Maddeningly, the flyboy smiled and shook his head.
“Go easy on that name. For one thing, it won’t get you very far with them.” He nodded through a glass partition toward a bored Swiss official, who stared dumbly at a mounting pile of paperwork. “It also won’t get you very far with Dulles. He doesn’t like having his name bandied about in public.”
“It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”
“Only because you lucked into the one guy here who knows what he’s doing, so he gave me a call. Besides, I wouldn’t call this progress. A customs inspection room in Basel isn’t exactly a luxury suite at the Bellevue.”
He was certainly right about that. The border post, drab and sterile in the best of times, had become a wartime way station for the lost and the stateless. It was a wretched scene-dim, overcrowded, and smelling of desperation; a wet-wool stench of herded people on the move, trapped in the chute between sanctuary and slaughter.
During his long wait, Kurt had watched a number of distressing episodes, overhearing every shouted exchange through the glass partition. An elegant woman in furs and jewelry disappeared through a door only to emerge an hour later sobbing and practically naked. But at least they waved her through. A shabby Frenchman was forced to open a steamer trunk containing a hoard of gold fixtures and knick-knacks, including several menorahs. Since he wasn’t a Jew, it marked him as a thief and scoundrel. The trunk got in. He was arrested. A ragged family of seven erupted in an indecipherable Slavic tongue after the mother and three daughters made it through and the father and two sons didn’t.
Officiating each transaction was a prim man in uniform who never stood and rarely looked up before he stamped the entry papers in either damning red or beneficent black.
Only moments ago, two American airmen had been escorted in. They were wet, bedraggled, and, just like the one visiting Kurt, dressed in leather flight jackets, identifying them as members of a bomber crew. For some reason unknown to Kurt they had been caught while actually trying to get
Presumably all these airmen had crashed here after dropping their bombs on Germany, a realization that stirred a deep sense of loathing in Kurt. He was especially troubled by their shoulder patches. One depicted a laughing cartoon figure riding bareback on a bomb-as if their work was some sort of elaborate prank. These were the people who had killed Liesl, and they were cracking jokes and trying to escape from a country that millions of people dearly wanted to enter. Sure, Americans were dying, too, just like the soldiers of every other army in Europe. But they did so in foreign skies and on foreign fields, while their own loved ones slept peacefully, without fear of bombs or midnight arrests.
And how come this particular flyboy was allowed to run free? What made him qualified to speak on behalf of the lofty Dulles, who, to judge from Kurt’s father’s description, was a wealthy patrician god with mysterious powers of benediction. He was the man who could grant their every wish, if only Kurt could arrange an audience.
“Look, the Swiss have already let my mother and sister in,” he pleaded. “They came through a week ago, no problem. In fact, they
“Did you think I didn’t know that? But you’re still here, aren’t you? And from what I’ve heard, you won’t be joining them anytime soon. Unless you cooperate with me.”
“Cooperate how?”
“You could start by telling me in as much detail as possible how the hell you managed to get here.”
How the hell, indeed. It had been more than eight months since the awful day when he found Liesl’s body in the rubble of Plotzensee. After Kurt returned home on his bicycle, his father decided then and there to do whatever it took to keep his son out of the army, deal or no deal. During the three-week grace period he called upon all his connections to wangle an additional three weeks, and three more after that. Finally, and only by enlisting the help of Speer himself, his father secured a delay of six months, until May 5, 1944, and in the process delivered what he believed to be the coup de grace, by engineering Martin Gollner’s transfer to a Gestapo backwater in Munich.
Meanwhile, conditions in Berlin grew worse. By midwinter the Bauer factories were so badly damaged by bombings that production was at a standstill. Trainloads of bedraggled Poles, Czechs, and Hungarians kept arriving to keep things running, but soon they were busier carting away bodies and rubble than running assembly lines. Reinhard Bauer began to fear that unless production resumed, the arrangements he had worked out on Kurt’s behalf might be voided.
The last straw came on November 18, the night of the heaviest air raid yet. Reinhard decided the next morning that the best strategy was to move his family to Switzerland, where he would set up a new base of corporate operations and resume his campaign to curry favor with the Americans. It took months to plan the move. First he had to sell it to Speer, by arguing he could still produce important materiel from across the border. Then he secured the necessary passes and transport.
Kurt, meanwhile, stayed mostly indoors, moping around the house in a funk of grief and guilt. Within days he learned that Liesl’s family had also been killed by a bomb blast, ironically within hours of her death. On some nights he didn’t even bother to go to the cellar during the air raids. Ignoring his mother’s pleas, he locked himself in his room and watched the fireworks outside his window, imagining he was back at Plotzensee.
In October there was news of more White Rose arrests in Munich and Hamburg, and in April there was a White Rose trial in Saarbrucken. With each such revelation he wondered how much of the responsibility lay with him. On one of his few trips out of the house he tried to visit Bonhoeffer at Tegel Prison, but was turned away at the gates. On the way back he thought he spotted Hannelore at a U-Bahn station, but she disappeared into a crowd. He wasn’t sure whether to feel heartened or terrified at the prospect that she was still prowling the city. Klara Waldhorst had been hanged nine days after his release, meaning Hannelore was the sole surviving member, and the only one who might know he was to blame. But she was also his only remaining link to Liesl. If there was one thing they could still agree on, surely it was their shared sense of loss.
On the first of May, with Kurt’s enlistment date approaching, his father packed up the family and commandeered a factory truck for their journey south. The going was chaotic, a maze of ruined cities, blocked highways, and impossible checkpoints. Halfway to Munich they abandoned the truck and sold most of their belongings, then set out on trains that often sat for hours at a time, exposed to attack. When they reached the frontier of occupied France, Reinhard bribed a pair of AWOL soldiers to escort Kurt’s mother and sister onward to the crossing at Basel. The women took most of the family’s money and remaining belongings, and a few days later relayed word that they had reached Bern and were resting comfortably in the city’s finest hotel.
Reinhard and Kurt spent the next five days dodging Wehrmacht patrols and document checks until they, too, reached the border post at Basel. The problem was that the Swiss had become increasingly finicky about letting German men into the country, even-or especially-when they were as well connected as Reinhard Bauer. So Reinhard was peremptorily turned away, and Kurt, who at least had the virtue of youth, was yanked aside for further questioning. And that was where things stood now.
The American flyboy still hadn’t offered a name, nor had he produced any credentials. But apparently he was going to decide if Kurt would get into the country.
Kurt had no way of knowing it, but at that particular moment the American legation, and the OSS in particular, was preoccupied with two subjects when it came to arriving Germans. One was the coming Allied invasion of France, due to take place in about three weeks. The other was the likelihood of an imminent attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Thus the only two types of Germans in great demand were those who knew about German troop movements along the French coast and those who had close connections to dissident officers in the Wehrmacht high command.
Nonetheless, the American flyboy sat attentively as Kurt related his recent adventures. He took a few notes, and even winced when Kurt mentioned that the Swiss had brushed aside his father’s promise to stop sending goods across the border into Germany.
“Well, you’re right about one thing,” the American said. “They should have let your father in. I’ll see what we can do, but I can’t promise anything. If word gets back to the Gestapo about what he said here, then I’m afraid he’s a goner.”
“How could they possibly find out?”
“How do you think? If one of those fellows out there saw fit to phone me, don’t you figure some of the others might have different friends?”
“Oh.”
