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Melissa crawled out from under the folds of
her parachute. It was pitch dark
and she was freezing cold. That
was not surprising considering that she had come down in about six feet of
snow. It was probably that fact
that had saved her from injury. Her
chute had caught the branches of a tall tree and she had dropped unaided
the last thirty or forty feet. More
importantly, however, where was she and where was
Larra? Things had not gone quite
as planned. As soon as she had
left the aircraft she found herself swept along in a whirlwind of
snow. Completely at the mercy
of the wind she had been swept over the dark landscape hoping like hell that
she would not be dashed against a tree or rock as she plummeted toward
ground.
At least her chute had opened properly, but
she had no control over where the wind took her, nor could she see any sign
of Larra. She could only hope
that the wind was blowing them both in the same
direction.
She dragged herself through the snow, seeking
firmer ground. She was impeded
by the heavy duffel bag that held her equipment, but fought through the heavy
drifts, dragging it behind her.
Finally, the snow thinned and she found herself on firmer
ground. It was still as dark
as the inside of a cow’s stomach, but Melissa sensed that she was in
a grove of trees. It was as good
a place to wait as any until it got a little bit lighter and she could determine
where she had landed.
She listened for the
signal. Both she and Larra had
been given small whistles that they were to use it if they were
separated. Fumbling in her pocket
she took out her own whistle and put it to her
lips. She blew twice and
waited. If Larra was close enough
there should be a return signal.
There was
nothing. Melissa tried again,
but again no signal was returned.
It appeared that Larra had landed too far away to hear the signal
– either that or…
Melissa shut the thought out of her
mind. Something as simple as
jumping out of a plane over mountainous terrain could not have done away
with Larra. Not doubt she was
a few miles away, blowing on her own
whistle. It was time to go to
the alternative plan. In the
morning she would try to make her way to the nearest village and hope that
Larra did the same. Melissa had
been given a detailed map of the drop
zone. In the morning she should
be able to spot a few landmarks and figure out where she
was.
She pulled open the duffel bag and began to
pull out her survival gear, and was startled by the roar of an engine and
the by the glare of headlights as a vehicle came over the top of a
hill. Instantly she dropped flat,
cursing the fact that she had landed purely by chance right next to a
road.
Even worse, with a squeal of brakes, the vehicle
slammed to a halt and there was the sound of boots hitting the ground, followed
by the sound of guttural commands.
Melissa’s bowels
clenched. She had heard that
language before.
Germans. Of all the damned
bad luck. She tried to make herself
as small as possible, hoping that she would not be seen.
“Over here,
Obersturmführer. The whistle came from this
direction.”
Feet crunched through the snow heading directly
toward her. From the sound Melissa
determined that there were at least a half dozen or more
men. Trapped out in the open
she could only remain still as the steps came closer and a searchlight from
the vehicle swept over the ground.
Melissa held her position as long as she
could. She was unarmed, her pistol
strapped inside her jumpsuit. She
had not thought to take it out after freeing herself from the
snowdrift. Finally, as the boots
crunched toward her, she leaped to her feet and
bolted.
Shouts of alarm followed her as
she dashed among the
trees. Actually “dashed”
was not quite accurate. The knee
deep snow reduced her flight to floundering as she attempted to
escape. Strangely no bullets
followed her. Instead shouted
commands ordered her pursuers to “Take him
alive.”
Reaching the trees she found shallower snow
and increased her speed, but the sounds of pursuit were all around
her. Men chased after her on
both sides and directly behind, forcing her to run straight ahead.
She redoubled her efforts, straining
her long legs as she darted over fallen trees and roots and dodged around
tree trunks. Slowly she gained
on her pursuers and then she tripped over a branch hidden beneath the snow
and fell flat into a drift.
Floundering to regain her feet she turned
just as the closest pursuer caught up with
her. She drove her foot into
the panting German, dropping him into the snow and then whirled as another
man came up on her right. Seeing
his companion go down he leveled his MP .38 submachine gun at
her. Too far away for her to
attack, Melissa bolted again, hoping that the soldier would remember the
officer’s orders not to shoot.
The brief delay, however, proved her
undoing. She ran straight into
another soldier who struck at her with the butt of his
weapon. She easily blocked the
clumsy blow, but then several other soldiers
arrived.
She had badly underestimated how many there
were. She saw by the light of
several flashlights that there were at least ten soldiers.
Coming at her from several
directions, they simply overwhelmed her.
She took out three of them before they did, hammering her foes with
a flurry of kicks and punches, and then someone struck her from behind, dropping
her to her knees. Immediately
the remaining men piled into her.
Someone slammed a fist into her head, knocking her almost
unconscious.
“Obersturmführer,” one of the soldiers
called. “She is a
woman!” Hands gripped her
arms, forcing them behind her.
