The Chase

It was with cool, quiet desperation that man in the dark overcoat deliberately approached the teaming swarm of angry gestapo. He still clenched the stub of a smoldering cigarette between his numb fingers, and blew the last bit of smoke through his nostrils with grim foreboding. The blond haired boy, who clung to his side, with his bloodstained nazi uniform, could scarcely disguise his terror while he glanced knowingly at that mad frenzy brutes as they tore past the two.

The man drew in his breath, as he heard the curt demand of one of the men, “halt!” With a forced calmness, he continued to walk casually down the street, directly past the alley from which the hoard had emerged. No trace of nervousness was betrayed in his movements. No twinge of fear played across his suave features, nor the kindly way in which he looked up curiously at the man who had just made this sharp demand…but he gripped the boy’s hand a little tighter. No one noticed this detail save the boy.

“Halt! He’s here! The school teacher! Stop there!” The screaming crescendo of the man’s voice did little to stop the entourage of men who were stampeding after their leader in the opposite direction.

The man in the overcoat slowly pivoted his head back to face where he was going. His eyes, peering through narrow spectacles, darted to another alleyway that was just opening on his right. Two more steps, and he would be past it. He shot and intense glance down at the boy. The brave fellow was staring right back at him, eyes wide and focused, his face holding that silent expression of loyalty on all levels.

“Run, Stein!” Broke from the man’s lips in a sharp, low whisper. He had to repeat himself in German to be understood.

Like a rocket, the boy fired off down that alleyway, his adrenaline carrying him faster than an Olympic athlete.

A scream of rage erupted from the gestapo agent, wild frenzy taking over him as he called back to the brownshirts that followed him. “Roush! Roush! Roush!” The words spewed from his lips like molten lava. He led the pack of growling, snarling men like a hunter fresh on the scent corralling his mongrels after their game. He could scarcely contain his blind rage as scream after scream echoed down the street, making even a horror film from the movie house pale in comparison to the fear he brought with him.

It was then, it seemed the spring that had been tightly coiled together was suddenly released. The man in the dark overcoat, without stopping to turn behind himself to add certainty to what he feared, put speed to his heels. Even now, he did not panic. Even now, though he pressed his cyanide capsule tightly between his left jaw and his cheek, his eyes were wide, and searching, constantly panning up and down the alleyways to his right with acute and intense craftiness. A second later, just when the right moment presented itself, he flew across the roadway, jumping right in front of an oncoming Volkswagen.

The car swerved and sputtered to a halt, spinning so that it nearly ran into the lamp post that stood not three feet away from the alleyway. That was all the desperate man needed. With the car blocking the alleyway, he had sealed himself off from his enemies. He breathed more deeply as he skirted the alley.

The agitated exclamations continued to echo down the streets behind himself, but the spy paid them little heed. Closely, he surveyed the tall buildings that towered above him, seeming to close in and block his escape. A gleam came into those wide, eager blue eyes as he saw a doorway. One more glance at the apartment told him it was uninhabited, the shabby residence of what used to be a respectable hotel. It was made of wood, where its surrounding neighbors were made of brick.

Up to this door, the man darted. He threw himself against it. It was locked. Hurriedly, he thrust his hand into his overcoat and drew out the silent revolver. He angled it at the lock.

In another moment, the man was tearing up the staircase within. Sweat poured down his face, his neck, his flaming cheeks—he did not pause to wipe it away, though it trickled down into his eyes, fogging up his glasses. The hand that replaced his gun trembled so that he could hardly manage to replace the weapon back into his inner breast coat pocket.

Up another staircase the man fled, the wood splintering beneath his claws like the fur of wild animals being torn between eagles’ talons. He was like an animal being pursued by hunters. This realization nearly paralyzed him with panic…but he must not panic. He would not be overcome by this. The resolution that remained unyielding on his face held a certain patriotic pride. It could not be a pride in himself. It was a bold defiance to those who chased him, a message of loyalty, no matter what the cost, to preserving the very thing that should perhaps cost him his life—to protect the information.

It seemed a bomb must have gone off below, as the harangue of German cursing and curt, harsh dialects suddenly flooded the old wooden house with the yells of those blood-thirsty men. They seemed to choke on their own overwhelming hatred, as spitting and clawing like demons, they rushed the staircase. Two of the dozen had remained aground to search the lower level of the quarters. The others flanked off at every floor, leaving but three to inevitably reach the top. All this, the spy knew, as his sense of hearing had been heightened by the urgency of his mission’s predicament. He heard those steps now, of the three men as they approached the top of the third floor. He heard their stealthy tread, as they unwittingly followed him to the far end of the house. It happened to be on the side facing the street. It happened to be where everyone should have a clear view of him, should he be forced to resort to desperate measures…

In a moment of frantic, numbing fear, the young man wheeled about, his eyes running up and down the walls and ceiling of the little room he found himself in. There were four narrow windows. There was no closet, or anything else in the room behind or under which he should be able to hide himself. There seemed to be no escape for him now. All too late, the folly of his choice sank down despairingly upon his shoulders, like a thick, smothering blanket. It choked him with regret. He must not go there. He could not remain in this attitude.

