Chapter Twelve
September-October, 1946
Colling had considered all the possibilities that might explain what he now firmly believed was a staged accident to make it seem as if Elizabeth had died. It was obvious to him that someone with connections far beyond the headquarters of the 61st Division had to be involved. What continued to baffle him was the reason why those higher-ups would want to go to the trouble to arrange a faked death of a girl who, as far as Colling knew, was somewhere back home in the States. Try as he might, he could find no rational basis for it. More disconcerting was the realization, as he turned all that he knew over in his mind, that he had to admit that he had very limited knowledge about Elizabeth’s role with whatever organization it was that Quarles represented. With each unanswered letter he had written to Elizabeth, he had become more and more to accept the fact that she probably really had no further interest in him, and that all her affection, verbal and physical, had only been intended to draw him into accompanying her to Poland. And annoying him more each time he thought about it was the possibility, transparently hinted at by Quarles, that he was intended only to be an embellishment to the role she was playing, and not part of the mission. Even when he had he forced her to accept him as an equal and decision-maker, she had not told him all she knew. Colling thought back to her flirtatious encounter with the Russians on the river, and the way she had taken charge once they were on board the Orion Belle, as well as how quickly she seemed to have curtailed their intimacy, once her use for him had ended.
The grief he had experienced when he first had read that she had died had faded as his belief that Elizabeth still lived grew, to be replaced by a persistent and profound anger, based upon the recurring irritation Colling had felt each time he sensed deception, regularly fueled by a sense of betrayal. He remained torn between reason, which told him to forget her, and the irrational obsession that held out what he knew was a dream fantasy of having her forever.
He had been required in his first-year English course at college to read Maugham’s Of Human Bondage. At the time, he could not understand how Philip Carey could be so stupid as to be unable to break free of the vicious tart who treated him so badly, and had thought the premise of the novel somewhat unimaginable. Colling could now concede to himself that the book did find some reflection in his own behavior.
In the end, he found himself unable to forget Elizabeth, and he decided he must continue to ask questions, even if they lead him to something that would fill him with even more turmoil.
Colling telephoned the number that Quarles had written on his calling card. A female operator with a New Jersey accent answered, and when Colling asked for the major, he was told that he was not available. When he attempted to leave the number of the A Company orderly room for a return call, the operator informed him that she could not take a number, and that he would have to try again.
When Colling could find time from his duties, he made several more calls over the next two days, with the same result. He had used the telephone on the company clerk’s desk, with Sergeant Prinzman’s permission. Although the first sergeant had been in the orderly room and had overheard most of his conversations with the Heidelberg telephone operator, he had not made any comment to Colling about them. When Colling entered the office after completing sick call on the third day of his futile attempts to reach Quarles, Prinzman asked, “Colling, how many times you figure you’re going to try and reach this guy?”
“I don’t know, Sarge. I’m about ready to ask for a furlough and go up there and track him down.”
“Is this about that gal that got killed?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s this Major Quarles got to do with her?”
Colling considered how much he would reveal, then said, “She knew him from the Hungarian Riding Academy. I wanted to see if he could tell me about how she was doing before the accident happened.”
Prinzman looked somewhat puzzled, then asked, “You mean those stables where Patton set up that Kraut cavalry outfit?”
“The same. The General loved his horses. Word is, if he hadn’t have put them under his protection, those mounts would have ended up on a lot of German dinner tables last winter.”
“Yeah. I heard about that. What do you think this major in Heidelberg will be able to tell you?”
“I don’t know, but Dr. Parn says it might do me good to talk about her.”
“You got any time off coming?”
“I should. When I ended up TDY instead of on furlough last time, they gave me back my furlough days.”
“Okay, look. I’ll get Lieutenant Wallerman to sign enough back-to-back three-day passes to give you twelve days off. Will that be enough time?”
“I’ll either catch him there or I won’t, Sarge. If I don’t, I won’t need to go again. Thanks.”
The following afternoon, Prinzman provided, along with the four sequentially-dated three-day passes, a travel voucher for Heidelberg. After making arrangements with Captain Lewisohn to have one of the Aid Station medics fill in for him, Colling packed a small canvas bag and caught a ride on a deuce-and-a-half going to Grabensheim. When he checked with the travel office at the railway station, he was told that a train was not scheduled until the following morning. Rather than look for a bunk at the Grabensheim kaserne which could entail having to deal with Major Vincent, Colling elected to sleep in the waiting room.
He arrived in Heidelberg late in the afternoon. The rails had undergone a considerable amount of repair and replacement, and the car that he rode in was in much better condition than those he had previously experienced, resulting in the ride being relatively free of jolts and jarring.
