The Swiss Courier Read online

  She and Eric sat across from each other in a second-class car as the single-gauge train huffed and puffed over viaducts, through winding tunnels, past raging mountain torrents, and across grassy meadows speckled with an array of alpine flowers. Her father had told her that since the turn of the century, Graubünden’s healthy climate and picture-book charm had attracted guests of rank and class. Being American, her father never lost his appreciation for such information. He collected facts about Swiss history like one collected stamps or coins.

  “I can see why these mountains were popular with the English,” Gabi said. “It’s as if I’m being transported into a time of knights and princesses. Looking out at all those wildflowers it makes it easy to forget there’s a war being fought just over those mountains.”

  “Ever read any of the Sherlock Holmes books?” Eric lifted his arm, resting it on the back of the empty seat next to him.

  Gabi nodded. “One or two. Not my favorite author.”

  “The author of the series, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, moved to Davos in the 1890s because his wife had been diagnosed with tuberculosis. He thought the mountain air would be good for her. At any rate, Sir Arthur is credited with popularizing skiing in these parts. I read somewhere that he had skis shipped from Norway, and that’s when he introduced skiing to the locals. Do you ski?”

  “Just cross-country. Dad made us some wooden skis a few years ago. We tramped around the snow a few times, but I’ve never skied in the mountains. Those ski lifts look a little dangerous to me. What about you?”

  “I had to learn to ski in boot camp. The Swiss Army wants all soldiers to at least know how to stand up on them.”

  Gabi turned her gaze from a pasture of goats. “I’d forgotten you were in the Army.”

  “I’m not full-time like your brothers. Switzerland doesn’t produce enough food to feed all her citizens, so they’re keeping us farmers close to the soil.” He chuckled. “Or in my case, close to a three-legged milk stool. Anyway, I’ve heard even the city parks in Zurich, Lucerne, and Bern have been dug up and planted with vegetables and fruit.”

  “If Germany attacked though, would you return . . . ?” She leaned forward slightly, cocking her eyebrow.

  “Yes, well, if Germany invaded, I would be expected to report to my mobilization point within twelve hours. I would trade my stool for a gun.”

  Gabi knew better to ask where that meeting point was. All Swiss soldiers in the citizen army knew where their mobilization points were located. She also knew, when needed, the soldiers were required to get there by any means—on foot, if necessary. Her father, though he was in his early fifties and a naturalized citizen, was also expected to bear arms in case of an invasion. Like Eric, he kept a rifle and a knapsack in the cellar, along with forty-eight bullets. She’d counted them once, out of curiosity.

  The train suddenly turned dark as it entered a series of tunnels. After ten minutes of darkness and light, the train chugged into bright sunshine, prompting Gabi to suck in her breath at the first glimpse of glistening snow in the couloirs.

  Gabi looked at her watch. Within a half hour, they’d arrive at the Davos-Platz rail station. She opened her mouth to point out the cumulus clouds circling the highest peak like a halo. She closed it again when she noticed Eric resting his eyelids. A soft snore escaped his lips, and she held in a giggle.

  Poor man, those cows keep him busy. It had to be hard providing for the nourishment of his needy countrymen.

  Gabi soaked up the scenery outside her window. She studied the wooden farmhouses, each draped with flowerboxes overflowing with red geraniums. One sturdy farmhouse they passed also sported a distinctive Swiss flag—a white equilateral cross established on a red field, a banner derived from the Holy Roman Empire.

  In the fields, shirtless men and their wives in ankle-length cotton dresses rhythmically swung long wooden scythes to cut the hay. Following behind them, older children hand-raked the hay into piles.

  Poor highlanders, straining to wring the bare essentials out of lean soil, Gabi thought. It didn’t seem fair some had so much while others had so little. And having to work on the First of August, such a special day.

  Her active mind returned back to her second-grade class when she learned about how a handful of men representing three cantons—Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden—had gathered in a grassy meadow next to the Lake of Lucerne on August 1, 1291. They swore an oath of confederation and signed a self-defense pact that fateful day. For nearly seven hundred years, Switzerland had repelled invaders and endured many dark moments, but none as serious as the threat being posed by neighboring Nazi Germany.

