Chapter Sixteen.

The safe house in Alsbacher Weg was situated in the old former SS-Kameradschafts-siedlung... the SS Veterans Settlement, a little to the south of Krumme Lanke... the southernmost of the Grunewald chain of lakes in Zehlendorf. When the Russians had arrived, the entire community was deserted, and comprised approximately six-hundred houses and apartments, totally undamaged by the war. The bow-shaped Krumme Lanke itself was full of bodies; as were the surrounding woods and buildings. These were the former SS residents and their families, who had chosen to commit suicide rather than face the advancing Russians.

The empty dwellings had been given over to the victims of Nazi terror... concentration camp prisoners and prison inmates, resistance fighters; bombed-out opponents of the Nazi régime, political refugees, and Jewish illegal immigrants who had survived the "Final Solution." A few were retained as anonymous "Safe houses" for the occupying forces. Number Twenty-three, Alsbacher Weg was one of these locations. It was discreetly located in a short, dead-end road in the smaller western development of the settlement; deep in the wooded area and not overlooked by its neighbours. The building itself, was one of three-hundred gabled houses, each with their own gardens, originally allocated strictly according to rank; and had once been a single-family home for an SS Officer. It was designed in the "Old German" type building style... white-painted outer walls, dormers, steeply-pitched roof; lattice windows, and shutters, and was set in an urban forest landscape of scattered residential buildings designed as an ideal, closed "Garden city."

The Olive-drab, Buick staff car slowed as it came down Argentinische Allee towards the junction of Lindenfelser Weg, which led into the Siedlung. It was difficult to grasp at first sight that this Idyllic-looking settlement had been occupied exclusively by carefully selected SS men and their families... the majority of whom were on the staff of Himmler's headquarters in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. The pretty houses, enclosed by their picket fences, and surrounded by pine and birch trees in this beautiful, and tranquil environment struck a jarring note against the memory of the sinister, and ugly building in which their original residents had carried on their gruesome trade back in Berlin. The houses reflected the image of a homely German ideal... cosy and quiet, surrounded by green areas, and resembling a small rural community, perhaps, somewhere in Bavaria or the Hartz Mountain region of southern Germany.

Sergeant Jimmy Haskins; the young driver, carefully threaded the Buick through the narrow roads of the settlement. He, too, found this place unsettling... the neat, white houses with excessively dainty wooden shutters at the windows; the quaint boxes overflowing with pretty flowers against the manicured, symmetrical little lawns... the over-sentimentality of it all. The only word to truly describe this rural idyll designed as a residential paradise for some of Hitler's most vicious killers, and resembling something straight out of a Grimm's fairy-tale, was... "Macabre."

Number Twenty-three, Alsbacher Weg was situated at the far end of the north side of the little dead-end street. The house was built with its gables parallel to the street and had two dormers overlooking the frontage. Haskins stopped the car and climbed out to open the rear door for Charlotte and Siegel. He handed her the key.

'Have a pleasant stay, Ma'am. There's a fully-stocked larder, and I'll be back in a couple of days to pick you up.'

Opening the green front door Charlotte stepped inside, followed by Siegel. The house was pervaded by a stony coldness... but was it just because it had been empty? Or was there something else?... perhaps, a lingering essence of the evil doings of its former occupants. She shivered. This was not a place she would choose to be in by choice. It was beautifully furnished in classic Bauhaus style... almost as if its previous occupants had just walked out of the door. Max Siegel was exploring upstairs. The ground floor comprised the living area, a separate dining room, kitchen, and laundry. The kitchen was fully equipped with what would have been the most modern, top-of-the-range appliances in 1945... an AEG refrigerator, a Miele washing machine; a Neff cooker. Only the best for the elite members of the Master Race!

As she looked around the kitchen, she shivered again. How many of these appliances had been manufactured using slave labour? Her thoughts were interrupted by Max Siegel returning. He said that there were four bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Three of the bedrooms were small; obviously designed with children in mind. The master bedroom was a decent size. She nodded. Just as well. She had no intention of sleeping alone in the disturbing atmosphere of this place tonight.