The old university town was set picturesquely on hills on either side of a river, with no visible signs of having been damaged by the war. It had become a popular destination for American soldiers on leave, and several hotels had been set aside for use by the occupation forces. Colling easily found accommodations, and asked the German desk clerk for directions to a good restaurant. The man’s advice turned out to be good, and afterwards, well-fed and tired, Colling returned to his room and dropped into bed.
The next morning, Colling asked where he could find a place serving a full “Englische” breakfast, and was told how to get to the main PX snack bar. He was surprised to find the crowded restaurant closely resembled an American lunchroom, complete with chrome-legged tables and chairs, a long soda fountain, shiny napkin dispensers, salt and pepper shakers, and a juke box playing swing. He ordered bacon and eggs from the crisply-uniformed German waitress, and read that morning’s Stars and Stripes as he ate. It was clear that the headquarters of the United States Army in Europe enjoyed amenities far superior to those available to the outlying garrisons.
After eating, Colling found a Deutsches Post office where he was able to use a phone booth. When he heard the nasal voice of the woman he had spoken to so many times previously, instead of identifying himself as “Sergeant Colling,” he spoke in Polish and stated that “Jan Woznica” was calling for Major Quarles. In distinction to how she had handled Colling’s prior calls, the operator replied in fluent Polish and asked him to wait a moment. A few seconds later, she came back on the line and told him she would put his call through to the Major.
Colling recognized Quarles’ voice when he answered the phone in badly-accented Polish, “Hello. This is Major Quarles. Who is this?”
“Jan Woznica, Major. Remember me?”
Quarles was silent for what seemed a long time, then he reverted to English and said, “Yes, I do. What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you. I’ve been trying to reach you for some time now, but your telephone operator wouldn’t put me through.”
Colling was surprised at Quarles’ response, “I apologize. I didn’t know about it.”
“I need to talk to you face-to-face. Where can I find you?”
“Go to the main lecture hall of the university. When you are facing the building’s fron
t door, turn to your right and go to the second street. We’re in a brick building with a sign in English, ‘Library Services’ beside one of the entrances. The receptionist will direct you after that.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” said Quarles before hanging up the telephone.
The Post Office clerk was able to give him directions, and Colling easily found the building with a simple blue and white “Library Services” sign mounted to one side of a heavy wooden door turned gray by too many winters without being varnished. The narrow entrance hallway had been converted into a reception area. A desk filled one side of the room. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman in civilian dress who scrutinized Colling carefully from the time he closed the door behind him until he was standing in front of her.
“Yes, can I help you, Sergeant?” she asked.
“I’m here to see Major Quarles, ma’am.”
“Name?”
“Sergeant James Colling, ma’am.”
The woman picked up the receiver of the telephone on her desk and announced that Sergeant Colling had arrived. She directed him up the stairs and to the second door on the left on the next floor.
Colling knocked on the darkened oak of Quarles’ office door and heard an invitation to enter.
Quarles was standing to one side of his desk, leafing through the contents of a file folder. The office was lined with bookshelves enclosed behind glass doors. The Major’s desk was a massive mahogany affair decorated with intricate carvings. A worn leather couch and three matching easy chairs were arranged in front of the desk, while a large high-backed leather swivel chair was behind it.
Colling, out of habit, stood at attention and saluted, announcing his name. Quarles looked up, casually returned the salute, and told Colling to sit down.
The Major dropped into his own chair and asked, “Now, what can I do for you?”
Colling decided he would come straight to it, “I heard that Elizabeth had been killed.”
A sad expression crossed Quarles’ face, and he said, “Yes. Very sad. Tragic. She was so young, full of life. I know you were close, and all I can say is how sorry I am.”
“I don’t think it’s true,” replied Colling, watching Quarles’ facial expression carefully.
Quarles’ eyes narrowed as he asked, “Oh? What makes you think that?”
“I found out the woman who was killed was old and white-haired. The MPs who signed the accident report were in the States when the accident occurred. The jeep was red-lined before the crash ever happened. Herr Berksauer at the riding academy speaks from a script when discussing Elizabeth, and everyone else who seems to be a witness has been told to shut up.”
Quarles’ mouth twisted in a wry smile, “So you’re the one who was poking around. I might have known. You’ve got a little bit too much curiosity, and initiative, for your own good, Colling.”
“All I want is to know that Elizabeth is all right.”
Quarles did not reply, seeming to Colling to be like a man weighing his options, making up his mind what to do. Colling waited for him, and finally Quarles said, “I’m taking a big risk telling you anything, you know.”
“Try me,” answered Colling.
