Authors: Ann Logan
“I said, don’t worry. We’ve already done damage control. Just do what you’re told.”
“If anything happens to her…” he warned.
“Everything’s under control,” Muller reassured him again, his patronizing tone setting Wulf’s teeth on edge.
“Fine,” Wulf spat and hung up.
What a perfect day to visit a concentration camp, Mercy thought, glancing up at the overcast sky. She clasped her raincoat about her as she got out of the car. The dreary, foreboding look of Sachsenhausen gave her a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. She preferred to avoid sights like this, but Wulf insisted it was a significant tourist site.
“This was the first concentration camp erected by the Nazis.”
Mercy nodded. Even with that meritorious commendation, Sachsenhausen ranked nowhere on her short list of attractions in Germany.
“Just as effective at mass murder, though,” Wulf continued, “no matter how much older it was than the others.”
“So near Berlin,” she said, shaking her head and frowning. “How could anyone say they didn’t know about the concentration camps, particularly with one so close?”
He snorted. “Do you believe that old fairy tale?”
“No, of course not.” She wondered why he seemed so somber and grim. He’d been like this since breakfast. Not one smile. Did he already regret making love to her?
“There are still a lot of people who would like to cover up that period of time or ignore it altogether.”
“Auschwitz and Dachau are the ones I think of most often, but this one is enough for me. I don’t care to see any others.”
“This one is enough,” Wulf agreed, his face harsh and set. The first structure they saw was the medical building, where the Nazi doctors conducted their horrendous experiments and torturous surgery. Everywhere glossy black and white photos covered the walls portraying hundreds of bodies stacked like cordwood on wooden carts, waiting for disposal. The pictures were so shocking and dreadful Mercy felt grateful for the lack of conversation. If she had to talk, she’d probably vomit.
They toured the rest of the camp, viewing the barracks and the solitary confinement rooms, Wulf following grimly after her. As soon as they wandered over to the ovens, she gripped his arm and shook her head. The depressing gloom of the place felt like a lead weight bearing her down, turning her silent and almost fearful of the angry ghosts that must be lurking about.
“I can’t imagine the courage and fortitude it must’ve taken to survive here,” Mercy whispered. Thousands had endured horrific offenses, not only to their bodies but to their spirits.
Wulf nodded, his unsmiling visage an eloquent reaction to the horrors they both envisioned. It felt important to pay homage to the sacrifices of the people who had suffered. Walking away from the ovens, she could only shake her head, speechless with horror and sorrow.
“Let’s go over to the Russian memorial,” Wulf said, motioning toward a large brick obelisk located at the back of the square prison yard. Concertina wire sat atop a fifteen-foot hurricane fence enclosing the yard. “The Russians erected the monument to all the prison inmates, many of whom were Russian soldiers.”
The sun peeked through the clouds like a sneaky thief as they climbed up the stairs to the base of the monument. Wreaths and flowers of every design and size lay sprinkled around the base beneath the Russian and German inscriptions. Mercy sank to her knees to say a prayer for the dead.
Just as her knees touched the concrete, she heard a funny “ping.” Something hard and heavy hit her back and Mercy sprawled onto her stomach. Startled, she lifted her head and twisted around. Wulf’s body was covering her. “What…?”
“Come on.” He yanked her to her feet, pulling her roughly over to the side of the steps.
“What are you doing?” she sputtered. What was wrong with him?
“Someone just shot at us.”
A silencer. Again. Wulf scanned the yard, looking for something out of the ordinary. Nothing. In spite of it being summer, only a few small groups roamed the area. The assassin could be anyone. Three older women walked over to where they huddled at the base of the monument. Dressed in practical trousers and walking shoes, they all carried open umbrellas to ward off the soft mist that had just turned to light rain. They looked oblivious to any threat or danger.
“Disgusting behavior! Probably Americans,” the oldest woman said to the other woman.
“Have they no decency?” the other woman asked. “Rolling around on the ground in such a manner, and at such a sacred monument, too. No respect. I don’t know what this world is coming to with the young people of today.”
