Arrival

24 February 1941—Brenner Pass

The Rome-Berlin Express chugged near the summit of the Wipptal valley, high in the Alps, when the attendant for the luxurious private Pullman belonging to Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini’s son-in-law and Foreign Minister, entered. The cabin’s two young men still slept under a thick duvet covering the four-poster bed.

One was Vinny Testaneuvo, a black-haired Italian, traveling to his first job as cultural attaché at the embassy in Berlin. The younger one was blond. Frederich Zellner was a German member of the Hitler Youth, returning home from an exchange program.

The man sneaked to the potbelly stove, opened the grate, and stoked firewood. Providing the travelers with excellent service was his primary job, but he received far better pay for reporting everything said to the foreign office. Though he tried to be quiet, the blond sat up in bed and fixed him with an angry stare from an impatient face, a skill Germans perfected long ago.

“Gabinetto! Fretta!” the German ordered.

Leaving the stove grate open, he pulled the chamber pot from a mahogany cabinet and slid it toward the marble square on the floor. “Here you go, Herr Zellner.”

Naked and barefooted, he started pissing before the man positioned the bowl. Urine splattered everywhere.

Signore Testaneuvo rushed to join the piss. “Zelly, don’t push the skin back.”

Discreetly, the steward studied their bodies. Almost matching at slightly less than two meters tall. Zelly had blue eyes, was more muscular, and sported peach fuzz on his cheeks. The older one had more body hair, dark brown eyes, and needed a shave. Both were lean, unlike his pasta belly.

As they shook off, he brought a bowl of warm water and towels for their morning ablutions and continued to listen.

“Carlotta called it an anteater, Vinny.” Zelly said.

“Did she… you know?”

“Her lips and my cock stayed a chaperone’s distance apart. Still, she prefers turtle necks.”

“Not in Germany. Anyway, she guessed your background when you taught her the dance.”

Zelly remembered the mistake. Teaching her a Texas Two-Step when you’re supposed to be a proud Nazi. Tiny mistakes can be fatal.

The porter made another trip to the supply cabinet and brought soap and a shaving kit. “The time is 2:45 AM. Expect an hour for customs and border control.”

“What’s your impression of being eighteen?” Vinny asked.

“Hungover from the Fiano di Avellino wine Primo served at my birthday party last night. When you disappeared with Isabella, I had only the bottles for company. Get some?”

“Plenty. Let’s say no chaperones were involved. The advantages of being twenty-one.”

The steward brought freshly washed clothes. As he folded a winter blue Hitler Youth uniform over a wing-back chair, he rubbed his fingers over the rough heavy-duty cotton. Draping a fine brown Italian suit over the other, he enjoyed the soft silk boxer shorts and fine Merino wool herringbone. Oh, the contrasts between countries. Will my report allow me such luxuries?

The passengers had dressed when he brought a tray of rattling cups and various pastries.

Dangling a cannoli from his lips like a cigarette, Vinny and sat in a chair facing the picture window covered with blackout drapes. “Why hide a superb landscape?”

“I hoped to view the Alps.” Zelly dipped a chocolate brioche in his coffee.

“War.” the servant said.

Frowning at the unwelcome interruption, Vinny turned to Zelly with a finger near his ear. Zelly flicked his head in acknowledgment, tossing a long lock of blond hair from his forehead.

“Missed a spot of lipstick on your face.” After wetting a towel edge, Vinny wiped away the smear. “How many kisses?”

The pastry submerged in Zelly’s coffee. “I lost count at twenty-seven when the wine kicked in.”

The attendant pulled their luggage from the armoire shelf and placed it beside the door. “Brenner in ten.”

Zelly drew a deep breath. Minutes away from The Third Reich, his homeland—a place he’s never been. The old country of his parents and the land where he’s to spy. Where he must fit in… or die.

What am I doing here? An American, a Texan named Fred Brown. Dad fought for the U.S. Army in the Great War trenches. The one to end them all. And I’m joining another—one that hasn’t started.

