Crossword
Authors: Alan Bricklin
CROSSWORD
BY ALAN S. BRICKLIN
COPYRIGHT 2005 ALAN S. BRICKLIN
To my wife, Bonnie, who has always
been at my side with love, support and
encouragement; she is the star of my life story.
LAKE TINNSJO, NORWAY. 20 FEBRUARY, 1944
SS General Gerhard Waldman lit a cigarette, bending forward
and cupping his hands against the wind, then looked up as he exhaled, staring
out at the lake and the vessel moored there. The dock was lit by floodlights
that cast a hard utilitarian light, illuminating numerous German soldiers,
mostly in groups of two or four, carrying various sized crates onto the
Norwegian ferry, Hydro. He surveyed the scene, moving his head in a panoramic
sweep of the dock, and found himself surprised by the lack of noise. The bright
lights washed out all color from the scene, and it was, he thought, as if he
were watching a black and white newsreel clip without sound or the benefit of a
narrator. Even the few civilians present stood silently in small groups
awaiting permission to board the ferry, occasionally stamping their feet or
blowing on their hands against the cold February chill.
The general stood just over six feet tall, with chiseled
features and jet black hair, his lean, athletic build hidden by his uniform and
the long leather coat he wore. His features were almost a caricature of
himself, and in the eerie light he looked, at times, more like an illustration
than a living human being. By most standards he was handsome, and his easy
smile as well as his competence at the social banter so difficult for most military
men, not to mention, of course, his bachelor status, made him a sought after
bounty by many of the elite single women of the Third Reich, and some of the
married ones as well. For the careful observer, however, one who watched when
he stood by himself, thinking himself alone, there was to be seen a certain
cruelty to his lips, a disdain that at times bordered on a sneer, and a
chilling iciness to his eyes, the whole creating a visage capable of inducing
fear; in short, the look of a predator.
He turned around and once again faced Heinrich Schroeder,
also a General, but with the Wehrmacht. Schroeder was a career soldier, a
military man first and a political man a distant second or, more correctly,
seventh or eighth since between the military and politics there were a slew of
endeavors that, to his way of thinking, kept pushing politics further down the
line. Waldman, on the other hand, did not consider himself a military man and,
although he was a high-ranking member of the Nazi party, did not for the least
minute consider himself to be a man of any political bent either. He did,
however, recognize that throughout history politics was often the key to power,
and power was something that did interest him, so, with determination and a
well thought out "business plan" he had begun courting the proper
people and making the right connections as Adolph Hitler rose to a position of
eminence.
Waldman came from a well connected family, was educated at
the proper schools, and social as well as political protocol came easily to
him. At the right time he accepted a commission into the SS, quickly rising to
the rank of general and, since the beginning of the war, had managed to avoid
any conflict that was not overwhelmingly lopsided in his favor. He was an
efficient and ruthless commander but did not particularly care for placing
himself in harm's way as long as there was another method to accomplish his
goals. His goals, of course, did not always coincide with those of the Third
Reich, and it often took all of his skills and connections to guide himself
safely through the many obstacles in his path, especially with a most
inconvenient war involving so much of the world.
Heinrich Schroeder, however, was a soldier, and the fact
that he was a general did not change that. Not that there was anything wrong
with his family or education, he just moved in different circles than Gerhard,
and it was as true now as it had been during his youth. A shorter man than
general Waldman and ten years his senior, no one would label him as handsome,
but the experience that showed on his craggy face, and the understanding
emanating from his eyes, made him a leader much admired by his men, soldiers
whose loyalty he commanded because he had earned it. He had fought in many
battles, distinguishing himself more for his personal bravery than for any
insightful tactical planning, although he did have a solid grasp of military
tactics and won his battles more because of perseverance and a skillful ability
to judge, once engaged, what the likely outcome would be. Although not
meteoric, his elevation through the ranks had been steady and he became a
general while still young by military standards and still liked by those who
served under him. He was comfortable with his lot in life and his career. The
war, however, was beginning to trouble him.
Gerhard exhaled smoke and smiled at Heinrich, looking down
on him like some beneficent ruler. They stood amongst several trucks carrying
various crates to be loaded on the ferry. Heinrich's staff car was parked alongside
and his driver stood next to it. As Gerhard opened his mouth to speak, loud
voices and then shouting pierced the dockside quiet. A crate had been dropped
on the gangplank and the four soldiers carrying it were arguing about who was
responsible. An exasperated sigh and Gerhard stormed off in the direction of
the altercation, mumbling under his breath as he left.
Heinrich quickly motioned to his driver who, with the help
of a nearby soldier removed a gray crate from the trunk of the staff car and
placed it in one of the nearby trucks. They grunted as they hefted a similar
crate from the truck and the muscles of their necks tensed under the heavy
weight as they placed it in the trunk of the staff car. Stenciled in neat black
letters on the gray paint was "Norsk Wasserkraftwerk"— Norsk
Hydroelectric, and hand painted in red was "No. 186: PU-1." General
Schroeder observed the transfer intently and did not look away until the trunk
was slammed shut. Only then did he turn back to the dockside activity, and signal
the remaining trucks, one carrying the substituted crate, to proceed to the
unloading area. Gerhard had just finished dealing with the "clumsy"
soldiers on the gangplank and he began to walk back to where Heinrich waited,
and as he strode across the dock, Heinrich watched his approach. Smoke from his
cigarette and condensed moisture from the cool morning air emerged from his
nose and mouth and made him look, to Heinrich, like a locomotive moving
purposefully across the dock. He stopped directly in front of Schroeder, shook
his head and, in a matter of fact way that belied the anger and abuse he had
just heaped upon the hapless soldiers, said, "They are no better than pack
animals. A mule is probably more intelligent."
