“Bob’s your uncle,” exclaimed Graham.

  “Holy Mother of God,” exhaled Al. “Are you kidding me? That’s it? They’re idiots, these guys. I don’t think they give a shit anymore.”

  Floyd laughed. “That’s just the first one, Al. We got a few more to get through before we’re out of this mess.”

  “Well, Captain, sir, I’m praying they’re all like that one.”

  “You do that, Al. Keep praying. And when you’re not using that rosary, hand it over to me, why don’t you?”

  “Ain’t you a Baptist, Captain?” Al chided him.

  “Yeah, well, let’s say I’m covering my bases.”

  . . .

  Retrieved from the boot, Floyd removed the scarf around her mouth and offered Annalise some bread and a bit of cheese. She had no appetite for either. Along with the food Clara packed, Annalise spotted two bottles of Burgundy, part of the assortment delivered to her by the Reichsführer at her party last spring. There was the corkscrew from the Terrasse bar, even. She seethed. How lovely that her loyal house staff had secreted the prized bottles away for this purpose. How long had these men, Annalise wondered, and Clara and Helene, been planning this with Gordon? From the center of the back seat, she spat a stream of angry questions and accusations at Gordon, demanding to know where they were going. What would happen to her? Who was making him do this? Gordon, responding in English in deference to the others, told her she need not worry: if she cooperated, she would survive, healthy and well. He did not respond to her pleadings about whether he had ever really cared for her and the rhetorical follow up: how could he do this to her after they’d been lovers? Eyebrows raised and eyes wide, Floyd shot Al a look. Graham shifted uncomfortably in the front seat. Melvin suggested, politely, that it was time for Annalise to shut up and enjoy the scenery.

  Eventually, the car grew quiet, Annalise closing her eyes in fatigue and resignation, the men hyper vigilant, transfixed by the incongruous beauty of the gently falling snow and the open terrain. After several hours, they neared Bunzlau, their first pickup point. They found the dairy farm as described, just south of town, and the small weathered shack on the grounds. Inside, a rusted trough held pants and jackets and caps that, from a distance, could pass for Wehrmacht-issued uniforms once the men added the buttons and insignias from their stash. They left their Allied fatigues in exchange, relieved to shed the emblems that could give them away. Their castoffs would be reworked to camouflage whomever passed this way next—a Jewish family, perhaps, or a Polish partisan helping others escape. Tucked beneath the trough were two containers of petrol that would allow them to continue driving through the next several days, as well as detailed directions to a safe house. This, they each committed to memory before shredding the paper. As Gordon pulled the car back onto the roadway, a lone farmer stood at the edge of his field, shovel in hand, scraping it aimlessly on the snowy ground. From the near-imperceptible nod he gave as they passed, the men concluded that farming was only part of how this gentleman spent his time.

  Above Görlitz, as Gordon drove up over a small rise, a dense mass of men and vehicles—hundreds and hundreds of POWs—came into view. So. The camps were being evacuated. The group was headed directly toward them, towards the northwest. Gordon slipped the car quickly behind a line of evergreens to allow Melvin to move Annalise into the boot. The others settled into their seats, more confident now in their makeshift Nazi uniforms. Graham took the wheel and Gordon moved to the back seat as the most “senior” Nazi among the contingent. They pulled back onto the road, then parked, as if they were purposely on scene to review the evacuation. It was a ragtag contingent—cadaverous prisoners so obviously malnourished with little protection from the cold. Their guards, wrapped in their greatcoats, fur-lined hats, and scarves, walked beside the long columns, with more senior officers traveling in trucks and on motor scooters. When they spotted the staff car, many snapped a salute, palms raised in esteem of their Führer.

  “Nothing like hiding in plain sight,” Al observed wryly.

  “Act the part, gentlemen,” advised Floyd, “so they have no reason to take a second look.”

  These were broken men trudging past, many shoeless and scuffling, disoriented by the cold and lack of food. Americans, British, Canadians, Australians—many walking arm in arm, the stronger ones pulling the sicker men along. Their uniforms were horribly soiled; those who left the column to piss or defecate were swiftly shot so the POWs had learned to shit as they walked, those with dysentery producing a ceaseless, churning stream down their legs, brown liquid drawing lines in the snow behind them.