Coarse rope was lashed around her wrists and arms and then she was
dragged to her feet.
“What have we here?” the officer said,
shining his flashlight into her face.
Melissa blinked in the
glare. “Hmm,” the officer
said, grabbing her hair and lifting her head, “I think the
Standartenführer
is going to have fun with this
one.” He stepped
back. “Bring her,”
he ordered, “and find her gear.
We have an appointment at the
castle.”
Melissa strained her perspiration-soaked body. In spite of the freezing cold of the underground cell droplets of sweat dripped from her bare nipples, freezing almost as soon as they hit the floor. She had been struggling to escape her bonds for several hours, ever since she had been locked in the dimly lit dungeon cell.
The pain in her arms and shoulders was becoming almost unbearable. Chained over her head, her wrists were confined by heavy iron manacles that stretched her five-foot-eleven-inch frame, exhibiting her exquisite body to perfection and forcing her to stand on the tips of her toes to relieve the pain. Exhausted from her ordeal and her battle against the cold, she was reaching the end of her endurance. Even worse, she suspected that her captors would soon return. They had hinted as much when they had placed her in the room.
She had to escape. Larra was out there somewhere, possibly wandering the Romanian countryside looking for her. Desperately she twisted her wrists, but succeeded only in losing a bit more skin. Her wrists were bloody as a result of her struggles, but she was no closer to escape than when she had started.
She stopped her struggling, her chest heaving from exertion; too tired to continue. Despairingly she looked over her head. Even if she could free herself from the chains getting out of the cell would be almost impossible. The only entrance was twenty feet over her head. She had been lowered into the cell by the chains that held her wrists. And even if she could somehow climb unaided to the top of the cell was it possible for her to pick the lock without any tools to aid her?
It seemed impossible, especially in her exhausted condition. She began to shiver violently. Perhaps her captors intended her to freeze to death although she doubted it. That would be too easy. She had seen the looks on the faces of her captors as they had chained her naked body. She had no doubt she would not be allowed an “easy” way out like freezing to death.
Her mind began to wander. The cold, exhaustion, and pain had her close to passing out. “Must not go to sleep,” she gasped. “Fatal.” Slowly her eyes closed and her thoughts drifted away.
Iolanda Voda looked apprehensively toward
the castle. Last night a German
patrol had passed close to her cottage.
The glare of the headlights and shouts of the soldiers had awakened
both her and her father. A few
minutes before she had heard the engines of a low-flying plane and she suspected
the two events were connected.
Quickly she moved toward the well, bucket in hand and then something
unusual caught her eye.
She stood still for several seconds and then
tying her shawl more tightly about her dark hair she set down the bucket
and moved toward the trees. As
she neared the object her brow furrowed.
She had never seen anything like it
before.
Quickly she pushed through the deep
snow. As she neared the object
she finally saw what it was as a puff of wind billowed out the silk out from
the tree. She still did not know
what the object was; only that such a large amount of silk must be worth
a small fortune. She looked back
toward the castle and then all around.
There seemed on one else about, but it did not pay to be
careless. Since the arrival of
the Germans it had become a great deal more dangerous for her
people. Even though her father
had taken the precaution of changing the family name it was possible that
that someone in the local population might recognize them for what they
were.
Moving even faster now, she hurried toward
the silk. It hung from the tree
in great folds. Her dark eyes
widened. It would be worth a
fortune! Enough to keep her family
for several years. Her foot caught
on something buried in the snow and she sprawled
flat. Shaking the snow from her
clothing she got to her feet and looked to see what she had fallen
over.
Her face
paled. A leg was sticking out
of the snow. Then she almost
shrieked in fear as the leg moved and a low moan issued from a lump still
hidden beneath the snow. Her
heart hammering, she moved toward the hidden form and began to brush the
snow away. In a few seconds a
body was revealed. It took her
a few more seconds to realize that it was that of a
woman. Her body and head was
concealed by a well padded khaki suit.
It was this, plus the thin covering of snow that had probably helped
her to survive the cold.
Uncertain what to do, Iolanda stood for few
seconds. Should she try and help
the woman where she was or go for help?
Her forest home was only a few minutes away, but the woman might need
immediate help. On the other
hand, it was possible the woman might also be severely injured and if she
was moved it might aggravate her
injuries. That final thought
made up her mind. Moving as fast
as she could she dashed back toward the cottage.
She arrived breathless, and it was a few seconds
before she could make her father understand why she was so
excited. Once she had made clear
the emergency, however, her father immediately pulled on his coat and left
the shabby hut they called home.
Outside he retrieved the sled he used for hauling wood, and pulling
it behind him, followed her back to the injured
woman.
