The Haigerloch Project

“We have a — a contact in another village near here, Herr Ortsbauernführer,” he explained. “But we did not get there tonight. There was much firing and shooting, and we turned back. We took a different road — and that is why we are here, Herr Ortsbauernführer. We fell in a hole in the dark and my friend's bicycle was broken. Both wheels bent. We had to leave it. And my tires were ripped open. We have had much bad luck. Please do not turn us in,” he pleaded. “Bttte. Bitte.”

The farmer looked at him pensively.

“That other village,” he said slowly, “that would be Allmannsweier?”

Dirk's mouth fell open in astonishment.

“Yes, Herr Ortsbauernführer, exactly!” He turned to Sig. “There you have it, Sig,” he said reproachfully, “the Herr Ortsbauernführer knows. It would have been foolish to try to keep the truth from him.”

Sig nodded, hanging his head in shame.

“Your contact,” the farmer said, “who would that be?”

Dirk looked stricken.

“Please, Herr Ortsbauernführer. Please do not make me tell. He would be most angry. I would lose him.”

“It would not be the Grossbauer—the big farmer Alois Degener, would it?” the farmer suggested shrewdly.

Again Dirk's mouth fell open. He stared at the man with wide-eyed wonder.

“The Herr Ortsbauernführer knows already?” he asked with awe.

The man spat on the ground.

“I know that thieving Schweinehund, I do!” he snarled maliciously. “He is nothing but a fart from my asshole!”

“We have given him much money,” Dirk said. “We pay well for what we get…. Only — tonight — we got nothing.”

The farmer looked crafty. He glanced at Dirk. He had let his gun sag, holding it casually in the crook of his arm. Both his prisoners had taken their arms down. He didn't seem to notice.

“You will still be looking for something to buy, then,” he said, his voice calculating. “Eggs? Sausage? Good homemade sausage?” He glanced in the direction of the village Allmannsweier. “I can give you food as good as that gauner—that crook Degener. Better!” He turned back to Dirk. “How much do you pay?” he asked.

“We pay three times the store prices for everything,” Dirk said quickly.

“Well now…” The man licked his lips. “And — you have the money?”

“Yes, Herr Ortsbauernführer. We do.”

Dirk slapped his breast pocket, with a kind thought toward the London Moles….

“That is good.” The farmer nodded. “Then — perhaps I can help you. You do not have to go all the way to Allmannsweier. Not again.” Once more he spat on the ground. “I am certain that verdammte Degener has been cheating you as he has cheated me. But I will not do this.”

“We would be very grateful, Herr Ortsbauernführer! Most grateful! It is well!” Dirk turned to Sig, full of enthusiasm. “You see!” he said. “I told you this was going to be our lucky night! After the rotten eggs Degener fished out of his water-glass barrel for us the last time!”

Three men came running from the village. They hurried up to Eichler.

“Schon gut,” the farmer grumbled. “It is all right. These two are from Lahr. I know of them.” He turned toward the village. “They will come with me to my house. For a schnapps.” He turned back to the men. “You stay here. One does not know what a night like this will bring.”

He beckoned to Dirk and Sig.

“Come with me,” he said.

* * *

The large black cooking stove in the spacious Bauernstube, the combined kitchen-dining-living area of the Eichler farm, kept the big room warm and cozy. The strong schnapps did the same for the three men.

Eichler had awakened his wife and daughter. The woman, drab and heavy-set, was heating a kettle of water on the stove for the ersatz coffee. The girl, a nubile, blond seventeen-year-old, had been sent out to scrounge up any eggs that might have been laid since the last gathering. Already a couple of large, fragrant sausages, a big package of freshly churned butter and two loaves of Landbrot—homemade country bread — were stacked on the big wooden table around which the men were sitting.

The woman poured the steaming black brew into heavy mugs and placed one of them before each man.

Dirk observed her out of the corner of his eye. She was definitely not the friendly type. Perhaps it was just the customary wariness of strangers; perhaps she resented being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. He hoped it was not more than that.

The girl came back. She had a basket over her arm.

Eichler looked up.

“How many, Erika?”

“Sixteen, Vati,” the girl replied. She glared at Dirk. There was a sullen animosity in her eyes. “I suppose he gets them all?” she said.

“We can make it an even twenty,” Eichler said. “With what we have in the house” He turned to Dirk. “Will that be enough?”

“Prima!” Dirk replied. “It is very generous. Please add it all up, Herr Ortsbauernführer, and I shall pay you right away.”