  “I suppose our mates are evacuating our camp as well,” said Graham, easing the vehicle down the road as the last cluster of prisoners passed. “This is utterly shambolic. Where in the world are they headed? How will they survive this march?”

  “I’m not sure they’re supposed to,” said Floyd.

  . . .

  The next checkpoint loomed at Görlitz. They were certain to be carefully questioned here, driving against the surge of POWs headed the other way. Gordon offered Annalise an option: she could climb back into the boot with her eager chaperone, or don a uniform jacket and cap, stay in the car, and pretend to sleep, a Lugar pressed into her ribs. Her eyes filled with tears, rebuking Gordon for speaking so harshly with her. She would stay in the car, she said. She would do as told. Gordon was greatly relieved: this close to the border with Czechoslovakia, the boot would most surely be searched.

  Their props in place, each man signaling his readiness, Graham pulled the car toward the checkpoint and lowered his window.

  “Was ist Ihr Geschäft?” What is your business? the guard asked.

  His throat dry, tongue thick, Gordon called gruffly from the back seat that he was the lead of this engineering task group, the battalion to follow shortly. Graham handed over the stack of Ausweis, keeping his gaze attentively forward.

  The guard shivered, stamped his feet to fight off the cold, and flipped through the stack of papers. He paused at one, then peered in the car and counted. He observed aloud that it was a fine night for travel.

  Gordon barked an irritated response, letting the guard know they were not there to make idle conversation. The guard got the message, returning the documents quickly and offering an earnest Heil Hitler. Graham responded with the same and rolled up the window. The guard lifted the gate arm and waved the car through. But as it passed, he seemed to remember a key part of his job, one he was loathe to neglect even in this weather.

  “Der Kofferraum,” he yelled, pointing, walking after the car. The boot. The trunk.

  “Bollocks,” breathed Graham.

  “Drive. Drive. Drive. Drive. Slowly. Don’t stop.” Gordon chanted quietly from the back seat, head turned to disguise his anxiety, to ensure the guard could not catch his eye. Graham continued on, accelerating slightly, just an obtuse, overworked driver of a self-important Nazi officer, simply trying to do his job at this difficult juncture in the war. The guard continued to try to get Graham’s attention, beginning a trot alongside the vehicle, waving his right hand in hopes of catching his peripheral vision. But then he stopped and watched the car pull away, giving a small shrug and returning to tend the small fire burning outside his drafty guard shack. Fine, then. This could be someone else’s concern. He radioed ahead to the next checkpoint at Legnica to say a staff car with an odd assortment of officers was en route.

  The men drove through the night, trading off behind the wheel, two of them keeping eyes on Annalise at all times in case she got any ideas. Their progress was slow over the rutted roads, but visibility improved when the snow tapered off into tiny flakes before stopping altogether. Melvin took charge of the food, subdividing it over the four days they expected to need it. If they added to their provisions, so much the better. But that wasn’t a given. Melvin’s curation ensured they would not, despite their longstanding hunger, consume everything in the first twenty-four hours.

  “That cook really knows how to boil an egg and bake a potato,” said Al, directing the comment to Annalise, who didn’t respond. The men, Gordon excepted, groaned in pleasure at the aroma, the texture of the freshly prepared food compared to the thin cabbage soup they’d subsisted on the past months. The boiled eggs became gourmet delicacies thanks to Clara, who had thoughtfully sent several envelopes—Swastikas engraved on the flaps—full of salt, pepper, and dried dill.

  “God’s honest truth—this meal ranks right up there with my mama’s ravioli. When this whole thing is over, I’m thinking we could open up a little restaurant, right in south Philly, and I can cook there right alongside her. I’ll tell her to put me in charge of the egg boiling.” The men laughed, Floyd promising he would make reservations to eat there as soon as it opened. Gordon said little, thinking of the meat, the fruit, the breads he’d consumed during his days at the manor house, the wine he and Annalise savored together after their trysts. Perhaps he could have brought more back to hungry men at the camp. Perhaps he should have.

