John Katzenbach: Hart’s War

Von Reiter grinned wickedly at MacNamara, before adding, "But I suspect they would not wish to do that, for they prefer that we do not know the names of the American officers fluent in German."

"I'll take your word for it," Tommy whispered.

"I thought as much," Von Reiter said. He retreated behind his desk, opened the center drawer, and removed a piece of paper with typing on it. There was a large embossed black eagle at the head of the page.

The German gestured at the spot where Tommy's name was already written in. He offered Tommy a fountain pen. Struggling with the pain that constantly sent rivets of hot agony through his arm and into his chest.

Tommy bent forward and signed the paper. It was exhausting.

Von Reiter took the paper, held it up, examined it, blew once on the ink to dry it, then returned the paper to his desk drawer. Then he barked out a quick command in German and a side door immediately opened. Fritz Number One entered and saluted.

"Sergeant! Bring Herr Blucher, please. And that other item that we discussed."

Von Reiter turned to Tommy as the mole like Swiss entered the office.

He wore the same black homburg and carried the same worn black briefcase that he'd had with him on the day Phillip Pryce had been turned over to his care. Von Reiter smiled again.

"This, Mr. Hart, is Herr Blucher of the Swiss Red Cross. He will accompany you to a hospital in his country. Alas, German facilities are inadequate, I believe, for your needs at this time." The German commandant lifted an eyebrow.

"You have met Herr Blucher, I understand? And mistakenly assumed him to be a member of our esteemed state police? Gestapo? I assure you, he is not."

Von Reiter hesitated again, before adding, "And he carries with him a small gift from a friend of yours, Mr. Hart. Wing Commander Pryce managed to send these items through diplomatic courier. I believe he obtained them at the hospital in Geneva where he currently resides.

Lieutenant Fenelli, perhaps your assistance at this point?"

"Phillip!" Hugh Renaday burst out.

"How did he learn…"

Von Reiter shrugged.

"We are not beasts, flying officer.

At least not all of us. Lieutenant Fenelli, if you would be so kind…"

Fenelli stepped forward, and Herr Blucher handed him a small parcel wrapped in string and brown paper. The medic from Cleveland swiftly tore it open and gasped out a sudden, heartfelt, "Jesus Christ! Thank

God, thank God…"

He turned and the others could see that inside the parcel was sulfa, disinfectant, sterile wraps, several syringes, and a half-dozen precious vials of penicillin and a similar amount of morphine "Penicillin, first!" Fenelli said. Without hesitating, he was filling a syringe.

"As much as possible, as fast as possible."

He rolled Tommy's sleeve up and cleared a spot near the shoulder. He plunged the needle in, whispering, "Fight hard, Tommy Hart. Now you got a real chance."

Tommy leaned his head back. For the barest of moments, he started to allow himself to believe he might live.

Fenelli continued to talk, seemingly to himself, but to all the others in the room, as well. "… Now some morphine for the trip. Kill that pain for a bit. That sounds pretty good, huh, Von Reiter held up his hand again.

"Ah, lieutenant, before you administer the morphine, please, one more moment."

Fenelli stopped in the midst of filling the syringe.

Von Reiter looked over toward Fritz Number One, who had come through the door and was carrying a makeshift box.

The German commandant smiled one more time. But it was the coldest of smiles, one that spoke of many hard years spent in the harsh service of war.

"I have two gifts for you, Mr. Hart," he said quietly.

"So that you may remember these days."

He reached inside his tunic pocket and carefully removed a handkerchief. It was the bloodstained silk handkerchief with which Tommy had first bound his hand in the moments after his battle with Visser.

"This is yours, I believe, Mr. Hart. Undoubtedly an important gift from a woman friend back in the States, and I suspect of some sentimental value…"

The German smoothed the brilliant white handkerchief out flat on the desktop in front of him. The crimson stains had dried into deep maroon colors.

"And so, I return what is yours, lieutenant. But I do note the odd coincidence that your lady friend back home seems to possess the precise identical initials as my former second-in-command, Hauptmann Heinrich Albert Visser, who died so bravely in service of his country."

Tommy could see the HAVE embossed in flowing script in a corner of the handkerchief. He looked up at Von Reiter, who shook his head.

"War, of course, is a series of the most perplexing coincidences."

Von Reiter sighed and picked up the silk square, folding it carefully three times, and handing it across the desktop to Tommy Hart.

"I have one other gift for you, Mr. Hart, and then Mr.

Fenelli can feel free to administer the morphia, which I know will provide you with great relief on your journey to Switzerland."

Von Reiter gestured sharply toward Fritz Number One, who stepped forward and placed the box he held at his waist at Tommy's feet.

"What the hell are those?" Colonel MacNamara burst out.

"Looks like a bunch of damn hats!"

Von Reiter let his awful smile curl around the corners of his mouth before replying.

"You are indeed correct, colonel.

They are hats. Some wool caps, some fur hats, some are mere cloth head coverings. There are many different shapes and sizes and styles. They have but one detail in common. Like the handkerchief that I have already returned, they are marked with blood, and thus will need to be cleaned before they can ever hope to be used again."

"Hats?" the Senior American Officer asked.

"What is Hart to do with a bunch of hats? Especially bloody ones."

"They are Russian hats, colonel."

"Well," MacNamara continued, "I don't see why-" But Von Reiter coolly interrupted him.

"Eighty-four hats, colonel. Eighty-four Russian hats."

The commandant fumed to Tommy Hart.

"Sixteen men went to the firing squad bareheaded. Lieutenant Then Von Reiter shrugged.

"This surprised me immensely," he added.

"I thought that for the cold-blooded murder of a highly decorated

German officer, the Gestapo would shoot the entire work camp. Each and every Russian. But to my astonishment, they selected only one hundred men to kill in retaliation."

Von Reiter walked back around the desk, and seated himself.

He allowed a moment of quiet to fill the room before he nodded and gestured to Fenelli, who held the morphine needle ready.

"Go with Herr Blucher, Mr. Hart. Leave here and take all your secrets with you. His car will take you to the train. The train will carry you to Switzerland, where your friend Wing Commander Pryce, a hospital, and surgeons all await your arrival.

Do not think about those one hundred men. Not for another moment.

Wipe' them from your memory. Instead, you should endeavor to survive.

Return home to Vermont. Live to be old and rich and happy. Lieutenant

Hart. And when your grandchildren come to your side one day to ask you about the war, you can say that you passed it most uneventfully, reading legal textbooks, inside a German prisoner-of-war camp named Stalag Luft Thirteen."

Tommy had no words left to reply with. He was only peripherally aware of the needle penetrating his flesh. But the sweet dulling sensation of morphine sweeping through him was like drinking from the greatest and freshest clear, cold mountain stream of home.

Lydia Hart was in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches to her hair, when she called out, "Tommy? Do you need help with your tie?"