  Eric woke from his nap and rubbed his eyes. Then he sat up straighter and pointed to two dozen black-and-white cows, each with a cowbell hanging on a wide leather band around its neck, yanking at clefts of chewy grass in a well-fenced pasture.

  “Amazing. Holstein cows in this part of Switzerland,” Eric said. “They are said to give half a liter more milk per day than the Brown Swiss. I talked to Papi about bringing a bull and seven females to the farm and breeding them because of their high protein-to-fat ratio, which makes for especially good cheese.”

  Gabi rolled her eyes in a mocking manner. “You and your cows. You still sleeping in the barn?”

  “No.” Eric diverted his eyes. “Sorry to go on about these things. I guess I’ve been having too many one-sided conversations sitting on a stool as the sun comes up.”

  “No, don’t worry about it. I like teasing you.” She glanced at her watch. “It seems like we should be there already, don’t you think?”

  Gabi looked outside the train window, as if she could gauge the distance that remained. Instead, her eyes spotted a mother holding a toddler in front of their two-story farmhouse. She giggled at the sight, knowing the cows took the first story and the family lived above them. The mother held the baby’s tiny arm and waved at the passing train.

  Gabi solemnly waved back.

  A mother and her baby. So sweet. So innocent.

  Images flooded Gabi’s mind—fresh memories of the Jewish family drowning before her eyes. The pain cut through her chest like a knife. The sad intensity of the mother’s forlorn look met her many times, even in her sleep. Without meeting Eric’s gaze, she tugged a white-and-red-bordered handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath.

  “What’s the matter?” Eric reached forward and placed a hand on her knee.

  “I can’t put that poor family out of my mind.” Gabi lightly blew her nose. “The desperate mother holding her baby above the water. If only someone could have saved her baby.”

  Eric shifted in his seat. “I swam as deep as I could. The water . . . it was too murky.”

  Gabi dabbed at her nose again, and then she patted his hand to show him she didn’t think it was his fault.

  “What do the Nazis have against the Jews anyway?” She frowned. “More than that, what are the Nazis doing to them?”

  Eric pursed his lips. “It should come as no surprise what Hitler is doing to the Jews. He’s out to exterminate them like pests.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “If you read Mein Kampf, you know that the Führer alluded to exterminating the Jewish race from the face of the planet. He put it all down in black and white. The way he views the world, the German people—the ‘Aryans’—are at the top of the heap. The Jews are at the bottom.”

  Eric sighed. “The dirty Jews, Hitler says, are conspiring to stop the ‘master race’ from ruling the world by diluting its racial and cultural purity. It’s really scary stuff. Hitler believes that Aryans are superior intellectually, culturally, and athletically.”

  “My papi says Jesse Owens put Hitler in his place during the Olympic Games in Berlin.”

  “You’re right. Jesse Owens beat Germany’s best. Hitler left the stadium so he wouldn’t have to shake hands with a black American. But that was eight years ago. Things have just gotten worse since then.”

  “You
seem to know a lot about this stuff.” Gabi tilted her head, looking at him with renewed interest. He wasn’t an uneducated farmer—not if he was reading dense manifestos like Mein Kampf. “When did you read Hitler’s book?”

  “Back when the spring offensive started in May of 1940. Now that was a terrifying time. Remember all the rumors that Hitler’s armies would sweep into Switzerland to get around the Maginot Line? Or after the fall of France, when we heard the Nazis would invade Switzerland next?”

  Gabi shuddered. During the summer of 1940, their family expected to be evacuated at a moment’s notice. After all, only two areas in Switzerland were north of the Rhine River and shared a land border with Germany: the heavily forested city of Schaffhausen, eighty kilometers to the east; and her hometown of Riehen, located in the so-called “knee of the Rhine” five kilometers east of Basel. Add to that the fact their house in Riehen was only several hundred meters from the border, which left them extremely vulnerable.

  “I remember after the fall of France how Papi got everyone on their knees after dinner. It was a tradition we continued for weeks. All we could do was pray.”

