I've watched. I've waited. Every day, for months.
Now I move.
The storeroom above Kommandant Neimeyer's office is my way out of Holzminden. I'm certain.
Within is a window onto the roof. The roof overlooks a courtyard and a section of fence a guard only goes by every two minutes.
The Kommandant's office looks out onto the courtyard. But Neimeyer's secretary Frau Weiss leaves at six and on Thursdays—never any other day—he leaves his office and goes into town for an hour. He always leaves at ten to seven. I heard he visits a professional girl in town.
I check my watch. Five after seven. The coast is clear.
Here we go.
Breaking into the storeroom is the first step. I get to work on the lock.
I don't know where Major Ryan learned lockpicking and I don't care. He taught me well. The lock gives way and I slip inside. I make sure to shut the door behind me.
First obstacle passed.
The window is padlocked shut so I put my lockpicking skills to use again. I get past the lock and open the window.
I put on the work gloves and climb onto the roof, sliding along on my belly until I reach the edge. I peer over and freeze, my heart skipping a beat.
A guard passes below. He disappears around the corner.
That was too close.
I check my watch. Two minutes until he appears again.
Deep breath, deep breath. You can do this.
I shimmy down the drain and dash to the fence.
I take out the pliers. Snip, snip, snip. The wires are cut.
Ninety seconds left.
I slide underneath and turn about. Can't leave behind loose wires. The guard will spot them and raise the alarm. I want to be on a westbound train long before they notice I'm gone.
I use the pliers to twist the first wire back into place. Like I'd practiced hundreds of times.
Eighty seconds.
I tie the second wire. It takes more fiddling but I get it done.
Sixty seconds.
The third wire is re-tied. This is taking too long.
Fifty seconds. Maybe less.
I charge down the ditch and back up the other side, sprinting to the woods forty yards away. I get twenty feet in and crouch down.
Have I done it? Have I really done it?
I wait, counting the seconds. The guard appears. He doesn't give the fence a second glance and disappears around the corner.
I did it. I'm out.
The race is on.
***
"What was it like in the prison camp?" Emeline asks.
We're in my room atop her chateau. A month since I escaped from Holzminden. Two weeks since I met Emeline.
"How did you know I was thinking about that?" I say.
"The truth?" Emeline asks.
I look into her violet-tinted blue eyes. There's a mischievous glint in them this morning.
"You're a mind reader," I say.
"Maybe. What if I am?"
"Okay. So what am I thinking now?" I ask.
She shrugs, sipping her tea. "You are thinking about making wild love to me. I am correct, no?"
"Of course you are. But that should be obvious."
"I confess," she says. "I am no mind reader. It was a coincidence. Tell me about the camp. Was it horrible?"
"It wasn't so bad," I say. "Those poor bastards in the trenches have it far worse. The thing about Holzminden is the humiliation."
"Humiliation?"
"We weren't tortured. We weren't abused. But it was humbling to be locked up like common criminals."
Her hand strokes my arm.
"Lots of guys didn't care," I say. "We got care packages from home, through the Red Cross. We found ways to occupy our minds, too. Somebody put on a production of
Hamlet.
A French officer gave German lessons. I attended all those."
"The better to be able to escape," Emeline says.
"Exactly. Thing was, it was not having a purpose which gnawed on me. I made up my mind to get out. The best part is, once you decide to escape you have a purpose again. Isn't that funny?"
"Tell me about how you did it."
"I started by talking to the ones who tried before, to learn from their missteps."
"What did you learn?"
"That too many escapees focus on getting out of the camp but not on getting out of Germany. That's the harder part."
"And speaking German helps."
"I could buy a train ticket and cover hundreds of miles on the first day. I had forged documents, too."
"Where did those come from?"
"A Russian in the camp with a typewriter who could forge anything. And a Scotsman who carved rubber stamps out of the soles of boots. They fashioned a fake pass to travel for work to a factory in Aachen."
"Then how is it you were sleeping in storm drains?"
I shake my head. "I took a train north, then had to transfer. I stepped into a grocer. The shopkeeper was an old woman who glared at me. She asked where I was from. I said Frankfurt. She asked about some beer hall and I said it was doing great."
"There was no such beer hall. It was a trick, no?"
"I knew as soon as I opened my mouth. I left the store and looked back. She was already on the phone. By the time I returned to the train station it was crawling with police. I'd have to make my way over land."
"And that led you to me."
"It did."
"We should thank the
Boche
bitch," Emeline says.
I squeeze her hand and lean forward. We kiss. "We'll send her roses after the war."
***
I start with long strips of paper, wrapping them around the plier handles. Then strips of rubber cut from an old raincoat. I stretch and wrap, stretch and wrap, gluing them in place. Until there's a thick mass surrounding each handle.
I study it. Is it enough?
If I were back home the engineers at the McQuay Tool Company would test it. The insulated pliers I saw demonstrated at our plant a few years ago could handle a thousand volts. Half what I'm facing.
I work on the blades next. It's hours of work fashioning sharp pieces of ceramic and affixing them to the metal snips. They should provide additional protection.
I shake my head. My father made me work summers at the factory, learning how modern tools are mass produced.
"It'll be yours someday," he'd say. "You need to know everything there is to know about it."
I hated it but now I chuckle. The old man had a point, didn't he? Except he never imagined this is how I'd apply the knowledge.
I test the pliers on pieces of wire I strung tight along the back of two chairs. They cut right through.
Good. Next up, insulated gloves.
Emeline enters. She leans over, kissing my cheek. "Everything going well?"
"Everything going slow." I explain it all to her.
"And you are sure they are thick enough?"
"As sure as I can be."
A worried frown appears on her face. "Is that enough?"
"It had better be."
***
I'm engrossed in the map. It's taken me hours and now it's late, some hours after dinner, but I think I've done it. I've found a way to the wire that's fairly direct but stays away from roads. I've a creek to cross, but it shouldn't be too difficult.
Soft footsteps are on the stairs.
Emeline.
She touches my shoulder and I turn my head. Her breasts are eye level, full and straining against the gray wool of her sweater. "It is late. Come to my bed."
Oiu, Madame.
She leads me. Holding my hand tight, as if she'll never let go.
She's lit a pair of candles, one on each end of her room, their light dancing in her eyes. Her hands are on the front of my shoulders. She starts to speak but stops.
"What is it?" I ask.
"You have only just come into my life," she says. "But soon you will leave."
I kiss her gently. "It will only be temporary."
"Can we be sure?"
"Hey." I look into her eyes. "Listen to me. We
will
