Pursuit (21 page)

“I said, I'd go as far as Milano with you.”

“I'm sure the Italians will be pleased,” Max said sourly, aware that Wolf would have come up with a more cutting remark. That ended the conversation.

They left the following afternoon, catching a ride with a delivery truck into Munich, planning on trying for a railroad boxcar, always easier to get into after dark. The striped shirts and striped caps no longer meant free transportation; Germany and the Germans were getting back to normal.

It was late by the time they arrived at the Haupbahnhof and trudged down the darkened Arnuld Strasse in the direction of the freight yards. It was a black night, bitter cold, with the first wisps of snow brushing their faces as they walked along, their hands stuffed deep into their overcoat pockets, each busy with his dreams. Switzerland, Grossman thought! To be dressed in decent clothes, sitting in front of a blazing fireplace in some alpine hotel-chalet, a tall drink at his elbow, a pretty barmaid glancing at him and seeing beneath the Jew face the real man, the powerful lover, and letting him know it with a subtle blush. Palestine, Brodsky thought! Warmth of the hot sun, the smell of the earth, Deborah meeting him when she was done at the hospital, raising her lovely face to be kissed, holding his hand tightly as they walked along the streets of the old city, stopping at a Yemenite restaurant to eat spicy kebob and sesame bread and drink that wonderful ice-cold Palestine beer.

The fence had been repaired since Brodsky had reconnoitered the area several days earlier. With a muttered curse for the poor timing of the repair crew, he removed his overcoat and laid it across the top strands, and then boosted Grossman up and over. He tossed his knapsack across and managed to wriggle his own way over. He dragged the overcoat down; it snagged and tore on a point of wire.

“Damn!”

He put the coat on and fingered the gash in the darkness, shaking his head disconsolately. The tear went through the lining and let the cold in. Damn, damn,
damn!
He had needle and thread in his knapsack, but there would be little light for mending the rip; maybe when they got settled in a boxcar, if they ever got settled in a boxcar, he could find a pin. But the trip was starting poorly.

They walked along the row of silent cars trying to be as quiet as possible, straining their eyes to read the destination cards in their metal brackets on the sides of the cars, and then gave up. It was too dark and they could not afford to risk a light, and there was no evidence that the destination cards would mean anything, anyway. On his previous trip to the freight yards Brodsky had been informed by a worker that almost all the traffic from that part of the yard went south, and they could only hope the man was correct. It would be a tragedy to go to sleep and wake up in Berlin, or Hamburg, or—worse Celle.

There was a car with the door slightly open. They crawled in and slid the door shut before they felt they could afford a light. In the flare of a match they saw they had picked an empty car, but one with straw at one end. It smelled as if it had contained animals, and a second match confirmed this in the droppings on the floor. But it was warmer than the outdoors, and the straw promised some small degree of comfort. They dragged enough straw clear of the droppings, wrapped themselves tightly in their overcoats, and, with their knapsacks for pillows, fell into an uncomfortable sleep. The last thing each thought of before dozing off was the last time he had been in a boxcar, on the trip from Buchenwald to Celle.

Each hoped this trip would have a better conclusion.

They awoke with a jerk; there had been a loud rattling of couplings and then the car was moving. There was a faint strip of light along the edge of the door. Grossman got up, yawned, and hobbled to the door, shivering. He slid the door slightly open and stared out. Max was watching him.

“Well?”

“It's morning …”

“No!” Max was in a bad mood. He had slept poorly, he was irked about the torn overcoat, and he was still remembering Grossman's ill manners the day before. “I thought it was always light at night!”

“And it's cold …”

“That's strange. I thought it was hot.”

“We're heading south,” Grossman said. He hadn't heard a word Brodsky had said. His voice was tinged with satisfaction. “We're going through Hohenbrunn; it's a suburb of Munich. This track goes down to Bruchmuel and Rosenheim, toward Austria. We're all right.”

“And about time,” Max said sourly, and started to open his knapsack. “Leave the door open a little for light.” He drew out his sewing kit, selected a needle, squintingly threaded it, and began to repair his coat. “What I wonder, though, is why they're sending empty cars south?”