Whilst Max went outside to look around the garden; Charlotte surveyed the contents of the larder with the intention of preparing "Abendbrot"... the evening meal. To do it properly, she would need three types of cheese; a Hartkäse... a hard cheese, a Schnittkäse... a semi-hard cheese; and a Weichkäse... a soft cheese. The larder was well-stocked. She found a square of Emmentaler, a complete Tilsiter; and a large wedge of Münsterkäse. In the refrigerator she discovered a selection of sausage... Bratwurst, Knackwurst; Bierwurst, and Sommerwurst... a type of Salami.

There was plenty of fresh bread. She selected, and sliced Bauernbrot, Mischbrot, Schwarzbrot, and Weissbrot, and also put a few Brötchen... bread rolls, into a wooden bowl. She laid the food out on the table, and brought butter, pickles, tomatoes and mustard; as well as a pack of Knäckebrot crackers. Opening two bottles of Weissbier, she nodded her satisfaction and called Max in from the garden.

Coming in from the garden; and seeing the table laid for the evening meal, he grinned.

'Just like an old, married couple!'

With the meal finished, and the crockery washed and put away; Charlotte made coffee. As they sat and relaxed; Max glanced at her, and rummaged in his trouser pocket. He brought out four discoloured brass cylinders, each about four-centimetres-long, and threaded at one end... obviously for a screw-cap. He held them out in the palm of his hand for her to see.

'Here's where the previous tenants went. These are SS cyanide containers. Why four? My guess is one each, for husband, wife... and two children. They were thrown away at the bottom of the garden.'

Charlotte stared at the little brass cylinders in his hand.

'Children? They actually killed their children?'

Max nodded sadly.

'Yes, I think they probably did; if what our troops discovered here is anything to go by. A few of the SS families fled, but the lake was literally choked with bodies.... men, women and children. Others killed themselves in the woods. These little brass containers were lying around as thick as pine needles. They just had to bite down on the thin glass vial that they contained and death was almost instantaneous. The cleaning-up squads counted almost two-thousand bodies; and at least fiv- hundred of them were children. Mass suicide was quite common during those last days. Apart from God knows how many Berlin women who were violated by those pigs who followed our first wave of assault troops, and had taken that path out of their misery; they also found the swimming pool at the Leibstandarte barracks at Lichterfelde full of the bodies of SS troops who had chosen the coward's way out instead of defending Berlin.

Charlotte bit her lip.

'But, Children?'

He nodded.

Well, they had a precedent. That evil bitch, Magda Goebbels poisoned her six children that last day in the bunker.'

He reached out and gently squeezed her hand.

'Don't worry. The only things left around here are Ghosts and memories; and neither of those can cause you any harm.'

She said nothing. Draining her coffee cup, she stood up.

'I think I'll go on up to bed. It's been a long day.'

He nodded.

'I'll bring you a glass of warm milk to help you sleep.'

She was lying in the bed with the sheet pulled up to her chin. In the soft lamp-light she looked even more beautiful; her golden hair spread out on the pillow, her eyes bright... almost as though she had been crying.

He carefully placed the glass of warm milk on the bedside cabinet, and sat on the bed. Her forget-me-not blue eyes were very bright. She took his hand and placed it on the little mound in the sheet that was her left breast. Holding him in her gaze, she said,

'Take off those clothes and come to bed. I need your warmth tonight.'

He gazed at her. His face was solemn.

'Are you certain you want to do this? If we do, there is no going back. Our relationship will change forever.'

She murmured,

'I know.'

And drew the sheet back. He nodded, slipped out of his clothes, and joined her. She gave him a tiniest hint of a smile and turned to him.

Somewhere out in the garden, a night bird called softly. All was quiet, except for the sound of the breeze off Krumme Lanke rustling the dead leaves as it blew them across the lawn; and, on the bedside cabinet in the little white house, the glass of milk slowly lost its warmth and became stone-cold.

The sonorous boom of the Harley-Davidson's exhaust reverberated through the tree-lined roads of the old SS Siedlung as the young despatch rider turned off Bürstädter Weg into the short Alsbacher Weg. Stopping outside the neat white house at Number Twenty-three; he switched off the thumping vee-twin and pushed down the kick-stand. Swinging out of the saddle, he approached the front door of the property. His knock brought a pretty blonde to the door. She was wearing a hastily pulled-on housecoat, and her hair was attractively tousled... almost as though she had just been disturbed whilst making love. He saluted.