  “We did the same at our house. Hey—” Eric pointed— “there’s the train station!”

  Gabi felt the train brake as it pulled into Davos-Platz. The platform was filled with travelers waiting to take the Rhaetian Railway back to Landquart. From there, one could transfer to a fast intercity train to Zurich and Basel. She ignored those traveling for the holiday and instead scanned the faces of those in uniform.

  “There they are!” Eric pointed, spotting Andreas and Willy first. They were dressed in woolen pants and gray short-sleeve shirts. Each packed a pistol on their belts.

  “Who’s with them?” Gabi noticed the soldier chatting with her brothers. He was dressed in khaki pants, light flight jacket, and cap with a U.S. Army Eighth Air Force insignia—the number 8 with scalloped wings and a five-pointed star.

  She glanced at the handsome American again and couldn’t help but allow a smile to form.

  18 Toblerstrasse, Apartment 4

  Heidelberg, Germany

  1:20 p.m.

  Bruno Kassler, dressed in a white undershirt and black flared breeches, sat in his apartment bedroom less than two kilometers from his office. A sleeping form curled up in his bed, but he ignored her for now. There was a time for pleasure and a time for business. Now was a time for business. Kassler had told Becker to patch through any calls to his apartment until he returned to the office later that afternoon.

  He tapped the wooden desktop with his fingertips as he watched the black phone. Its sudden jangling startled the Gestapo chief, even though he had been anticipating a call since mid-morning.

  “Hello?”

  “Major . . . Major . . . Kassler. Berlin is on the line.” The young corporal sounded as if he would faint from asphyxiation at any moment.

  “Stay calm, Becker. Exactly who’s on the phone?” Kassler expected Himmler’s personal assistant, or perhaps a major general.

  “The . . . the . . . Reichsführer himself.”

  Now it was Kassler’s turn to feel his face go pale. “Put him on, quickly now.”

  Kassler heard a click and then his name.

  “Sturmbannführer Kassler?”

  He’d recognize the voice anywhere. It was Himmler.

  “This is Sturmbannführer Kassler, mein Reichsführer.”

  “Thank you for taking my call,” said the oily voice from Berlin.

  “Yes, sir.” Kassler straightened up in his chair. As if the Reichsführer needed his permission to continue the conversation by phone.

  “This is in regards to the letter that you sent by overnight courier.”

  “Yes, my Reichsführer. If you will allow me a moment to explain—”

  “There’s no need. Your letter outlined the situation in Heidelberg well. You were wise to seek counsel, but I can only hope you are not poking your nose where you shouldn’t.”

  Kassler felt his heart boom inside his chest. “Reichsführer, that was not my intention. I was merely investigating possible collaborators working inside our local university. I thought making a couple of phone calls would help me root out these traitors, and when I came across something unusual—”

  “You should have gone through channels with the Berlin office instead of calling the Spandau SS.”

  Himmler knows I called the SS?

  “Fortunately for you,” Himmler continued, “we were able to confirm that Joseph Engel was born to Jewish parents in 1917.”

  Kassler blew out the breath he’d been holding. “How would His Excellency like me to proceed?”

  “Sturmbannführer Kassler, may I remind you of the sensitivity of the situation. Normally, the Jew Engel would be arrested for questioning, but at the moment, he’s working for the Fatherland on a very important military project—one I cannot disclose over the phone. Nonetheless, we cannot let our guard down. I want you to pick up Engel, for safekeeping, until we decide what to do with him. He is to be taken alive, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. How soon would you like my men to arrest the Jew?”

  “He doesn’t appear to be a flight risk; still, this matter cannot wait. You have twenty-four hours and not a minute more. Call me when he is safely in your custody. I expect no problems.”

  “Of course, Reichsführer. You can count on me.”

  Kassler heard the phone click, and then he set the handset gingerly on the cradle and reached into his breeches for a handkerchief. Himmler didn’t suffer fools—or unwise mistakes— gladly.

  He dabbed his perspiring forehead and willed himself to calm down. After all, Engel had no idea he was a hunted man. Kassler still had the element of surprise in his hip pocket.

