“Yes, yes. Give me fifteen minutes. I have all the parts.”
During those fifteen minutes, Louise explained that she had acted as a double agent. “Same as you, Mum. But they wanted my face to be remembered.”
“So you just pretended to be tired of your . . . your old face?”
“Not really. When I went to the director and said I might be considering surgery, he told me that there was a need for a young woman with a memorable face. They needed her to infiltrate this new paramilitary organization that was being created. The war was about to turn, he felt. With the Normandy invasion, and the Russians miraculously turning back the Germans. Plus, the Red Army was absolutely uncrushable. This new organization, the Werewolf, was started to terrorize Allied soldiers and any collaborators, spies and so on, as they pushed farther into Germany.”
“And my cover was discovered? My face remembered?” Alice asked.
“I’m not sure. Your face wasn’t exactly remembered, but word got out, maybe a month ago, that there was an infiltrator. Somehow a link was made to Stauffenberg. It was that link that finally convinced them that you were the infiltrator. But look, Stauffenberg died almost nine months ago, and it’s taken them all this time to get to you.” Alan Winfield had reentered the room. “All right. Time to leave.”
“Yes, right away. I can imagine that when they find Fritz, they will be here soon.”
“They’ll find him right away, won’t they?”
“Not if Frau Weissmann has her way.”
“Frau Weissmann!” Alice exclaimed.
“Yes, can’t explain now. Later. Let me just say this. Frau Weissmann is not exactly a Frau.”
“Wh . . . what is she?” Alice stammered.
“Colonel Reginald Griffith. A decathlon champion from the 1928 Olympics, I believe. Quite strong. She removed the body and took it to her quarters by a secret passage, and then fled the Führerbunker.”
Alice blinked. “My head is spinning.”
“Hey, at least it’s still attached!” Louise said.
Thirty-Four
To the Elbe
On the night of April 10, the four members of the Winfield family, with their bikes and backpacks, boarded the subway, or U-Bahn, train at Alexanderplatz, the number eight that headed west. They took it to the last station on the western line. The autobahn was clear of snow, but not of troops. Within ten kilometers they could see that they were closing in on the tail end of a German tank division.
Alan sighed. “Too bad we don’t have tanks. The road ahead has already been bombed by the Allies. That’s what you need—a tank—to get over it. We’ll have to get off the Autobahn and go across these fields,” Alan announced. “There will be country roads on the other side. Let’s hope they weren’t bombed.”
“Mum,” Alice said. “This looks so much like the field that we parachuted into.”
“Well, the good news is that this would not be a good road for the army at all. But we’re still heading west. And look, a sunny day, I think.” Alan Winfield turned his head toward the east, where the dawn was just breaking.
Within five miles they came to a village. The sun was barely up, but there was an unusual bustle in the street as they rode through.
An elderly man on a cane walked up to Alice. He looked delighted as he greeted the four Winfields.
“Willkommen in unserem Dorf. Es wird bald amerikanisch sein.”
“What?” Posie exclaimed.
“Ah yes, Frau. The Americans have reached Magdeburg, and tomorrow they will cross the Elbe. We are celebrating!” He giggled. Then, in a very somber voice, “So much better to be captured by the Americans than the Russians.”
They all suddenly realized that they could hear the crackle of radios pouring out from open windows in the village.
“It’s Alvar!” Alice gasped. Alvar Lidell was their favorite newsreader from the BBC. The four Winfields rushed to the window from which the familiar voice was coming.
“The American Ninth Army today reached the city of Magdeburg. They are expected to establish a link between their troops and the Russians on the east bank of the Elbe. This should occur in a matter of days . . .” Alvar Lidell’s crisp voice seeped into the air. Posie closed her eyes, as if she was tasting the most delicious thing in the world.
“Mum, you look so happy. Like when you smell good things cooking.”
“I am savoring his voice. It’s so, so wonderful. It’s Sunday roast and pudding. It’s fish-and-chips.” She sighed. “Indulge me children. May I quote Mr. Browning?
“Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!”
As she recited the Robert Browning poem, Alice thought of their cottage in the Cotswolds with its trailing ribbons of roses and ivy. The cottage softly glowing softly like a beacon of peace and comfort and happiness.
Alan Winfield came up and gave his wife a hug and an extra squeeze around her shoulders. “Come along, old gal. We’ve got to push on!” He pressed his lips together, which he often did when he was in deep thought.
“What is it, Dad?”
“I’m calculating. If the Americans just arrived at Magdeburg, and Alvar said something about the Red Army closing in on Torgau, there are maybe two hundred kilometers between them.” He pulled a compass out from his pants pocket. “We are closer to the Russians than the Americans. We don’t want that!” he said forcefully. “We have to press on. We have to get to the Elbe before the Red Army does.”
No one asked why. They knew why. The Red Army was brutal, particularly to women. The soldiers didn’t care if they were German, American, or British. They were savages.
The people in the village were actually quite helpful. The Winfields’ cover story was that they desperately need to get to the next village, where their eldest daughter was expecting a baby. And when they got to Beendorf, they told the same story and moved on to the next village.
And so they went. Rarely stopping to rest, they pushed through a rainstorm and a flurry of snow showers. When they did rest, they sought culverts and wooded areas. They had made good time considering they were walking their bikes for miles on end. The bikes themselves had suffered flat tires and other problems. But Alan had brought a small pump with him, glue, and patching material. In the villages, people were very supportive of the raggedy family trying to get to their eldest daughter and what would be their first grandchild. The people shared what they had, which wasn’t much.
Well past midnight on this particular evening, they had retreated to a thickly wooded patch half a kilometer from the road. They could hear the gunfire and the rumble of tanks—the Red Army tanks, Alan said. “It seems we and the Russians are proceeding together. The Russians undoubtedly are trying to get the German Twelfth Army, which is stationed at Dessau and most likely preparing for the Americans’ Ninth Army. I’d estimate that we’re twenty miles from the Elbe River.” He sighed. And stared down at the pieces of thick felt in his hands. “We could tear up a coat and improvise, with these brake pads gone. But I doubt I can repair them. And honestly it’s too dangerous right now to proceed on the open road.” He looked up at his family. “We’re simply going to have to walk . . . walk right into the Americans’ arms. No other way.”