After a moment’s pause, Quarles said, “She got picked up by the Russians in Poland. We don’t know exactly where she is, but we believe she’s their prisoner. She hasn’t made a progress drop for a couple of weeks.” Noting Colling’s quizzical look, Quarles continued, “She’s supposed to send a postcard every day to one of a bunch of addresses here in Germany in DP camps. It takes a few days, but we can keep track of where she is, and if she’s okay. We pulled off the accident thing in hopes it would throw the Russians off, maybe buy her some time if she was forced to give them her real name, and when they checked, they would think that Elizabeth Hamilton was dead.”
Colling felt his heart sink. This was worse than her being dead. He could imagine what it must be like for her, and if she were found to be an American agent, it was certain she would be interrogated, abused, tortured . . .then disposed of in some horrific way. He fought back the images that flashed in his mind.
Quarles’ voice broke in, “Want a drink? I know it’s early, but you look like you could use one.” He rose and walked to a cabinet beside his desk, and opening its doors, brought out a bottle of bourbon whiskey and two glasses. He poured a finger in each, and handed one to Colling.
It was unusual for Colling to have anything stronger than beer, but he tipped the whiskey back into his throat, hoping to distract himself from the unpleasant thoughts he was having. The liquor took his breath away, and he tried not to cough. Quarles lifted the bottle, offering another drink, and Colling slid his glass across the desk. The Major poured a larger portion and pushed it back. Colling took the whiskey and raised it to his lips, sipping slowly, hoping to quench his mounting urge to cough.
“Now you know,” said Quarles. “Feel better?”
“No,” said Colling in a hoarse voice. “Why was she in Poland in the first place?”
“She went back for Tomasz’ wife and kids.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“The guy wouldn’t work without ‘em.” Aware by the expression on Colling’s face that he did not understand, Quarles continued, “Tomasz is a metallurgist. The work he does is very important to the U.S. That’s why we wanted to get him out of Poland in the first place. Anyway, he misses his wife and kids, two little girls. He threatened to kind of go on strike if we didn’t try and bring them to the States. So Liz volunteered to go back.”
“Couldn’t someone else do it?” asked Colling.
“Liz was the only one who knew where they were. Tomasz told her and she promised to keep it a secret. When the mission to get Tomasz, Karol and Jan out didn’t go as planned, Liz realized that we had some holes in our security, so she refused to tell anyone, including yours truly, where the wife and kids were.”
Colling asked, “Tomasz and the others were into something big, weren’t they? They mentioned being at Oldenberg, and I remember now that that is the place that the Germans were said to have a research facility, trying to come up with the A-Bomb before we did.”
“Very astute. You’re right. Karol is Doktor Karol Priaskenie, a physicist and friend of an Italian guy named Fermi. Doktor Tomasz Zaletski is a metallurgist, specializing in development of certain metals that are used to make tubing that is used in certain other specialized research. And Jan Kalensa, also a Doktor, is a mathematician who has studied certain theories of calculating the acceleration of certain other things that Doktor Karol Priaskenie is interested in. All three of them were in a velvet-glove forced labor facility run by the Nazis. They were in Oldenberg, and when the Russians got close, they were moved westwards. Then when Patton drove into southern Germany, in the confusion, they somehow got away and back to Poland.
“Priaskenie is actually a cousin of Liz’ mother, and there was a connection made. Liz was the obvious one to go get ‘em. Priaskenie’s wife died from cancer at Oldenberg, and Kalensa doesn’t have a family. But Tomasz Zaletski does, and he took care to have them tucked away someplace safe before he agreed to attempt an escape from Poland. He was pretty sure that you all wouldn’t make it. Now that he’s out, and saw how ‘easy’ it was, he wants wife and kiddies out too. And that’s what’s probably cost Liz her life,” said Quarles, averting his gaze from Colling and with a deep sigh, holding his forehead with both hands.
Now it was Colling’s turn to distract the other man from his thoughts, and he asked, “How did Liz ever get into this kind of business, anyway?”
Quarles raised his head and after swallowing, responded, “She originally wanted to do something ‘useful’ after she got word her husband was missing. She actually did join the Red Cross and ask for duty in the Far East. But she got sent to Europe instead. I met her at a cocktail party here in Heidelberg, right after she arrived from working in Paris. When I learned she was fluent in Polis
h and passable in German and Russian, I asked her if she would be interested in working for us. She said yes.”
“And who is this ‘us’ you’re talking about?”
Quarles looked at Colling intently, “You know I had a full background check done on you, don’t you?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Right after you got back. All I found out is, you’re the real McCoy. All-American boy. Small town. Middle class. Only thing is, you found your calling in the Army. A real Dog Robber. Able to get things done. Make your commanding officers look good, earn their gratitude. They move you up the ladder faster than normal. You got some shady things going on. Nothing really illegal…at least that anyone can prove…and you make a little money. You get a reputation. Not a bad reputation, just a reputation as the guy to go to if somebody wants something. You speak German, so you get along good with the locals. Maybe too good, if that Kraut Zinsmann’s SS background ever becomes an issue and it rubs off on you. You meet Liz and you hit it off.