“Parachute,” said her father, when
he saw the folds of silk hanging from the branches of the
tree. Iolanda recognized the
name. So that was what it
was. She remembered the low flying
plane. Had the woman come from
the sky? If so who was she and
why was she here? Those answers
would have to wait. Together
she and her father loaded the woman on to the sled and pulled her back to
the cottage. As they did so they
found that she had a large duffel bag tethered to her
leg. Not bothering to remove
it, they loaded that onto the sled as well.
During the ride, the woman moaned occasionally
but did not regain consciousness.
Her father carried her into the cottage and set her on the
bed. “Tend to her,
daughter,” he said. I must
see that the parachute and whatever else came down with the woman is secured
before anyone else sees it.”
Iolanda
nodded. It was important to make
sure that no one knew they had the strange woman in their
home. It was almost certain that
the Germans and the Hungarian authorities would not
approve. It was equally important
that her father salvage what he could before someone else got to
it. Such a windfall could not
be passed up.
Carefully she removed the woman’s clothing,
looking for signs of injury. All
she could find was a few bruises and a very large bump on the back of the
woman’s head. She also noted
that even in her battered condition the woman was very
beautiful. More importantly,
she found several articles of value in the pockets of the woman’s
clothing. It was as she was
unbuttoning the woman’s shirt, however, that she chanced upon a discovery
that took her breath away.
She stared, dumbfounded, hardly able to believe
that so much money existed in the whole
world. In a belt around the
woman’s waist was a fortune in Hungarian, German, and British currency,
not to mention several dozen gold coins.
This was worth far more than the
parachute.
For a few seconds she just stared at the fortune
she had found. Her conscience
sawed back and forth between greed and
compassion. Greed
won. Someone carrying this much
money would surely not miss it, whereas her need and that of her father was
desperate. And it wasn’t
as if she wasn’t going to help the
woman. She had found her and
brought her in from the cold, probably saving her
life. Surely a reward was
warranted.
Quickly she picked up the booty and scooped
it back into the belt. She had
to hide it quickly before the woman woke
up. Her eye lit on the duffel
bag. What might be in there if
this is what the woman carried on her person?
Opening the duffel bag she emptied it item
by item, placing the contents on the
table. Her eyes widened even
further as she found the heavy semi-automatic
pistol. She had never held a
gun before and she placed it gently on the table, afraid that if she held
it wrong it might go off.
At that moment the women groaned again, this
time much louder. Her eyes fluttered
and then opened momentarily.
Quickly Iolanda moved to her side, screening the awakening stranger
from the goods she had strewn on the
table.
The woman closed her eyes again and then slowly
opened them. Iolanda was struck
by their colour. Deep pools of
violet stared up at her. The
woman tried to speak but her voice was just a
croak. Iolanda was
caught. It was obvious the woman
needed water, but she could not get it without exposing all of the wealth
strewn on the table.
She was saved when the door
opened. Her father had returned,
carrying the folded parachute.
Quickly she pulled a blanket over the woman to hide her nudity and
at the same time, she signaled her father with her eyes indicating the hoard
on the table. Her father nodded
and while she continued to shield the women, he tossed the parachute onto
the table covering it and its contents.
Iolanda then went to the water bucket, and
filling the dipper returned and held it to the woman’s
lips. The woman sipped gratefully
and then lay back and closed her eyes.
She seemed to go back to sleep and Iolanda chose the moment to whisper
to her father.
“What are we to
do? Do you see the wealth this
woman brought with her? We will
be rich. But what are we to do
with her? We cannot turn her
over to the authorities. They
would ask too many questions.”
He father
nodded. “Good fortune has
smiled on us at last. We cannot
afford to miss this opportunity.”
He thought for a second and then
continued. He gestured toward
the table. “We will hide
this. When she is fully awake
we will tell her that we found her wandering half-dressed in the
forest. I doubt that she will
remember anything different. But
we must be careful. If the
authorities find out she is here…”
Iolanda’s father did not have to
elaborate. The Hungarian government
had been most active in persecuting the Romani even before it had allied
itself with its Nazi
masters.
At the age of eighteen Iolanda was not yet married due to the fact
that her betrothed had been arrested and taken away just a week before her
wedding. That had been five years
ago and they had been forced to flee their native village for fear of their
lives, her father changing his name and taking up an occupation as a woodcutter
in the most remote region of the country he could
find.
That had been upset when the Germans had arrived
and set up in the castle that looked down upon the small mountain
town. Now they lived every day
in fear of discovery. It would
take just one disgruntled or suspicious neighbour for them to suffer the
same fate shared by thousands of their fellow
Romani.
But now they had a chance to
escape. The wealth that had fallen
into their hands meant that they could now escape their persecutors and move
to a new land where they could live without
fear. There only problem was
what to do with the strange woman who had fallen into their
hands.
