Authors: Gilbert Morris
Carstens shook his head sadly. “This occupation is hard on all of us. Where are we going, Hilda? What will happen next to our poor people?”
Late that night Gabby appeared at Dai’s door. He opened the door to admit her and scanned the hallway. Luckily, it was empty. “This isn’t wise, Gabby. Suppose somebody saw you?”
She ignored his words. “I think my uncle will be changed by what’s happened.”
“You mean about the Goldmans?”
“Yes. The Goldmans were very dear to him and to my aunt.”
“I doubt if he’ll even hear about it. They keep him shielded pretty well.”
“You’re right about that. Erik had promised me that my letters would get through to my uncle, but I’ve learned that they are heavily censored. I’ve written another one, but I don’t know how to get it past the authorities so he actually learns the whole truth. Is there any way you can get this letter to him?”
Dai took the unsealed envelope. “You told him all about the Goldmans?”
“Yes, and I begged him to leave Germany before it’s too late.”
“He’ll get the letter,” Dai assured her.
“But how? How will you get it to him?”
He grinned. “I’ve suddenly got a new profession. I’m a postman.”
Gabby looked at him in disbelief. “Why—that’s impossible!”
“No, it’s not. It can be done.”
The lamp cast an amber light on his face. Gabby could not believe what she was hearing. She had assumed Dai would smuggle it to her uncle through various connections in Germany. If she had known he would volunteer to personally deliver the letter, she would not have brought it. Suddenly, she was afraid for him. She had not realized until this moment how much Dai Bando meant to her. “You can’t go. I can’t let you do it.”
“We don’t have any choice, Gabby.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and looked up into his eyes, relishing the warmth in them. He bent to catch a better view of her face, and when he saw the expression in her eyes, he knew what she was telling him. He put his arms around her waist and drew her close, and for a moment he watched her, but he saw no anger and felt no resistance. He lowered his head and kissed her, and Gabby knew in her heart that she wanted—no, needed—the love of a man this strong. She realized that in many ways she denied her own needs, yet she could no longer ignore what she felt stirring in her heart for Dai. She had been afraid of the future, afraid to risk anything, but as she looked up into his eyes, for the first time in years she felt that the world could be safe with a man like Dai. He spoke her name, and she clung to him fiercely.
“I have to go, but I want you to know you’re like the woman in that poem I told you about, someone I could spend the rest of my life with.”
Gabby’s heart was racing, for this man had awakened hopes and long-lost dreams she thought would never come true. And then she remembered Madame Jana’s words that God
would lead her and take care of her future. She smiled but could not think of anything to say. “When will you go, Dai?”
“Tonight. You’ll have to make excuses for me here at the hospital. Tell them that we had an argument and I just left.”
“But how will you get into Germany?”
“I’ll parachute in at night. We have an agent in place there, a German pastor who despises Hitler.”
She held on to him, clinging as if she could keep him here by the sheer force of her will and spirit, but she saw in his face the grim determination and knew that he had to go. She put her face against his chest and held him tightly. “Come back to me, Dai. Please come back!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Midnight Caller
“Professor, it is Herr Goebbels—he’s coming!” Conrad Fleightmann was not easily startled, but like all other citizens of Germany, just the mention of the minister of propaganda for the Third Reich was enough to set off warnings.
“What are you talking about? You must be mistaken!”
“No, sir, it is Herr Joseph Goebbels! I was watching from the window,” Fleightmann’s assistant told him. “He got out of a staff car, and there are three S.S. officers with him.”
Fleightmann rose to his feet, the fat around his triple chin shaking. He moved across the floor with a strange grace for such a large man but had gotten only halfway to the door when it opened, and he stopped abruptly.
Fleightmann threw his arm up and cried, “Heil Hitler,” as Goebbels and his aides entered the office. He wondered nervously what the visit could mean. No one was absolutely safe in Germany these days, not even those close to the top. Anyone who displeased the führer could simply disappear and never be heard from again—or could be sent to the front, or any one of half a dozen other unpleasant situations.
Goebbels returned the salute and told his aides to wait outside.