“You know, I made a couple of passes at her, and got the brush-off. A nice brush-off, but a ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ brush-off. And from what I understand, you made it ‘way past first base, although out of respect for Liz, I won’t go any further with that. What does all this mean? It means I guess I can trust you with what I’m gonna tell you. Am I right?”
“I’ve kept my mouth shut so far about Poland and everything else, haven’t I? I’m sure you checked, didn’t you?”
“Right you are, I did, and you’ve kept your lips zipped.” Quarles leveled a steady gaze at Colling, who sensed that the man was making up his mind about something. “Okay, here goes. You probably don’t know it, but from even before the war, our intelligence services were ordered not to conduct any kind of operations against the Soviets. That came from the highest, and I mean highest authority, if you understand what I mean.”
“The War Department?” asked Colling.
“Higher,” said Quarles. “Not the State Department, not the Navy Department or the War Department. It came from above them. More than that, I will not say.”
Colling found Quarles’ assertion unbelievable. He was apparently referring to the White House. He recalled his father’s occasional comments about Roosevelt’s seeming affinity for the Reds from the time he was first elected, but this was far beyond that. Colling asked, “Aren’t you violating those orders, doing what you’re doing?”
“Kind of. Say we’re sort of bending the rules. Some people in Washington don’t mind so much if we can produce people like Karol and his friends for them. But others do, so we have to kind of be inconspicuous.”
“Who are you, exactly?”
“Actually, Army Field Intelligence. We were attached to the Seventh Army in Italy, interrogating German prisoners and listening in to their field radio transmissions. When the war ended, we were in Austria, and got approached by some Russians who didn’t like Uncle Joe, who wanted to get to America. We obliged them, under the table, of course. Since then, we’ve scattered, but we manage to do a few things now and then. We don’t get much help from any of the regular strategic intelligence offices, but there is a general officer or two who is willing to keep us in business. We do about the same things we did against the Germans, interrogate and listen to the radio. Nowadays we ask questions of Russian soldiers who’ve defected, and listen to Russian radio traffic.
“In addition, we sometimes run a little operation like the one you and Elizabeth did. I won’t say we are real successful, especially when certain people find out what we’re up to and alert the other side.”
Colling asked, “Where is Elizabeth?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Quarles. “We think she was picked up in Krakow or somewhere near there, since the last card we got from her was post-marked from there.”
“How long has it been?”
“Over three weeks now.”
“That’s forever if you’re in a Russian prison.”
“I know,” replied Quarles, his voice tired.
“And this faked-death trick could result in her being subjected to even worse treatment. Did you think of that when you came up with it?” asked Colling, his voice rising.
“It seemed like the best way to confuse the Reds,” said Quarles.
Colling sat thinking for a few moments, then said, “I guess the only way is for me to go and get her.”
Quarles half-stood and leaned over his desk, “Are you nuts?” he said. “You have no way of even knowing if she’s still alive.”
“Just because you’ve written her off doesn’t mean I have to,” responded Colling.
Quarles dropped back into his chair. He seemed to have considered what Colling had said and decided that the young soldier seated across from him might be crazy enough to succeed. “I can help with papers and such,” he offered.
“I don’t think so,” said Colling, “I’d rather go it alone. I can’t trust your organization to keep a secret. The fewer people who know, the better.”
Quarles stood up and went to a small cabinet behind his desk. When he opened its doors, Colling saw that it contained a safe. Quarles spun the combination dial and pulled the safe door to one side. Reaching inside, he brought out an envelope and tossed it onto his desk in front of Colling. “This might help,” he said.
The envelope was filled with U.S. currency. Colling was reminded of the cash that Elizabeth had carried with her to Poland.
“There’s $5,000 there. It’s the standard amount,” said Quarles.
“If you’re not exactly operating officially, how do you get money like this?” asked Colling.
“We captured a lot of German and Italian banks during the war. You’d be surprised how many of them had American cash in their vaults. As Field Intelligence, we had authority to take custody of it, and we’ve been financing ourselves as we go along.”
Colling stood to leave, and Quarles looked uneasy, as if he were regretting acquiescing in Colling’s efforts, perhaps wondering if the money he had just handed over would end up in Colling’s pocket instead of being used as intended. He extended his hand, and as Colling took it, said, “Good luck, Jim. Liz was using the name ‘Anna Zariski.” Her cover was that she was a farm girl trying to get back to Krakow from a labor camp in Germany. If I find out where she is, I’ll see you get the word. I hope you make it.”
