The Swiss Courier: A Novel (9 page)

The compact train, with a green locomotive and a half-dozen red passenger cars, had previously been known in tourist brochures as the Rhaetian Railway. That, of course, was before the war, when the popular line ferried English and German tourists high into Switzerland’s Graubünden country for holiday. That was no longer the case.

As her body swayed with the train’s rocking, Gabi reflected on the fact that England and Germany were now dire enemies focused on each other’s destruction. All because of a madman bent on global conquest. When would the world return to normal again? Would it ever?

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.

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.”

“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?”