Chapter 21
Dawn colored the sky before the staff car entered the gates of Stalag 13. With his hands locked behind his back the whole night, Hogan's fingers had grown numb, and he had an itch threatening to drive him crazy, but he didn't think it wise to complain, nor wheedle, nor manipulate. For now, continuing to breathe seemed more than sufficient. Not another word had been spoken in the car the rest of the trip.
The door to Barracks Two cracked open and a few of his men stepped outside, obviously up and awaiting his return. He gave a shake of his head toward them as Schultz pulled him from the back seat of the staff car, hoping they understood they were to stay back.
Klink faced Hogan. "Thirty days isolation," Klink said flatly. Hogan decided now was not the time to argue or negotiate the sentence. Later. When Klink had calmed down. He met the Kommandant's eyes steadily. Something unfathomable still in his eyes as he stared at Hogan, Klink said, "Schultz, take him away."
In the cooler, Schultz bypassed the first isolation cells, the ones usually used—the ones with tunnel entrances—leading Hogan, instead, to a seldom used cell at the end of the corridor. Did Schultz know about the tunnel into the other cells? Of course he did. All the know-nothings Schultz knew had to be adding up and accumulating somewhere. Schultz knew which cells the prisoners could access or open. He must, for the cell he chose for Hogan was one with no tunnel entrance.
Leaning his head against the wall, Hogan considered Klink's actions and words on the road. Over and over in his head he replayed them, wondering what exactly it was that had struck him, other, of course, than the mind-numbing coldness of the gun to his head. Spy… Klink had used the word 'spy'. And he'd said 'because of your activities'. Hogan replayed the words, and Klink's actions, again. Scanning around the glum cell again, Hogan wondered, did Klink lock him in here to punish him for escaping? To expose Hogan's organization and do his sworn duty to the Reich? Or to save Hogan's life?
Thirty days. Well… he'd certainly have time to contemplate the answers.
The solitude and introspection were interrupted not ten minutes later when the cell door opened and Hogan saw two guards staring stonily in at him. Great, Hogan thought bleakly. No Schultz. Neither of these were 'tame' guards. One usually manned the towers, having little personal contact with the prisoners. The other was fairly new—just returned from the Front and none too fond of enemy officers. The Keystone cops, Hogan tagged them… the nasty, non-bungling Keystone cops. The two made it entirely clear Hogan's cooperation would be compelled by force if necessary. They also made it entirely clear they would enjoy it immensely if Hogan chose not to cooperate.
Thus Hogan spent a chilly and unpleasant half hour with his hands up, leaning against the back wall of the cell as the two guards searched him, every stitch of his clothing, and the cell, in an exacting detail such as he'd never known here in Stalag 13.
When the iron door finally slammed closed again with a resounding thunk, Hogan took stock. All he'd been left was his proper uniform clothing, to which they added his correct bomber jacket and cap, and his watch to count off the slow hours.
By the second day the lack of contact with the world started to nag at Hogan. Where were his men? What was going on outside? He did not have time to just sit here, out of the action, for a full month. That just would not do. With the invasion in France now a reality, there was even more work to be done here behind the lines. He did not have time for this. Who did Klink think he was, anyhow, to lock him up like this?
He thought he was commandant of a POW camp. And he thought Hogan was his prisoner.
This was worse, Hogan decided on the third day, than when he was held and questioned by the Gestapo after he was first captured. Certainly this stay in Stalag 13's cooler was infinitely more comfortable, but this abject nothingness ate at him as the Gestapo's callously calculated abuse never had. That had been miserable, but it had been aimed toward a purpose, a purpose Hogan knew, and that gave him a focal point to fight it. This…
What was going on out there?
The fourth day, when the cell door opened, Hogan merely muttered, "Verpiss dich," piss off, when Keystone cop #2 ordered him to stand up to be frisked. A grin spread across the Kraut's face. He'd been waiting for this.
A few bruises later, Hogan again submitted to the ritual.