  They headed east now, their progress hampered by the accumulated snow that would not be cleared from the roadways until spring or until the T-34 tanks of the Red Army thundered over them—whichever came first. German troops were engaged in furious battles with Slovakian partisans miles to their south, hopefully too absorbed with that to spot a lone German staff car trundling down the road in the dark.

  As they neared Legnica, they fell into their roles, buttoning their uniform coats, tossing egg shells and apple cores out the window, pushing the box of buttons under the seat and sheaves of forged documents into slits they’d cut into the roof liner of the car. Graham drove and Gordon, once again, acted the part of highest-ranked officer in the group. They were traveling at dawn, they would say, to catch up with a contingent from whom they’d been separated. They were trying to make up time.

  In the dim light, the high turret of the Piast Castle and the soaring steeple of the Legnica Cathedral appeared on the horizon. Legnica is known for its medieval architecture, Floyd noted, adding he did not recommend they stick around for any tours while they were in town.

  They spotted the checkpoint, ran down their security checklist one more time, then settled in as Graham drove to the gate. The young guard seemed to be expecting them, prompting Gordon’s first frisson of concern. The guard requested they step out of the car as soon as it drew to a halt, his machine gun hanging loosely from his right hand. Gordon barked a furious retort, but the guard held firm: he would summon his superior if they did not comply. Behind the young German was the small guard house—apparently empty—and behind that, an outbuilding that could house sleeping quarters and perhaps the guard’s supervisor. Or might not. One thing was sure: the moment they stepped out of the car, the mission was compromised. Even if they managed to explain Annalise’s presence, their cobbled-together uniforms, upon close inspection, would give them away, along with their worn army-issue boots and the fact that only three of them spoke German.

  “What do ya say, Captain?” Al whispered, his lips barely moving.

  “We’re too close to town to shoot him out in the open. You have your implements, gentlemen. Al and I stay outside. The three of you, go in.” Floyd responded. “Mrs. Schröder, take off the uniform jacket. You have your wish: you’re married to Gordon here. Our German colonel. Go.”

  Annalise did as she was told, wriggling out of the jacket and pushing it under the front seat of the car with her foot.

  They moved out of the car suddenly, surprising the guard who had expected this to take longer, to give him time to summon back-up. He waved the gun to move them away from the vehicle, all the while appraising their odd uniforms, their irregular haircuts, the stubble on their faces. And Annalise. He spoke first to her, asking why she was on a military mission so close to live fire.

  “I never wish to be away from the commandant,” she said, linking her arm through Gordon’s and pressing into his side. “His work is my work. I am greatly honored to accompany him.”

  He turned next to Al, taking in his olive complexion, his dark eyes and hair.

  “Dieser Mann ist Deutsch?” asked the guard, turning to Gordon. You expect me to believe this man is German?

  Al shrugged, then laughed, sensing the thread. “Ich bin Italienerin,” he offered. I’m Italian. Gordon added that after Italy went over to the Allies, this brave fighter stayed on with the Reich. The guard nodded slowly, skeptically.

  He backed up to the car, the weapon still trained on the escapees. He opened the driver’s side door and looked in. Nothing. He moved to the passenger side, seeing nothing on the seat. But there, on the floor, what were those? Pebbles? Small, round rocks, along with some bright snatches of color. He peered in more closely and saw the assortment of Wehrmacht buttons, the double lightening slashes of the SS insignia, Nazi uniform ribbons. Annalise’s kick to hide the uniform jacket had dislodged and overturned the button box. The Görlitz guard was right. It fit now—these odd uniforms, this irregular group. They were imposters. He would alert the colonel.

  But the guard’s eyes lingered a second too long trying to sort out the apparent contraband. Al slipped soundlessly behind him, pulling from his boot the kitchen knife Clara had provided. He drew it quickly across the guard’s throat as Graham and Gordon moved toward the outbuilding. Melvin wrestled Annalise back into the car, worried she would scream for help but the violence, the blood pouring from the man’s neck onto the once-pristine snow, the way his eyes had registered the attack, the gurgling in his throat, stunned her into silence. She covered her face with her hands as Melvin moved to cover the man’s body with snow.