Bodi Molnar slunk back from the window of
the cottage. He had seen
enough. He might be able to collect
a rich reward for this. Quickly
he headed toward the village and the local police
headquarters. He was certain
they would be most interested in what he had
discovered. Not only had he
discovered a pair of Gypsies posing as Hungarians, but they were harbouring
what appeared to be an enemy agent.
He smiled in glee. It
was fortunate he had decided to go to work early this
morning. Now he would profit
from his dedication.
Larra opened her
eyes. At first she could distinguish
nothing in the poorly lit room, but gradually her eyes adjusted and she was
able to make out that she was in a sparsely furnished one-room peasant’s
hut. It contained a bed, which
she was occupying; a table built from crudely sawn boards, with two chairs
to match; a few household items such as an iron pot that hung over the fireplace;
and very little else. A ladder
gave access to a hole in the ceiling, which was probably another sleeping
area or perhaps a storeroom.
She was alone, at least
temporarily. There was a fire
in the hearth and the cooking pot was swung over it, filling the hut with
a savoury smell. Larra’s
stomach growled and she salivated at the thought of
food. She was terribly hungry,
but needed water more. Slowly
she sat up and found that despite being stiff and sore and suffering a slight
residual headache, she seemed to have no permanent
damage.
Near the door was a wooden bucket with a ladle
protruding from the top. The
bucket reminded Larra that she would soon have to attend to another bodily
function, but that would have to wait.
Throwing back the covers of the bed, she discovered something
else. She had been thoroughly
searched. Every personal possession
and everything of value had been removed from her
person. The discovery made her
realize that her rescuers, whomever they might be, were not altogether
altruistic.
She drank deeply of the water, refilling the
ladle several times, and then searched the cabin for her
boots. Unfortunately, they, like
every other item she needed, were nowhere to be
seen. Frustrated she sat down
by the fire and ladled a helping of the contents of the kettle into a wooden
bowl. It turned out to be quite
good stew, which improved her mood
somewhat.
Now there seemed nothing to do but wait, but
waiting was incredibly dangerous.
What if the person or persons who had taken all of her possession
decided to inform the Hungarian
authorities? However, leaving
the hut without boots or proper clothing in winter weather was tantamount
to suicide. A short peek out
the door showed her that the cabin was
isolated. If she fled it would
mean a walk over snow-covered ground wearing only a shirt and
pants. She would not get far
before exposure did her in.
With few options left to her she sat by the
fire and waited. Sooner or later
and probably sooner, judging from the fact that the stew was ready to eat,
the inhabitants of the hut would return.
When they did Larra intended that they return to her everything they
had stolen.
A sound outside the hut prepared
her. As the young girl entered,
Larra rose noting with satisfaction the look of shock and fear that swept
over her girl’s dusky features.
With a cry the girl turned to flee, but Larra caught her in one stride
and spinning the girl about, pushed her toward the bed, positioning herself
between the girl and the door.
“Now,” Larra said, “you are going to tell me what is
going on here.”
Something in the girl’s eyes warned her,
that and a slight sound as someone else entered from behind
her. She stepped to the side
and avoided having a billet of wood smack her
skull. She could easily have
killed the man who wielded it, but something stayed her
hand. Perhaps it was the man’s
peasant-like appearance or the awkward way he held his crude weapon, but
somehow he didn’t seem like a man who went around hitting women over
the head. She settled for twisting
the man’s arm until he howled in pain and dropped the piece of
firewood. She then shoved the
man across the tiny room, where he stood beside the girl, holding his
wrist.
“Now,” Larra repeated, “as
I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, what is going on
here? And don’t lie to
me. I am sometimes short of
patience. Let’s start with
what you two have done with my property.”
Neither the man, who Larra assumed was the
girl’s father, nor the girl
answered. Instead they stared
at her in seeming disbelief. At
that moment, there was the roar of a car’s engine, followed by a squeal
of brakes as a vehicle pulled up outside the
hut. This was followed by the
sound of a second vehicle coming to a
halt. Larra glared at the man
and girl, but they appeared as surprised by the arrival of the cars as she
was.
Outside there was the sound of several voices
and then the door burst open, almost flying off its hinges from the force
of the blow. Several men attempted
to crowd into the tiny room, all of them carrying guns.
“So,” said the first to enter, a
man dressed in a police officer’s uniform and sporting a heavy drooping
mustache, “an English spy, and a couple of
Gypsies. The visitors at the
castle are going to be most interested in this English
bitch. And I think I am going
to enjoy questioning the Gypsy whore.”
“Please,” said the girl’s father,
clenching his hands in front of him, “we know nothing of this
woman. She is a stranger who
happened upon our hut.”
“You’re lying, Gypsy pig,”
the mustachioed police officer said.
“I’m going to enjoy beating the truth out of you, once I
have enjoyed the company of your daughter.”
