PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 19: CHECKPOINT CHARLIES
MARCH 31, 1944
"Alright, settle down, you two." There was no criticism in Colonel Hogan's voice—just the gentle insistence of a man on a mission.
Peter was thrilled to see Anja, but he got the Colonel's message: They were here on business. So he set her down on her feet, clasped her hand, and halfway held his breath as he attentively observed his CO. He was hoping he wouldn't get "a look," or "a word," or worse. Instead, he got a wink, which gave him the courage to breathe and to plaster a kiss on Anja's cheek before letting her go.
"Where's Olsen? Did he leave?" Peter asked.
"He's waiting in the car with Grey Wolf, and looking after someone," Hogan said. He cast a look at Herr Witman and nodded his head. Peter wasn't sure what that meant, but he saw the tightness around Witman's eyes vanish as a warm smile crossed his face.
"Everyone, listen up. Grey Wolf will be driving the next leg. You understand that fuel is at a premium, and we have to stick carefully to our story to justify why we're driving late at night," Hogan said. "I'll be in the front seat with Grey Wolf. Peter, you're on lookout on the driver side in the center row, and Herr Witman, you're with him, directly behind me. The ladies will be in the back row, except… Hannelore, it'll be tight, but you can sit between Peter and your father."
Hannelore had woken up and was stretching. She nodded sleepily. Peter looked confused. That left only Anja and Frau Witman in the back seat, where it was roomier. Hogan noticed Peter's expression and acknowledged it with a subtle tip of the head. Peter still wasn't sure what that meant as Hogan led them all down the narrow staircase and out to the vehicle.
Peter opened the back door of the motor car on the driver side to let the ladies inside when he got his answer. There, in the back row, sat a small woman with bright eyes, a full head of white hair, and a small dog on her lap. Hannelore pushed her way past him.
"Oma!" she began to shout as she scrambled into the car. Peter clamped a hand over her mouth and held her back by the shoulder.
"Shh, shh," he said, bending down to whisper into her ear. "Quietly."
She nodded and twisted out of his grasp, climbing into the back row to hug her grandmother and Snuffy.
XXX
Hannelore was going to sit with Peter, but her grandmother's arrival changed that. Instead Anja moved into the seat next to him so Hannelore could snuggle with her beloved Oma. Hogan came around to the window on the side where Peter was sitting and rapped, signaling for him to roll it down. He leaned in and whispered a few words in Peter's ear. Peter nodded. Yes, he knew he needed to avoid distractions. One look at Anja confirmed that she understood too. Apparently she and Colonel Hogan had spoken.
They drove into the night. Hannelore and her grandmother chattered happily in the back seat and Snuffy gave a few little yips whenever another vehicle passed them or the shadows played tricks. It was an odd scene, an old lady and a young girl cuddling and petting a scrappy dog in the midst of a risky, clandestine mission. Peter caught Anja's eye; they smiled. Both knew that this domestic simplicity, a family's love, was exactly what they were fighting to protect.
They trundled down the road for half an hour before they reached their first military checkpoint. Grey Wolf, dressed as a livery driver, stopped the car and presented his credentials to an Army officer. Colonel Hogan stepped out of the vehicle with an air of authority. Dressed in his Gestapo plainclothes, he moved with the haughty air of a man who knew he was above reproach. He strode toward the young officer at the checkpoint and took charge of explaining everyone's documents.
"You will find everything in order, I assure you, Herr Oberleutnant," Hogan said.
"Why are you traveling so late at night?" the officer asked.
"Professor Witman has been summoned with great haste to Brussels, following—well, I am not at liberty to say, except that there was a very sudden vacancy within the royal household." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I couldn't possibly say in front of the children, but …" He cut his eyes toward the back seat and made a slashing motion at his neck.
The officer could not hide his look of shock, but in a moment, he was back to business, shuffling through papers. "Tutor to the royal household, I see," he said with astonishment. "How many royal children are there?"
"Three," Hogan said. "Ranging in age from nine to sixteen."
He gestured at Peter and Anja. "And I suppose the children are coming because…"
"To show them, of course," Peter said arrogantly. "They need to understand that a young German is as swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather, and as hard as Krupp's steel."
The officer smiled at the cheerful prospect of a German boy intimidating the royal family of Belgium. He leaned in the window and looked at Peter and Anja.
"You two. How old are you?" he asked.
"Sixteen, Herr Oberleutnant," Peter replied. "The same age as Princess Josephine. She's the eldest," he sneered.
"I'll be fifteen next month, Herr Oberleutnant," Anja added.
"And I'm thirteen," Hannelore piped up from the back seat.
"I see. You are very small compared to your brother and sister," the officer observed.
"Not for long," Anja said coyly, fluttering her eyes at the guard. "I was the same just two years ago." She arched her back forward, showing off her curves.
"Hmm. Carry on," the officer said with the hint of a smile, waving at them to go. He turned to speak to another officer as the driver re-engaged the ignition and prepared to leave. He hadn't gone ten meters down the road when someone rapped hard with a rifle butt on the side of the car. Everyone's blood froze. It was the Oberleutnant; he had run to catch up with the vehicle.
