nothing is impossible, Standartenfuehrer.”

  “But, Obergruppenfuehrer, there’s sheer rock face around us and to—”

  “Deploy your men and have them move on the cabin now.”

  The major saluted and hurried off through the woods.

  “But aren’t we going to see if Tolan can capture him first?” the provost asked as they continued climbing.

  “Tolan will be dead in a matter of minutes.”

  The provost stared at him.

  “The trouble with you and the others, my dear Kurt,” said von Schleiben, “is that you have never comprehended men like Spangler. These people expect a never-ending game to be played. They anticipate a series of final gambits. When you have finally convinced them that no more maneuvers can be made, they relax. That time has now come.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Spangler has known from the beginning that we were trying to take him. He watched and waited to see how we would go about it. He expected Klempf to lead him into a trap, and now he expects the same of Tolan. That is why he has been circling about. He knew we were out here somewhere, and he wanted to lead us a chase. He also wanted to give Tolan time to betray himself—and now Tolan will do so.”

  “How?”

  “The gun and the cigarettes I gave him. Don’t you think Spangler will notice one or the other? He probably already has. Tolan is most likely dead—with a broken neck. So move the troops in on the cabin and then we’ll—”

  A gunshot was heard. Three others followed.

  Von Schleiben stopped in disbelief. “The idiot!” he shouted. Then he spun around and ran down the hillside into the bank of slowly drifting fog.

  The provost moved down the hill after him and stopped at the edge of the clearing. He waited several minutes before shouting to von Schleiben. Only the echo replied. He shouted again. Still von Schleiben did not answer. He started to go forward, then thought better of it. He glanced around. Alpine troops were moving gingerly through the mist. He called for them to hurry.

  The cabin was finally surrounded. The provost gathered courage, dashed to the door and burst through.

  Spangler and Tolan were gone. Von Schleiben’s body lay spread on the table, his arms folded on his chest. His decapitated head rested on the mantelpiece.

  62

  Propeller idling, the plane stood in the darkness of a pasture.

  “You’re a fool,” Tolan shouted down from the cabin door.

  “My own fool,” Spangler agreed, standing on the ground, his Luger trained on Tolan.

  “Get in here,” the German commanded. “You’re wasting time.”

  “You’ll be meeting a man named Julian,” Spangler told him. “Relay a message. Tell Julian the books are closed. Tell him I am out of it once and for all. Tell him that you and he will understand each other perfectly. And one last thing: Tell him I’m sending you across for only one reason—to let him know exactly what I think of him and all the others like him. Now get inside and close that door, or I’ll put a bullet where it really belongs.”

  Spangler watched the plane bounce down the field, lift off and soar into the low-hanging overcast. He returned to the car and started driving north—nowhere in particular, just north.

  By morning the headache was unendurable, the shoulder throbbing convulsively, the hand trembling so that he could hardly hold the wheel. He stopped at the nearest town.

  Spangler sat at the restaurant table sipping ersatz coffee and munching a hard roll. He stared numbly out the window at the bomb-torn buildings. Laughter was heard. A group of smocked, laughing children skipped along the rubbled street on their way to school. He followed them with his eyes, paid his check and returned to the car.

  He drove northwest through the night. Dawn was breaking as he descended the stone steps. He followed the narrow cobblestoned street to the bakery. The lead-paned windows had been boarded over. There was no smell of fresh bread from behind. He continued on to the square and waited beside the copper statue of Goethe in its center. He watched the uniformed woman pass in front of the single-spired medieval church and enter Forst’s columned post office.

  “No receipt?” the cherubic postmistress questioned in good spirit.

  “I lost it in the east,” Spangler replied from the other side of the counter. “At Stalingrad.”

  “You were at Stalingrad? You were at Stalingrad and you returned?”

  “Not many of us did. And those lucky few are not good for too much,” Spangler said, slapping a drooped shoulder with a weak hand.

  “What did you say the name was on the package?” the woman asked reverently.

  “Henri. Ludwig Henri. He was with us at Stalingrad. He was not as lucky as I. I promised to pick up the package and take it to his mother. She used to live near Dobern. Now she has moved to Bitter-feld. She doesn’t know about Ludwig yet.”