Wulf couldn’t restrain a smile. “Excuse me,” he said in a flawless Berlin accent, gaining their surprised attention. “Could you help me? My wife slipped on the wet surface and fell down. She’s twisted her ankle.”
The faces of the women changed immediately to embarrassment. “Of course. Here, let me help you,” one said, as she bent over Mercy, switching her umbrella to her other hand. Mercy looked at him as though he’d gone insane. He ignored her while the woman clicked her tongue in sympathy and pulled gently on Mercy’s arm.
“Limp,” Wulf hissed at her in English, as he grabbed her other arm to help her up. “Oh, no,” he grimaced, as he clutched his back.
“Don’t worry.” The woman’s manner became brisk now, like a mother hen in charge of her chicks. “We’ll help you to your car, won’t we?” she asked her companions. All of them nodded with enthusiasm.
“We’re parked at the side entrance,” Wulf explained, making sure the other two women flanked Mercy’s body as they walked to the parking lot. Not exactly fail safe, but he didn’t care.
There was still no sign of the shooter, but Wulf could not relax. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was on the Autobahn speeding away.
As they neared the gate and the safety of his car, his fury at the Organization grew. They were supposed to be protecting Mercy! He gritted his teeth in anger.
A crowd had formed in the parking lot. Maybe that was good though, the more people the better. The crowd expanded, getting in their way, and they had to skirt it in order to get to their car. Wulf’s breathing stopped when he heard bits of the crowd’s conversation. Someone had been shot!
Wulf peered over the crowd and saw police clearing a path for the ambulance. As they pushed their way to the car he could see the ambulance crew lifting the body onto a gurney. He was stunned when the sheet covering the body accidentally pulled to one side. It was Muller!
Wulf’s stomach clutched with fear. He had to get Mercy out of here. Now!
Mercy limped along, staring at him with a puzzled face.
“What’s happening?” She strained to look over the crowd.
“No telling.”
Finally they reached the car. Wulf thanked the three women and hurried Mercy into the passenger seat, ignoring her startled look. He leapt into the car and jammed it into gear, leaving a strip of rubber in the parking lot.
Mercy stole a look at Wulf’s face as they raced down the road and out to the Autobahn. His grim, determined look froze the question on her lips. He must think he’s at the Indy 500!
They passed all the other cars as if they were standing still, her breath hissing when he almost side-swiped another car. Why was he driving so fast?
Before Mercy could ask anything, a car crashed into their side, nearly forcing them off the road. The grind of metal upon metal was harsh and jarring. Wulf swerved.
“Damn.” He wove in and out of traffic, beeping his horn, and flashing his lights. What was wrong with him?
“Wulf?” she asked nervously, peeking at the speedometer.
He ignored her, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Is someone following us?” Mercy asked, turning around to see what he kept looking at. Behind them, about two hundred yards, she saw another car maneuvering through the traffic. Yes, she decided, someone was definitely following them, but who?
His speed increased as the traffic grew lighter on the other side of Oranienburg. Mercy glanced back again. “I–I think the car following us is closer.”
He braked, throwing her forward into the grip of her seat belt and swerving their car from the left lane to the exit lane on the right. The tires skidded, fighting for purchase as the car scraped the side of the ramp.
“Oh, my God, Wulf. We’re going to flip over.” Mercy screamed as she slammed against the door. They bounced off the bank at the bottom of the curve and the car regained its balance.
She straightened up in her seat, brushing hair from her face and glanced over at Wulf. She didn’t know whether to be impressed with his driving or clobber him for scaring her to death!
Wulf glanced in the rear view mirror. “I think we lost them.” He didn’t care if they were friend or foe. There was no way he’d go to Potsdam now with Mercy. Rudersdorf, west of Oranienburg, sounded like a better choice, and he headed in that direction.
To hell with the damned Organization, he fumed. They could get someone else to con Stratton. Wulf wouldn’t let anyone near her.
“Wulf? What’s this all about?” Mercy sounded both angry and frightened.