The routine was broken some hours later by footsteps in the corridor. Hogan perked up, recognizing the unmilitary tread of Schultz, rifle butt dragging beside him scraping on the concrete. The sliding window opened and Hogan heard Schultz say gruffly, "You have two minutes." Then his footsteps retreated.
"Hey, Colonel," Kinchloe said, peeking through the opening.
"Kinch." Hogan's relief almost overwhelmed him. "What the hell is going on?"
Kinch scowled at him. "I was kinda hoping you could tell us that, sir. This place is locked down tight. Worse than when Captain Gruber is in charge. We tried to get in to see you but just couldn't. Schultz wouldn't be bribed, begged, nor bullied. Even now, I was going to bring you some stuff but Schultz searched me." His voice rose in obvious bewilderment.
"Yet Schultz let you in here to talk to me?"
Shaking his head, Kinch said, "No. Klink ordered me to come down here. They're acting awfully strange, sir. Especially the Kommandant. Did something happen on the way back from Düsseldorf?"
Did it ever. Hogan glanced away for a moment, steadying himself. "Yeah. Something did. And I don't know quite what to make of it yet." He waved away Kinch's questioning look. "I'll tell you about it later." Hogan let out a long breath, trying to think. "Listen, Kinch… I want you to shut down operations. Everybody just lay low and don't tangle with the Krauts. Tell London we're… we're on hiatus." London wouldn't like that. Scheiße… First he disobeyed their direct orders to rescue Tiger. Then it all went to hell and he put his unit out of action. If the Krauts didn't hang him as a spy, he might end up getting court martialed by his own side. Great… more to dwell on during the next twenty-five days, nineteen hours and—he glanced at his watch—seven minutes.
"What if something critical comes in?" Kinch asked.
"Use your best judgment," Hogan said. "But be extremely cautious. The Germans are very riled up, and it's not just the D-Day invasion." Quickly, as he could hear Schultz's steps nearing, Hogan told Kinch about the fifty murdered officers from Stalag III. Kinch stared back in shock.
"How's Tiger?" Hogan asked.
"She's…" Kinch started.
"Time's up," Schultz announced. He pulled Kinch immediately away from the window and shoved him down the corridor. What about Tiger?! Hogan strained to see and hear out the small opening.
"Fine," Kinch called back toward the cell. What?! Tiger's fine? Is that what Kinch meant? "Ah, come on, Schultzie," Hogan heard Kinch say in a wheedling tone, "Just another minute."
"Time's up," Schultz repeated, turning back, he slammed the sliding window closed in Hogan's face.
Hogan jerked back. Another puzzle piece. Klink sent Kinch down here. Why? To have Kinch get Hogan to settle down and stop resisting by assuring him his men were okay? Or to get Hogan to order his men to stand down from any activities? He dropped back down on the bed. Damn. Verdammt. Damn. He hadn't gotten to ask Kinch if the invasion was still progressing. Were the Germans retreating? Or fighting back? If the invasion was beaten back it would be years before another could be attempted. Not knowing… not knowing was the worst thing of all. The war could be over in months. Or it could drag on for years more.
Years. Hogan's eyes darted around the confined space he couldn't get out of, swallowing back his apprehension. Years.
What about Tiger? Oh, God… he buried his face in his hands. Had it all been for nothing?
Five days, six days...
Argh! Hogan stood to pace the tiny space. Three short steps, end to end. He pushed futilely at the door. Harmless. Helpless. Klink had also used those words on the road. Was that what this isolation was about? He recalled those early days when he was shot down; recalled thinking the definition of being a prisoner was having no control over so much as the next minute of your life. That feeling had all but vanished here at Stalag 13. Was Klink reminding Hogan of the fact this was a prison? Teaching him forcibly that, in reality, Hogan was a prisoner? In a burst of frustration, he kicked at the door and immediately regretted it. Limping back to the bed, Hogan sat. He returned to thinking, calculating, evaluating…
Seven days, eight days…
Hogan came to alert. Sharp footsteps snapped down the corridor outside the cell. They weren't the guards. No, he recognized the taut pace. Klink.
