She carried her bags downstairs and had the concierge check them into the valet room, but she was adamant that she wanted to keep the hotel room until she left for the train at eleven. She told the morning manager that she would want to freshen up before her departure but in reality, she just didn’t want any hassles about the room. A letter to the hotel could always be sent after she was safe and sound in the States. She would pay for the damages.
Ernst pulled up to the curb precisely at seven the next morning, into the exact spot where she’d been dropped off the night before. Hewitt Purnsley was nowhere in sight, but of course being invisible was his specialty.
She sat next to Ernst in the front seat, but they hardly spoke until he pulled to the side of a country road when they were well clear of Berlin. Lydia was there, flanked by two comrades, their hands menacingly stuffed into their pockets, their eyes scanning the surrounding countryside.
Lydia and Ernst went over the map to the Lichtenburg concentration camp. It was only five miles away and dead easy to find. Aubrey could manage it. They showed her the rendezvous spot, a farm that Lazarus owned. Aubrey repeated the instructions to Lydia to assure her she knew them by heart, and then Lydia took the map away. They would rendezvous with her at the farm, and then Ernst would drive her back to the city in time to meet her train. She highly doubted it; it was almost nine, and she still had to go to the prison, pick up Lazarus and drop him off. But she was already committed.
She got behind the wheel of the car and headed down the road. In a few minutes, there was a sign to Lichtenburg Castle, just as Lydia said there would be, and she made the turn. The castle now housed the camp; the stone buildings of the old fortification rose up above the landscape. Pockets of mist and fog hung low in the surrounding fields. Several army trucks passed her going in. She had to swerve into the ditch of the narrow road to let them pass. The backs of the trucks were covered in canvas tarps; she could not tell if they contained soldiers or more prisoners.
There was a checkpoint, manned by soldiers with submachine guns slung over their shoulders. The camp was encompassed by a tall fence topped with rows of barbed wire that stretched out in either direction.
She drove up to the checkpoint, where her identification was examined. She had prepared some German statements with Lydia and recited them reasonably well. The first guard, a corporal, was not interested in who she was or whom she was there to retrieve. She wondered why he’d even bothered checking her passport.
The next checkpoint was a half mile up the road. There was another fence, too; this one was taller, the barbed wire more menacing. The guards here were more agitated and watched her carefully as she parked the car in one of the spots provided. There was a group of army trucks and other vehicles nearby. She could hear dogs barking, and saw that several of the guards on the other side of the fence were patrolling with large German shepherds straining at leashes.
Aubrey approached the main hut; the eyes of a dozen uniformed men were on her. She tried to walk confidently, head held up, but the dourness of the place, the symbolism of absolute oppression, tugged at her confidence. Even though she wasn’t a prisoner, the facility was having the desired effect. It was already breaking her spirit.
“Buck up, Endeavours,” she muttered to herself as she entered the hut.
There were two men inside, clad in the black uniforms of the SS in contrast to the field grey of the SS troopers. They were in mid-conversation and stopped when she approached, annoyed at the intrusion. Again, Aubrey said her spiel about how she was here to pick up Dr. Frick.
One of the SS men snickered at the word ‘doctor,’ while the other grabbed her passport from her.
“What is your connection to the prisoner?”
“He is a distant relative. His wife in the States wanted me to come and collect him, seeing as I was in town for the air exhibition at Adlershof Airfield. Personal guest of Count Helmut von Villiez.” The officer handed her passport back.
“Sign here.”
Aubrey signed and wrote her passport number down, next to the name Tomiel Lazarus Frick. They had dropped the “Dr.” Of course they had; it meant nothing to them.
“You will go through the main gate here, and one of the guards will escort you,” the officer said. “You will be searched in the presentation hut. The prisoner will be released to you, and you will leave immediately. You are not to speak to any other prisoners. You are not to hand anything to anyone or take anything. Is this understood?”
“I understand.”
The SS man barked a command; his sharp voice shattered the air in the small hut. A sergeant came bursting into the room and came to attention.
“Ja wohl, mein Untersturmführer.”
The officer explained to the sergeant what he was to do, and then motioned to Aubrey to follow him.
The main gate was slid open. The sound of dogs became louder and more intense; they sensed an intruder. The gate was slammed behind them, and another one that led into the camp itself was opened. She was led to a long wooden hut. Her purse was placed on a table and another soldier went through it. Thankfully, she’d left the .45 tucked under the driver’s seat of the car. If they searched that while she was in here and found it, it would be curtains.
Then she was frisked,