“No, please,” begged the
man. “It was not her
fault. I brought the English
woman into my home. Blame me,
but let her go.”
“Let her go?” the officer
sneered. “Not until I’ve
had a little fun with her.
I’ve heard Gypsy women are something special and I intend to
find out for myself.”
The officer gestured with his
pistol. “Outside, all of
you,” he ordered.
Larra had stood quietly, her hands raised
as the Hungarian police officer had gloated over his
catch. Taking out the three men
who had forced their way in would have accomplished very
little. From the number of voices
she had heard, and the fact that two automobiles had driven up, she was sure
that there were at least six men involved in the
raid. Trapped in the hut, with
only a single way out, there was little point in offering resistance until
she had a better idea of the situation.
The man still pleading, the girl weeping in
fear, and Larra with her hands high over her head, the trio of captives trooped
into the snow-covered yard. Larra
saw that there were actually seven men, numbers that gave her captors so
much confidence that they had not even bothered to handcuff their
prisoners. Larra gave them no
time to correct that oversight.
As one of the policemen stepped forward to
take her arm, she shifted her weight and drove the heel of her hand into
the man’s nose. As he reeled
back, Larra seized him by the lapels and using him as a shield shoved him
into the gun-wielding senior officer, while at the same time she snaked his
pistol from his holster. As he
staggered back she hammered the back of her left hand into the solar plexus
of the officer nearest her, and then whirled upon the
others. She fired her pistol
even as they brought their guns up.
Crack!
Crack! Crack! Larra fired three
times leaving three men dead. The
remaining man turned and bolted for one of the
cars. Snatching up a billet from
the woodpile she hurled it spinning into the back of the head of the running
man, dropping him in his tracks.
She then returned to the first three men she had
attacked. None of them offered
further resistance. One was still
unconscious, the others raised their hands their eyes wide with fear.
The woodcutter and his daughter stood with
mouths agape. The girl was so
pale Larra thought she was going to
faint. The man trembled in fear
as Larra picked up another of the pistols from the men she had killed and
shoved it into her waistband.
She motioned to one of the surviving police
officers with the muzzle of her pistol.
“Handcuff them,” she ordered indicating the other
officers. Quickly the man moved
to do her bidding. When he was
finished Larra spoke to the girl.
“Now him,” she ordered, “and make sure the others are
properly secured.”
As the girl complied, she took up where she
had left off. “I have even
less time now than I had before.
Someone may have heard those
shots. What have you done with
my equipment? Don’t try
to lie; I am almost out of patience.”
For a few seconds the father and daughter
just looked at her. They could
hardly believe what had happened.
In just seconds an unarmed woman had defeated seven men, killing three
of them with their own weapons.
They began to talk.
Larra got behind the wheel of one of the police
vehicles. In the back seat were
the man and girl she had encountered in the woodcutter’s
hut. They were none too happy
about the situation, but it couldn’t be
helped.
She had herded the remaining police officers
into the hut and nailed the door shut.
It turned out that one of them
was not a member of the police force.
The girl identified him as a neighbour who lived just up the
road. Probably he was the one
who had informed on them.
Fortunately, Larra doubted that they would be going anywhere
soon. However, there was still
the fact that someone might have heard the pistol shots and almost certainly
someone must know where the police officers had
gone. She didn’t have much
time. First she had to try and
find Melissa. They had arranged
a rendezvous point in case they had gotten separated in the parachute
drop.
If Melissa didn’t turn up she would just
have to continue on her own. In
the meantime, there was the problem of what to do about the girl and the
man who had rescued her. She
had discovered that they were father and
daughter. Iolanda and Arpad Voda,
or so they said. Larra suspected
that like a number of racial minorities they had probably taken Hungarian
names. Their dusky skin seemed
to indicate that they might me Romani, but neither father nor daughter had
revealed much about themselves.
In spite of the fact that they had tried to
rob her, they had also probably saved her
life. She couldn’t very
well just leave them to the Hungarian authorities, who would no doubt be
rather upset over the deaths of three of their
officers. On the other hand,
they were definitely hampering her
mission.
She drove down the snow-covered road, heading
away from the town. Above her
loomed the castle that was her target and a few miles further on was the
rendezvous point.
“What are you going to do with us?”
came the girl’s voice from the back
seat.
“I’m not sure,” Larra
replied. “You have created
a problem for me. I can’t
just leave you for the police, but I can’t haul you around with me forever
either. Do you have any place
you can hide?”
“Yes,” answered
Arpad. “If you have a way
to get us there.”
“I’ll let you have the car and you
can take it wherever you want as soon as I’ve finished with
it. And I’ll give you enough
cash to take care of your needs for a few
months. The parachute will bring
in some money as well, but I would not advise selling it too
openly.”