Why fool yourself? In 18 months, blitzkrieg finished Poland, Holland, and France. You listened to Churchill’s Dunkirk speech. You’re Frederich Zellner, a youth from the newsreels. Nazi boy. Seig heil.

The hiss from the train’s steam brakes tensed both young men. No longer were they on their way to a spy mission. Brenner marked their arrival in danger. Any mistake, like a retracted foreskin or the wrong dance, would make their return to Texas or Brooklyn impossible.

As the train slowed in approaching the station, the porter helped Vinny don a trench coat and Zelly his cloak. He dreamed of the bonus he expected to collect.

When the door opened to the frigid, brutal wind, Vinny said, “Zelly, welcome home.”

Weather colder than the worst ice age in Texas slammed Zelly’s face. Untucking the earmuffs from his ski cap, he nestled them in place. As he descended the stairs, Wehrmacht troops armed with machine guns surrounded the platform, and a brown-and-black Shepherd greeted with him with a sniff and a snarl. His heart raced.

Once distant threats became real and a dozen times scarier. Before 1938, Brenner was on the border between Italy and Austria. Now, the German Fatherland had devoured the country.

Fit in… or die.

How can I?

A second train had arrived from the north and waited on another track. Since the railroad gauges didn’t match, passengers swapped. Southbound travelers rushed to board as Zelly and Vinny crossed the decking toward the station for processing.

Before they reached the door, a Gestapo officer burst through, almost bowling them over. Blowing a whistle, he pointed at the departing locomotive. “Stop them!”

Zelly located two hunched figures in the direction designated by the officer’s gloved finger. They bounded through snowdrifts in pursuit of the train.

The agent saw the double-diamond pips on Zelly’s shoulder. “Sergeant, apprehend them.”

Zelly sprinted over the wooden platform with boots pounding like kettledrums. Plotting an intercept angle, he vaulted into thigh-deep snow. Running through the drifts required leaping from one to another. As the engine gained speed, he judged they were unlikely to reach.

“Shoot them,” the officer demanded.

As Zelly closed with the pair, he discovered one figure was a woman carrying a bundled baby. She veered toward a stand of pines trees. Since he hadn’t a weapon, he continued pursuit. A sea-level boy sprinting at altitude, he sucked for air. Why does the Gestapo want them?

The answer came quickly. “Juden,” the man yelled.

The fleeing man took the bundle from his wife and led her toward the woods.

The single bulb on the station’s pinnacle extinguished, and blackout curtains darkened the train. Around Zelly, the snowfield shone with a blue phosphorescence reflecting the stars and moon. As the runners approached the forest, distinguishing them from the pine trunks was challenging.

A pistol barked. The muzzle flash lit the tableau like a camera. Zelly spotted a Wehrmacht sergeant rushing from behind the station. The soldier’s machine gun and sprayed bullets.

As he slowed to avoid the fire, the family tumbled to a drift. When he neared, the snow was crimson. A flashlight flickered, highlighting movement in the pile at his feet. The baby still lived. Flailing arms and kicking feet cast aside the blanket and swaddling clothes, revealing a Jewish boy. His fresh circumcision was still red and swollen.

Nine months ago, Jews and circumcisions were beyond Zelly’s experiences. When the Army took him from his farm, they introduced him to Carl Gettler and Bob Silberman, who brought literature, music, and movies to train him in National Socialism. They were from Wittenberg, his pretend hometown, and shared details of their Jewish life, including circumcisions.

Still, those stories of Jews in Germany were no preparation for dead bodies. The automatic weapon had mangled the couple unbelievably. Blood and tissue had splattered everywhere. Once, during training at Fort Sam Houston, Zelly had killed a man. But this scene made his stomach revolt. Blinking away tears, he reached for the boy. As the flashlight’s gleam approached, the infant smiled and quieted.

Gestapo arrived seconds later and centered the light on the child. “Kill him.”

Murder a baby? The idea shell-shocked Zelly.

“Boy, stomp his head,” the officer ordered.