“Herr Goebbels, if I had known you were coming, I would have prepared for your visit.”
“Not necessary, Dr. Fleightmann.” Goebbels was a small man who looked strangely out of place in the Nazi uniform. He was not handsome; rather, his enemies said he looked
like a rat dressed up like a man. His features were sharp, his eyes small, and there was a cruelty in his mouth. Despite his small stature and lack of attractiveness, he was one of the most powerful men in Germany. Hitler trusted him without measure, and he had redefined the art of propaganda into a science. It was Goebbels who made Germany appear in a favorable light at all times. He was in charge of all printed matter, newspapers, books, scientific papers, radio broadcasts—anything that had to do with creating the image that Germany was a powerful and even a righteous nation. Only a monster like Goebbels, someone said, could write about the destruction of Poland as if it were a noble deed.
“What can I do for you, Herr Goebbels?” the professor asked in an uncertain voice.
“I’ve come about the Dutchman Burke.”
“Is there some difficulty about him?”
Goebbels’s cruel mouth twisted into a sneer. “I didn’t come to give you a report, Fleightmann. I want information. Tell me, has he made any progress on the project?”
Fleightmann was apprehensive. He usually had no difficulty figuring out which direction the prevailing winds of change were blowing and getting on the fair side of them. But he could make nothing from the face of Goebbels, so he didn’t know whether to praise Burke or condemn him. He chose the middle ground. “I believe the professor is making fair progress.”
“You scientists never speak plainly! Are we closer to the production of the secret weapon?”
“Herr Goebbels, in all truthfulness, the work that Burke is doing is so complicated—so complex—that even I cannot understand it.” He stumbled on and tried to excuse himself, but in all honesty, he was incapable of following Burke’s reasoning and said as much to Goebbels. “I doubt if there are more than two or three men in the entire world who are capable of following the research of the professor.”
Goebbels stood silently chewing on his lower lip, then nodded. “Very well. I wish to see him.”
“I will take you to his quarters.” Fleightmann led the way out of his office and took the elevator up to the third floor. Nervously, he led the way down the wide corridor, passing several startled workers who stared at Goebbels in astonishment. He opened a door and said, “This is where the professor works.”
Goebbels stepped inside and saw nothing more than a large room flanked by windows along one side. A telescope stood pointed at the heavens, and bookcases lined the walls, packed with books of all sizes and shapes. In the center of the room, a man sat bent over a cheap notebook at a small desk. He was staring at the figures on the page, apparently lost to his surroundings. A phonograph was playing the music of Chopin, which displeased Goebbels. He would rather have found the man listening to a good, sound German composer like Beethoven!
He directed Dr. Fleightmann to leave them alone, and the obese man whirled and left at once, closing the door softly. Goebbels was curious. Burke was a mystery to him, as he was to the entire staff who served Hitler. The word in the scientific community was that Burke was one of the five great minds in the world and was mentioned in the same breath as men like Newton and Albert Einstein, a good German who had turned traitorous and was now in the United States.
Goebbels moved closer to the desk, but Burke didn’t move. He was staring at his notebook, a yellow pencil held loosely in his left hand. Equations covered most of the page, but Goebbels could make nothing of them. He was not a mathematician and frowned slightly, for this was a situation that was out of his control. He suspected, along with others, that Dalton Burke was not a strong Nazi supporter, but the führer was convinced he was of great value to the Third Reich.
“Herr Burke . . .”
Burke jumped and looked up to find the uniformed Nazi in
front of him. He flushed as he quickly rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Herr Goebbels,” he said in Dutch. “I did—”
“Speak in German please, Professor.”
“I’m sorry. Old habits.” Dalton ducked his head. “I was working. I didn’t hear you come in. My apologies.”
“No apologies are necessary.” Goebbels smiled fulsomely and set out to make himself amiable. “I should have come to visit you long before this. The führer has spoken highly of your work. He appreciates what you are doing for the Fatherland.”
“Why, thank you, sir. That is good to know.”
“He would have come himself, but an emergency has arisen. Instead, he has asked me to invite you to a supper in his private quarters next week.”
