They were waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel.
When he came through the door, exhausted from the four-hour train ride and the half-hour walk from the train station, he had only two things on his mind: a warm bed and dreams of Emilee. So while he was a little surprised to see three uniformed men in the lobby at such a late hour, he shrugged it off. Then two things hit him simultaneously. The first was that the night clerk behind the desk was rigid with fear, his face white as a sheet. One of the soldiers was standing right beside him. The second was that Hans recognized the other two men. They were Werner and Horst, from the outing the other morning.
Before Hans could react, a figure who had been pressed against the wall next to the front entrance stepped up behind him and put an arm around his shoulder. At the same instant, Hans felt a gun barrel jammed hard into the small of his back. “Hans, old friend,” Karl exclaimed with oily smoothness. “How are you? We were starting to think you weren’t coming.”
Hans saw the ugly scab on the man’s cheek, which was grey and yellow with bruises.
Werner and Horst came forward, pulling their overcoats open to reveal pistols in their belts. It wasn’t necessary. Hans had assumed they were armed. There were only four of them tonight. Not five, as there had been on Wednesday. Not that it made any difference. Four was quite enough. Hans licked his lips and swallowed quickly.
Karl yanked the rucksack out of his hand and tossed it to Werner. “Come,” he said, obviously enjoying himself. “We can’t stay long. But we’ll have a drink for old times’ sake. Ja?”
Hans started forward, saying nothing. He had kept the forty-five on him on the way to Pasewalk, just in case, but for the return journey, he had put it in his rucksack. Karl pushed his pistol harder against Hans’s back and ground it back and forth, just as Hans had done when he had put the pistol against Karl’s cheek. “I asked you a question,” Karl snarled.
“Ja.”
As they moved toward the stairs, Karl jerked his head at the man next to the clerk. “Günther, you stay down here and keep this young lad company,” he said. Then to the clerk, as he waved the pistol at him, “Wouldn’t want you getting worried and calling the police or anything like that.”
The kid’s face was a sickly grey. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Karl gave Hans a hard shove. “Up to your room, and don’t try anything. Let’s see,” he mused, “how did you say it? ‘Don’t move, maggot, or I’ll blow your brains out’?”
Hans nodded, knowing with awful clarity that there was not one thing he could do. His only hope now was to not resist. Then maybe they wouldn’t kill him. He started for the stairs. Once inside the room, the men stood Hans up against the far wall with his hands up and Karl took his post at the door. The pistol pointed at Hans never wavered. Karl jerked his head at his two companions. “Horst, search the room. Werner, you search him. And don’t miss anything. You know what we’re looking for.”
The two men moved into action. Horst looked under the bed and then went to the small wardrobe and jerked it open. Since Hans had worn his uniform so that he could use his rail pass, the only things in the wardrobe were two shirts, two pairs of pants, and his only other pair of shoes.
Werner walked over to the rucksack, unzipped it, and dumped the contents on the bed. He grunted in satisfaction when he saw the pistol. “Hey, Karl,” he said. “I think you might recognize this.” He lobbed the gun to him.
Karl caught the forty-five one-handed, checked quickly to see whether it was loaded, and then pocketed his own pistol. “Gut,” was all he said. Next, Werner dumped out his shaving kit and pawed through the dirty clothes. “That’s all,” he said to Karl. Then to Hans: “Where are our boots?”
Hans shrugged. “I told you. We gave them to the old soldiers’ home. Besides, it looks like you’ve already found new ones.”
In two steps, Karl was behind him. Hans screamed as the toe of Karl’s boot kicked him in the back of his shin. He dropped to one knee, grabbing for his leg. Karl put one boot against his shoulder and sent him sprawling onto the floor.
“Search him,” Karl barked at Werner. Then to Hans, “And you’d better have what we’re looking for, stupid swine, or it’s going to be a very long night for you.”
“It’s here,” Hans said, motioning with one hand at his tunic pocket.
Werner moved to stand in front of Hans. “Off with the overcoat. Toss it on the bed.”
