Heroes by David Hagberg (reading cloud ebooks TXT) 📗

The cigarette made him light-headed. It was the first he had had in months.

He stopped well outside the five-meter zone away from the fence and stared out at the forest. A mist curled through the trees.

The scene, if he ignored the fence and the guard towers, seemed so peaceful, as if the war had never occurred.

A great yearning for peace welled up within his breast, and the pain it caused was almost physical when he thought about his missed opportunities.

But even now, he had to admit to himself, if he were free, he would not run to Algeciras. He would remain here to help rebuild his country for the second time in less than thirty years.

He had his memories, though. Of Spain, before the war, when he was a young man looking for submarine bases. Dona Marielle Alicia was the daughter of the wealthiest man in Algeciras. Don Rico was a friend of Germany, and he had taken Senor Guillermo into his home.

Whenever he came to Spain, and that was often in those days, he would manage to stay at least a few days with Don Rico.

He remembered those times so vividly now. He could even see the colors: the marvelous blue-green of the ocean, the striking red of the roses, and Dona Marielle in her yellow gown on the evening that he realized he loved her—and that he would always love her.

They had danced, but they had barely talked that night. Every time he touched her, she shivered, her tiny milk-white shoulders rising up, her large, dark, liquid eyes looking into his, her bosom heaving.

Much later they had had their long talks. It was impossible for them ever to consider marriage. Daughters of wealthy Spanish aristocrats did not marry German spymasters. It simply was unheard of.

But for that evening their disappointments were still in the future. That evening they both knew what they wished to have, in absolute defrance of every code of ethics that existed in Spain or Germany.

Canaris slept in the east wing of the huge villa overlooking the sea. The Rico family slept in the west wing.

She came to him in the middle of the night, across the courtyard, through the gardens, and up from the path that led to the sea.

They stood in front of the doors open to the gentle sea breeze as they undressed and then gazed wonderingly at each other’s body.

Even now, standing within the exercise yard of Flossenbiirg concentration camp on a chill spring morning, he could feel the gentle caresses of the summer’s breeze, feel the incredible softness of her skin, remember her lovely breasts crushed against his chest, and most of all he could sharply recall the unbelievable feeling of wholeness and pleasure while they made love.

“Herr Admiral,” someone called from the bunker. “Admiral Canaris.”

He turned as Corporal Binder came across the exercise yard.

“It is time to come in, sir. You have been out here for nearly three hours now. It is lunchtime.”

Dieter Schey came slowly awake, a sickness deep inside of him welling to the surface and threatening to make him vomit. He felt frighteningly weak, and even the effort of sitting up in the bed was almost too much for him.

He figured it was late afternoon. The bedroom door was open, and he could see the last rays of the sun through the living room windows in Marlene’s basement apartment.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and hung his head, and closed his eyes. It had been … how many days, since he had been shot? He could not remember clearly. But it had been at least two nightmarish days of pain, of strange, feverish dreams, of reliving the shooting over an dover again.

Like a silly schoolboy he had remained a perfect target at the tunnel mouth. But something had made him lose all of his training in a flash. The Russians were there in the tunnel, were being given the American atomic secrets by the Reich’s own scientists. By good Germans. Everything he had gone through— the years of deep cover in the United States, the Idllings, the murders of Katy and Eva—all of it had culminated in one instant of mindless revenge when all thoughs of self-preservation went out the window.

Fortunately, he had not been stopped on the way out of the area, and somehow he had made it here, to Charlottenburg and Marlene.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes. Marlene, dressed to go out, stood in the bedroom doorway.

“What are you doing, Dieter?” she asked. Her voice sounded hollow.

Suddenly she loomed over him and laid him back in the bed.

“Where are you going?” he asked. His voice was very weak.

It did not sound like him to his own ears. He reached up to touch his face. There was stubble on his chin.

“Listen to me, Dieter; you are too weak to try to get up,” she said. She sat with him on the bed and looked into his eyes. She was frightened. He could read it there.

“How long …“he croaked.

“Four days.”

He could not believe it. Impossible.

“It’s Sunday, Dieter,” she said. Her eyes were filling with tears. “They’re looking for you. They think you’ve deserted.”

“The SS has been here?”

“Not yet, darling,” she said, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. “They don’t know about this place. Remember?”

But he hadn’t deserted, god damnit. He had killed at least one of the traitors. They’d have to understand.

He thought he had given voice to that, but he had not because Marlene pulled the covers back over him. “Don’t try to talk,” she said. She reached down and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Sleep,” she said. “I’m going to try to get us something to eat.

I’ll be back soon.”

“Marlene?” he asked.

“It’s all right; the SS won’t find you, my darling,” she said.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Was he going to die, he wondered? Was that why she was crying? He felt so terribly weak. And then there was that something else at the back of his mind.