The Berkut (28 page)

Even the locals who live in the villages and picturesque small towns that ring the fringes of the mountains seldom venture deep into them. This is the Harz of Goethe's
Faust,
of Mount Brocken and the Witches' Sabbath of the
Walpurgisnacht,
and of the feast of Wotan's marriage to Fricka. There is dark power here, and few care to confront it. While the mountain chain runs roughly from northwest to southeast like a scar, its interior is crosshatched with gorges and box canyons that form a natural maze. Because a compass is useless, one can navigate only by landmarks and memory. Stories abound about foolish city people-usually Berliners-who have ventured innocently into the forests and never returned. From time to time those few who hunt the fringes, or the rare individual who dares penetrate the center, emerge with reports of human skeletons picked clean by scavengers.

For Günter Brumm the Harzwald was home, the one place on earth where he was entirely comfortable, the complete master, as his grandfather had been before him.

For more than three weeks the group had moved steadily west from Berlin, then south in a gentle arc toward the mountains and sanctuary. During the third week, while they were moving through a forest near Horsingen, two of the Valkyries had encountered an American patrol-not a formal expedition under orders, but a motley collection of young, unruly enlisted men exploring without the supervision of officers or noncoms. It was a flanking scout who made the contact, stumbling onto the Americans as they sat in a clearing, taking a smoke break. The girl on point heard the commotion and, as she had been taught by Beard, immediately swung over to investigate. The first girl, Erda, stood her ground, her Schmeisser leveled at a semicircle of armed men. The point, Stefanie, watched from concealment, trying to figure out a way to intervene. Before long she found Brumm beside her. After observing for a few seconds, he understood what had to be done. Stefanie was sixteen, with long blond hair and a Scandinavian appearance; she was intense, anxious to please. Her eyes met Brumm's to seek his direction.

The Americans were beginning to badger Erda. Their intentions were clear; this was no military patrol, only a gang of boys looking for women and loot.

Brumm reached toward Stefanie with his hand. "Your weapons," he whispered softly. She slipped the sling of her Schmeisser and gave it to him, then unsnapped the holster and dagger from her thigh. "Go to Erda. Play along with them. Be cooperative, do you understand?" She nodded. "We'll get in behind them, but you've got to keep their attention." Her pale blue eyes told him that she accepted what had to be done. He patted her arm. "Go."

Stefanie fumbled with her hair, trying to gather it in some kind of order. It had been a long time since she had bathed properly and she stank of sweat. Brumm watched as she moved silently through the underbrush toward the Americans. She had courage, he thought.

As Stefanie reached the opening she saw Erda being jostled roughly by some of the Americans; they were spinning her around and tearing at her clothes. Her weapon was on the ground, beyond reach. Stefanie paused at the opening, drew a deep breath and stepped boldly into the clearing. One of the Americans spotted her immediately, shouted to his comrades and they all turned to look at her. She could see that Erda was frightened. She walked directly to the men, pushed one of them aside and entered their circle. Taking her place beside her friend, she made eye contact with Erda, hoping she would understand that it was important to play along until the colonel and Beard could get into position.

"Can you believe this shit?" one of the soldiers said eagerly. "They're just kids," another said.

"They'll be women when we're finished with them," a heavyset man with a Thompson said.

Stefanie took Erda by the hand and beckoned to her to sit. As they sat looking up at the men, Erda was puzzled by what was happening. Stefanie began to undress. When she had removed her skirt, she folded it neatly, used it to rest her head on and lay back. Arching her back, she slipped her panties off with a single motion, dropping them on the grass nearby and spreading her legs apart. She motioned encouragement and laughed harshly at the men's hesitation, pumping her hips wildly, egging them on. Erda still didn't understand, but, taking her lead from Stefanie, began to undress. As she lifted her skirt, one of the men pinned her to the ground with his boot and pulled the dagger from the scabbard on her leg. "Friggin' Class A Nazi souvenir," he said, admiring his prize.

"Never mind the lousy knife, Howie. These Kraut broads are hot for it."

"Look
it that crotch hair!
" another said with a whistle. "A real blonde."

"I'll be go to hell," the one with the Thompson said as he fumbled with his belt buckle.

"This'll be worth the biggest dose of clap in Europe," another said as he threw his pants aside and dropped heavily onto Stefanie.

Brumm waited until both girls were mounted and well into the act. Beard and Waller were nearby, their daggers drawn and poised. Brumm stepped out of cover, leveled his weapon and fired as he moved forward, sweeping the Americans without thinking, working automatically and efficiently by habit. Beard and Waller rushed in from the sides, grabbed the two men who were on the girls, rolled them off and rammed their blades home. In less than thirty seconds all eight Americans were dead. The Germans left them where they fell, without their pants. Eventually somebody would find the bodies and report it to the American authorities, who would have no doubt about the circumstances. There would be no search.

The two girls sobbed quietly as they dressed and took up their weapons. "It could have been worse," was Waller's only comment to them. Brumm touched Stefanie gently on the shoulder. "Well done." Herr Wolf stood on the edge of the clearing and stared, his eyes wide, but did not speak.

That had been a week ago and the incident was now only a small memory among the many terrible things they had seen since leaving Berlin.

Now they were on the verge of safety. The canyon was narrow, no more than two hundred meters across, covered with fallen trees, potholes and thick vines, and seemed to curve and twist endlessly. At one switchback Brumm halted the group and walked with Beard into a formation of black boulders at the base of a cliff whose top swung outward above them. All of them had felt the colonel relax when they entered the mountains, and they had relaxed too without knowing it. Surprisingly, Herr Wolf was stronger and leaner, his limp largely gone. Sometimes late in the day, when all of them were tired, he had trouble, but even then he kept to their pace, not they to his. He was also talking more; he'd spent the morning as they struggled up the canyon regaling all within earshot about his boyhood days in Austria and about the trails he loved in Berchtesgaden.