He hesitated, unable to move or respond. A slap stung his cheek like a million needles. Surprised, he stared at Gestapo’s black gloves and recognized his tears and snot as the man flicked them away. He remembered the words of Dr. Otto, one of the three men who recruited him, “German boys obey without question.”

“Trample him.”

I must be a perfect Nazi. Live up to my uniform. Follow his order.

No. I won’t murder. God won’t forgive me, nor will I.

He raised his leg, willing his boot to stomp, but his muscles refused movement. The pistol discharged, and the child disintegrated at his feet. He inspected his sole, poised inches above the child’s head, to find blood, brain, and bone. As bile rose into his mouth, he pivoted and spewed.

The officer turned away. “Your disobedience squandered a bullet. I’ll deal with you inside.”

He wiped his face on a sleeve. A handful of snow eased the stinging cheek. As he approached the platform, Vinny’s expression accused him of failure. He scraped his boots against the deck’s frame, smearing bone and brain. His stomach purged again.

Only the two of them remained outside. Zelly whispered in English. “I couldn’t kill the baby. No way.”

“You’ve been in the glorious Reich for eleven minutes,” Vinny said. “And blown everything. Consequences might be extreme.”

Zelly sniffed, catching death’s stink, as he brushed snow from trouser cuffs. The misstep brought memories of the three men who had recruited him—the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker. The first was Major Donovan, who wanted knowledge of the Nazi war machine. Professor Koehler was the second and lusted for inside information about Germany’s technology. The third one, who snipped the tips of wicks, was Dr. Otto. He sought to prove stories told by escaping Jews.

Vinny led into the station, where he bought coffee from BDM girls. The Bund Deutscher Mädel was the female equivalent of the HJ, short for Hitlerjugend or Hitler Youth.

Relishing the warmth from a pot-bellied stove, Zelly stayed close. He considered coffee, but his stomach objected.

He smiled at me.

He was a Jew.

And you’re a failure.

Since other passengers had finished processing while they were outside, Vinny stepped to a bank-teller-like cage. A jovial Italian greeted him and reached for his documents. “Why are you leaving Italy?”

“Diplomatic posting to Berlin.” Vinny slid his passport through the slit.

The man sighed. “A prestigious job, while I stamp official seals.” After applying ink, he returned the booklet.

“Grazie, signore.” Vinny moved to luggage inspection, which was manned by the Gestapo officer from outside.

Zelly thought he resembled Paul von Henreid in Night Train to Munich.

Lifting his suitcase to the table, Vinny placed a protective hand on top. “Diplomat.”

The inspector frowned. “Open!”

“No, Diplomatic immunity.”

The agent glared, but Vinny hurried to the cage holding a dour German with a sauerkraut-pursed face. He stamped Vinny’s document. “Enjoy your stay in Germany.”

As Zelly approached to the friendly Italian, he broke into a sweat. He slid his passport through the slit, afraid the forgery wouldn’t withstand scrutiny?.

The man glanced at the fake papers and smiled. “Why are you leaving Italy?”

“The exchange program ended. I’m 18 and joining the SS.”

The man’s nose curled at the mention of the Schutzstaffel, but he punched the seal with a grin and said, “Happy Birthday, yesterday.”

Zelly stepped to inspection and the scowling Gestapo officer. Trying a cheery smile, he opened the suitcase for scrutiny. Time to face the consequences of disobedience.

Black-gloved hands pawed through the belongings until they lifted a cloth bag. The inspector removed a glove and loosened the drawstring before pouring vacuum tubes, wires, and assorted electronics on his other hand.

Zelly reached for the components, but stopped himself. “Careful, please. They break easily.”

The Wehrmacht sergeant rushed to aim a machine gun at Zelly’s chest. “Possession of radio parts is illegal.”

A Cheshire-cat grin covered Gestapo’s face. “And smuggling is a capital crime.”

The sergeant’s weapon and commotion brought attention from every passenger. The collective gasp consumed all the air.

Zelly choked out an explanation. “I took some with me to Italy and bought more in Naples. To stay in practice making electrical things.” Turning, he pointed to a patch on his uniform sleeve. “I’m Nachrichten-HJ.”

