Heroes, David Hagberg [me reader .txt] 📗

way. They would take their boats out the channel and into the Baltic. Coming in, they’d go all the way up to Wolgast where they’d sell their catch, then turn around and let the current take them home.

Church bells were ringing in the distance back toward town.

The morning was pretty, in a way, despite the intense cold.

Sounds were crisp and carried a long way. The bells reminded him of when he was very young.

He got on his bicycle and began slowly pedaling back toward town. His cover was Katrina Mueller’s parents. They lived on this road. Her father was a fisherman. If he was stopped, his story was that he had started to go out to Katrina’s parents’ home, to talk to her father, but the cold made him turn back.

The cover was a weak one, but he found he didn’t care at the moment. They’d probably ask him what business he had with the girl’s father. His only answer would be that he wanted to ask the man for Katrina’s hand in marriage.

That was impossible, of course, in all but his daydreams. But it was pleasant to think about. She was German, but she wasn’t a part of the war, not really. His earlier concerns that she was working for Schlechter and Maria Quelle were unfounded.

He made it back to his rooming house where he put his calculator away and quickly translated the message from Bern. It, was exactly as he had supposed it would be. They wanted him out of here, now.

As he lit a cigarette, he looked at his reflection in the mirror above the dresser, and it dawned on him that he could not simply ignore such an order. They wanted him out. For his own safety.

Perhaps they had another assignment for him. Something different.

His escape route was from Berlin, where he would pick up new papers, to Dresden, and finally down to Munich, where he would make his way across the border into Switzerland, going the last few miles through the mountains on foot.

It would be very dangerous. The original plan was for him to remain in Germany until the end of the war—to go into hiding at the last part and stay low until the shooting had stopped.

But his route out through Switzerland was set up for him as a last-ditch stand—as an escape hatch, should things get really difficult for him.

He would have to do it now. He simply could not refuse. If he remained, he would be dead. Either way it was over between him and Katrina. Christ!

He went to the window and looked outside. They wanted him out. The message kept running through his mind, and he had to force himself to think it out. There was the night train to Berlin.

He’d be in the capital city with new identification by midnight, before anyone here would miss him.

The evening train. It gave him the remainder of the day.

There were quite a few people downtown despite the cold weather, and a small crowd had gathered at the station for the noon train. No one really noticed Deland as he went up to the ticket clerk, handed over his identification book and his travel pass (of which he had several), and bought a roundtrip ticket to Berlin on the train which left at 8:30 this evening, returning late tomorrow.

“A little business in the city, Herr Dorfman?” the clerk asked pleasantly. He was an old man.

“Nothing official, I’m afraid,” Deland said. He paid for his ticket, and the clerk handed it through the slot along with Deland’s papers.

“Bring your own supper with you, young man. There’ll be little to eat on the train.” The old man shook his head.

“Danke,” Deland said. The old man just shook his head again and looked away. Deland was sure the man wanted to say something about the war, but he was afraid to open his mouth.

A train was coming in as Deland turned and left the depot, the two police officers stationed at the doors not in the least bit interested in him.

Just outside he stopped and pulled up his coat collar. The depot was just three blocks off the central square. He had walked down from his rooming house. The thought struck him that he was simply leaving his life here. No fuss, no apparent bother. He was just going to hop aboard a train and leave. There was nothing to be done on the island. He had no notes there. And he would not take much more than his radio and a few items of clothing with him when he left. Any more than that and too many early suspicions would be raised. If he left his clothing, there’d be one day of indecision on the part of the authorities. Was he merely off for an unauthorized holiday? His clothes were here.

Wouldn’t he be coming back soon?

The only dangerous time would be in Berlin. As soon as he got there, he’d telephone his contact. If the person was still there and could get to Deland, he’d have new papers immediately. Until that moment, however, he’d be vulnerable. Any spot check on the street would reveal him as a Peenemunde worker with no good excuse for being in Berlin.

He walked up to the square and went into the Hansa Haus Bierstube. There were a few people seated at the tables having their Sunday lunch. Deland didn’t see anyone he knew. He went up to the bar, ordered a stein of beer, and then stood there drinking it. He lit another cigarette. He was smoking a lot more than usual just now. He had an excuse.

He looked around again. He supposed he had really come here to see Katrina. They had met three times here, in addition to the dinner with Rudy at Maria’s apartment. He knew where Katrina lived with a couple of yqimg women from her same section, but so far he had been too timid to go there.

And now it was too late, he thought,