When Brumm returned with Beard, he explained: "There's a cave entrance in the rocks. We'll have to crawl. About fifty meters in, the tunnel opens into a huge vault. Beyond the vault the cave extends for several kilometers. Just before the vault, the tunnel slopes down, and if you look up you'll see a ledge. Climb onto the ledge and follow the branch to the right. It's tight, but we can get through. It will take approximately an hour for each of us to crawl through to the other side."

"What's there?" one of the girls asked. "Temporary refuge," Brumm said
.
"It's safe?"

"I was here a year ago and it hasn't been disturbed since. After we get inside, I'll set traps behind us. Nobody will follow us in, and only I will be able to lead you out."

"Are you sure I'll fit, Colonel?" Beard had a broad smile on his face.

"If not, we'll cut you in half and put you back together on the other side."

"I'll take the bottom half," one of the girls teased. The others laughed.

"I'll be right behind you," Brumm said. "If you get stuck, I'll push you through."

Even Herr Wolf smiled at the prospect of safety and security.

It took much longer than Brumm had estimated for them to get themselves and their equipment through the maze. Beard had terrible problems. In several places the colonel had to use his shoulders to force the big man through. At one point Brumm used his dagger to knock some of the side rocks down, causing a small collapse of the tunnel on Beard and in the process frightening them all.

By the time they were all through the tunnel, the valley into which they emerged was lit only by a nearly full moon. Once in, Brumm tied a trip wire to several fragmentation grenades and set them in a connected series inside the mouth of the entrance. Then he led the group north across the valley, using a game trail that looped several times across a small clear stream with a gravel bottom.

On the far side of the valley they broke out of underbrush to a moonlit sight that took their breath away. Set into
a massive cliff face was the fac
ade of a natural stone cottage built under an overhang of cliff that rose more than a hundred meters above. Within a few steps of the cottage was a dam of black logs, the water behind it blocked to form a mirror
like pool more than tw
enty meters across. A fish jumped and landed with a loud splash in the pool as they approached the structure.

"Home," Brumm said, the relief thick in his voice. "We're done traveling for a while."

THE
SEARCH

33 – June 3, 1945, 10:30 P.M.

Ezdovo was feeling good. The team was together again. It had been hectic and tense during the push to Berlin and the subsequent side journeys to Munich and Salzburg, but now he was beginning to relax. It was time for the others to do their part.

Rivitsky and Gnedin played chess, each arguing about the degree of poor judgment exhibited by the other's moves, chiding his opponent to stop wasting time. Gnedin was the better player, a consistent winner in the highest competitive circles of Moscow, where the game was the closest thing to a religion. He played quickly, sure of his strategy and tactical choices. In contrast, Rivitsky liked to think out loud about his options, talking to his pieces as if they were people, scolding them when an attack failed, wishing them a slow death when they were about to be captured. The two men were very different, and while the surgeon was Rivitsky's superior, the latter often played him to a draw and on rare days even managed to defeat him. While they waged war with intensity, even ferocity, there never seemed to be any residual hard feelings when the games were over. No matter what the outcome, the end invariably stimulated their camaraderie.

When idle, Bailov's interests were difficult to predict. Sometimes he would sleep, snoring loudly or woofing like a bear, making the others throw objects at him in order to get him to turn over. Other times he would lose himself in a book or a magazine. Often he would play his balalaika, strumming soft, haunting chords that impelled Ezdovo to rise to his feet and dance slowly and gracefully by himself, his eyes glazed over as his mind drifted back to the steppes of his homeland.

For his part, Ezdovo liked using their downtime to clean his weap
ons, a habit ingrained over the years. Often he cleaned the whole group's guns and honed their knives. Mostly he liked to watch and listen to the others and to laugh at their jokes.
Petrov sat alone most of the time, writing, reading, thinking. The men were comfortable with one another, even Petrov, whom they called Earth Father behind his back, and who was not shy about scolding them when matters did not go as he wished. Outsiders found Petrov aloof and abrasive, but the group accepted his ways, knowing what his powers were and wanting to share in his magic. Petrov was not one who would be picked from the masses as a leader, yet he was the best one Ezdovo had ever served with.

At times, when Petrov was intellectually consumed-which was often-he talked to himself in low tones. This was maddening, because while his voice was audible, it was not loud enough to be understood. He had been in this state now for better than two hours, and Ezdovo guessed that many more hours were ahead.

But he was wrong. The field telephone buzzed. Gnedin reached over from the chessboard and answered it. "What?" He cupped the mouthpiece and called out to Petrov, "Chenko is downstairs. He says you asked him to come."

Petrov snapped out of his state and motioned for Gnedin to have the doctor sent up.

"Chenko brings interesting information," Petrov announced to the group after a brief conversation with the man. His offering an opinion on information before they had heard it was highly unusual.

Since Ezdovo and Rivitsky's return from Munich Petrov had not said a word about their efforts. He had accepted their separate written reports and hummed a melancholy tune while reading them, but of
fered no evaluation. When the films of the records were developed, he retired to an interrogation room below and remained there a full day and a night; meals were brought to him and left outside the closed door.

While Petrov was in seclusion the four men shared their experiences with one another. Ezdovo's theft of the weapon from the American brought the most laughter. It puzzled them that their leader was mov
ing so slowly; they felt that time was escaping. They accepted that Hitler was alive and were eager to begin the hunt, but Petrov delayed for reasons that he kept to himself, fussing with details, the case files growing larger and larger by the day with no return-at least, no return they could see.