The sergeant’s eyes recognized the insignia. “C-level, quite remarkable.”

“What do you create?”

Excitement took Zelly’s eyes and voice when he responded. “Circuits, telegraphs, radios, and more.”

Staring passengers gasped again at the admission.

Zelly pulled his Leistungsbuch from his suitcase. The book had signatures for every achievement he completed in the Hitler Youth. Locating the certifications for his Signals specialty, he passed the page to the sergeant. “At C-level, I have full access to electronic parts, including specialized military equipment.”

“His training will be valuable in the service.” The soldier slung the weapon over a shoulder and passed the volume to the officer.

Gestapo dropped the volume in the suitcase without a glance. He glared at Zelly. “All your papers.”

Zelly unbuttoned his tunic pocket and extracted them. He offered the bundle—Ahnenpass establishing his German ethnic genealogy, kennkarte ID card, and Reichspass previously stamped by the Italian. His breath caught with the forgeries firmly in Gestapo hands. The agent compared the identification photo to the face.

Zelly easily matched the smile in the picture—his senior pose from the Fredericksburg High School Yearbook. He remembered the early June Army staff car ride to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, a week after graduation. The butcher passed him a thick manila envelope containing the documents now clutched in a Gestapo fist.

“The perfect blond-haired, blue-eyed boy,” the major had said.

“Forging was easy,” Doctor Otto had said. “Putting supporting material in place was harder. Complementary records had to appear in file cabinets at your schools, Wittenberg’s town hall, and a host of other places. We are what Hitler fears most—an international conspiracy of Jews.”

The idea of global conspiracies echoed in Zelly’s mind as the man studied his papers. Growing impatient, he read the man’s name badge. “Herr Stengler, is there a problem?”

Stengler showed some blank pages in the Ahnenpass. “You mentioned joining the SS? Requirements have changed. You need two more generations of genealogy on your father’s side.”

Zelly took the documents with a crestfallen expression. Shit, the Jewish conspiracy didn’t think of everything. “I’m adopted. Doubt anything more is possible.” He studied the man.

Stengler had close-cropped fair hair, sporting hints of gray, and black eyes tinged with amusement. A slight scar beside his ear twitched when he smirked, a Cheshire-cat-like grin. He chewed for an instant before opening a Schmalzler tin, pinching some, and sniffing up his nose. “Sergeant Zellner, step into the office. We’ll deal with your disobedience.”

Sweat came like a waterfall over his forehead and down his sides. He shook almost too much to walk, but managed a shuffle to a tiny enclosure with stationmaster etched on the window. Vinny’s worried face followed his progress, and fellow passengers scowled at the delay.

A desk and chair cramped the space. Stengler perched on the writing surface, leaving Zelly only inches between his knees and the wall. “Adopted?” he asked.

Zelly offered his cover story. “My birth parents were Friedrich and Marta Just. He was an ardent National Socialist, one of Hitler’s first followers. When I was seven months, he died in a bomb blast when he tried to help der Führer escape from prison. Faced with a baby and no husband, she abandoned me at her sister’s farm in Wittenberg. August and Freida Zellner raised me and gave me their family name.”

“Frederich Just, I recall from the list of martyrs.” Stengler touched the Martyr’s badge pinned to Zelly’s tunic pocket. A black laurel wreath ringed the gold center circle and black swastika. “Not intended for wear by a living person.”

“It is all I have of him. The mayor and HJ leaders didn’t object.”

“No complain, only a puzzling observation.” Stengler’s forehead furrowed. “Son of a martyr who refuses to kill a vermin. You dishonor your father.”

“I didn’t want the stinking baby’s blood on the uniform. It would die in the drifts or the dogs would enjoy a game.” Zelly purposefully used the subhuman pronoun as he stared at Stengler’s scar.

“You disobeyed an order, yet your record shows exemplary HJ service. A curious contradiction.” Stengler’s gaze hardened. “Are you a Jew-lover or a weak boy?”

