Authors: Alan Bricklin
He bounded up the steps to the headquarters building and
strode purposefully to the office where the others were waiting for him. His
brisk knock was followed by Dulles's voice. "Come in."
Larry was opening the door even before Dulles had finished
that two word sentence. He was expecting the two OSS officers to be there too,
but found Dulles alone in the room. In response to his gesture, he walked to
the chair indicated and began talking before he was seated. "Sir, I've
been working on a plan for a short operation to extract Maria. All I need are two
men. One if you can't spare two, and they don't even need any special
training." Before Dulles could respond, Larry launched into an
explanation, which Dulles let go on for a few minutes until he realized how
unfair it was to this battered agent who had done so much, to let him continue
when there was no chance that any such operation would take place.
Dulles interrupted, holding up his hand and telling Larry to
stop. He actually had to do it twice, speaking louder than he had intended, to
get Larry to halt his discourse. "Larry, the war will be over any day now,
and there's chaos along the border. German troops without commanders are
retreating on their own, and a kind of lawlessness prevails, even among the
non-combatants. In addition, the Swiss are really annoyed at what we did here
and they're securing the border with speed and determination. They don't want
anyone going in or out just now, not until there's an armistice signed. We
can't do anything for a while."
"No!" he practically yelled. "All the more reason
to get her right away. I can go myself. I'll be able to slip back across."
"I'm sorry, but I can't allow it." There was a
brief impasse, then Dulles continued in a gentler voice. "This is
difficult to say, but you have to realize the true situation. Fabrizio has seen
many wounds in his line of work and he told us there's little chance she'll
survive. Before his men headed back they were going to try to get her to a
doctor, but they thought it highly unlikely that they could even find
one."
"Just let me have Fabrizio for part of the trip; we can
do this, I know."
"When our people in Caserta got word to Fabrizio and
explained what Templeton was doing, he agreed to help, in spite of how
dangerous it was. He did his job and we kept our promise to him. Fabrizio is on
his way south to wait for the border into Italy to open. I'm sorry, truly
sorry, but none of our people, including you, are leaving this camp for a
while."
Larry stood up so quickly the chair tipped over backwards.
"Well, I'm sorry, too, but this is something I have to do."
"I gave you an order and I expect it to be
obeyed."
Not bothering to reply, Larry turned on his heels and
stormed out of the room. One of the other OSS officers entered from a side
door. "Do you want me to restrain him in any way?"
"No. Let him cool off. It's got to be tough on him.
Fabrizio told us they fell in love. Hard to believe something like that could
have happened during this operation, but I guess stranger things have happened
in this war. Hell, just look at the operation itself. Wild Bill probably won't
believe my report."
The other smiled. "I have a feeling Bill Donovan has
heard it all."
"Probably so. In any case, I'm sure Sabatini will
accept things the way they are, at least until the borders open." The OSS
officer didn't believe that, but he didn't see any percentage in arguing the
point with his boss.
While Larry was walking back to his quarters, he passed two
of the men playing with what looked like a shot put, and as he passed them, he
realized it was the fake plutonium. His ragged backpack lay at their feet.
Larry's anger and frustration were nearing the boiling point, and it took a
great effort to keep from jumping the guys and shoving that lump of bogus metal
in one of their orifices, merely as a vent for all the emotion that seethed
within.
Before he returned to his room, Larry walked the periphery
of the camp twice in an effort to shed some of the rage he harbored, an emotion
that he knew was best utilized in only minute doses. More than that and it only
clouded clear thinking and judgment. While he walked, he thought, and by the
time he arrived back at his quarters, settling into the corner chair with a
determined exhalation, he felt more in control, more in the analytical,
operation mode in which he felt secure and competent.
By dinnertime, he was outwardly calm, and when Dulles saw
him casually talking with a few friends in the mess hall, Allen felt relieved
to see Larry returning to what he considered to be a more normal frame of mind.