'Captain Mckenna? A signal from headquarters for you, Ma'am.'

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He handed her a buff envelope.

She accepted it; thanked him and closed the door. As he returned to his machine; he gave a self-satisfied smirk. His accent had been perfect. She hadn't suspected a thing. They certainly knew their business at the language academy in Smolensk.

Carrying two cups of coffee; with the despatch tucked under her arm; Charlotte returned to the bedroom. She placed the cups on the bedside cabinets and slipped back into the bed beside Max. He grinned, and slipped his hand inside her housecoat; gently cupping her left breast and delicately circling her soft nipple with his fingertips. She slapped his arm.

'No, Max; you've had quite enough for now!... and anyway; a despatch has just been delivered. Perhaps it contains details of the arrangements and we can get out of this creepy place.'

He grinned.

'I hope you're not complaining...'

She smiled. A soft, sensuous smile.

'Not at all! But behave yourself, and let's see what this despatch contains.'

She turned the envelope over, and her tone and expression changed. The glued-down flap of the envelope was very slightly puckered. She dragged Max's hand away and pulled the folds of her housecoat together. Her eyes were suddenly cold.

He began...

'What's the matter? I....'

Her voice had an icy edge to it.

'This envelope has been rolled out. You can just make out the knitting needle marks. Someone has meddled with it.'

Max's face tightened.

'Then, I fear we are discovered, and one of your young despatch riders is lying dead in a ditch somewhere. This has all the trademarks of SMERSH. We need to move quickly. They may well be on their way, right now.'

Twenty-five minutes earlier; nineteen-year-old Sergeant Danny Kowalski had been riding down to Zehlendorf with an urgent despatch from BOB. He was enjoying himself as he thundered down the long straight roads through the Grunewald. His Harley-Davidson was fast; due to some special modifications to the valves and carburettor, and the removal of some of the silencer baffles. It was a beautiful day, and he was pushing the big motorcycle to her limit. He loved this machine... his big "Milwaukee Knucklehead." As he came around the curve of Teltower Weg just before its junction with Alte Poststrasse, he was doing eighty.

He never even saw the thin piano wire strung across the road between the trees at head height. All he felt was a sharp pain in his throat. His headless corpse was still astride the machine as it skewed across the road, jumped the narrow ditch, and ploughed into the forest. His severed head bounced away into the undergrowth. The Harley-Davidson reared up on its back wheel and slowly crashed back amongst the fallen leaves, some twenty-or-so-metres in from the road. The back wheel kicked at the leaves for a few moments before the engine stalled, and silence fell again in the shadows of the forest. All was quiet; save for the familiar forest sounds and the slow tick-ticking of hot metal from the crashed motorcycle's engine.

A figure emerged from the other side of the road. The young man dressed in identical despatch rider's clothing, and wearing thick leather workman's gloves, reached up and released the piano wire from the far tree. Coiling it up as he crossed the road, he unfastened it from the opposite tree trunk and tossed the coil into the undergrowth. He walked silently across to the body, and stood looking down at it dispassionately... in the much the same way a street urchin might look at a dead cat in the gutter; then nudged it with his toe. He nodded his satisfaction and moved to the crashed machine. He rifled through the despatch panniers and removed a buff envelope which he pushed inside his leather uniform jacket. He emerged from the trees, crossed the road again; and, in a few minutes, rode an identical Harley-Davidson out of the shade of the forest edge; turned to the south, and accelerated away.

Forty-two year old Wachtmeister Paul Hahn was enjoying his morning patrol. Berlin often had autumns like this one. They usually preceded bitter winters, but, what the hell! It was a beautiful day. The sky was an endless, cloudless blue; the leaves were burning golden, and the birds were singing. He was cruising along the narrow, wooded Teltower Weg, keeping his pale-blue Polizei BMW R25 motorcycle at a comfortable fifty Km/h. As he came around the curve in the heavily forested section, he was shocked out of the peaceful contemplation of his surroundings by the sight of a large red smear across the asphalt. Quickly, he braked hard, and brought the BMW to a standstill. He saw it was blood. Scheisse! It was probably a deer that had been hit by a vehicle and staggered back into the forest. He sighed, as he shoved down the kick-stand. He'd better check. Leaving the BMW ticking over at the side of the road, he pushed his way in through the undergrowth. There! What was that? He reached for his Walther, just in case he needed to put the poor creature out of its misery. As he came closer; to his shocked dismay, he saw that it was not a deer. It was a man. A man in military uniform.... American military uniform.