For a few desperate seconds, those eyes shot about the room. The man tiptoed back and forth, looking like a caged animal. He could hear those soft, careful footsteps, creeping down the hallway. He could hear the stifled, heavy breathing of the brownshirts, as they padded toward the room. He heard the precise, metallic clicking of his watch, as it clicked down the seconds left to his existence with iron cruelty.

Those eyes froze. Wide and questioning, full of color and life, of spirited defiance and a will to press on…a will to live…they finally settled upon one of the four windows. It was at the furthest corner of the room. It was facing the street. The man’s tongue rolled over the cyanide capsule, tempting his teeth to bite down on it—but he would not. A fire flashed from those glimmering blue eyes. A spark of hope was there, despite the man’s unnerving circumstances.

The door, which had been carefully left open a crack, squeaked. The men were upon him now. With an effort, the young man blinked at the window several times, a cold chill running down his spine like the fur of a cat standing on end. He did not pause to reconsider. With a final surge of energy, he ran toward the window.

“Schieben!” The German word shot off the lips of the Gestapo officer, as the door flew open. The young man translated the word in his head to the English word, “fire”, focusing his mind on that word, instead of what he was in the act of doing. The officers were rushing for the window.

Bang! The sound of shattering glass overcame the sound of even the bullet firing, as the young man sailed through the window. His right shoulder shot forward, as the bullet whizzed into it, and out the front of his coat. The sting of that shot preoccupied his mind for those following horrific moments, as his body fell swiftly, like a led cannon, through the air.

Time seemed to stand still, as the young spy, with his eyes wide open and his brain totally alert, stared down into the street full of people, hurrying hither and thither. Screams met his ears, as some of those down below him inevitably must be seeing his falling body, now, and terrified, screamed out their concerns just as sharply as the officers who had chased him. He shut his eyes. In a moment, it would all be over…

Thud! The young man’s eyes popped open in shock, his spectacles mashing against his eyelids, as he found himself clinging to the cold metal of an old baby cage. He blinked himself back into reality. He saw the host of people below him, gazing up at him with gaping jaws. The brownshirts chasing him, the people screaming below, the baby carriage—in one frantic second, he recalled where he was and collected his fragmented wits about himself. With his left hand, he clung to the cage, his right arm dangling limply at his side. He stared down below. He was dangling from the second floor. The baby cage had broken his fall. “Thank goodness for old houses,” he thought in perplexity, as with the nimbleness of a cat, he dragged his torn and bloody fingers down the cage, and scraped his way to the bottom of it. With an effort, he pried his fingers loose, and let go.

Bang! Bang! The shots continued to fire from the pistol that angled down from the third floor window, where the baffled nazis flocked in amazement and consternation. “How?” The Gestapo demanded, spitting between his clenched teeth like a bulldog pulling at his chain.

The young man landed in a heap on the ground, as the bullets pinged off the metal baby cage. He staggered to his feet, hardly able to catch his breath as he was forced to make his weak limbs run again. Quickly, he threw himself into the crowd of onlookers that had paused to watch his fall. He fumbled for a few desperate seconds with what he should do next, before doggedly tearing down the street.

There was a carriage. Without hesitation, the man grabbed for the door and drew himself up onto the footrest. With his left elbow, he broke the window, and crawled through it, slithering his way down into the carriage. Screams and exclamations of surprise rose and fell from the man and woman within, as crawling over their laps, he flung open the door on the other side, and dropped into the street without.

Walking swiftly toward an elderly couple, the man tipped his hat to them hurriedly, and lost himself in the shadows of another alleyway. The throbbing pain in his right arm made him clench his teeth tightly behind his scarcely closed lips, as he mentally tried to calm himself enough to smooth his sweaty brow, and look the part of an ordinary citizen again.

A sudden paralyzing tiredness seemed to sweep over him, as the man let out his breath and coughed. Blood drained from his mouth, dripping down his chin, and making his crisp white grow suddenly warm against his neck. He swallowed this back, determined not to leave a trace of his presence by spitting.

At the end of the alley, the young man paused, leaning wearily against the brick wall of another apartment—but he soon sprang back from it, and walked rapidly onward, on recognizing it as the Gestapo headquarters of the town. He could not linger there. He had to keep moving.

Again, panic set in, and a fresh rush of his dwindling supply of adrenaline took over his nerves, and allowed the man to calmly think through his plight. He fled down another street, making a sharp turn into a store. It was a candy shop.

A cry rose from one of the children within, upon recognizing the all too familiar face of the school teacher. “Mr. Krause!” Exclaimed the little one, undoubtedly confused by seeing the man with his bleeding shoulder, shot through, and his strange sudden appearance into the store.

The spy could scarcely keep his thoughts straight, at this moment. He hardly trusted himself to speak, lest he should fall into his usual English and muddle over his German. He swallowed hard, keeping his stream of blood at bay, for the moment. “Sorry, David,” he gasped hoarsely, careful to put the accent on the German words, just as he had always done. He flung a confused, bloodshot gaze upon the shop owner, clutching weakly at the candy counter. “There’s been a robbery—down at the old bank,” he said thickly. “Lock your doors…” then turning to the boy, he half-whispered, “run along, David. Don’t linger in the streets today.”

