The Haigerloch Project

Dirk lay on his bed. He felt exhausted. Physically and mentally. His injured arm ached from the exertion. Now came the waiting….

The goddamned waiting…

Had the Gestapo bought it?

He looked around the stuffy basement room. It seemed oddly empty — without Sig.

And if they had bought it — would it be in time?

Had he succeeded in convincing them that all their scatter-raid captives were worthless to them? Including Sig?

He had agonized over exactly how many “clues” to leave behind. He could not afford to be too obvious. He and Oskar had to be the decoys. And from past performance, he had to assume that his adversary was a man clever enough to read much from little — and come up with what had to look like the right answers.

Had he succeeded?

He would have to wait and see.

That stupid, God-awful waiting…

There was a small knock at the door.

He started. He was getting really jumpy.

“Come in,” he called.

Gisela opened the door. In her hand she held a small bowl and some clean bandages.

“I have taken care of the cut on Onkel Oskar's arm,” she said. “He told me you were cut also.”

“It's just a scratch,” he mumbled.

“I will look at it,” Gisela said firmly. “It must be kept clean.”

She came over to his bed. She placed the bowl and the bandages on a stool. “Let me see,” she said.

Obediently he rolled up his sleeve. The cloth stuck to the clotted blood. He winced as he pulled it loose.

Gisela looked at him, a little frown of concern on her soft face. She sat down on the bed beside him. “It — it does not look so bad,” she said, her voice husky. She took his bare arm and placed it in her lap. Gently she began to bathe it, loosening the crusted blood. The water was lukewarm. It felt good. Soothing…

He moved his hand in her lap — and suddenly he was intensely conscious of her firm, warm thigh under the thin dress. A flush coursed through him.

The girl stiffened. But she did not move. She stroked his injured arm. Gently. Tenderly.

He let his hand caress her thigh. He had never known his fingertips to be so aware. He was conscious of his heartbeat pulsing in his throat.

The girl lifted her face to him. Tears brimmed in her eyes as they looked into his.

“You — you could have been killed!” she whispered. “Both of you. And I was the one who had to… had to…”

She buried her face in her hands and wept.

He reached up and drew her down to him. He cradled her in his arms. He felt an overwhelming tenderness. Her warm, soft body moved against his, seeking his strength — and all of a sudden nothing else mattered, nothing else existed.

He stroked her hair. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed the tears from her eyes, her cheeks. Her skin was soft as velvet where his lips touched. The musky fragrance of her mounting excitement fired him.

Her lips met his hungrily, and he drank their sweetness.

She strained against him.

Fumblingly, awkwardly — yet every motion a caress — they freed one another of their unwanted clothing. The cool nakedness of her body burned against his….

And they merged deeply one into the other — oblivious to all else — until that moment when the world compressed to the confines of his bed; when eternity imploded into mere seconds; when all tension crumbled, all disquiet vanished….

6

Sig sat bolt upright. In the distance he could hear heavy hobnailed boots clanging sharply on the cement floor of the cell-block corridor.

They were coming for him!

He tried to steel himself, but despair washed over him. His heart pounded. His palms were sweaty, his mouth dry. He felt weak.

The fateful footsteps rang in his ears. He prayed they would not stop at his cell. They did. The sound of the iron bolt being thrown back hit his mind like a mailed fist. The door was flung open.

Outside stood two grim SS men. One of them consulted a list.

“Brandt, Sigmund,” he snapped.

Sig nodded. He did not trust himself to speak.

Curtly the guard motioned to him. “Come!”

Numbly he walked between the two guards. He tried not to think of what lay ahead of him. But it was all there was. Fear was a cold, hard knot in his guts.

The guards marched him into a bleak courtyard. The gray morning was raw and cold. Against a far wall a group of prisoners were lined up. Twenty, thirty men. Guarded by armed SS men. His guards walked him toward the group.

Sig's legs were leaden. He stared with horror at the men in front of the wall. It — it was not possible….

One of his guards gruffly motioned him to join the group. He did, moving like a somnambulist.

They waited in silence. A few more prisoners were herded out into the courtyard and added to the group at the wall.

An SS non-com, a Scharführer, entered the yard. All eyes followed him as he approached the waiting group. He held a list and began to read names from it in an unpleasant, high-pitched voice. The men answered dully. Sig started as his name was called. He heard himself answer as from another world.

The Scharführer put his list away. He surveyed the men.