Escapes! (6 page)

Luck stayed with them all the way to Singen — the last train stop before their walk to the Swiss border. As they set out along the dirt road that ran next to the tracks, Larive had an eerie sense of coming home. He had traveled the same road after his last escape — and had landed in front of the Gestapo. In his mind he went over the Gestapo agent's words: “Did you see where the road split from the tracks? An hour more of walking, a left turn through some fields, and the border would have been straight ahead of you.”

The road veered from the tracks and led into the woods. Remember, Larive told himself, the Bull said there's no defense line. But he couldn't shake a feeling of dread as they entered the forest.

Then, rounding a corner, he saw something that turned his blood cold: a German guard up ahead, moving toward them along the same side of the road. Larive and Steinmetz slowed down. What now? If they turned back, he'd suspect them for sure. Maybe he wasn't there to check papers.

“Let's cross the road,” Larive whispered. “If he crosses, too, we'll know he means to check up on us.”

Casually they strolled to the other side of the road.

“He is crossing!” Steinmetz exclaimed under his breath.

A few steps ahead Larive saw a narrow path heading off the road through the trees. But it led away from the border! No choice now. The guard was closing in and picking up his pace. “Turn right up the path — and run,” Larive whispered. The two men bolted.

“Halt!” they heard the guard shout from behind. Larive forced his tired legs to move faster.

A shot was fired, and a bullet whistled past Larive's head. They dove off the path and kept running through the trees, the leaves and branches whipping their sides and faces. Larive waited for another shot but none came. He slowed a little to look back. No guard. He's gone back to raise the alarm, thought Larive. The two men slowed down and circled back, creeping from shrub to shrub to the edge of the woods. Crouching deep in a thicket, they watched the road.

Across a field they could see some commotion at a distant guardhouse. The sky grew darker and Larive felt a few drops of rain. Good, he thought. The harder the better. It will make us tough to spot tonight. Soldiers were now leaving the guardhouse and taking up posts along the road. The road they needed to cross to get to Switzerland! Suddenly, rifle shots made Larive jump. Then loud barking. The hunt had started.

“They're trying to scare us into running, so the dogs will hear us and pick up our trail,” Larive whispered. He and Steinmetz sunk further into the thicket and covered themselves with their blanket. Their best chance was to stay quiet and perfectly still.

The barking grew louder and voices were getting clearer. More shots, closer this time. Larive's heart was pounding as he willed himself not to move, not to breathe too loudly. The guards' footsteps were very close now. This is crazy, thought Larive. Even if they don't see us they'll step on us! Then slowly the voices became dimmer, the barking moved further off. Soon only the rain falling on the leaves broke the silence.

Darkness came, and the two men crawled slowly out of the woods on their stomachs. Larive looked for some landmark to guide them, but everything looked the same in the pitch-black night. They found another dirt road, but was it the right one? They kept going. In the distance, Larive could make out the shapes of houses. That might be the Swiss village on the other side of the border. Or the town they had just left — were they going in circles? They passed signs but couldn't read them in the dark. Steinmetz climbed a signpost and struck a match before the words. In a flash, he dropped down. “German Customs!” he hissed.

Half running, half stumbling, they came upon a small group of houses. Were they Swiss or German? It was too dark to tell. Steinmetz leaned against a wall to catch his breath out of the rain. Larive joined him.

They discussed the situation in hoarse whispers. Maybe it was best to stay put and not get more lost. At dawn, they could get their bearings and make a final dash for the border. Larive leaned back. He'd never been so tired. Two and a half days on the run, without sleep and almost nothing to eat. His clothes were soaked and he felt cold and numb. Stay sharp, he told himself. This is when your mind dulls, and you do something stupid.

Suddenly the white beam of a flashlight stung his eyes, blinding him. He and Steinmetz froze, as if pinned to the wall by the light. Larive could hear the sound of boots squishing in the mud, coming closer. But he could see nothing beyond the glare of the light. Then a voice confirmed his worst fears — it spoke in German.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Tears stung Larive's eyes. Not again! They couldn't be more than a few hundred yards from the border. Then anger replaced his exhaustion. No, he thought. I won't go back this time.

The beam of light moved to Steinmetz and back again. Behind it, Larive glimpsed a soldier with a rifle strapped across his back. It would take a few seconds for him to grab his weapon and aim.

Larive whispered to Steinmetz, “We must kick hard, both at the same time, then run. I'll say when.” Steinmetz nodded grimly.

As the soldier came closer, they slowly lifted their right legs and pushed their hands against the wall behind them.

“Where did you come from? Are you prisoners of war?”

Larive took a deep breath. As he opened his mouth to say “Now!” the voice spoke again.