"They are willing to die for the Fatherland. They
deserve better than that, General Waldman."
"It does not take intelligence to die, my dear
Heinrich, only obedience; and in that, they excel."
The soldier in Heinrich felt compelled to defend the troops
but he knew it would be a useless and futile gesture where Gerhard Waldman was
concerned and, moreover, he was anxious to have the loading completed so he
could leave. He felt guilty about what he had done, but now that his plan was
actually under way, he was eager to get on with it. "I will see to the
supervision myself," Heinrich said and walked off toward the Hydro, the
red lights of the last truck preceding him to the waiting ferry. Before he
reached it, the truck had come to a halt and the tailgate was lowered, exposing
several dozen similar appearing gray crates. Soldiers coming down the gangplank
were moving at a slow pace toward the newly arrived truck. However, on seeing
General Schroeder approaching they picked up the pace and the corporal standing
next to the truck began barking orders. It was not necessary for Schroeder to
do more than stand there, hands akimbo, looking at the men, for them to speed
up in an apparent burst of enthusiasm for their work.
It was an unsettling place although the soldiers did not
know why. For many, the cold, damp, morning air and the swirling mists from the
lake surrounding and touching them felt as if they were being caressed by the
hands of death, feeling to see if they were ready for that final journey; and
when the patchy fog momentarily hid one of them from view an audible gasp was
heard, fear that perhaps one of them had been taken. Heinrich felt it too, that
fear and restless nervousness, not unlike the emotions one felt before a
battle, knowing that you may be killed but anxious to get started anyway. Upon
reflection, it made no sense. "If I knew that I might be killed in an
imminent battle," he thought, "common sense dictates that I should
desire to put it off as long as possible. Yet, the opposite occurs." He
pondered that a moment while the last of the crates were removed from the truck
and carried aboard the Hydro, but once the loading was completed, his thoughts
returned to more practical matters.
He quickly ordered the men to return to their vehicles and
dispatched his lieutenant to verify that the cargo had been properly stowed.
Waldman's staff car pulled alongside and, leaning out the window, he said,
"You are most efficient, General Schroeder."
"Thank you, General Waldman. If your guards are aboard
I will have the captain allow the civilians to board. Perhaps he can be
underway in less than a half hour."
"See to it," Waldman ordered his aide, who
promptly emerged from the car and hurried up the gangplank. "I will leave
the final arrangements in your capable hands," he said to Heinrich.
"I must return to my headquarters." He nodded at his fellow General
and motioned for his driver to move on.
Schroeder stared as the car pulled away and accelerated
across the dock, cutting a path through the fog and setting it in motion. He
stood there as the gray colored swirls rushed in to once more occupy the swath
cut by the car, their devilish spin eventually slowing until at last the gently
undulating blanket of mist had settled back into place. He was still standing
there, lost in thought, when his lieutenant, who had walked up behind him and
had been waiting patiently, decided that a muffled clearing of the throat would
not be out of line. The General turned around.
"The arrangements are complete, General."
"Have the passengers board and tell the captain to get
under way as soon as possible. I will be in my car. We do not leave until the
ferry pulls away from the dock."
"Yes, General." Schroeder walked back to his car,
stood a moment and stared at the trunk, then slid into the back seat while his
driver stood at attention and held open the door. Once in, he motioned for the
door to be closed and, feeling more emotionally drained than he had ever
expected, settled into the seat in a most unmilitary slouch and looked out
beyond the Hydro onto the largely obscured lake.
Stooped over and moving swiftly, Sten and Olaf emerged from the
woods that bordered the lake and crossed the ten meters or so to the waters
edge. Several large boulders at the shoreline offered a natural blind where
they were hidden from view and protected from the cold wind that blew across
the lake. Sten looked at his watch then removed a pair of binoculars from the
large pocket at the waist of his long parka and, holding them to his eyes,
slowly scanned the waters of lake Tinnsjo. "Nothing. They're late."
"There must be guards on board; and I bet the Germans
checked everybody's papers very carefully. It probably just took them longer
than usual to get under way," Olaf said in a voice that almost seemed to
be apologizing for the crew of the ferry or perhaps even for the Germans who
had failed to live up to their reputation for punctuality. Olaf was young,
barely eighteen, and had that perpetual questioning look seen so often in the
youth of any country. His smooth face and tasseled blond hair protruding from
the watch cap he wore under his hood made him look even younger, and not even
the rifle he carried slung over his shoulder, nor the bayonet-like knife he
wore at his side could dispel the boyish look he projected. He was tall and
slightly built but with hands that while delicate in appearance seemed
oversized for the arms to which they were attached. The fingers of his right
hand sequentially closed around the hilt of his knife then neatly reversed
order and let loose their grip only to repeat the process once again. Although
he remained in position behind the rocks, not moving, he gave the appearance of
someone who was anxiously pacing and had momentarily paused, perhaps to answer
a question or finish a thought. It was, no doubt, the energy of youth confined,
that sought what escape it could, for throughout history waiting was something
that the inexperienced of any country found almost unbearable.