“Thanks, Major. I’m sure going to give it one hell of a try.”
Colling was half way out the office door when he asked, “Who was the Polish officer that was in the jeep?”
“Somebody that had to be got rid of. Nobody you’d know.”
Despite the confident attitude he had shown Quarles, Colling had not had the vaguest idea what he would do next, but as he walked through the streets away from the University district, a plan began to form. He returned to his hotel and thought over each element of what he must do, and what lay ahead of him. Elizabeth had been in Russian hands for nearly a month. There was as much chance that she had been executed as there was that she was still alive. He surmised that it would be fairly easy to enter Poland. The most difficult task would be simply discovering her whereabouts.
Late in the afternoon, he stopped pacing his room to go for lunch at the main PX. The hamburger and French fries that he ordered were a change from Army mess hall fare and German food that he had grown accustomed to in the past year, but the state of preoccupation that he was experiencing did not allow him to enjoy the meal fully. Close to four-thirty, he retraced his steps to the Deutsches Post office. He told the attendant behind the counter that he wished to place a transatlantic call, gave him the number, and was told to have a seat on one of the benches in the lobby. An hour passed before his name was called. Colling gave the cashier a twenty-dollar bill when he was asked to pay the charge of 180 marks in advance, and received his change in American Military marks. His money was accepted without comment in spite of the rule against U.S. military personnel possessing American currency. He was
directed to one of the line of telephone booths along one wall.
The booth did not have a standard German telephone handset like the one he had used to call Quarles that morning. This one was equiped with a flat circular receiver which had to be held to his ear while he spoke into a mouthpiece mounted in the wall. He was surprised at the clarity of the connection when he heard his mother’s voice speaking from the telephone in his father’s drugstore.
“Hello, Mom? It’s me, Jim.”
“Where are you, son?”
“I’m in Germany. How’s Dad?”“He’s fine, son. He’s right here.”
Colling’s father came on the line, “Hello, Jim, my boy. Are you coming home soon?”
“No, Dad. I called to say hello and to ask Mom to send me some things.”
His father replied, “I can guess this is costing you a lot of money, Jim, so I’ll turn it back to your mother. I’ve got customers anyway. Tell her all the news so she can tell me.”
“I will, Dad. Take care of yourself and don’t work too hard.”
His mother’s voice returned, “Did you tell Dad you were coming home, son?”
“No, Mom. I just called to say hello and ask you if you could do something important for me.”
“What’s that, son?”
“Have you still got Cousin Jerry’s things?”
“Yes, they’re in his trunk in the attic. I packed everything in mothballs. I have no earthly idea why I saved anything, but I did.”
“I thought you had. Listen, I need you to pack all of his stuff into three or four cardboard boxes and ship them to me.”
“What on earth for?”
“The Germans need old clothes, and I’ve made some friends who can use them.”He was depending on his mother’s innate charitable nature as a motivator, and he was right in doing so. She immediately agreed, saying, “Those poor people. What they’ve been through. We saw the newsreels at the movies last Saturday, and it must just be awful over there.”
“It’s not too bad where I am, Mom, but they are having a hard time. Anyway, I also need all his papers, everything. I wanted to show the guys in my outfit some of that stuff. Can you do that?”
“Of course, son, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ll wire you some money. You need to send it air express, so it gets here as soon as possible. It’s very, very important. Dad has shipped stuff by air from Milwaukee, he’ll know how to do it.”
“I don’t understand what you could want with all that junk, son, but if you say you want it, I’ll see you get it. When will you be coming home?”
“As things look now, it looks like it will be next year at the earliest. Maybe not until just before my enlistment’s up in ’48.”
“The Gottlieb boy got a thirty-day furlough to come home from Japan.”
“He probably had to reenlist to get it, Mom. Now don’t forget to get that stuff off to me as soon as you can. It’s urgent.”
“Yes, son. It’s going to be hard to get through the holidays again this year, without you here. Sally Dombrosky asks about you every time she comes in the store.”
“Well, say hi to her for me, will you?” said Colling, trying to place who Sally Dombrosky was.
A woman’s voice speaking German said that Colling’s allotted time had nearly expired, and Colling told his mother he would have to cut the call short.
“All right, son. It was so nice to hear your voice. I’ll be sending you some cookies for Thanksgiving and Christmas, just like I did last year.”
“Be sure to send Cousin Jerry’s stuff first, though, okay?”
“Of course.”
“Goodbye, Mom.”
“Goodbye, son.”
Colling asked the Post Office clerk if he could telegraph some funds to an address in Wisconsin, U.S.A., and was told that it was possible to do so. He decided to send fifty dollars, and once again his American currency was accepted without comment.