Standing, Hogan moved to the iron door. Finally. Now he'd be able to talk Klink out of the remainder of this wretched sentence.
The window slipped open. Hogan took a breath to launch into his pitch.
Cutting him off before he had a chance to speak, Klink announced harshly, "I am required by the Geneva Convention to inform you in advance of any transfers. You are so informed. Be prepared to leave with no further notice. I have put in a request to have you transferred to Colditz."
The window slammed shut.
The light snapped on in the middle of the night on the tenth day. Hogan blinked, staring blurrily at his watch. Three a.m. The key scraped in the lock. He sat up. What now? Nothing good. Nothing good at all, seemed the best guess.
The Keystone cops glowered in, appearing none too happy themselves to be up in the middle of the night. Rather than risk tangling with this bad-mood pair when they were really in a bad mood, Hogan moved quickly to comply with the gruff order to lean against the back wall.
Had his boys done something to get the goons in a snit, Hogan wondered as he was rudely searched. Then Keystone cop #2 yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Colditz, he realized with a sinking dread. Klink really was sending him to the genuinely-escape-proof fortress castle. Or—Hogan's stomach gave a nauseating churn—had the Gestapo showed up? Visions of a road, a grove of trees, and a pistol barrel ice cold against his neck flashed unbidden through his mind. Hogan fought back a surge of fear. Even if he was being taken to Colditz, if the Gestapo or SS were to guard him through the transfer… what were the odds he'd arrive to the castle alive? He had to keep a clear head; had to watch for openings, options.
The grip of his least-favorite guards was rock-solid as they escorted him out of the cooler into the dark compound. Was it his imagination, or were the searchlights purposely avoiding the area between the cooler and the Kommandant's quarters? No witnesses.
Barracks Two… a guard stood in front of the door. Not Schultz. It didn't mean the boys weren't watching, but in the middle of the night? Quiet? Without warning? They probably weren't.
Hogan would have sighed with relief at the sight of Sergeant Schultz standing on the porch of Klink's quarters, would have, save for more of those disturbing images intruding. But Schultz seemed back in true form, studying Hogan sorrowfully as the guards led him up the steps. Clucking sadly, Schultz told the guards to remove the handcuffs. Hogan locked eyes with Schultz, hoping to hold the sympathetic connection; to read truth in the big sergeant.
"Ah, Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant wishes to see you," Schultz said, sounding for all the world as though nothing unusual had happened and Hogan had just stepped out of his barracks instead of being dragged out of the cooler in chains in the middle of the night. Not the transfer to Colditz? Somehow he wasn't seeing a big farewell scene in the making, not after the terse way Klink informed him of the transfer. So if not Colditz, then what? He'd never been afraid of Klink before. Should he be afraid of him now? Klink had not harmed him. He'd scared the hell out of him on that road, but Klink had also likely saved him from the same fate as the murdered fifty from Stalag III. He'd certainly saved him from an even worse fate with the Gestapo, with Hochstetter, if Hogan's real identity had become known there in Düsseldorf. Schultz reached for the doorknob. Hogan swallowed. Time to face the music. Everything could be back to normal. He could trust Klink.
In no mood to trust 'normal', or the Kommandant, Hogan remained frozen in place. "What's going on, Schultz?" he demanded.
The kindly expression slipped into an uncomfortable one and Hogan noted Schultz wouldn't meet his eyes. "I know nothing, Colonel," Schultz murmured. He was lying, Hogan decided. "The Kommandant asked to see you. That's all."
Asked? Not ordered? "Come on, Schultz," Hogan insisted. "Tell me what this is about."
"Really, Colonel Hogan, I do not know. Just, please, go in and see Kommandant Klink," Schultz said.
"Schultz." Hogan drew out the name in an ordering tone. He didn't move toward the door.
Sighing shortly, Schultz whispered, "I honestly do not know. But…" He hesitated. "I think the Kommandant might be in trouble."
Aren't we all? "Well, there's news," Hogan muttered as he mustered up his gumption to go in.