“I’ve killed one before, sir.”

Stengler scoffed. “Tell the story.”

The tiny office closed in, coffin-like. The man’s apricot snuff stunk nearly to Zelly’s choking point. He summarized the experience. “In the November Progrom, a Jewish man resisted orders. In a fight, I finished him, but he left a scar.”

“Scars are honorable in the SS. Show me.” Stengler said.

“Under the trousers, sir.”

“So, lower them.” Stengler’s eyes danced in anticipation.

“Ladies are present.” Zelly thumbed to the window where Vinny’s scowl and the faces of passengers and BDM girls stared.

A guttural chuckle came from Stengler’s throat. “They have brothers and sons.” His eyebrows peaked. “Or do you hesitate again?”

Zelly followed Doctor Otto’s advice and dropped his slacks. Giggles penetrated the door as he lifted his tunic and shirt to reveal the scar arcing around his scrotum.

“A Jew got you by the balls?” Stengler snorted and guffawed.

“I killed him for it.”

Stengler cupped Zelly’s testicles. His touch was revolting. “Details?” The only option was to remain at attention and let the officer do what he wanted. He bent, eyes inches away from the groin. His fingers traced the blemish.

Zelly invented a lie. “Orders were for the HJ squad to harass a jeweler the night before Martin Luther’s birthday. Someone had warned the man because the expensive stuff was in a safe. A display case had some rings, charming but not lavish. I wanted one for mother and another for a girlfriend. I opened the cabinet with a dagger and chose two. The Jew rushed from a back room. His hand thrust up the leg hole and grabbed from behind. When I turned to stab him, he ripped the skin. The blade plunged in his heart, and the squad went home with attractive jewelry.”

In Stengler’s lecherous excitement, his hand remained against Zelly’s penis.

“May I dress? The train is waiting.”

“The Progrom was two years ago. The discoloration isn’t right. Your story is suspicious.”

Zelly made himself presentable. “I’d have liked faster healing.”

As they came from the office, the conductor hurried passengers to the track. Zelly caught up with Vinny, but his open luggage remained behind. At the platform’s edge, they lingered with engine noise masking conversation.

“Your mission might end here and now,” Vinny said. “And why were your trousers down?”

“I told him the scar was before Italy, but he didn’t believe. I fucked up right from the start.”

“You realize this isn’t your first mistake.”

Zelly bobbed his head vigorously. “I’m not murdering a baby. I never imagined things would be so bad. God, I want to go home.”

“You are home,” Vinny teased. “Didn’t you figure you’d have to kill a Jew? You’re joining the SS. Isn’t that what they do?” He pulled a red eagle pack of Regie 4 Zigareten from his trench coat pocket and lit two. Passing one to Zelly, he added, “And your luggage is still inside.”

Stengler checked the stationmaster’s clock—4:30 AM. He caught Zelly’s furtive glance at the inspection table and monitored him and his traveling companion head toward the tracks. Picking up the desk phone, he clicked for service. “Berlin. HJ headquarters at Torstrasse No. 1.” He waited minutes until the call rang back.

“Heil Hitler!” A sleepy voice answered. “Hitlerjugend Hauptquartier.”

“Herr Stengler from Gestapo. Do you have a Sergeant Zellner in transit from a youth exchange program in Italy?”

“Let me consult the board.” Soon, another voice came on the line. “Frederich Zellner is due late today. He is traveling on the Rome-Berlin express with Vincente Testaneuvo, a diplomat from the host family in Naples and a member of Gioventù Italiana del Littorio, the Italian Fascist party.”

“One more question. How long was the boy in Italy?”

“Since December of ’38. Have you discovered some problem?”

“No. This is Brenner station reporting he’s on his way.” Stengler clicked off and turned his attention to the suitcase. A better search found a curious tool tucked inside a sock. Like a Swiss Army knife, the device had two blades and a dozen other fold-out tools.