Before returning to his room, Colling walked back to the PX and asked an MP on duty outside where he could find a timetable for the trains headed south. He was directed to a bulletin board just inside the building, and discovered that there was a train leaving that evening that would allow him to make connections for Grabensheim.
When he appeared in the Company A orderly room the next afternoon, Prinzman asked him why he had returned so soon. Colling explained that he had been able to locate Major Quarles and finish his business with him the first day after arriving in Heidelberg. Prinzman wondered out loud why Colling had not stayed to see the sights and relax for awhile, and Colling told him he felt obligated to get back to his work in the dispensary.
In one sense, he was glad to resume taking sick call and assisting the Polish physicians with their patients, because it helped make the time pass more quickly and kept him from fidgeting while he waited for his mother’s packages to arrive. Three days later he almost cheered when Prinzman told him that the 40th’s Battalion orderly room had called to say he had four parcels with Colling’s name on them waiting for him. Because they had been mailed air express, Sergeant Brookline had thought it best to telephone Camp 146 right away to let him know of their arrival.
Colling asked Prinzman if he could use the ambulance to pick up the packages that his mother had shipped to him. He suggested that he could retrieve his mail on his way to Kummers-feld, as he had to pick up one of the guards who had been hospitalized in Munich and who had been sent to the Regimental Aid Station for return to the camp. Prinzman gave his approval; and that night after supper, alone in his quarters in the Dispensary, Colling was able to begin opening the boxes.
His mother had divided the contents of Cousin Jerry’s trunk into four cardboard cartons, distributing the garments evenly so that the other items in each box were padded by clothing. Underneath the clothing were a number of back issues of the Daily Worker, both the New York and Milwaukee editions; a supply of stationery, including envelopes and paper with the letterheads of the Socialist Worker’s Committee of Milwaukee of the Communist Party of the U.S.A.; blank membership cards in the same organization; Milwaukee Daily Worker stationery; a bundle of propaganda leaflets supporting Germany in its war against Imperialist Britain, obviously printed before June of 1941; and other Communist Party literature extolling the virtues of the people’s party. In the bottom of one box were a copy of The Communist Manifesto and an English translation of Das Kapital, as well as works by Hemingway, Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair.
Tucked in between two well-worn tweed jackets, Colling found Jerzy Krazinsky’s wallet. Inside was his Communist Party membership card, his press card from the Milwaukee Daily Worker, some labor union membership cards, an identification card from the Holland Manufacturing Company with Cousin Jerry’s picture attached, and some scraps of paper with scribbled reminders, phone numbers and addresses that meant nothing to Colling. A single manila file folder held a half-dozen congratulatory letters addressed to Comrade Krazinsky, thanking him for his service to the Party.
There were only two photographs in the wallet. One of Stalin and the other of Colling’s mother as a young girl. She was primly seated, her ankles crossed, posing for the photographer. From the style of her dress, Colling guessed that it must have been taken when she was in high school. She had been a very pretty girl, and it was not impossible to suppose that Cousin Jerry probably had a crush on Colling’s mother. The absence of any other family or personal snapshots attested to Cousin Jerry’s solitary existence.
Cousin Jerry had been shunned by the rest of the family for his politics when Stalin signed the pact with Hitler in August of 1939, and as far as Colling knew, his mother had been the only one of his relatives who had maintained any sort of contact with him. He had never married, and he died alone in a rooming house in Milwaukee in January of 1945. Colling remembered his mother asking him to take time from college to go with her to the city to make funeral arrangements and, afterwards, packing his belongings into the single trunk and bringing it back with th
em to Belle Cors. Colling recalled that at the time he had considered it an imposition on him to do so, so soon after his return to school following the Christmas holidays.
Colling tried on the clothes, finding that while the jackets and suit coats were a little large, but not noticeably so; the trousers fit too loosely in the waist and their cuffs fell short an inch or more from reaching the tops of his shoes. He remembered that someone had mentioned that there was a DP in the camp who was a tailor, and he stacked the trousers to one side so that he could ask to have them altered.
Luckily the two pairs of shoes fit well. If they had not, he would have either had to wear his Army issue shoes or find one of the DP’s willing to sell him a pair of European manufacture. Either way, that would not be consistent with the deception he had in mind.
