The Haigerloch Project

“Okay. We've gotta start someplace,” he said, keeping his voice low. He was annoyed to note that he couldn't keep his tension from showing. “We have to find Ostbahnhofstrasse first. Then Decker's house number.”

He looked toward the looming hulk of the main railroad station.

“Probably not too far from here,” he said. “Bahnhofstrasse means Railroad Station Street.” He nodded toward the building. “That's where we'll start. The railroad station. There'll probably be a street map of the town somewhere.”

He turned to Marshall.

“You stay glued to me,” he said. “And don't open your mouth. If there's any trouble, let me do the talking. You pretend to be a — a foreign worker. A Pole. French. Anything but US.”

Marshall nodded vigorously.

“Got you. Mum's the word.”

The station complex itself had sustained heavy damage. The place was only sparsely lighted. But through the shattered glass high above, a feeble moon stabbed at the gloom below and made the twisted iron framework look like an enormous, sooty spiderweb suspended over the passenger rotunda and track platforms. Under this giant web a mass of people seemed to be imprisoned. The railroad station was the only hope of escape for the many who feared the imminent onslaught of the enemy, and the dimness was filled with the whispered voices and shuffling feet of refugees waiting for a place on one of the few trains still able to run.

Kieffer and Marshall made their way through the milling crowd as unobtrusively as possible, looking for a street map. The walls still standing and the makeshift partitions hastily thrown up around bomb-damaged areas were covered with proclamations, bills, slogans and posters.

Nearly all the cheerful advertising and travel posters that adorn every railroad station were gone. In their places were Nazi political placards and old recruiting posters — all torn and soiled….

A stirring scene of gallant battleships steaming forward against a background of a huge Navy flag: “EINSATZ der Deutsche Kriegsmarine—CONTRIBUTION of the Germany Navy,” it proclaimed…. The noble Aryan profile of an airman superimposed on a Luftwaffe emblem: “Unsere LUFTWAFFE — Our AIR FORCE.”… Grim, attacking soldiers: “INFANTRIE Königin Aller Waffen—INFANTRY, Queen of All Arms.”… Even “HER ZU UNS,” a proud Hitler Youth holding a swastika banner: “Hinein in die Hitler-Jugend—Into the Hitler Youth.”… And, of course, a picture of a stern, imposing Adolf Hitler and the drumbeat slogan “EIN VOLK, EIN REICH, EIN FÜHRER — One People, One Country, One Leader.”…

Finally, next to the ominous admonition “FEIND HÖRT MIT!

— The Enemy Listens,” they found a town map.

Ostbahnhofstrasse began close to the station. It was not a long street. One building on it was marked with a red circle. Jäger-hof. Apparently a notable tourist hotel in happier times.

Kieffer was suddenly aware of a commotion nearby that was coming closer. A small group of tired-looking Waffen SS soldiers headed by an Unterscharführer came marching toward him. The people scrambled out of their way. Kieffer found himself pressed up against the wall. He turned his face to it, earnestly studying the street map.

The palms of his hands were suddenly clammy. Were they headed for him? Had he and Marshall been noticed? Had someone turned in the alarm?

The measured footsteps came closer.

Any second he expected to hear the sergeant bark the command to halt — and to feel the enemy's hand on his shoulder. The skin on his back crawled.

He stood rigid. And the footsteps passed. The crush of people at once let up.

He could feel himself shaking slightly, as after great exertion.

He turned to Marshall.

He was gone.

He looked around wildly before he caught himself.

Easy—

His mind raced.

What had happened? Had Marshall been pushed aside in the crush? Swept away — without being able to call out to him?

Where the hell was he?

Suddenly he heard loud, angry voices not far away. He turned — and froze.

Not twenty yards away stood Marshall, ashen-faced, frightened, surrounded by a group of Germans angrily shouting at him, brandishing their fists in outrage. Marshall was shaking his head desperately, gesticulating with his hands and frantically looking around for his comrade.

At once Kieffer was icily calm.

He started toward the knot of angry people.

And stopped short.

Interfering now would only make matters worse. Two men in outlandish uniforms would certainly arouse suspicion. They would both be lost.

Quickly he looked around.

A man ahead of him was just going through a door marked HERREN—Men.

At once he ducked in after the man.

The stranger was entering one of the small stalls.

Kieffer hurled himself against its door, sending the man sprawling over the yellowed porcelain bowl. In the same motion his right hand found and grabbed the gun in his shoulder holster. He whipped it out and dealt the man a crushing blow on the temple. Without a sound he collapsed.