Buried under everything was a snap to open a secret compartment. Within, he discovered some German literature, but other items demanded attention—two nasty Italian magazines and an American technical book. The Reich had banned pornography and few 18-year-old Germans read or spoke English. His curiosity increased.

The stationmaster came to Stengler’s shoulder. “Something for you about the HJ boy.”

The agent’s eyes shot to his face. “Well?”

“Their Pullman had butler service. While you were chasing Jews through the snow, the man made a report by telegraph to Rome’s foreign office.” He provided the sheet used to compose the message.

Stengler read, “Early in the night while VT slept, the German picked the lock on the diplomatic pouch and perused contents. Most conversation was about girls, one named Carlotta, and sex. But VT complained she guessed the blond boy’s background when he taught her a dance.” How would it betray his circumstances?

“Danke,” Stengler said, growing more curious about Herr Zellner. This requires investigation. He closed the suitcase, intentionally leaving clothing pieces askew between the clasps and the literature from the compartment exposed. “Take his bag to the train.” He summoned the Wehrmacht sergeant and machine-gun. They entered a third-class car with rows of bench seats. No more fancy service for them. The conductor tossed the luggage at Zelly’s feet.

Stengler grinned at Zellner’s sigh. Anticipation struck the officer like the first tug on a fishing line. He caught a shudder ripple through the boy. Gestapo attention frequently ignited internal squirms. He popped the fasteners and kicked the case, spilling the contents across the floor. “Did you think I would miss the secret compartment?”

“I-i-it isn’t a s-s-secret. Only a place for papers.”

Stengler chuckled at the stutter. He longed to rip a fresh scar around the kid’s testicle. This one will crack easily. “Including this book?” He pulled the volume from the pile and flashed it for other passengers to view. “What’s the title?”

“The Design of Audio Amplifiers Using Regeneration by an American expert in radio detection and range finding.”

Stengler shrugged away the explanation. “You understand English?” He asked in the language.

When the kid nodded, others gasped, and a protective expression hit the Italian friend.

“Sergeant Zellner, the Bann number on your shoulder boards is for Wittenberg, where schools don’t teach the subject.”

“In electronics, I find insights in foreign books we’ve often missed,” Zelly said. “Is having an English manual illegal? Or speaking it?”

“You should read German material!” Stengler said.

“I do.”

“Like these?” Stengler pulled two nasty publications from the pile. Anticipating the shock value, he displayed the pornography for the passengers. One cover featured a nearly naked blonde — black gloves, heels, and the tiniest string panty — posed with a leashed leopard. The headline read, “Pet my pussy?”

Two benches back, a woman spat. “Degenerate!”

“They helped him master the language,” the Italian diplomat said.

Stengler winked. “Sergeant Zellner, parli italiano?”

Zelly answered. “L’italiano era la seconda lingua a scuola.”

He was momentarily stunned. “So, you’ve mastered three languages at eighteen?”

“Not mastered. Too many words yet to learn.”

The soldier asked, “Where did you qualify C-level?”

“Army signals corps school in Halle.”

Stengler seized the offense. “Perhaps you recall an acquaintance—Theodor Von Brincken?”

“Of course. The colonel was headmaster.”

The correct answer brought no reaction. Stengler had never met the man, only memorized a name from the achievement book, like Zellner might have.

The conductor waved his pocket timepiece. “The schedule. We must depart.”

The sergeant edged in. “Herr Stengler, his qualification at C-level explains the parts and manual. As for pornography, at eighteen, I indulged, too. And I’m sure you have. I’m finished here.” He left the train.

Stengler sat across from the Zelly. “To avoid further delay, we’ll visit on route.” He sprung his trap. “I taught in Wittenberg before the war?” He viewed Zelly’s Adam’s apple bob as the boy swallowed hard. He relished in the twinge of fright coming from him.

“Which gymnasium, Luther-Melanchthon or Wittenberg?” Zelly asked.

“Wittenberg.” Stengler’s whiff of fear blossomed to a stench. “I was the only Italian teacher.” He paused for maximum impact. “I remember every student, but find nothing familiar about you. A Zellner never appeared on the rolls.”