  The Gestapo chief reached for the phone and dialed his office number. “Becker! Who’s leading the night brigade this evening?”

  He heard a shuffling of papers until Becker had an answer. “Frisch, Sergeant Frisch.”

  “Find him. Send him to my office. It’s urgent. I’ll be there shortly.”

  After he hung up, Kassler heard a soft moan and the rustling of bedsheets beside him.

  “Problems at the office, sweetheart?” The voice was slightly hoarse from sleep.

  Kassler turned and regarded the raven-haired beauty, Sylvia Neddermeyer. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, as if she had awakened in the middle of the night instead of the early afternoon. She rose from the bed and slowly gathered his silk bathrobe around her nude frame. Her high cheekbones, model skin, and hourglass figure were hard to overlook. And the fact that she was one-sixteenth Jewish was a technicality he was also willing to ignore.

  As long as she maintained her end of the bargain.

  “Come back to bed. I can’t sleep when you’re not here to warm me.” She pouted for his benefit. “Besides,” she purred in a sultry voice as she loosely tied his robe, “I can tell you’ve been working too hard.”

  Kassler smiled as Sylvia approached and slid into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Kassler nuzzled his face into Sylvia’s neck, breathing in the sweet, musky scent of her. Sergeant Frisch could wait. He had twenty-four hours, after all.

  10

  Bern, Switzerland

  1:40 p.m.

  Dieter Baumann stared off into the half-empty train yard as the iron brakes of the IC Express squealed, signaling its arrival in Bern—Switzerland’s capital city and seat of the national government.

  A festive mood filled the second-class railcar, with every seat taken by families anxious to visit loved ones on Swiss National Day. As the early afternoon train leisurely rolled underneath a massive cupola, men dressed in black stovepipe pants, pressed white shirts, and thin black ties reached for satchels in the overhead compartment. Their wives, adorned in embroidered blouses and bright dresses in various shades of crimson red—in homage to the predominantly red flag of Switzerland—gathered their children’s belongings and picnic baskets. The outfits worn by their of
fspring were pint-sized versions of their parents’ celebratory apparel.

  Dieter regarded his olive-colored dungarees and simple dress shirt. No party clothes for him, or wurst and potato salad that afternoon. Instead, Dieter focused on the job he had to do. He exited the Bern Hauptbahnhof with a leather briefcase in hand and smoothly passed harried parents reining in hopped-up boys and girls sprinting for the exits. Within fifteen minutes, he arrived at the United States Embassy on Jubiläumsstrasse 93 where a pair of serious Marines studied the contents of his scarlet passport before phoning the office of Allen Dulles. Inside of two minutes, Dulles’s secretary— an American—arrived at the front door to escort Dieter into the inner sanctum.

  “Mr. Baumann, it’s good to see you again,” the secretary, Priscilla Taylor, declared in a businesslike manner.

  “And you as well, Mrs. Taylor.”

  Early forties, unadorned in a navy blue dress skirt and matching jacket, and not bearing a wedding ring, the frumpy Frau Taylor was married to her work. As per Swiss custom, Dieter couldn’t bring himself to call an old maid like her a “miss.”

  “I thought you’d be taking the day off,” Dieter breezily remarked as the pair walked along a granite-floored hallway toward the rear of the embassy.

  “I doubt the Germans are on holiday today,” she replied, businesslike.

  “True, but we are in Switzerland.”

  “We didn’t take the Fourth of July off either,” she said curtly.

  The ensuing silence told Dieter that Mrs. Taylor was in no mood to verbally spar with a Swiss operative from the Basel office. They remained mute as she ushered him into Dulles’s office.

  “Ah, Mister Baumann, thank you for coming on such short notice,” said the angular Dulles, rising from a burgundy-colored, padded leather chair. “Have you eaten lunch?”

  “I had a croissant on the train.”

  “Well, help yourself to some cheese and fruit if you’re hungry.” Dulles, dressed in a tweed jacket and matching tie, waved his right hand toward a silver platter overflowing with red grapes, ripe peaches, and a rectangular block of Appenzeller cheese.