"You still alive?" a voice demanded.
Zumwald rolled over to see the sniper's face above him. "I think so," he replied.
"Then grab a paddle and help me get the hell out of here."
Coughing out seawater, Zumwald got to his knees and grabbed an oar. They rowed parallel to the shoreline, away from the gun battery and the watch towers that stood like silent sentinels on the beach. The American gunners must have been so intent on the sinking U-boat that they did not notice the tiny raft. The rubber raft rounded a point — even passing a lighthouse at the end of a stone jetty — and they found themselves in a protected cove. They maneuvered the raft into the shadow cast by one of the long piers that reached out from shore. The bottom of the raft grated on sand. They got out and the sniper plunged his knife into the raft so that the air hissed out. Then he stuffed the rubber up under the joists of the pier. Both men shivered, their clothes wet on their backs, but they were alive.
"Now what?" Zumwald asked. "We didn't drown, but I think we might freeze to death."
"You think this is cold? This is nothing," the sniper said, slinging his rifle across his shoulder. "In Russia those wet eyelids would have frozen shut ten minutes ago. You want to stay warm? Run."
The sniper started off at a trot and Zumwald followed. He quickly discovered that the long months at sea hadn't done his legs any good, but he didn't complain, glad of the solid ground beneath his feet. He sucked in lungfuls of cold, fresh air and was happy to be alive.
Chapter 7
Bruno Hess trudged along the edge of the street, too tired to be impressed by the sights of the United States capital around him.
It was December 29. After the narrow escape from the sinking of U-351, the journey across the Delmarva Peninsula and then Chesapeake Bay had been dangerous and exhausting. He hardly slept for three days as he and Zumwald crept toward the American capital. Their imagination turned every car engine into a patrol and every barking dog was a search party. They had seen no enemy troops or even aircraft. The Americans must have believed that all hands on the U-boat had drowned. He and Zumwald kept out of sight, foraging frostbitten vegetables from the remains of kitchen gardens and stealing eggs from chicken coops.
He was pleasantly surprised to find that the submariner was a resourceful companion. It had been Zumwald who stole dungarees and shirts off a clothesline so that they could bury their German uniforms.
“I guess this makes us spies if we’re caught,” Zumwald had remarked.
“Good. They will shoot us instead of putting us in jail.”
Tired and hungry, Hess walked as if in a dream, doing his best to stay alert. The sprawling city appeared to be filled with marble monuments to American history, but he thought Washington paled in comparison to Berlin. Bustling American businessmen and office girls crowded the sidewalks alongside soldiers in khaki uniforms. The chatter of English in his ears sounded harsh as the cawing of crows and he longed to hear a few words of German.
The Russian rifle, dismantled, was in the suitcase that hung from his left hand. Hess bought the suitcase when he and Zumwald stopped at a second-hand shop on the outskirts of the city. They also found winter overcoats for the both of them. Zumwald was not part of the mission, but Hess had felt he owed the man at least a warm coat after crossing so much enemy territory together. Besides, Hess had plenty of American dollars tucked into the money belt around his waist. The money, his rifle and his life were all he had salvaged from the U-boat sinking.
He and Zumwald had parted company that morning. There was no point in involving the submariner further and Zumwald spoke English well enough to blend in. Hess had pressed some of the American money on the submariner. At first, Zumwald had been reluctant to take it. “What are you going to live on?” Hess demanded. “They charge for room and board here, same as they do in Berlin. Take it. Get yourself some new clothes to go with that coat. That’s an order.”
Zumwald had smiled at that. “Still giving orders, Hess?” He looked around theatrically. “I think you may be on the wrong side of the Atlantic for that.”
“I was sent here to do my duty,” Hess said, straightening stiffly until he had drawn himself up to his full height. The sniper stood several inches taller than the submariner. His eyes had the cold look of having been chiseled from ice. Zumwald met the gaze and shivered involuntarily. He would not want Hess hunting him, he thought.
“Good luck to you, Hess.”
Hess nodded. “Stay out of trouble.”
Now, walking the streets, Hess concentrated on following his own advice. The last thing he wanted to do was bump into an American soldier and be forced to mutter an apology in his German accent. From time to time, when the sidewalk became too crowded, Hess stepped off the curb into the street. The gray slush there seeped into his new shoes. He kept an eye out for the cars, big Chevrolets and Pontiacs that churned the slush as they drove recklessly along the street. Berlin or Washington, he thought, it was all the same, everybody in a hurry.
“Excuse me,” he said, approaching a portly businessman who had stopped to light a cigarette. Hess tried to make his vowels sound flat the way Zumwald had coached him. “Could you tell me where H Street is?”
“I reckon I can,” the other fellow said, speaking with the sort of Southern accent Hess had only heard in American movies. “You go down two blocks and turn left.”
“Thank you,” Hess said.
“You must be new in town,” the man said, puffing his cigarette. “Join the crowd. This was just a sleepy little place until the war. It’s a whole lot busier now.”
“Yeah,” Hess said. It came out as yah.
The man looked at him curiously. “Where you from? You Dutch?”
“Yah, Dutch,” Hess said. He forced himself to smile. “You have a good day, sir.”
“Good luck!” the man said. He grinned after Hess and waved goodbye with the hand holding the cigarette. “And welcome to Washington!”
Americans, thought Hess. They wouldn’t be so happy with him in a few days. Soon enough, he might become the most hated man in the United States.
It was now midafternoon on December 12. Hess was still chilled to the bone after living outdoors the past few days. Weak sunlight filtered through the bare trees, but it wasn’t enough to warm him. The wind blew right through the overcoat he had bought with Zumwald. He felt strange wearing civilian clothes because he hadn’t been out of uniform since 1938.
He turned down a smaller street, following the directions the friendly American had given him. The sidewalk wasn’t as busy and the sun had not reached between the buildings, so that the concrete in places was still covered with a dusting of pristine snow.
Two blocks down he turned onto K Street, following the directions he had been given. He found the house and stood for a moment studying the brick facade. His overall impression was of faded glory, like a rose that had bloomed too long. The house was grandiose nonetheless, rising three stories above the street. He could hardly believe a German spy lived here. This spy had much at stake, considering what he might lose if caught.
Hess walked around to the alley at the back of the house. The alley held trash cans, a few small garages, tiny yards, parked cars. He hid the suitcase in a space between an outbuilding and a fence, and then returned to the front of the house to knock at the door.
“Yes?”
To his surprise, a woman wearing a servant’s uniform stood in the doorway. Was she the spy? Hess felt some of his confidence leaking away like air out of a flat tire. It would be just like those fools in Berlin to send him halfway around the world to be at the mercy of a serving girl.