Face the music, indeed, Hogan considered as he stepped into Klink's quarters. Hogan squinted through the dim light. Only one lamp shown in a corner with the rest of the room shrouded in shadows. Klink sat in an easy chair staring down at his violin resting on his lap. Was Klink after a captive audience—literally—for a violin recital? Ha! Maybe the stint in the cooler wasn't the punishment. This was.
The absurd twitch of humor faded immediately. Klink didn't even glance up as Hogan closed the door. Hogan stepped further into the room. Stopping, he peered at the Kommandant. Klink's face was pale and he looked like he hadn't slept in quite some time. Something was wrong. That is, Hogan amended to himself, something more, new, was wrong.
After waiting a minute to be noticed, Hogan ventured, "Colonel Klink?"
Shaking himself as though woken from a dream, Klink finally looked up. "Yes. Hogan. Thank you for coming. Please sit." He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Have some coffee," Klink said, pointing to an elaborate Meissen coffee service on a side table. "It's the last," Klink added with a peculiar chuckle completely devoid of humor. The chuckle took on a faint edge of hysteria. "Last of the black market coffee. Last of the black market anything."
This was just getting bizarre, Hogan thought. Ignoring the coffee, he sat down and focused wholly on Klink. For the umpteenth time in recent history, he asked himself just what the hell was going on here? Had Klink gotten caught dealing with blackmarketeers? It was hardly even a crime for someone in his position. Certainly none of the visiting generals or field marshals questioned Klink's ability to serve a splendid feast for them amidst tight rationing. It was expected. Even if he got caught at it, a few well-placed payoffs and he'd be in the clear again. Of course, this was Klink, and if anyone could foul up a simple bribe, he'd manage it. Was he after Hogan's scheming skills to bail him out?
No. Nothing that simple. Whatever it was, it wasn't shallow or superficial. It hit Klink down to the very core of his being.
Klink appeared to become lost again in whatever it was he was seeing in that violin. An undefined fear began growing in Hogan. Had something else dreadful happened in the ten days he'd been cut off from the world? A dozen and one horrific possibilities flashed through his mind.
"Kommandant Klink," Hogan strove to keep his voice even and low, "tell me what's happened. What's wrong?"
Klink took a shuddering breath. "Do you see this violin, Hogan?" Hogan stared, uncomprehending, as Klink ran a hand gently over the polished wood of the instrument. "I've had it since I was young. It was made for me by a man named Herr Sauer. Herr Otto Sauer." Klink let out a faint chuckle. "You know what the word means, 'sauer', yes? 'Sour' in English. But the instruments Herr Sauer made always sang sweet."
Hogan decided this was not the right time to dispute that point. He sat quietly, waiting to see where Klink was going with this. Of all the possibilities about why he'd been dragged here from the cooler in the middle of the night, chitchat about a violinmaker most definitely had not made the list.
"He also played," Klink continued, his voice little more than a monotone whisper. "Herr Sauer was both craftsman and artist. When he played it was as though I could hear the voices of the angels. He taught me. Taught me to play," Klink's eyes met Hogan's briefly, a faint flicker of amusement in them, "as well as he could. But the most precious gift he gave me was the love of the music. Herr Sauer was neither rich nor famous. He had a small shop and enough to get by. His wife had passed away. His son was grown, moved away with a family of his own. Herr Sauer was alone, but I think not lonely. He had his craft, and he had his music. And it was enough. He was a good man. Kind, and gentle, and good."
Looking up again, this time Klink held Hogan's gaze steadily and seriously. With a small, sad smile, Klink said, "When I play this violin, you hear Wilhelm Klink play. I hear Herr Sauer." He fell silent, absently tracing the violin's edge with one finger.
Several times Hogan started to speak but stopped, hunting for the right words. Whatever had happened to this violinmaker had Klink deeply upset. This Herr Sauer must be special to the Kommandant, indeed. Must be… no. Must have been. Past tense. Klink was speaking of him in the past tense. "What happened to him, Colonel?" Hogan eventually asked. Killed in a recent bombing raid?
"He was just a harmless old man," Klink whispered.