About twenty-metres further in, lay a wrecked, Olive-drab motorcycle. As Paul Hahn approached; to his horror, he saw that the man had no head. The neck was chopped through as neatly as a cheese wire cuts through a wheel of Tilsiter cheese. He reached down and touched the body. It was still warm. This could only have happened less than an hour ago. He stood up and looked around. There was something lying in the undergrowth, about ten-metres-in from the road. He began working his way through the matted vegetation towards it. Something became entangled in his feet. He looked down and saw a tangled coil of what appeared to be piano wire. It was smeared with blood and what looked like traces of skin and flesh.

Paul Hahn grimaced as he untangled his feet. He could now see what the other object lying in the shade actually was. The man's head still wore its crash helmet, goggles... and an expression of total disbelief. Slipping his Walther back into the holster on his belt; Hahn turned towards the road. He'd seen this sort of thing before... in Normandy, back in '44... the classic despatch rider ambush! He began to scrutinise the trees bordering the road. Yes; there it was; a deep gouge around the trunk of that fir tree; about one-and-a-half metres above the level of the asphalt. He walked to the other side of the road. The tree opposite bore a similar scar. He glanced back towards the place where the body sprawled amongst the golden leaves. Poor bastard! He didn't stand a chance. He would never have seen the piano wire strung across the road at any sort of speed.

Paul Hahn walked back to his machine and heaved off its kick- stand. He vaulted smartly into the saddle and kicked down on the gear pedal. Now, where the hell was the nearest American Detachment? Checkpoint Bravo... the Border transit crossing at Dreilinden; about six kilometres back down the AVUS was probably the closest. The procedure in these cases was mandatory: Leave the scene undisturbed, Report it to the Occupation authorities; and let the Yank MPs sort it out. Turning his BMW around, he accelerated away back down the road and, in a minute or so, he was doing over a hundred Km/h, headlamp blazing, with his Martin horn braying its high-low-high, raucous song.

To all intents and purposes, the couple riding their bicycles through the Grunewald were just out enjoying the last days of the autumn... or so thought the two American GIs manning the checkpoint on Onkel-Tom-Strasse at the boundary of the British Sector. They stepped out into the road and waved the couple down.

Kyle Patterson and Earl Ballard were both from New York's South Bronx area; which, since the depression, had been sliding into becoming a low-class area with high rates of crime and poverty. These two were basically street-wise thugs in uniform. Now here were two Krauts they could have a little fun with.

Ballard ordered the couple off their bicycles and roughly pushed them to the side of the road. The man began to object, but was silenced by Ballard drawing his Browning automatic and thrusting the muzzle of the weapon into the man's chest. Patterson grabbed the girl and ordered her to remove her jacket. She was wearing a thin cotton blouse, and his eyes locked onto her swelling breasts beneath the thin material. He nodded to Ballard; grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the woods. Now he'd show this Kraut bitch a real Bronx trouser snake.

Charlotte feigned fear and little resistance as he pulled her roughly towards the deeper part of the wood. She didn't like the way Ballard was handling his Browning; aiming it at Max's chest with the safety off, and fully cocked. She decided that she would need to be very careful, and let this asshole think he had the upper hand before she dealt with him. She never had the chance. Max made the first move.

Ballard grinned. Yeah; Patterson giving it to her good would soften her up, then it would be his turn. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and flipped one between his lips. He didn't even see Max Siegel's uppercut coming. The notorious "Cigarette punch" was devastating to an open jaw, if done properly; and Max executed it to perfection. He heard the sickly crack as Ballard's jaw shattered, and the big man went down like a sack of potatoes. Patterson heard the commotion and came running back out of the trees, dragging the girl, just as a jeep came howling into view from the direction of Teltower Weg. He took one look at the crumpled body of Ballard, and snatched at his automatic pistol. As he brought it up to waist height, the jeep screeched to a halt and a huge Negro jumped out. A familiar deep voice boomed:

'Drop it, yuh dumbass white sonofabitch!'

