Free Sleeper Agent by Ib Melchior

to,” he said. “Just . . . tell me what you can. How did you come here? Why did you use the false Kennkarte? Why?”
    “Because . . . they told me to.” It was a mere whisper. But it was a beginning.
    “Who? Who told you to?”
    “The Gestapo.”
    And slowly, haltingly the girl told her story.
    She was indeed the wife of Colonel Wolfgang Steinmetz—and proud of it. He was a good man. A good soldier. A good German. The false Kennkarte had been given to her by the Gestapo in Prague. That’s why it could not be detected as a forgery. It was the real thing except for the name. She had been ordered to use it. She had been told that all members of the families of Gestapo and SS officers were put to death by the enemy. Perhaps tortured. She never doubted it. Had she not heard it said over the radio by Dr. Goebbels himself? She had nightmares thinking about her little boy being killed. Or tortured.
    She had been told to destroy her real identification card, but she had not been able to do it. It had been the final link to her true identity, as the document pertaining to her husband had been the last concrete link to him.
    Flat-eyed, lifelessly she told her story in a low, monotonous voice. She had been caught. The wife of a Gestapo colonel. Using forged papers. She would be executed. She—and her son. She was convinced of it. It is what the Gestapo would have done. . . .
    Tom listened to her in silence. It was not a new story. He’d heard it before in every conceivable variation.
    The girl fell silent.
    “Where is the Colonel now?” Tom asked gently.
    Her expression did not change. She was beyond reaction. “I do not know.”
    “When did you last see him?”
    “Not for many weeks.”
    “What was the special assignment on the Gestapo order you were carrying?”
    “I do not know.”
    “What were your husband’s duties in the Gestapo?”
    “I do not know.”
    I do not know. . . . I do not know. . . . I do not know. . . . The same answer delivered in the exact flat tone of voice. Over and over again. There was no way of reaching her.
    To herself, her person, her existence, her actions mattered no more. She was dead.
    Larry joined them. Together the two CIC agents tried to convince the girl that she would not be killed. That she would not be tortured. That her son would not in any way be harmed. That her beliefs were wrong, the result of Goebbels’ propaganda and Gestapo lies.
    They could not reach her behind her flat, drawn mask of total resignation. Patiently they explained to her that she would have to go before a Military Government court in the morning on a charge of using falsified identification papers. She might be fined. She might not. A travel permit would have to be issued. But she would be allowed to go on. To Bayreuth. Home. With her son. No harm would come to either of them.
    She would have to spend the night in jail. Not imprisoned by American troops. No. In the local German jail. Among her own people. Her boy would be with her friend. They would be put up at the Gasthaus for the night. In the morning they would all three be on their way. She listened, empty-eyed. They were not sure she heard them.
    It was late. They decided to wait until morning to interrogate the other girl, Liselotte Greiner, once again. They had little hope of getting any information from her. Tom felt certain that both girls knew more than they would admit. They were lying. But, then, they might also be telling the truth. They would try to find out. In the morning. . . .
    In the morning, early, Tom was awakened by an insistent banging on the door to his room.
    “Yes?” he called groggily, fighting his way up from a deep sleep.
    “Sir!” It was Sergeant Pete Connors. “You’re wanted on the phone. It’s the jail. It’s urgent!”
    He was wide awake at once. He hurried to the interrogation room.
    It was the German jailer. “ Bitteschön! Bitteschön!” His pleading voice sounded panic-stricken. “Please! Please come to the