“Mr. Krause, are you all right?” The clerk asked hurriedly. “Can I call a doctor?” The young man shook his head decidedly. “No,” was all he muttered. Then, drawing himself up to his normal height, while he guarded his right arm, tucking it close to his chest, he stumbled back out of the shop, leaving its customers in a general state of alarm and fear for his own general safety.

But “Mr. Krause” was only too grateful to hear the store door abruptly lock behind him, as he whisked his way down the street once more. He glanced over his shoulder. The far off yell of the Gestapo officer let him know his enemies could not possibly know where he was, now.

For a moment, the young man rationalized. He cast a lingering stare toward the opposite alley, which opened out to the house he had fallen from, only a few minutes before. He swallowed hard. Starting toward that general direction, he struggled to clear his mind. Instantly, he checked himself, throwing his body against a narrow doorway. He held his breath.

The sound of thick leather boots thudding across the cobblestone where he had just been gazing made him sick with fear. He heard the other dozen brownshirts, not far behind him. He heard them hail down someone from the street. He leaned out as far as he dared.

“You see a man—jump from that window, fall three stories? He carries valuable information. Shoot on sight if you see him.”

There was a muffled, confused reply. Whatever it was, it was unsatisfactory. The tramp of the hurried Germans continued in the opposite direction.

The young man breathed again. He frowned, staring hard after the disappearing officers. His mind was at work, his thoughts racing. He eyed that window of chance, that house of fate, and he made a hard decision.

Making a large square, as he looped himself back toward the place he had started, the young spy carefully retreated to the old wooden apartment. He kept to the alleys, not risking his chances in the open streets, for fear of his bloody arm giving him away. It was a painstaking, nerve shattering experience of mental anguish for the spy. At every turn, his fear of being found out by one of the hoard of Gestapo officers gripped his heart, but somehow, he finally reached that old building again. The Gestapo would not retrace their steps, he had reasoned. If they did…

Back up those steps, the young man found himself again, struggling to keep his head clear, as he began to swoon with dizziness. He reached the second floor. He could go no further. Breathing heavily, with trembling limbs, he groped his way down the hall, pressed himself against a closed door, and fell to the floor. He swallowed hard, sickened by the taste of warm blood in his mouth. With an effort, he raised himself again, and somehow got into the room.

The room was cramped and small. It had a bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe—but there was also another door that led into another hallway. Summoning his remaining strength, the man crossed over to the wardrobe, threw his left shoulder against it, and struggled to push it toward the closet space.

“Roush! Roush!” The unforgiving words, as they sounded faintly up the stairs, made the young man nearly fall against the wardrobe, sick with fear. He swallowed hard, gasping in his breath. Haggardly, he bent down, and felt his way under the bed for something—anything—that he could toss over the spot where the wardrobe had been. He could not leave it that way, the only place in the room not covered in dust. His efforts were not in vain. A moment later, he had found a tattered foot rug, which with violently agitated hands, he placed carefully where the wardrobe had been. Click, click, click—it was steel-toed boots he heard, now. They were those familiar boots, the boots that haunted him—that warned him that man was coming, the man he had worked with, the man who had been yelling orders for the past few minutes since the desperate chase began—that man was coming for him, now.

Hurriedly, the spy gave one final push against the wardrobe, letting it rest directly in front of the narrow door. With a hasty glance, he assured himself his hiding spot would not be discovered. The dust was not so thick upon the floor as he had at first assumed. Was he safe? Would they not find him here? Perhaps…he had to take that risk.

The sound of those grating steps, as they neared the top of the stairs, left the spy with little hope of surviving. With a final breath, he slipped behind the wardrobe. He drew it after him, toward the wall, as close as he could—was it close enough? Sucking in his breath, he drew it a little closer, as he half-closed the door. Was it close enough now? There was a good five inches between it and the door. He had managed to get the left end butt up against the wall, but that right side, the side where the door was—he simply could not pull it close enough and still get his hand back in through the door. It should have to do. He prayed it would work…

The door was closed. The young man swooned, sinking down to the floor within the closet space. There, he waited. He waited without breathing, without blinking, without daring to swallow his blood back, now, for fear of being heard. He barely rested his head against the side of the wall. The darkness seemed to choke him. All he could hear was those boots, and that hurried, low whisper of conversation. Even now, he hardly thought the men knew he was there. He had left no evidence for them to follow, nothing that should lead them back here. He was safe—and yet, he could never be closer to danger. If he should survive this peril, he should have defied what seemed to inevitably be his fate.

The question of how this could all have happened, how the young man’s life had come to this, drove him madly into retrospect. He had to think of something, something that should pass the time he had yet to remain in this cramped closet. Even now, he could almost promise himself the Gestapo should draw the wardrobe back, throw open the closet door, and shoot him. Could he be guaranteed another breath? Another moment to live?