“Who cares?” Grossman brought out a tin of beans and was busy prying it open. He dug in with the blade of his knife, eating with quiet grunts of pleasure, speaking with his mouth full. “You want some?”

“Later,” Brodsky said, and then caught his balance as the train suddenly braked and a shudder ran down the line of cars. Grossman put down his can of beans and went to the door. Brodsky had stopped sewing and was watching him.

“Well?”

“We're slowing down …”

“You noticed! Why are we slowing down?”

“How the devil should I know?” He suddenly slid the door shut. “They're pulling into a siding.”

“Great!” Brodsky said bitterly. “That was some long trip. How far have we come? Two whole miles?”

“Shhhhh …”

The train had come to a halt with a final bumping of cars and there were voices outside. They were speaking English. Max came to his feet and edged to the door, listening. He shivered and slipped into his overcoat, the needle dangling.

“—how in hell,” one of the voices was saying in a deep aggrieved tone of voice, “are we supposed to ship them fu—I mean, them trucks in closed boxcars? How are we supposed to get them
in
? And why ship the fu—I mean, why ship them in the first place? Why in hell not just drive 'em down, Lieutenant?”

“For a variety of reasons, Sergeant,” a second voice said wearily. The lieutenant seemed to have heard this argument before, from others. “There's a severe shortage of gasoline in these countries, for one. For another, the roads are in lousy shape, and we could run into ten feet of snow in the mountains, or lose a couple of trucks over the edge of a cliff. And then there's the big reason—”

“What's that, Lieutenant?”

“Our orders are to ship them by these boxcars, that's why. Never argue with the brass.”

“Yes, sir, I agree,” said the sergeant desperately, “Only will you please tell me how we're goin' to get our trucks through them skinny little doors?”

“You're going to make the doors wider, Sergeant.”

“What!
Them cars is made of
steel
, Lieutenant!”

“I can see they're steel, Sergeant. You have oxy-acetylene equipment, don't you?”

“Well—yes, sir—but I got maybe one guy can use a torch without burnin' his own feet off, and we got us here a string of twenty-five, thirty boxcars. We'll be here a month!”

“Sergeant,” the lieutenant said wearily, “we all have our problems.” The lieutenant sounded as if the sergeant was one of his major ones. “Yours is to ship those trucks. In those boxcars. Today. I've told you how to handle it. So handle it.”

“Yes, sir …” There was the sound of the lieutenant's footsteps marching away; then the dispirited tone left the sergeant's voice as he took command. “All right, you guys! Jackson, go get the oxyacetylene crap; bring everything you got or can cadge. Maybe you can teach some of these clowns how to work one of them fuckin' torches. And make sure you got full tanks. I don't want to freeze my ass here all day while you guys go back and forth like union plumbers. Johnson, get them cars open and aired out. Get them cleaned out, too. They tell me they had cows or pigs in them before we got them, so they're probably full of shit. And get any straw out, too. We don't want no fuckin' fires. You—yes, you, Private, whatever the hell your name is—make sure the trucks got enough gas in them to at least drive them outta the boxcars when we get there. Fill 'em up, if you can.” Under his breath he muttered direly, “Gasoline shortage, my ass!” His voice went up again. “All right, you guys, move it!”

There was the rattle of boxcar doors being slid back on the double as the men sprang to their jobs. Brodsky shrugged and snapped the thread loose from his coat. One thing was certain; he wouldn't get a chance to repair the coat in the comfort of the boxcar. Maybe back at Felsdorf, because it looked as if that was where they would have to go. He tucked the sewing kit away and waited. The sound of the sliding doors came closer as the men approached. Then their door was pulled back with a bang and a surprised corporal was staring at them.

“Hey, Sarge!”

The sergeant came along the loading dock, a cigar stub jammed in one corner of his mouth. Both Brodsky and Grossman recognized him at once. There was a frown on the rough unshaven face.

“Well, well! What do we have here? Stowaways, huh? Sorry to evict you guys, but like the man says, we all got troubles. We got a prior use for these cars—” He suddenly stared at them closer. “Hey! Ain't I seen you guys before?”

“You lift us up and bring us to Munich,” Max said proudly.