Oh, dear God. Hogan squeezed his eyes closed a moment, suddenly realizing. "Kommandant," he asked, "was Herr Sauer Jewish?"
Klink nodded without looking up. "This may be the last violin made by Herr Sauer that still exists." Taking a deep breath, Klink finally seemed at last to find a well of strength, looking up at Hogan without flinching or looking away. "Have you heard of Kristallnacht?" Klink asked. Hogan nodded. "The night of broken glass, it's called…" Klink said. "Herr Sauer's shop was smashed. Every instrument in it destroyed, piled up, broken and burned. Those who had bought his instruments in the past brought them and threw them on the fire. How that must have hurt him." Klink appeared to Hogan on the verge of tears. "I saw it. I stood to the side and watched it. Could do nothing." He shook his head. "That's not true. I did nothing. Didn't even try." Klink paused a moment, apparently collecting himself. "His son was killed that night, in another city, leaving a wife and three small children. They came to stay with Herr Sauer, in his ruined shop. Everything changed. Everything broken."
"Then what happened?" Hogan nudged. It was nearly six years since Kristallnacht. Surely Klink was not realizing only now what had been happening to the German Jews before that, and after, was he? Could he have been that oblivious? That self-absorbed?
Meeting Hogan's eyes, Klink said seriously, "It's not an easy thing for a man to accept he's been a blind fool." Who, Hogan thought, frowning as he silently asked the question. You? Or Herr Sauer? Klink must have read the question on his face, for a smile barely twitched his lips. "Me, Hogan. Until that night I'd heard of things taking place, bad things. But it someone else, somewhere else. It was them. A faceless, nameless 'them' who could be blamed and accused. Then all of a sudden, it wasn't 'them'. It was Herr Sauer. A man I loved as much—more—than my own father.
"Herr Sauer disappeared a short time after that," Klink went on. "He and his daughter-in-law, and the three grandchildren, a boy and two girls, they just vanished. No one thought anything of it. Such things happened. Maybe he'd fled the country, though it was really too late by then. Or maybe they just disappeared, as so many did."
Hogan's eyes narrowed, appraising Klink carefully. "But they didn't just disappear." Hogan said. "You hid them. Didn't you?" Even as he spoke the words, Hogan knew they were true, and it stunned him nevertheless. Klink? Hiding fugitive Jews? All these years in silence? Could it be true?
Shaking his head, Klink said, "No. I arranged for them to be hidden, would be the better way to say it. I have not seen Herr Sauer myself in six years time. I have never met his daughter-in-law nor the grandchildren." Klink chuckled bitterly. "I'm just not brave enough to take such a risk myself. I'm not that brave and I'm not that noble. It was an impulse. Perhaps a foolish one. No, definitely a foolish impulse. A stupid, blind impulsive action. And I have regretted it more times than I can count in the years since." Klink looked at Hogan sternly. "Don't try to apply some sort of noble motives to me. Because there aren't any. I hide behind others, at a distance, providing money, connections, and a place to hide. I made a stupid mistake in a moment of sentimental weakness and then couldn't undo it without risking myself. Not noble. Not honorable. Stupid. Then, in turn, I found myself in a position to be blackmailed to continue the foolish error. You wonder why the camp funds are always so short? Why I 'cook the books', I think your expression is, as I do? It's not for my own nest egg for Switzerland or South America as I imagine you believe. How I wish it were! No, once they knew they had a Luftwaffe colonel on the hook, the price kept rising. There was no way out, so I keep to the coward's way."
Sounds pretty damned brave to me, Hogan surprised himself by thinking. And a bit noble, despite the Kommandant's protests to the contrary. The risk to Klink was not greatly diminished by this distance he claimed. And he could have turned in the 'blackmailers', as he called them—doubling as his black market connections—as easily as he could have turned in Herr Sauer. But he couldn't free himself from the blackmailers without endangering Herr Sauer. So…
"What went wrong, Kommandant?" Hogan asked with sudden insight.
"They were found out," Klink said dully. "About two weeks ago."
Hogan turned away and groaned.