“Don’t worry,” Arpad
answered. “We’ll find
a way to dispose of it.”
“I’ll bet you will,” Larra
thought.
She drove on another few miles and then slowed
as they entered a village. Even
though the police car was not marked, Larra did not want to attract too much
attention by racing through and in such a remote region of
She was halfway through the village before
she saw the roadblock.
It was beautifully located on a bend in the
road. A driver approaching from
either direction would not know it was there until it was too late to turn
back.
“Damn,” Larra
muttered. She turned her head
slightly. “Get down on the
floor. I’m going
through.” She picked up
one of the pistols in her left hand, downshifted the gear and tromped on
the gas.
“Christ,” she said as she neared
the roadblock.
“Germans.”
Hungarian police or soldiers would have been
bad enough. But she was committed
now. She was close enough to
see the faces of the German soldiers as they raised their submachine guns
and rifles. One hand on the wheel
and the other pulling the trigger of her pistol, she smashed aside the
barricade.
Bullets ripped through the
car. From the backseat Larra
heard a female squeal of terror and then with pieces of barricade trailing
from the car she was through and roaring out of the village, bullets following
her.
Suddenly the car veered sharply to the
right. Dropping the now empty
pistol, Larra used all of her strength to jerk the car back onto the road,
but the car continued to swerve toward the edge of the
road. Swinging the wheel the
other way she tried to correct the skid.
The car slammed into a stone wall with a sickening
crash. The impact threw Larra
from one side of the car to the other, hammering her into the door with enough
force to burst it open and hurl her onto the
ground.
She hit rolling, fetching up against the wall
of a house. For a few seconds
she lay there, dazed, and then attempted to get to her
feet. A boot slammed into her
head, rocking her back. A second
boot caught her in the ribs. Harsh
commands were barked out in German.
Another boot hit her in the belly and then she was jerked to her feet,
and her hands forced behind her.
As her wrists were bound a German officer
appeared in front of her. Without
warning he slapped her face and then hit her again, rocking her head back
and forth. “Bitch,”
he raged. “You hit two of
my men.” Stepping back he
studied her. “Take her to
the castle. I think the Commandant
will want to see her.”
Count Lucian Rodna raised his lip in a sneer
as he watched the German commandant strut down the main staircase of what
had once been the main audience chamber of Castle
Rodna. “Egotistical
fools,” he muttered.
Sadly he had little choice but to tolerate
the Nazi scum. His country had
been raped by its neighbours and then forced into an alliance with Hitler’s
Commandant Claus von Jagger looked upward,
and squinting through his monocle gave him a brief nod, then his gaze went
to the main door of the audience hall.
It had opened to admit a lower ranking
officer. The officer crossed
the hall gave the heil Hitler salute and then conveyed a message Rodna could
not hear. Whatever it was, it
seemed to cause a bit of a stir as von Jagger immediately followed the man
from the room.
His curiosity piqued, Rodna moved along the
upper gallery to the high windows overlooking the
courtyard. From there he had
a perfect view of the castle courtyard.
Drawn up before the doors were two of the high-powered Mercedes command
cars Jagger had brought with him.
Rodna thought them most unsuited for the twisting roads and rugged
landscape surrounding the castle, but von Jagger would ride in nothing else.
Von Jagger strode down the wide front staircase
as the back doors of the closest car were thrown
open. Three figures were hauled
from the back seat. Rodna’s
eyes narrowed. One was a middle-aged
male peasant, but the other two were
women. The first woman out of
the car was a dark-haired girl.
Even from thirty feet above he could see the expression of stark terror
on her face. She was dark-haired
and her hands had been left free.
The other woman was more difficult to
see. The German soldiers had
to drag her from the car. Head
down, her long, dark hair hid her face.
For some reason her captors had thought it necessary to bind her hands
behind her back in spite of the fact that she could hardly
walk.
This was
curious. Just a few hours ago
another woman had been brought to the
castle. She too had been
bound. Was von Jagger turning
the castle into some sort of prison camp?
It seemed unlikely, but the enigmatic German had yet to explain exactly
why he was in
Rodna puzzled over this as he hurried down
to the main hall. The Germans
were clearly up to something; something that was probably connected to the
castle as there were other regions of the country that were far more accessible
and convenient. He had a strong
suspicion that he knew what it was although he hoped he was
wrong. This matter of the three
women who had been brought into the castle was
unsettling. If there was anything
that might be likely to set off a series of uncontrollable events it was
the presence of women in the castle.
He reached the floor just as the two women
were dragged in, followed by the male
peasant. “What is this
Standartenführer?
Have you plans to turn my home into a
brothel?”
“Hardly, my dear Count,” von Jagger
replied drily. “The capture
of these women was unexpected. I
suspect British intelligence is behind their appearance and it is necessary
to question them in order to safeguard my
operations.”