On the way out, Larry nodded to Dulles.
Just past two in the morning Larry slipped out of the camp
and took off for the Swiss-Austrian border in order to find the woman he loved,
the woman who the others had told him, in the kindest way they could, was most
likely dead.
Suppose she's not there? What if they moved her? What if the CO
was right and she died? God, I don't know what I would do.
The last
possibility was like a dagger poised over his heart and, if true, would leave
him floundering, without direction. If she was alive, he could scour all of
Germany if necessary, but if she was dead, what then? How do you search for
someone who's no longer among the living? Do you look for a ghost, some
ethereal spirit that haunts places once familiar, that lingers in corners of
times gone by and peeks from behind some almost forgotten theme? His mind was
in turmoil, filled with unanswerable questions.
Larry disappeared into the darkness of night, just as
fourteen months before, the Norwegian ferry Hydro vanished into the fog,
sailing to its own burial, the only requiem a cold sphere of impotent gray
metal and the damage it inflicted on those with whom it came in contact.
SOUTHERN MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
The 1971 Chevy chugged and sputtered as the old man switched
off the ignition. It continued to "diesel" for several seconds before
the pistons ceased their movement and quiet enveloped the car, a peace which
lasted even less time than the dying coughs of the old car. He sighed inwardly
as the squeals of his grandchildren rose up from the back seat, at first in
harmony with, and then drowning out, the droning insects and squawking grouse
of the surrounding field.
The elderly woman sitting next to him said, "You've got
to get that fixed; or maybe we should start looking for a new car. It's nearly
25 years old, dear."
He inhaled deeply as he opened his door and eased himself
across the seat, the frayed vinyl upholstery gently scraping his trouser legs
as he slid out. The opening of the back door was the signal for whoops and
hollers to begin, his grandchildren darting out of the lime green car as if
mechanically ejected into the late morning sun. Grass, birds and meandering
butterflies all seemed to part before this exuberant dash of youth. The old
fellow smiled and slowly shook his head, almost mesmerized by the energy of
David and Lauren, then stood still, transfixed by the ease with which the field
had swallowed them up, taken them in and incorporated the two into the myriad
energies contained within it.
"Don't go too far! Wait for me and grandma."
He closed both doors and, glancing once in the direction of
the children, walked around to the other side of the car and opened the door
for his wife. "Twenty five years isn't so old," he said. "We've been
married longer than that and I'm not looking for a new wife."
"I should hope not!"
"Besides, she has a lot of years left in her."
"Like me, I hope."
"Like you, dear. Like you." He reached in and took
her offered hand to help her out. Their touch was like an embrace for him and
they both smiled as the warmth of that embrace ignited a thousand memories of
tenderness and passion past, and kindled hope for memories yet to be. Still
holding her hand as she emerged from the car, his arm encircled her waist and
they kissed, briefly, tenderly, then embraced, holding on tightly, each
breathing in the essence of the other, each buoyed by the warmth and energy of
the other. They were in love, and had been ever since they married after Larry
returned from the war. It was a time that had been especially turbulent for
him, punctuated by bouts of depression and recurring nightmares. A time when he
tried to forget the horrors and the loss that dogged his final year in the
military.
They separated and both looked across the car to their
grandchildren running in the field, their arms held high as they zigged and
zagged trying to catch a butterfly in their reaching hands.
"But you will get it fixed, won't you?"
"Yes, of course, dear. Why don't you keep an eye on
them while I get out the blanket and picnic basket."
"I'll help you," she said. "You take the
chairs and the blanket; I'll take the food." They walked around to the
trunk and he reached into his pocket for the key.
"You left them in the ignition."
"Oh, yes. Thanks."
She stared out across the field, smiling, watching her
grandchildren chasing the elusive butterflies. Her husband returned and
together they removed their "picnic" from the trunk and walked onto
the field, angling toward one side where the grass was shorter and then gave
way to sand and pebbles along the edge of a broad, but shallow stream that
ambled through the meadow. He set up their lawn chairs and laid out the
blanket, glancing several times at the thick woods that bordered the field. His
wife followed his gaze and she frowned, her face momentarily darkened although
the sun shone brightly in the almost cloudless sky.