Getting to his feet, Hans did as he was told.
“Okay, now the tunic. And empty your pants pockets. Real slow.”
Hans complied, careful not to make any jerky moves. He dropped his tunic on the bed beside the overcoat, and then from his pants pockets he took out his billfold, his hotel room key, and a few coins and dropped them on the bed.
“Are you army?” Karl suddenly asked.
“Not anymore. I was discharged, same as you.” Then he cocked his head to one side. “Oh, that’s right,” Hans shot back. “We’re not the same. I didn’t desert my post.”
Hans leaped back, but not quickly enough to dodge Karl’s boot. This time he stomped on his foot and then smacked him in the chest with the butt of the pistol. Hans crashed back against the wall and sank to the floor.
“What did you say, maggot?”
Hans didn’t answer, nor did he try to get up again. Waves of pain were radiating outward from his chest. Karl eyed him. His mouth was twisted with anger. “Get up.”
Moving slowly, Hans got to his feet.
Werner handed the stuff from Hans’s pockets to his boss. Karl pocketed everything but the railway pass. “What’s this?”
One part of Hans was shouting at him to not provoke him any further, but another part was seething to the point that he didn’t hear. “What? You can’t read? It’s a railway pass.”
Karl’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he continued to examine the pass. “Who gave you this? This isn’t a normal pass.”
“Don’t remember his name. His signature’s on the card.”
Karl stepped closer, raising the pistol butt. “You’re a real smart-mouth, aren’t you?”
“It was the administrator of the hospital where I finished out the war. It was part of my discharge papers.”
“Don’t lie to me!” he shrieked, causing both of his men to jump. “This is not a normal railway pass. Were you an officer?”
“No. I was a platoon sergeant in a combat infantry unit. The administrator knew I was from the very south of Germany and had very little money. So he took pity on me.”
Surprisingly, Karl seemed satisfied with that and pocketed the card. Just then, Horst finished a more careful search of the armoire. “Hey, Karl. Look at this.”
They all turned, and Hans felt his heart drop. Horst was holding up his Iron Cross. Horst walked over and handed it to his boss.
“Where did you get this?” Karl hissed.
“From my battalion commander.”
“For what?” he sneered.
“I cleaned latrines better than anyone in the battalion,” Hans drawled, tensing for another blow.
Surprisingly, Karl ignored that. “Where’s our money?”
“Like I said. It’s in my inside tunic pocket.” Werner immediately stepped forward and retrieved it. He handed the sheaf of bills to Karl, but Karl didn’t take it. “Count it,” he said.
A moment later, Werner looked up. “Two thousand marks.”
“My boss took the rest,” Hans volunteered. “Part of that was to recoup what you guys took from him. He gave me two thousand and kept twenty-five hundred for himself.”
Again Karl surprised Hans when he merely grunted at that. “And that was your cut for ‘riding shotgun?’ Is that how you say it?”
A chill shot through Hans. “How did you know it was us?” he whispered.
“And you think I’m stupid? We chose the Kharkovs three weeks ago because everybody at the markets knows that they have the money to buy the best meat available. We’ve been watching them for a fortn
ight.”
Karl nodded to his two men. Werner leaped in and grabbed Hans’s arm from the back, pinning him against his own body. When he had him fast, Horst came up beside Hans and grabbed his head with both hands, holding it in place. Karl moved forward again, his face just inches from Hans’s. He gently tapped the scab on his cheek with the tip of his forefinger. “See this little gift you left me, swine? The doctor thinks it may scar.”
Then he reached out and touched Hans’s cheek in the exact same spot. His voice dropped to a whisper. “But yours, Dummkopf? Yours is definitely going to scar.”
Karl’s right hand came up, the fist balled up to reveal a grey metal ring with the insignia of an army unit on it. Then it drew back. Hans fought like a tiger, but he could barely move. The fist flashed past his vision and a searing pain shot through his cheek. As he gasped, Karl leaned in, peering at the gash he had opened up on Hans’s upper cheekbone. Then the fist flashed again.