“Torture them, you mean,” Rodna
said accusingly. “You know
I do not approve of such methods.”
Von Jagger looked at Rodna and raised an
eyebrow. “Really,
Count. I am surprised that a
man with your ancestry is so squeamish.”
“What my ancestors once did in no way
reflects my character,
Standartenführer, just as the fact that a man as civilized as
Beethoven was Austrian in no way in no way reflects the character of
“You go too far,
Count. I could have you shot
for that remark.”
“You could indeed,” Rodna said calmly,
“but I don’t suggest that you do.”
Von Jagger visibly ground his
teeth. “We will discuss
this matter later.” He turned
to the officer who had entered with the three
prisoners.
“Untersturmführer, throw the old man in the
dungeon. Take the English spy
to the interrogation room, and confine the Gypsy girl in one of the upstairs
rooms. I will deal with each
of them later. In the meantime
it is time to look in on our first guest.”
This time it was the Count who had to bite back
a comment. He would have given
almost anything to be able to wipe the smug look from von
Jagger’s
face. But he could not –
not yet at least. One day, however,
he promised himself the satisfaction of watching von
Jagger’s face turn white with
fear. Until that time he could
not afford to push the Nazis too far
Melissa groaned as the tension on her arms
increased. There was a loud clanking
sound and a sense of disorientation as her feet left the
floor. She was almost past caring
what happened to her and had long since lost track of how long she had been
hanging in the dark cold of the dungeon.
Above her she could hear voices as she was drawn steadily
upward. She blinked in the light
as her body rose through the hatch.
Standing before her was the German SS officer who had briefly interrogated
her before ordering her lowered into the frigid cell.
“Ah, the English spy,” the SS officer
said. “Perhaps you are now
a bit more willing to answer a few questions.”
Even in her barely conscious state, Melissa was
aware of the stupidity of the comment.
Of course she was still in the
castle. Where would she have
gone?
A man in a white coat stepped
forward. Without ceremony he
tilted her head back and pushed a metallic probe into her
mouth. Too weak to resist, Melissa
tolerate the intrusion as he pushed it to the back of her throat and then
down her esophagus. He waited
a minute and then pulled the probe out.
“She is definitely hypothermic,
Standartenführer. If we
do not revive her she will not be answering any
questions.”
The Standartenführer nodded, a cruel smile
creasing his lips. “Then
we shall just have to find a way to warm her
up.”
Melissa could not control her shivering as she
was lowered to the floor and the shackles removed from her
wrists. Two SS guards picked
her up and dragged her down the hallway.
They took her back a way she should have remembered if her brain
hadn’t been too numb from cold to work
properly. She would also have
noticed that they seemed to be in something of a hurry as they hauled her
into a room whose only article of furniture was a large wooden
table.
She was slammed down on her back onto the
table. Since she was already
nude her captors didn’t have to take the time to undress
her. They were ready to go as
soon as they had unbuttoned their trousers.
At the last second realization crept into
Melissa’s consciousness. Fear
and chagrin swept over her and she attempted to prevent what they were going
to do, but one man gripped the shackles around her wrists and pulled her
hands over her head. Her legs
were wrenched apart by two other men.
She managed a cry of protest and then whimpered in shame as the first
man entered her. The rape was
painful, but the cold had sapped her strength so badly she was at first hardly
aware of what was happening as man after man moved between her thighs and
the guards treated themselves at her expense.
Von Jagger stood in the doorway and watched as
the helpless spy was violated. He
turned to the white coated man.
“What do you think, Herr
Doktor? Do you think this will
raise her body temperature?”
“It is raising mine,” the doctor
replied. “She is quite a
beauty.”
“Perhaps I will let you have here when I
am finished with her. She may,
however, be somewhat damaged.”
“As long as she has all her parts I will
be satisfied,” the doctor leered.
Von Jagger grinned and
twisted his monocle. “I
expect she will tell me what I want to know long before I inflict much
damage. After all, I still have
the other woman to work on. What
one does not tell me the other will.”
The doctor
nodded. “I will look forward
to it.”
Melissa was oblivious to the
conversation. Guard after guard
took her, warming her chilled body in as thoroughly brutal a manner as they
could manage. She was left exhausted,
her core temperature restored to normal.
Too weak to resist after the vicious gang rape she was dragged from
the room and thrown into another cell.
There she collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
Melissa awoke much
later. How much later she had
no idea. She could recall only
a few details of her ordeal, but the pain between her thighs and the bruises
around her genital region and on her breasts were an ample reminder of what
she had suffered. What had awakened
her was the sound of the cell door slamming
open.
Startled, she at first tried to cover her nudity
and then realized how ridiculous it must
look. An SS guard entered carrying
a tray from which emanated an appealing
aroma. In spite of her injuries
Melissa suddenly realized how hungry and thirsty she
was. The man set the tray down
and leered at her naked body.