  Gordon eased open the door to the outbuilding—a small, spare barracks—to find a couple asleep. A Nazi colonel, his jacket hung on a hook at the door, and a young woman—a teenager, probably—lay entwined, skin to skin, in a twin bed. The girl stirred at the squeak of the door hinge and at first seemed not to recognize that strangers had entered the room.

  “Du bist früh dran.” You’re early, she mumbled, her sleepy mind thinking her next customer had arrived, that she must rouse the colonel and send him on his way. But when she saw there were two men, both completely unfamiliar to her, she bolted upright and screamed.

  The colonel awoke and stumbled from the bed, scrambling for the radio that sat on a small table on the back wall.

  “The weapon, you idiot!” the girl screamed, as she rolled over to the colonel’s side of the bed to retrieve a handgun tucked under the mattress. She swung around to shoot, but Gordon leapt, butcher knife in his hand, and slashed her, cutting viciously into her neck until her hand released the weapon. Her head dropped grotesquely onto her shoulder, her small body crumpling into the bed. She made no further sound. Graham seized the gun and shot the colonel, then shot out the radio for good measure.

  Their clothes spattered with blood, they grabbed the colonel’s uniform jacket from the hook and returned to the car to find the others waiting, the engine revving. Graham asked if someone else could drive for a bit, so Al climbed behind the wheel.

  “How many?” asked Floyd.

  “Two,” responded Gordon. “A colonel and… a young girl.”

  “Killed?” Floyd pressed. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “Had to do it, Lieutenant,” Al reasoned. “We couldn’t have them radioing up ahead that we’re coming. That’s what happened here. After Görlitz. They were waiting for us.”

  “Quite,” Gordon repeated, astonished at the brutal new proficiency he had just demonstrated. A girl. A young girl. He saw again the white skin of her neck, the bloom of blood that quickly soaked her braids, her small, bare breasts.

  “So, hear me, sir: you did the right thing. You had to. No question.”

  Floyd continued. “He’s right, Gordon. Shake it off. We’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”

  The task now was to put some distance between themselves and the checkpoint. There was no telling how long it might be before the dead were discovered. After two hours’ time, Al pulled the car off the road and into a copse of trees. They would stay hidden for the remainder of the day and resume the journey after sunset. Their next objective was the safe house in Kraków, some 300 kilometers away, where they would stay overnight. They would reach Kalinov, Czechoslovakia two days later. That was the plan, anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  People never lie so much as after a hunt, during a war or before an election.

  –Otto von Bismarck

  London 1944

  While the Allied commanders—Eisenhower, McArthur, Montgomery, Bradley, Zhukov—headlined the newsreels as their armies made their inexorable march to the Rhine, the agents of the British Special Operations Executive continued their own quiet and deadly work in the shadows, supporting the underground fighters at war with the Germans. The SOE had been formed from the consolidation of several spy offices and agencies, its official inception coming just months after the collapse at Calais, Winston Churchill charging its leader to go and set Europe ablaze. The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, as it was known to insiders, handled the most unsavory aspects of spy craft—assassinating the Nazi governor of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia is one example—while furnishing life-giving support that fueled the work of the Maquis and the partisans across the occupied continent. Its protean moral framework made for a fraught and complicated relationship with the commanders of the British military.

  It was an SOE agent who had handed the plump potato to Clara at the market in Sagan, his section that ran the team that supported and tracked the progress of the Stalag-Luft III escapees as they headed south, arranging to resupply them with food and petrol. Members of his team furnished the seemingly nonsensical messages relayed over the BBC that instructed embedded agents and partisans on the lines to prepare for visitors. And it was members of his team that safely ferried Clara and Helene and six members of their families away from Sagan, to ensure the camp commandant’s staff could not pay them a visit and wring from them the truth about what had happened that final morning in Sagan.