Its success would also depend heavily on the battered Remington field typewriter in the dispensary. Cousin Jerry’s membership card in the Communist Party of the United States of America showed his birth year as 1897. Colling first made a comparison of the typeface on the Remington with that on the card and found them extremely close. The Party card was worn from being carried in Cousin Jerry’s wallet, so that Colling’s efforts at erasing the four digits of the year were noticeable only by very close examination. He practiced typing “1924” several times on a blank piece of paper, then held his breath and rolled the card into the typewriter, tediously aligning it to the place where the type would strike. Four soft, quick taps of the keys later, and he had completed the alteration. After he had dulled the fresh appearance of the numbers with a few light touches with an eraser, he congratulated himself on his work. He was certain that the change would be noticeable only upon very careful scrutiny. He placed his faith in the anticipation that most people to whom he would show the card would see only the name of the organization, and that of the bearer, and pay no particular attention to other details.
Colling strolled over to the Company A orderly room. Prinzman’s clerk slept on a cot set up in front of the first sergeant’s desk, and he was in his underwear, smoking a cigarette and reading a comic book. Colling asked if he could use the typewriter, saying the ribbon in the dispensary’s had broken. Barely looking up from his magazine, the PFC told him he was welcome to do so.
The clerk’s typewriter was a Royal with a larger type size. Colling filled out one of the blank Milwaukee Socialist Worker’s Party cards in Cousin Jerry’s name, entering the 1924 birth year. He then composed two letters, using the stationery from the Socialist Worker’s Party and the Milwaukee Daily Worker. He typed the addresses he had chosen on the envelopes, thanked the clerk, who was still absorbed in what Colling saw was Superman Comics, and returned to his quarters.
Colling sorted through the union membership cards, chose five that had no birth date information on them, and put the altered Party card, the new card he had just typed, and the Milwaukee Daily Worker press card into the wallet. He added the various scraps of paper with Cousin Jerry’s notes on them. He then scanned through old issues of the Milwaukee Daily Worker from 1944 until he saw Cousin Jerry’s byline, and then clipped the article. He had three such press clippings before he stopped and tucked them into one of the wallet’s compartments.
Before hanging the two jackets and the suit coats in the wall locker containing the uniforms that he was holding for sale, Colling went through their pockets. He found a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes with one cigarette left, some match books with the names of Milwaukee bars and restaurants on them, and a dollar bill. Colling decided to conduct a similar search of the stack of trousers, and turned up only another match book. He set all of these items aside for future use.
Colling packed the newspapers, stationery and pamphlets into one box. The wallet, shoes, underwear, socks and a slouch cap and a hat that had been part of the shipment he packed into the battered suitcase he had carried in Poland. He checked his Luger and its cartridges, which had remained hidden in the suitcase’s secret compartment since his return. Colling had cleaned and oiled the pistol on board the Orion Belle, and it did not appear to require any additional attention before he returned it to its hiding place. He added Quarles’ envelope with the $5,000 before closing the false panel concealing the compartment. He stowed the suitcase and box in one of the cabinets under a counter in the dispensary.
The following day was Saturday, and Lieutenant Wallerman and First Sergeant Prinzman conducted their weekly inspection of Colling and his quarters prior to sick call. Colling was always careful to make sure that his uniforms, equipment and his billet were neat, clean and up to Army standards, which meant that Wallerman and Prinzman did little more than stick their heads into the room and glance around before the first sergeant told Colling he could stand down.
Two men had presented for sick call and were waiting for medical attention. Since it was Saturday, and most of the company would be given passes to leave the camp, Colling knew that they were probably not gold-bricking. The first man, an AMGOT sergeant, had fallen down the steps to his barracks the night before, and Colling suspected he had fractured his wrist. Dr. Parnieskaya walked in as he was examining the soldier, and when Colling asked for his opinion, the Polish physician confirmed that the man should go to Kummersfeld to the aid station. Parnieskaya helped Colling apply a splint to the injured sergeant’s lower arm, and Colling told him to have a seat and wait while Colling took care of the second man.
He was a PFC from Company A who had just been relieved from guard duty in one of the camp’s towers. The man could hardly speak and was running a high temperature. When Colling looked down his throat, all he could see was inflamed tissue. Colling placed a telephone call to the aid station and asked for one of the regimental doctors to give permission to administer penicillin for what appeared to be a strep throat. Dr. Lewisohn came on the line, and after Colling had described what he had observed, he was authorized to go ahead and give penicillin by injection for the next three days, then to start penicillin tablets to be taken for another four days.
Colling stopped by the orderly room to inform Sergeant Prinzman that he would be transporting the sergeant with the broken wrist to Kummersfeld, and that if the man were discharged, he would be bringing him back after a cast had been placed on his arm. When Colling dropped off the injured man, he was told that he would be kept at the regimental aid station overnight. It was not yet noon, so Colling drove the ambulance to Grabensheim. The town was filled with wandering American soldiers, window-shopping and ogling the few German women brave enough to share the streets with them.