“You are in Switzerland. You'll have to come with me.”

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in. They were free.

In a corner of the Dutch quarters at Colditz, Vandy frowned as he inspected the two dummy heads from different angles. At last, he stepped back and gave a grunt of satisfaction. They were remarkable! His Polish friend had outdone himself. The amateur sculptor had modeled them out of plaster — obtained from a castle repairman who was always willing to take a bribe. The faces had then been painted by a Dutch lieutenant, who had snuck paints from a prisoners' art class.

Attached to frames, draped with long Dutch coats, and topped with officers' caps, the dummies — which the Dutch nicknamed “Max” and “Moritz” — were ready for action. Two more officers were about to escape through the well in the park. While they made their run for the border, Max and Moritz would stand in for them at roll calls, hiding their absence for as long as possible.

Vandy had noticed that the guards now took a shortcut when counting the Dutch prisoners. The orderly Dutch always stood in neat rows of five. The guards simply counted the rows, and so many rows times five gave them the right number. During the noise and confusion before roll call, while the British and French were stalling and goon-baiting, the Dutch walked out in a large group. They tucked Max and Moritz in the center, held by the officers on either side, who slid two extra pairs of boots under the dummies at the last minute.

It worked brilliantly — for a time. Months after the well escapes, a suspicious German guard took a closer look at the Dutch.

He raised his hand. “All from here to the right, move to the right. All from here to the left, move to the left,” he ordered.

As the prisoners shifted position, one was left alone in the middle. The guard pointed at the prisoner with the blank expression and repeated his order. No response. The guard stormed toward him, and his anger turned to astonishment. Max had been found out. But Vandy didn't mind — by this time his two escapers had followed Larive and Steinmetz to freedom in Switzerland.

Escape attempts continued at Colditz, some ingenious, some outrageous — through a trapdoor under the theater stage; hidden in garbage; disguised as German officers, workers, women. In a secret attic room, the British even built a glider to carry escapers over the castle's high walls to the valley below. The glider never had a chance to take flight, however. It was found by the amazed American GIs who liberated the castle in 1945.

Through Traitor's Gate

London, England, 1716

I
T WAS NEARLY EVENING AS A LADY,
wrapped in a cloak, her face almost hidden by her riding hood, stepped down from a horse-drawn coach onto the cobblestones. She looked up for a moment at the gray stone walls that rose before her, then lowered her gaze and strode ahead with a determined step. As she passed through the arched gateway, the sentry gave her a fleeting look of sympathy, but his face quickly hardened again into its usual cold stare. He was sorry for her troubles, but her husband was a traitor, after all.

The lady shivered as she made her way forward. Was it her imagination, or was it really colder, the air stiller, now that she had stepped inside the walls of the Tower of London? Ahead, across the small green, rose another stone wall. High above, she could see slits in the stone — tiny windows that lit the cells inside. Silently she counted the slits and found the one that cast its dim light on the room where her husband waited for her. And for the day of his execution.

It was out of family loyalty that William Maxwell, Lord Nithsdale, took up the doomed cause that had brought him here. In 1715 a plot was hatched to replace King George I with the exiled James Stuart. Many nobles, especially Scottish ones such as William, believed that James was the rightful heir to the throne. And the time seemed ripe for swift action — the people were grumbling about the German-speaking King George, who knew little English and showed even less affection for his British subjects. William joined his friends and allies in a march south to England, rallying support along the way.

Their rebellion was over within the year. Surrounded and defeated at Preston by King George's forces, the rebel lords were led through London's streets on horseback, their hands tied behind their backs, past the jeers and shouts of the crowds. Soon afterward, the disappointed Stuart prince fled back to France, where he had been living in exile.

Three Scottish lords were found guilty of treason and sentenced to death — their heads to be cut off with an axe. Once sentenced, they were thrown into separate cells inside the Tower of London, the gloomy stone fortress that for centuries had held traitors and notorious criminals within its many dungeons. There the men were to stay until their executions.

In the frozen garden outside the family manor in Terregles, Scotland, Winifred leaned on her spade and surveyed her handiwork. Her palms were blistered from the shovel's handle, but she paid them no mind. It had been only a few hours since the news of her husband's death sentence had reached her at home in Scotland. She had choked back her tears. There was too much to do.

Quickly she had buried the deeds to the family lands in the garden. Her son would need them someday to claim his inheritance — without them all their property would be seized by the king. Snow would cover the hiding place soon enough.

Brushing the dirt from her hands, she next took a hard look at the facts. William had pleaded guilty. The date for his execution was set — February 24, only days away. Things looked grim indeed.