Hans’s knees startled to buckle. Karl stepped back, pleased with his work. “Boys, he’s all yours.”
Hans screamed as he went down hard. The last thing he saw as he threw his arms up over his head and curled into a ball was Werner and Horst moving in with wolfish grins, delighted for the opportunity to participate in the kill.
Mercifully, it only took a few seconds before all went black.
January 13, 1919, 6:38 a.m.
The first thing that came into Hans’s consciousness was a wave of nauseating pain. He lay there for a moment, trying desperately to remember where he was and why he hurt so much. Was he back in France? His eyes fluttered open after a moment. In the faint light from the window, he saw a dark mass looming over him. He started but then realized it was his bed. He was on the floor beside his bed. Then it all came flooding back. Karl. The others. The beating.
He rolled over, moving very slowly, but pain still shot through every part of his body. Panting, he tried to get his bearings. He was lying on his right side near the foot of his bed, his right arm pinned beneath his body. He listened intently for a moment. Nothing. He was alone.
The relief was almost as intense as the pain. They were gone. How long had he been lying here? There was no way of knowing. He lay there, taking deep breaths, wincing as pain speared into his left side. Probably a cracked rib. Or ribs.
Groaning, Hans reached out with his left hand and tried to push himself up. A scream was ripped from his throat as fire shot through his arm and he collapsed again. He rolled onto his back. With his right fingers, he gingerly explored his arm, deciding that while the pain was fierce, it was not broken. Then he became aware that his left cheek was a circle of fire. He reached and explored the double gash on his cheek and the dried blood on his face. Cursing the pain, cursing his stupidity, cursing his inability to move, he finally pulled himself up into a sitting position. Waves of dizziness washed over him.
He froze as he heard footsteps out in the hallway. No! Please! No more! But he remained sitting, because lying down again would have been unbearable. A moment later a figure appeared in the doorway. “Herr Eckhardt?” The voice was strained with fear and very soft. “It’s me. Georg. The night clerk.” He took a step closer and Hans closed his eyes, sobbing with relief. “Can I help you?”
“Have they gone?” Hans asked through clenched teeth.
“Yes, hours ago. I came up earlier but you were unconscious.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No, I . . . They threatened to come back and kill me if I did.”
“No police.” Hans was having a hard time keeping his mind from slipping away. “Do you have any aspirin or something else for pain?”
“Yes. We have aspirin. I’ll be right back.”
“And water,” he called after him. Pain ripped through his left rib cage.
Two minutes later, the boy was back. He knelt beside Hans, a glass of water in one hand, a small bottle in the other. “Give me four,” he whispered. “Put them in my mouth.”
When he did so, Hans bit down on them and began to chew, shaking his head at the bitterness of the taste. “Now the water,” he croaked. Georg held it up to his lips, and he drank deeply.
“Thank you. Help me up. On the bed.” Every word was sending more pain through his body.
Hans nearly passed out again as Georg got behind him and put his hands under his armpits. But in a moment he was on the bed. He closed his eyes.
“What can I do?” Georg asked anxiously.
“Get a doctor,” Hans managed, and then the blackness rolled in again.
8:15 a.m.
Hans winced as the doctor put the last strip of tape on the large bandage wrapped around his chest. He sat back and gave Hans a hard look. “Is that shot not working for you yet?”
“It is,” he said. “The pain is at least bearable now.”
The doctor grunted, stood up, and began putting his things back in his medical bag. “You’re not going to be driving, are you?”
Hans shook his head, fighting not to laugh at such a ridiculous question.
“Good, that morphine can make you pretty drowsy.”
“I hope so.”
“Try not to get those stitches in your cheek wet for at least a week. Then come back and see me, and I’ll take them out. And it’s critical that you stay as still as possible for the next few days. That will help keep the pain in your ribs down.”
“I will,” Hans lied.
“Animals,” the doctor muttered darkly. “The whole city is overrun with mad dogs. In my opinion, they ought to shoot them on sight.”
“Dr. Ballstrum? I’m sorry I can’t pay you right now. As you know, they took all my—”
The doctor waved that away. “I understand,” he said. “Pay me when you can.”