Colling parked the ambulance near the arched entrance to Trebensallee and knocked on Zinsmann’s familiar door. His knock was answered by the little girl whom Colling recognized as having seen the last time he had visited the German. She appeared to recognize him as well and, leaving Colling standing on the doorstep, ran back into the apartment calling for Onkel Klaus.
When Zinsmann appeared a few moments later, he greeted Colling warmly, inviting him in. Colling noticed that the sitting room’s furnishings had improved since his last visit. He asked how the builder was faring, and Zinsmann informed him that he had just signed a third contract with the American Military Government to repair buildings for use by the occupation forces. The contractor told him that he now owned four trucks and employed nearly a hundred men in his company, Zinsmann Bauwerke. With the Americans able to furnish building materials and pay the best prices, he was able to hire skilled tradesmen when others could not.
Zinsmann brought out a bottle of bourbon whiskey which, he boasted, was a gift from an American colonel who was particularly pleased with the work he had done. As he poured some of the liquor into glasses for himself and Colling, he shouted at his woman to bring them some lunch. A few seconds later, the woman Colling knew as Zinsmann’s wife appeared and scolded her husband for shouting at her in front of guests. She then disappeared in the direction of the apartment’s kitchen.
Colling sipped at his whiskey while Zinsmann swallowed his fir
st glassful at one gulp. The German poured himself a larger refill and drank nearly half of it at once. He then looked at Colling and asked, “You have used the Luger wherever it was you were?”
“Yes,” replied Colling. “I used it.”
“And you perhaps have killed someone?”
“Yes,” said Colling, “I regret to say so.”
“You can say who?”
“They were Germans. Deserters who were in the business of robbing people.”
“Ach, bastards,” said Zinsmann. “We shot them ourselves if we caught up with them.”
“I did what you told me,” said Colling, “But afterwards it was not pleasant.”
“How many did you shoot?” asked Zinsmann, wide-eyed.
“Three.”
“Mein Gott,” hissed Zinsmann, “Three? All at one time?”
“Yes.”“I would not have thought it of you, Colling.”
“I would not have thought it of myself, either,” said Colling, “But I have learned to do many things I did not imagine possible a few months ago.”
Zinsmann shook his head and finished off the last of his third glass of whiskey.
Colling continued, “I have another favor or two to ask of you.”
“Another pistol, perhaps?”
“Nothing so easy. I am in need of some American passports.”
“You could get one at the American consulate in Munich, could you not?”
“I need these in names other than my own.”
The corners of Zinsmann’s mouth turned up in a sly grin, and he said, “Something else you have learned, my friend?”
Colling did not answer, and his silence seemed to prompt Zinsmann to respond to the American’s request, “Your best chance is in Switzerland. I know of someone who is able to provide forged papers…for a price, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I can give you the address. I cannot go there with you. I have no papers that will permit the border to be crossed.”
“I understand,” said Colling. “Give me this address.”
As Zinsmann handed him a slip of paper with the address written on it, he also pressed a small object into Colling’s palm. “Wear this on the inside of your lapel so it cannot be seen, but show it when you reach the address that has been given. It may prove to be a talisman will serve you well. What is your second request?”
“I wish to obtain a set of spectacles, but with what I believe are called, ‘non-refractive lenses.’ ”
“Plain lenses, then?” asked Zinsmann.
“Correct. I need them for theatrical purposes.”
Zinsmann laughed. “To play a part, of that I am sure. If you will ask at the address in Zurich, I am certain someone there can oblige you.”
When Colling arrived back at Camp 146, he went to the orderly room looking for Prinzman, and was directed to the mess hall, where he found the first sergeant eating a slice of chocolate pie and drinking coffee with the company’s mess sergeant, Staff Sergeant Knecherson. When Prinzman saw him, he waved him over to their table and asked if he wanted some pie. Not wanting to offend either of the two sergeants, Colling accepted the invitation. With the first forkful, he was glad that he had taken the sergeants’ offer. Colling congratulated Knecherson on his recipe, and Prinzman laughed and informed him that one of the mess sergeant’s women DP cooks was the baker. All Knecherson had done was provide the chocolate and other ingredients.
Colling ate the last bite of pie and picked up his coffee cup before asking Prinzman if he could get a pass to go to Switzerland to go sight-seeing. Prinzman agreed that if he could get someone to cover sick call, then he would provide a couple of consecutive three-day passes. He reminded Colling that the Swiss government restricted U.S. military personnel to five days in the country, and that he would have to remain in uniform during his stay.
On Monday morning, Colling spoke to Dr. Lewisohn by telephone and gained his permission to allow Dr. Parnieskaya and Dr. Cheska to see any American soldiers who showed up for sick call. Later that afternoon, he was boarding a train for Zurich.