“A pleasure, Herr Goebbels.”
“I will have his secretary call your secretary to arrange the details.” Thinking that was enough charm spent on an obscure Dutch physicist, Goebbels said, “How goes the work, Dr. Burke? Are you making progress?”
“That is difficult to say, I’m afraid.”
“How so?”
“Matters like this are so different from any other work,” he explained. “It’s not like making an engine, for example. There all of the basics have already been discovered. It only requires the time necessary to create the parts and assemble them. It is a job that is fenced in, you understand.”
“But the work you do is different, is it not?”
“Exactly!” Dalton nodded vigorously. “It’s almost like creating a symphony or painting a picture. The artist does not know what he will do until he does it. And so I sit here and I think.” Burke smiled and shook his head slightly. “I know it looks like I’m wasting time. Somewhere out there the secret lies, and it can only be discovered by men like me who are not very practical, I’m afraid, but who must spend their lives sitting at a desk and staring at a sheet of paper. And even
when I’m home in the bath, my mind continues to work the complexities of what we are trying to create.”
“But you will find it?”
“I cannot say. I can only tell you, Herr Goebbels, I hope so.”
Goebbels felt the hopelessness of urging the man on. He knew something about the creative process and was convinced that the Dutchman was telling the truth. “Well, Professor, keep at it. Work hard. We must press on to victory. Germany must have her place in the sun.”
“Of course, Herr Goebbels.” Burke closed the notebook on the desk. “While you’re here, there is a matter I would like to consult with you about.”
“Why, certainly. Anything we can do. By the way, are you being treated well? Do you like the home we’ve provided for you? Do you lack anything?”
“No, indeed! You’ve been most kind. My wife and I find the house most comfortable.” A house had been provided only a few blocks away from the university. It was ornately furnished, and a car and driver had also been provided for any shopping that Liza needed to do. They were permitted to go to any events they found interesting, such as the opera. Dalton Burke did not know it, but he was a prisoner in a large and well-furnished prison.
“It’s about this,” he said. He picked up a newspaper from the corner of the desk and handed it to Goebbels.
“Why, this isn’t a German newspaper!” He had given strict orders that men such as Burke should receive only German papers.
“No, I fell on it quite by accident. Someone left it on a bench in the park. But the story bothers me.”
Goebbels ran his eyes over the front-page story. It concerned the concentration camps to which Jews were being taken throughout Germany. It spoke of the deaths and the torture that those who were carried into such places encountered. “This is all propaganda. British lies,” he said with a shrug. “A few Jews have been apprehended, but they were given fair
trials and proven to be traitors. They were sent to prison, of course, but you cannot believe these lies.”
Goebbels ended his visit abruptly. As if by accident, he tucked the newspaper under his arm before shaking Burke’s hand. “Your idea of a super weapon is exciting to Hitler.”
Dalton shook his head. “I’m glad the führer is interested in my work, but I’ll feel better when I have something solid to show him.”
“Certainly.” Goebbels smiled, exposing his teeth, but his eyes did not smile. “But the very idea of being able to destroy an entire city with one bomb is something to think about. Of course,” he said quickly, “we would never use such a weapon. But just the possession of it would give Germany a victory.” He smoothed the fabric of his uniform. “Well, I must go, Professor. I will leave you to your work. I will see you at the party at the führer’s.”
“Yes, Herr Goebbels.”
Goebbels left and found Fleightmann waiting for him outside. He stalked over and shook the newspaper under his face. “You idiot! You let him get an English newspaper in his hand!” He raged, shouting and screaming, until Fleightmann was a mass of quivering flesh. Goebbels warned him not to let something like this happen again, then turned and stalked down the hall with his aides struggling to keep up.
Later that day, when Goebbels reported to his chief, Hitler asked, “Will he develop the super weapon?”
“I’m no scientist,” Goebbels said, “but those who know about these things tell me he’s capable of it.”
“Good, and when we get it, Churchill and Roosevelt and those other capitalistic gangsters will be bombed into dust!”
Goebbels’s eyes shone, and he said, “Yes, sir, into dust!”