“Danke schön. I am very grateful.”
Dr. Ballstrum nodded curtly and started for the door. “If the pain gets too bad, come to the office and I’ll give you another shot. The clerk has the address.”
“Thank you. I might do that.”
As the doctor waved and disappeared down the hall, Hans laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He waited two minutes until he was sure that the doctor was gone, and then, holding his arm firmly across his left rib cage to cushion the pain, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, jaw clenched so that he didn’t cry out.
Please. Don’t let them have searched the room after I passed out. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hunched down, taking quick, shallow breaths. The room began to spin around him and he clamped his eyes shut tightly. Gradually, things settled.
Grunting with every effort, Hans stood up and moved down to the foot of the bed. Using only his right hand, he carefully felt under the mattress. Ah, yes! He pulled out the envelope and dumped its contents on the bed. He had put this here after his third day of work, not wanting to risk being robbed on the streets. And then he had forgotten about it until now. There were two ten-mark notes, a five-mark note, and three one-mark notes. Twenty-eight marks. It wasn’t much, but it was something. His hotel was paid in advance, so he had a place to stay.
Hans sighed. A glimmer of hope flickered inside him. It wasn’t much, but at least he had something. He turned and, pressing his left elbow against his rib cage to reduce the movement, he cupped his right and called out. “Georg?”
“Yes, Herr Eckhardt?” The voice floated up to him.
“Can you get me a taxi, bitte?”
“Yes, Herr Eckhardt. Immediately?”
“Yes, as soon as possible.”
8:55 a.m.—Bayerischer Biergarten, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin
Hans gingerly leaned forward. “Take a right at the next corner. The restaurant is just a block down from there.”
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie said.
Hans had his window partially down and was breathing in the cold air deeply. The snow had stopped now, but the overcast was low and threatening. “That’s it up ahead,” he said as they rounded the corner. “Where the people are.??
? A small crowd was milling about on the sidewalk up ahead of them. “You can let me out here. How much do I owe you?”
“Seventy-eight Pfennige.”
Hans reached in his pocket, careful not to move too quickly, but then had another idea. “Can you wait for me? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Ja, ja. But I have to charge you.”
“That’s fine. Just wait here.”
Hans opened the door, gingerly slid out, and then shut it again and hobbled away. The aspirin and the shot the doctor had given him had reduced his pain from staggering levels to blinding levels, so he forced himself to keep moving.
After three steps he slowed again. Three large fir trees lining the sidewalk ahead blocked his view of the restaurant, but the smell of smoke was heavy in the air, along with the acrid smell of wet wood. No! No! He broke into a shuffling run, holding his left side as tightly as he could.
He nearly dropped to his knees and began to sob when he saw what was left of the Bayerischer Biergarten. All but one back corner of the roof had collapsed into heaps of smoking rubble. The two-story stone walls were still intact but blackened and scorched. The rest was a grim skeleton of what had once been. There were no flames now, but smoke rose in billowing clouds from the ruins. Hans had to stop and close his eyes as his head started to spin. He wasn’t sure if he was going to faint or throw up or both.
“Hans!”
He looked up as a figure broke away from the small group of onlookers and hurried toward him. He groped for the stone wall that enclosed the garden and leaned back against it as Anatoly Kharkov came running up to him. “Hans. Oh, no! They found you.” His eyes kept shifting between the stitches and bruising on Hans’s face to the bruises that covered both of his arms. Anatoly sat down beside him, his face torn with grief, rocking back and forth.
“Where’s Fritzie?” Hans croaked.
The old man bent forward and buried his face in his hands. “He’s in the hospital. He’s in pretty bad shape. They made him tell them where the money was. Not just their money. All that Fritzie had saved, too.” He choked back a sob. “He held out for a long time. Wouldn’t give them your name or where you were. But then the leader, the bad one, told him they would find Liliya and the children, and he . . .” His voice trailed off as his shoulders began to shake. He buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Hans. I’m so sorry.”