"Yes," Klink said. "I'm afraid I took some of my upset out on you."
An icy chill suddenly seized Hogan. On the road, Klink had said, "Every time you fall under suspicion, I fall under suspicion. It's not just your life at stake, Hogan. It's mine. And Schultz's. And our families'. My mother. Schultz's wife. His children. All could be forfeit. Because of you. Because of your activities."
A dozen and two horrific possibilities. He had to ask. He didn't want to ask. "Kommandant Klink…" Hogan began slowly, "were Herr Sauer and his family found because of something I did?"
"What?" Klink stared at him, then slowly shook his head. "No, Hogan. They were just… found."
Hogan let out a long breath, then asked, "Sir. Why are you telling me this?"
Intensely, Klink said, "Because I learned today the youngest child, a little girl, got away. She's hidden at my mother's house. It shames me to say it, but my mother will turn that child in to protect herself." Klink met Hogan's eyes unflinchingly. "It shames me more to say it, but I considered telling her to do so." He stared back down at the violin, a look of utter misery crossing his face. "I actually considered it, just to be done with it all," he ended faintly.
"How does this involve me?" Hogan asked.
"No games tonight, Hogan," Klink said flatly, looking back up with a firm resolution in his eyes. "I know you have means to contact the Underground, or… others… who could get that child to safety. I'm asking you to do so."
Trap! Hogan's brain screamed at him even as he held his expression without twitch.
"What makes you think she's in danger?" Hogan watched Klink closely. "What makes you think the others are dead?"
Klink snorted derisively. "You cannot tell me you haven't heard the rumors about those SS camps in Poland, about what's being done at them."
"I've heard 'em," Hogan said coolly. "But it's rumors. Nothing solid. What makes you so sure?"
With a hard expression, Klink said, "Numbers. I'm an accountant, Hogan, a bookkeeper. One thing I know well is numbers. Numbers cannot lie. The numbers going in. Not coming out. Those camps not getting any bigger. Where are the numbers—the people—going? Only rumors and guesses, it's true. But then I heard about the fifty Allied POWs murdered in cold blood… That's no rumor. If the Gestapo and the SS would do that, there's nothing they wouldn't do.
"I'll do whatever you say," Klink went on, "provide whatever you need, not see whatever you don't want me to see. Just please get that child to safety."
Hogan felt time freeze as it had on that dark road when his existence was a finger's squeeze on a trigger away from ending. It was a trap. It was a trap. It was a trap. Or… if it wasn't a trap, it was a damned huge risk for one little girl when hundreds of lives could be on the line if there was a misstep. The numbers didn't add up.
Weren't those London's exact reasons for ordering him not to rescue Tiger?
"Why, Klink?" he asked harshly. Klink was far too protective of his own hide to chance it on such a big unknown. "You said yourself you've never even met this kid. Why take the chance?"
"As this violin is the last of Herr Sauer's work that yet exists, that child is the last of him." Klink's hand rested on the violin protectively. "And I owe him," he said.
"It's a trap," Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau said in unison. Kinchloe just frowned.
"He had me in a trap," Hogan retorted. "Why would he let me out of one to set me up in another?"
Hogan rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "I saw Klink's face. And heard him talk. I don't think he's that good of an actor." He rolled his eyes and allowed, "Maybe better of an actor than I ever gave him credit for, but… no, not that good. No, he's not trying to trap me."
"No," LeBeau put in darkly, "just all your contacts and connections. I don't trust it. Monsieur Kommandant is a dirty Boche like all the rest."
"Can't trust a one of 'em," Newkirk added.
"Like Schnitzer?" Hogan snapped. "Or the rest of our Underground contacts around Hammelburg?" Hogan toned down his sudden burst of anger with an effort.
"They aren't wearing German uniforms," Carter said, as dubious as the rest.
"Like Morrison?" Hogan asked more quietly.
"You're barmy to fall for this load of codswallop," Newkirk insisted, not backing down an inch.
"Oui, mad," LeBeau muttered.
Hogan made an exasperated sound.