Grey Wolf contemplated hitting the gas, but Papa Bear tapped his arm and shook his head. No, stop, he signaled. He knew their paperwork was pristine. Grey Wolf rolled down the window, and the officer stuck his head in and peered into the center row.
"Boy, step out here for a moment," he commanded.
Peter looked at Colonel Hogan, masking his terror with great effort. He knew it; he'd padded his part and overplayed the role of self-important youth. Hogan raised an eyebrow, and Peter knew it meant "go with the flow."
Peter's mind flashed back, improbably, to a lesson he'd learned during religion class at school, the story of Abraham and Isaac. How old was he? Seven? Eight? He remembered how Isaac helped his father gather the wood for the altar, and then asked, in total innocence, "Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?"
He remembered his own shock when he realized: Isaac, mate, it turns out you're the lamb.
So, it seemed, was Peter.
Some father you are, Abraham, he'd thought at the time. But like Isaac, Peter never had a doubt that his real father—which Hogan was to him, in every sense of the word but blood—would think of something as soon as he sized up the situation. So he said a silent prayer, unlatched the door, and stepped outside to offer himself up.
Peter stood before the Oberleutnant, bracing to be handcuffed or manhandled.
Instead, the Oberleutnant threw an arm around the young boy in his Hitler Youth uniform and laughed. "I want you to meet my friend Oberleutnant Zweig," he said, leading him away from the car. "Moritz!" he called out as he dragged Peter toward a guard post. "This is the boy."
"Ah, the cream of German youth," Zweig said as he emerged with a cigarette. He saw Peter eyeing it hungrily. "Do you smoke?"
What was going on? Were they mocking him? Peter hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the car, hoping for answers. What would an arrogant Hitler Youth member do? Hogan by now had stepped out of the car. He nodded, and Peter trusted that nod. So he turned and looked at Zweig and smiled with all the cool confidence he could muster.
"Every chance I get," he replied, accepting a cigarette and allowing Zweig to light it. He had no idea whether he had walked into a trap or not. If he hadn't, he decided, the cigarette could do no harm. And if he had, he deserved a bleeding fag before he met his maker.
The soldiers were patting him on the back like a pair of overgrown schoolboys and offering humorous advice on how he might consider demonstrating German superiority to various members of the Belgian royal family, particularly the sixteen-year-old princess. Papa Bear, in his black Gestapo suit, now walked toward them, relieved that there was nothing to worry about.
"Gentlemen! Is everything alright?" he called.
"Yes, yes, we just don't meet a feisty son of the Fatherland like this one every day," the first Oberleutnant said. He turned back to Peter. "Tell him again," he said, elbowing Peter.
"As swift as a greyhound, as tough as leather, and as hard as Krupp's steel," Peter repeated dramatically for the third time for Zweig's benefit.
"Make sure you tell the princess about the steel," Zweig said with a laugh.
Hogan shook his head imperceptibly. These guys had been at their post much too long. "Well, I hate to break up the party, but we must be on our way. Arno, is that a cigarette in your hand?" He winked at the soldiers, who laughed flippantly.
"Yes," 'Arno' admitted sheepishly. "Sorry, Herr Bertman." Although he longed for just a little more time with it, he dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, then gazed conspiratorially at the soldiers, smirking. He shook the hands of each of the Oberleutnants, and they slapped him on the back cheerfully as he returned to the car, shouting after him, "Give 'em hell, Arno!"
Peter returned jauntily to the car, took his place in the back seat, and smile raffishly through the window at his new friends. Then, once they were safely away, he slumped and exhaled. "Bloody hell. What was that?"
"You obviously impressed them," Hogan said. "That was quite a line you came up with."
"Hitler said it first," Peter said.
Hannelore piped up again from the back seat and poked Anja on the shoulder. "You started it. You were flirting with that soldier," she said, pushing out her chest and pouting in a perfect imitation of Anja's come-hither move.
Anja bopped Hannelore on the head with her hand. "Me, flirting? What about Peter?" she said with a laugh, then turned to her boyfriend. "Honestly, Peter, 'hard as Krupp's steel'?"
Peter held out his hands helplessly. "Like I said, Hitler said it, not me." He was still trying to breathe normally. "Blimey, they're a right pair of Charlies, and they still scared the wits out of me."
Anja laid a hand on Peter's knee and squeezed it reassuringly; he covered it with his own hand, holding it there. Being this close to her and not being able to kiss her and caress her was difficult, but the mission was too important for them to get lost in a moment of their own. He squeezed her hand back, and then let it go.
"Anyway, Hannelore, I was only trying to distract him from you," Anja said as kindly as she could. "Don't volunteer information, alright?" she said. "You have to stay quiet as a lamb at these checkpoints."
"It's not a game, Hannelore," Peter added gently. "Until you're in England, you have to think like a spy, alright? Eyes open and mouth closed unless you know exactly what you're supposed to say." He turned to look at her and saw she was bug-eyed with fear, so he reached a hand back to squeeze hers. "It's going to be fine," he said.
"Can I sit with Peter now?" Hannelore asked. Anja and Frau Witman both nodded, and even though the vehicle was in motion, the girls climbed out of their seats and switched places. Hannelore leaned into Peter's right side, and he wrapped an arm around her. Gradually, as the car hummed along the dark road, she drifted to sleep.
"A right pair of Charlies" means "a couple of idiots."