“Yeah, that's right. Couple months ago. Where's the third guy, the little guy with the smashed-up mush?” He looked in the car and accepted its emptiness as the answer to his question. “Well, like I said, I'm sorry but I can't help you guys this time. That ninety-day wonder I got riding my ass—” He noticed the corporal listening and gave him a glare. The corporal suddenly found something to do elsewhere. “Like I was saying, that pissant lieutenant of mine is a cocksucker for the rules.”

Max Brodsky had a sudden and wonderful thought.

“Sergeant—”

“No,” the sergeant said firmly. “Look, pal, I'm sorry, but like I—”

“No, no!” Brodsky said hurriedly. “I hear what the lieutenant talk to you. My friend here is a wonderful user of the torch—” He turned to Grossman, speaking rapidly in Yiddish. “Ben, do you know what an oxy-something torch is?”

“Oxy-acetylene. A burning torch,” Grossman said, mystified.

“Can you use one?”

“I haven't for years.”

“But you know how to use one?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God!” Brodsky turned back to the sergeant. “My friend can able you to fix down the doors in no time almost.” He stepped from the boxcar, taking the sergeant by the arm, walking him a short distance along the loading platform, their breath steaming in the cold air. Grossman stared after him, wondering what was going on, exactly what Brodsky was promoting at the moment.

The sergeant chewed on his unlit cigar stub, his small eyes watching Brodsky carefully. Sergeant Aloyious Chenowicz had met con artists before, and he had a feeling he was in the presence of a master.

“What's on your mind, chum?”

“Could I ask to where you go?”

“Where we're headed for? Italy. Genoa, to be exact.”

“Genoa?”
Ho, ho, Wolf! No God, eh?

“That's right. Only don't ask me why,” said the sergeant, speaking for himself, while his busy eye made sure his men were doing their assigned jobs, and doing them properly. “Probably goin' to ship them fuckin' trucks to Amsterdam and down the Rhine back to here. The way everything else is fucked up in this man's army, it wouldn't surprise the hell outta me.”

“We'd be no trouble,” Max said earnestly. “Sit in one of trucks. Real quiet …”

The sergeant started to shake his head, and then stopped. He looked at Max quizzically.

“Your pal really knows how to use a burnin' torch?” Max crossed his heart. “Well, we'll find out quick enough. You poor bastards still got no papers, huh?”

Max shook his head dolefully.

“They really go for papers in these fuckin' countries, don't they? But why the yen to go to Italy?” The sergeant answered his own question. “Why not, I guess. At least it ain't so fuckin' cold there.” He bit his lip, thinking. “Well, if your pal can give us a hand with them fuckin' doors, and if you guys should happen to stumble into one of them trucks while I ain't lookin', I don't know nothin' about it. If the lieutenant's around, though, forget it—though the chances of that are about like Cleveland winnin' a pennant. If it's this cold he'll be in the caboose, tellin' the Heinie brakeman how he won the war.” He studied Max's broad shoulders appreciatively. “And you can give us a hand, too. We're goin' to have to push them trucks into them boxcars by hand. Let any of them fuckin' clowns drive 'em in and they'd take 'em right through the fuckin' wall—”

A man in a fur-trimmed overcoat and a neat homburg came hurrying up. He spoke a correct but accented English.

“Sir! Sergeant! One of your men is starting to bum the sides of a boxcar down there! That car is the property of the German National Railways!”

“No shit! Well,” said the sergeant helpfully, “stick around and watch us burn out the sides of all the fuckin' cars in the train. We just happen to win this war.” He turned to Max, speaking loudly for the benefit of the man who remained standing there, outraged. “I hope this clown raises enough hell to get to the general in the caboose. The old general'll have his balls for door knockers.”

The man stared at him a moment, furious, and then stomped off, his shoulders hunched in his overcoat.

“You should of swapped overcoats with the Heinie fucker,” Sergeant Chenowicz said sympathetically to Max, and then started off down the line to supervise the work. Max stared after him. He should have swapped coats with the man, at that.

It was eleven at night by the time all the doors had been widened, the trucks rolled in and their wheels chocked to prevent movement during the trip. The sergeant came around, his ever-present cigar stub jammed into one corner of his mouth, making a last-minute inspection. He walked into the car with their truck and looked up at Brodsky in the driver's seat. Brodsky rolled down the window.