  “Of course,” the woman said sadly and moved quickly through a side door.

  She returned with a dusty suitcase and handed it across without registration.

  Spangler’s route shifted east. The pain and trembling were worse than ever. Familiar notices began appearing on walls of villages he passed through. He finally stopped to read one, shifted directions and drove faster.

  Spangler sat on the bluffside watching the SS marshal civilians toward the railway depot in the evening rain. A new column was converging on the sixteen windowless boxcars from the west. He opened the suitcase and put on the worn suit with the yellow star sewn to its front.

  Another line of men, women and children appeared at the bend and began passing directly below him. Spangler wrapped a prayer shawl around his shoulders. With a sigh of deliverance he started down to join them.

  EPILOGUE

  Germany, 1949

  A thunder of cheers interrupted the speech. Flags and placards waved frantically over the sea of heads jamming the square. Banners hoisted higher as the chant again reverberated.

  “Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Towlahn!”

  Short brassy flourishes blasted from the four bands to call them to order.

  “Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn!” the crowd screamed.

  Special envoy Julian watched through the balcony doors of his hotel suite as Friedrich Tolan stood smiling on the bandstand and finally raised his hands in a bid for quiet.

  “Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn!”

  Julian turned back into the room. “What was it you were saying, Mr. Ambassador?” he asked the American ambassador who stood beside him, watching.

  “I wasn’t saying, Julian, I was asking,” the ambassador replied firmly. “I was asking you for the truth.”

  “The truth about what, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Dammit, Julian, I didn’t fly over here to play word games. I want Tolan out of this election. He must withdraw. That can happen only if the truth about him is finally revealed.”

  “Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn!”

  “Mr. Ambassador, the truth has been revealed. Congress has heard the findings of every denazification organization our country possesses. They have heard my testimony and those of others. Mr. Ambassador, the government has already passed him.”

  “The denazification committee’s main source of information was you! You were everyone’s main source of information!”

  “Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn!”

  “I have told you all I know, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Listen, Julian, you realize the implications perfectly well if our government tacitly endorses a man who was part of a conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “G. P. G.”

  “G. P. G. was a propaganda operation.”

  “Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn! Tow-lahn!”

  The ambassador slammed shut the balcony doors. “Do not antagonize me, Julian. I am not a man to be antagonized or trifled with. You and your untouchable organization may intimidate or fo
ol others, but not me. I know the truth. It was you and I who formulated G. P. G., who steered its early course—or have you conveniently forgotten our phone conversations—Oop?”

  “That was quite some time ago, Mr. Ambassador. Each of us has gone his own way since. Each of us has been busy with his own endeavors. As best I can recall, G. P. G. was simply a propaganda operation.”

  “It was an illicit government, dammit. And you know better than anyone that Friedrich Tolan never escaped from a camp—you sent for him.”

  “Where is your proof, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Hidden behind the steel doors of National Security. Under the lids of sealed coffins you filled. In the ashes of burned files … but primarily in your own memory.”

  “My memory, and all the documentation available, can only provide what our government already knows: Friedrich Tolan is an extraordinary patriot; he was arrested and imprisoned by the Nazis; he endured incalculable suffering at many concentration camps; he made a spectacular escape from Birkenau on—”

  “With the aid of one Erik Spangler,” the ambassador said firmly. “Erik Spangler—one of your agents.”

  “Spangler did once operate for me, but he was killed almost two months before Tolan made his heroic escape from Birkenau. I have his death certificate and inquest findings.”

  “And whatever became of Colonel Lamar B. Kittermaster?”

  “Lost in action. On a pre-invasion raid near Calais, I believe. Look it up in the Army records.”

  “Lies. All bold-faced lies and you know it.”

  “Then produce one shred of evidence to disprove anything I have said.” Julian rounded the couch and turned on the television. “You know something, Mr. Ambassador? You sound very much in tune with propaganda campaigns of certain of Germany’s more unfriendly neighbors.”

  The ambassador pointed toward the window. “That monster out there may damn well win this election—and mainly because of you!”

  “I should hope so, sir. I have worked exceedingly hard on his campaign. But if he does lose, there’s always next time, isn’t there?”