He groaned. She had a right to know. Wulf took a deep breath. “When we get to Rudersdorf, I’ll find a cafe. Then I’ll explain. Is that okay?”
“You mean we aren’t going to Potsdam to see your family now?”
“No,” he snapped. There never was any of
his
damned family in Potsdam. Another one of his lies. So many lies. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I’ll explain everything when we get to Rudersdorf. All right?”
The beginning of the end. A band of despair wrapped itself around Wulf’s chest. He was so close to losing her. The rest of the drive passed in silence except for the ominous rhythm of the car wipers.
“How about a French cafe?” he suggested as they arrived in Rudersdorf. He pointed at a picturesque cafe nestled along a tree-lined avenue.
“It doesn’t look open yet.” Mercy looked down at her watch. “But so much has happened this morning, my head is whirling. I’d like some tea.”
Wulf parked the car behind the cafe instead of at the curb in front where there were several open spaces.
They ran through the light drizzle around to the front and when they entered, Wulf slipped some money to the manager to let them have drinks until the place officially opened at 11:30.
“We’ll have a beer and an iced tea,” he told the maitre’d once they were seated at their table.
“I’m very sorry, sir, but we have no iced tea.”
Wulf slipped the man a few more bills.
“No iced tea?” Mercy asked as the man went away.
Wulf waved his hand. “They have it.”
He laughed at her expression when a glass of iced tea arrived a few minutes later along with his beer. It had one small ice cube dissolving in the middle of it. Wulf requested a whole glass of ice this time. The man looked annoyed, but his face cleared as soon as Wulf handed him a few more bills.
“Now, what’s going on?” Mercy demanded.
Wulf felt the rope tighten around his neck. He took a long drink and set the glass down, studying the foam dripping down the inside.
“Mercy,” he began, “no matter what I tell you, you must believe me when I say how much I love you and want to marry you. I’ve never felt so strongly about anything in my life.”
He watched her wrinkle her brow in confusion. How could he ever untangle this convoluted mess?
“When I came to Dallas, I had another agenda besides the oil venture with Reveille. I came to bring you back to Germany with me.”
She laughed. “But you didn’t even know me until that day in Hazel’s office.” The trust on her face wrenched Wulf’s gut.
“I already knew all about you,” he continued. “My job was to get you to fall in love with me and agree to return to Germany with me as my fiancée, ostensibly to meet my family.” He took a long swallow of beer. “There is no family.”
“No family?” Mercy’s voice faltered. “Then why were we going to Potsdam?” Her face clouded with confusion.
“You, my darling, are a very sought-after woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“The reason you’re here is to see your grandfather.”
“But I don’t have a grandfather.”
“Yes, you do. Your grandfather is Erich Stratton, a famous, or I should say, infamous, man. Stratton was a Nazi SS general and a highly placed thug in Hitler’s crowd of cronies. He was one of the main men responsible for confiscating the property, money, and goods of all the Jews in Germany.”
Mercy’s mouth gaped. “Mama never said anything except she was disowned when she married Papa. I thought my grandfather died a long time ago.”
“Well, he didn’t. He’s very much alive.”
“What does all this have to do with me?”
Wulf sighed and continued. “This is about money, Mercy. Lots of it. Where do you think the money Stratton confiscated went? Right into his pocket. Your grandfather, like every smart rat, knew when to leave a sinking ship. He immigrated to Mexico right before the end of the war along with your grandmother and your mother.”
“Oh,” Mercy whispered, her face flushing red.
The look of shame cut Wulf like a knife.
“That’s where you come in. Your grandfather has inoperable lung cancer. He’s agreed to turn over his Swiss bank account to the Israeli government if they let him see his granddaughter before he dies. Without seeing you, he refuses to give information to anyone.”
“And he’s here? In Germany?”
“Yes. That’s where I come in. The United States government refuses to allow coercion of its citizens, at least not without adequate compensation. They couldn’t force you to come here; however, you could come here willingly with me.”