"Anything else, dear?"
"No. Why don't you go play with the kids. You know how
they love it."
"I think I'll take a little walk. You can keep an eye
on them, can't you?"
She paused while setting out the various containers of food,
outwardly seeming to consider whether or not she was up to the task, although,
in reality, she struggled with a subject that was difficult for her to bring
up. At last she said, "Yes, but sweetie..."
"What?"
Nervously she looked down, watched herself placing the jars
and foil wrapped packets on the blanket, as if engrossed in a culinary chess
game. He mistook her apprehension for forgetfulness.
"What?"
"Be careful, won't you?" An audible sigh. A part
of his life into which she hesitated to venture. "Please."
"Yes, of course. I'm not completely decrepit yet,"
he said as he turned towards the wooded border of the field and set out with a
purposeful gait. The grass yielded here and there to low scrub and small stands
of aspen and hemlock with an occasional large oak. Soon pine needles were mixed
with leaves and the few remaining blades of grass to form the beginning of the
forest carpet. In a minute he had entered the woods proper, the temperature
noticeably cooler, a dampness to the air, and an earthy smell filling his
nostrils. He paused, turned his head slightly as if listening, and was
enveloped by silence which, as he stood there, was slowly replaced by the small
noises of the forest —— the distant chirp of a bird, the humming
whine of a passing insect, branches rustling slightly from a passing breeze,
and that eerie, hollow knocking sound coming from nowhere and everywhere, that
seemed to be so common in the deeper reaches of a forest. He inhaled deeply,
and as he exhaled, a brief chill washed over him. When he entered the woods,
the bright light of day fading to twilight, a sadness overcame him. An old man,
he was haunted by dreams of youth, of people gone forever and actions
regretted, and so, most mornings he awoke with a profound sense of melancholy.
Walking on, he followed what appeared to be a path, lost in his thoughts and
almost oblivious to his surroundings. Twigs snapped under his feet, echoing in
the stillness, and a startled squirrel looked up from its midday meal as he
passed; but his awareness had already retreated inside himself and he noticed
none of this. After ten minutes his breathing was somewhat labored although his
pace had not increased, and a small bead of sweat formed at his temple.
Entering a clearing, he paused and cocked his head as if straining to hear
something, then slowly turned in a circle, looking, his breathing coming in
shallow gasps. The old man's hands went to his temples. In the center of the
clearing was a large rock, its surface polished by the force of a rushing river
dried up for millennia, even before the emergence of the forest. The sun,
shining brightly through an opening in the canopy overhead, reflected off the
myriad flecks of mineral embedded in the rock. Bright light dazzled the eyes
and he squinted, his hands still pressed to his temples, as the light expanded
and filled his field of vision, then seemed to enter his very being, blinding
him, suffusing through his brain, intertwining with his memories, flowing,
expanding, taking over. His lips parted but no word was spoken.
He remained standing there for some time, he had no idea how
long, but he thought that it must have been quite a while, because when the
voices of his grandchildren roused him, his muscles and joints felt quite
stiff, particularly that knee that had been bothering him recently. The
scurrying sound of their little feet now reached his ears, and in a second the
two children popped into view in front of him.
"Grand pop, why are you crying?" asked Lauren.
"Did you lose some thing?" chimed in little David.
"I cried when I lost Mr. Wiggles."
He put his hand to his face and felt the moisture from the
silent tears of which he was unaware. A female voice sounded behind him.
"Grand pa was just remembering some sad times. He'll be OK, won't you,
Larry?" She reached up and put her hand tenderly on his shoulder, and as
she did so her short hair lifted to reveal two small circular scars on her
neck, their pale color contrasting with the adjacent tanned skin.