The Browning nine-millimetre clattered to the ground as Patterson stared into the impersonal, evil black eye of the Browning Automatic Rifle muzzle that the big Negro SPC was pointing at him. Charlotte wrenched herself free and stared in disbelief.

'Dootes!... Dootes Bailey!'

He grinned.

'The very same, Ma'am. What'n the hell you doing here?'

Before she could answer; Ballard groaned. Dootes Bailey glanced at him and then, at Patterson. He nodded.

'So; these two pieces of chickenshit white trash wanted to play coochie games with you, huh? You OK, Ma'am?'

She nodded.

Dootes Bailey stepped across to Patterson and suddenly swung the barrel of the B.A.R. hard into his paunch. Patterson grunted and folded up like a Swiss pocket knife. Dootes Bailey picked him up as though he was a rag doll, and heaved him bodily into the woods, where he struck the trunk of a large pine tree with a sickening thud. The moaning Ballard followed him; flying gracefully through the air to land in a tangle of limbs in the undergrowth.

Dootes Bailey turned to Charlotte, and motioned to Max.

'Who's this guy? A friend of yours?

She nodded.

'Yes; this is Max Siegel.'

She looked at Max.

'This is Dootes Bailey. I met him on the wrong side of the Elbe, back in '45 as I was coming to the west; and he, and his buddies helped me to get through to Magdeburg.'

Dootes extended his huge hand and shook Max's warmly.

'Any friend of the Captain is a friend of mine. I guess you used the old "Cigarette punch" on that asshole who was nursing his jaw? Haven't seen that one used in ages. You must be in the same line of business as the Captain, here?'

Max nodded silently.

Charlotte put her hand on Dootes' arm.

'Thank you Dootes. That little incident could have turned nasty.'

He grinned... his wide, gleaming white grin.

'No problem, Ma'am. I owed you one. Now, can I give you folks a ride anywhere?'

Charlotte smiled.

'If you could give us a ride up to Garystrasse, in Dalhem, that would be fine, Dootes.'

He smiled; his big, brilliant white smile.

'No problem at all, Ma'am. Hop in, and let's go. I'll send a couple of MPs down to pick up those two pieces of white trash when I get back to the compound. They'll be sleepy-byes for a good while yet.'

She climbed into the front seat of the jeep and Max jumped into the back. Dootes tossed the B.A.R. to him; clambered into the driver's seat; crunched the gear shift into first gear, and accelerated away, with the metallic grunt of the jeep's exhaust echoing through the trees that concealed the two motionless bodies.

Dootes Bailey dropped Charlotte and Max on the corner of Kronprinzen Allee and Garystrasse; waved goodbye; and drove on to the U. S. Military Government for Germany headquarters that had been set up in the old Luftwaffe district headquarters compound on Saargemünder Strasse, a couple-of-hundred-metres further to the north. Charlotte and Max walked down Garystrasse to the little park with the lake behind Reichshofer Strasse, and took the little road that went around the lake. There was a lock-up garage at the rear of the safe house at number twenty, Reichshofer Strasse, which hopefully, would still contain the BMW saloon that Hiltraud Schiller should have concealed there after Charlotte had left it in her charge.

The doors to the garage were locked. Max vaulted the fence into the garden, and disappeared behind the garage. There was a muffled sound of splintering wood, and, in a short while, the sound of bolts being drawn behind the garage doors. They swung open, and Max appeared with a grin on his face.

'Amazing how careless some people are with their garden tools. Fancy leaving a spade just lying there!

The BMW was still in the garage. He carefully removed the Soviet pennant. The Soviet licence plates would have to stay; but, as Charlotte remarked; it was only a short journey that needed to be made. She asked Max to stay there... perhaps, to take a stroll around the park for a while. She couldn't lead him to BOB in Föhrenweg, no matter how much she trusted him. It was less than a kilometre away, and she needed to report in to Washburn to establish just what the opposition might have gleaned from the intercepted despatch. He also needed to know that the safe house in Alsbacher Weg had been compromised.

Max nodded.

'I understand. Don't be long. I feel a little vulnerable out here in Indian country!'