"Colonel," Carter put in quietly. Hogan turned toward him. "There was what happened on the road back from Düsseldorf. Then he locked you up, in isolation, for a couple weeks. Tells you he's sending you to the hardest prison in Germany. Then—then—he turns around and asks you to help with something you've never even suspected him of being involved in? Gosh darn it, Colonel… Why are you so sure it's not a trap?"
It was a long speech for Carter and Hogan took it seriously. "You've all seen him when he was really trying to trap us, or catch us at something—it was painful how obvious and clumsy he was at it."
"Maybe on purpose," Kinchloe murmured. "Trying to tip us off?"
Studying Kinch, Hogan said to him, "How do you weigh in on this, Kinch? You've had some opinions and theories about Klink. What do you make of this? Is Klink for real? Would he hide—or pay to hide—Jews?" Hogan sighed extravagantly. "Maybe he's playing me and has been one hundred percent, right from Day One. Maybe I am crazy on this. Maybe he drove me nuts these last couple weeks—" And with the way he behaved in London? All setup for the big act? "—and I can't see straight. So you tell me? What do you make of this?"
Kinch considered it a long time in his quietly analytical way. Hogan waited him out, and motioned the others to as well. Finally, Kinch said, "This camp has never been segregated."
"Colonel Hogan wouldn't stand for that sort of…" Carter started.
"Before Colonel Hogan was here," Kinch cut him off firmly. "Klink never segregated this camp. He could have. In fact, he should have. The Geneva Convention not only allows it, it practically insists on it. Klink would have been behaving entirely properly had he segregated this camp by not only race, but by religion and nationality." Kinch scanned around the table at them all, each in turn, ending with LeBeau. "In other POW camps French Jews and French Christians are separated. They aren't here and never were." He glanced over to Carter and Hogan. "Parts of our own country are segregated, blacks from whites. Kommandant Klink never did that."
"So you think he's on the level?" Hogan asked softly.
"Or just never read the Geneva Convention," Newkirk inserted in a stage whisper.
Kinch took a deep breath. "I don't think Klink is any sort of saint, or crusader. I don't know that he thinks much one way or the other about half the stuff the Nazis are doing. But I guess I do think he's the sort who will choose to do the decent thing if he can."
"Not exactly a ringing endorsement," Hogan allowed. He turned to the others. "Listen… the rest of you can stay clear. I'm not gonna order anyone to be in on this. It's not an official assignment. It's strictly personal." Hogan shrugged. "I'm already in trouble with London over disobeying their orders, what's one more gonna matter?" He took a deep breath and stood up, turning to head to his quarters. He paused. "If this is a trap… well, it's one I'm going to walk into willingly."
"But why, sir?" Kinch asked softly. "Why risk it for Klink?"
Hogan smiled softly. "I owe him."
"Kommandant," Hogan said by way of greeting a few days later. Klink stood by himself, near the wire, staring off at the horizon. "Enjoying the sunset, sir?"
"It's splendid," Klink responded tartly. "The smoke in the air from today's firebombing of Frankfurt is making for a truly remarkable sunset."
"Well then," Hogan said crisply, "if we're lucky they'll hit Leipzig tonight and we can have a splendid sunrise, too."
Klink glared at him. Hogan threw back a challenging grin. Klink's fist tightened in frustration.
With a mocking salute, Hogan turned to go. As he moved past Klink, he added, low, "The girl's out. She's safe."
Shoulders sagging a moment, Klink whispered, "Thank you," to Hogan. As he started to step away Hogan saw Klink close his eyes, then flick a glance heavenward. "Vielen Dank," he murmured. It wasn't to Hogan.
Hogan stood in the compound, arms folded over his chest, listening. He cocked his head and concentrated on the music drifting from the Kommandant's quarters.
"Message from London," Kinch said, ambling up. "Some info on troop movements they want us to get." As Hogan took the note, Kinch looked toward Klink's quarters, commenting, "That's not bad. His playing has improved."
"Has it?" Hogan said, some surprise creeping into his voice. "I thought it was just me."
To be continued...