“Eat up, fraulein,” he
jeered. “You will need your
strength if you are to survive the next few
days. After that I doubt you
will need worry.” Still
leering at her, he left the cell, slamming the door shut behind
him.
Melissa felt a cold knot in her
stomach. Despite that she tucked
into the food. As the SS guard
had promised, she would probably need all her
strength. As she ate she tried
not to think about what lay in store for
her. Whatever it was, she was
certain the SS commandant would make it as unpleasant as he
could.
Fear so intense as to be almost suffocating gripped Melissa Gallant’s stomach as her torturer lifted the hot iron from the brazier. The man turned the glowing bar slowly in his hands in an almost loving gesture. With what seemed to be an effort he tore his eyes away from the swastika brand at the tip of the iron and looked toward her.
“Are you sure you can’t recall anything more than you have told me?” he asked. “It would be such a shame if I had to use more painful methods to jar your memory.”
Melissa stared wide eyed at the torturer. He had not bothered to introduce himself when he had ordered her dragged from her cell in the middle of the night and hauled down to what appeared to be a torture chamber right out of a Boris Karloff movie, but one of his henchmen had addressed him as Standartenführer. Fighting back her fear, she answered his question.
“I can’t remember anything,” she lied. “All I remember is your SS goons grabbing me and hauling me off to this place.” Melissa could barely gasp out her reply. It was difficult to breathe with her arms stretched over her head and she was close to exhaustion from standing on the tips of her toes for hours in order to relieve the pain in her arms and shoulders.
What had happened to Larra she had no idea. Her captors had not bothered to inform her as to the situation regarding her companion and Melissa dared not ask for fear of tipping off the Nazi thugs. She guessed she had been a prisoner for at least three days, although it might have been longer. She had received food and water five times since her first meal. The time had allowed her to recover somewhat from her ordeal, but just a few hours ago several men had come to her cell, and taking the utmost precautions they had chained her wrists and ankles and led her to the torture chamber.
Once there her manacled wrists had been attached to a hook dangling from the ceiling. As the hook had been raised her arms had been drawn over her head until she was forced on to the tips of her toes. She had been left there for hours with just a single guard present to make sure that she did not stage some sort of miraculous escape. And then the man she called “the torturer” had shown up.
He “questioned” her for two hours, forcing her to go over and over her story.
That she was a British spy seemed all too obvious. She had been caught with all of her equipment, including a radio transmitter. What else could she possibly be? She could, however, attempt to protect Larra. The torturer had said nothing about her companion, giving Melissa hope that Larra was still free.
“I will ask you one last time,” the torturer said finally. “Who else came with you and who is your contact?”
“I came alone,” Melissa replied, her body shaking with tension. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“I don’t know when I have heard a more flimsy story,” the torturer replied. “You are lying and I intend to determine the truth.”
“You can’t do this,” Melissa gasped. “I’m an American citizen,” Her body was covered in sweat and it was hard for her not to quiver in fear as Von Jagger moved the glowing iron closer to her body.
“So you say,” the torturer sneered.
“But I have an American passport,” Melissa whimpered. “You are making a mistake. People know where I am. You will have the American government after you.”
“I have seen your papers,” the torturer replied
calmly. “And I must admit
that they are very good forgeries.
However, I am not a fool.
Americans would have no reason to parachute into
Sweat dripped from Melissa’s forehead, stinging her eyes. In contrast to her first ordeal, the torture chamber was almost stiflingly hot. As the torturer had said, her story was a pathetic fabrication. It was the cover that had been agreed upon when the mission had first been planned and that had been blown all to hell when she had been discovered by the patrol from the castle.
She swallowed as the torturer reinserted the glowing swastika into the glowing coals of the brazier. “One more chance,” he said. “Tell me just one thing. What is your name? Surely it can’t hurt to just tell me that.”
Melissa licked her lips. They were cracked and dry. Perhaps she could just tell him her name. Anything to find some relief from hanging in this overheated room. Anything to keep him from carrying out his threat. Her eyes strayed to the glowing coals of the brazier from which the end of the hot iron protruded.
But she knew she could tell the torturer nothing. Even something as simple as her name might start her talking. There would be another question, and another. Once she began to speak it would be only a short time until everything came out, and then the Germans would know about Larra. She could not put her mentor in such danger.
“Tell me,” the torturer repeated. Tell me your name or I will redecorate your body painfully and permanently.”
Melissa did not answer. The look in the torturer’s eyes told her that it would be of very little use. The brutal rape she had endured had told her all she needed to know about her captors.
“Alright then,” the torturer said quietly. He picked up the iron and stepped toward her. Melissa closed her eyes and bit her lower lip to keep from screaming in terror.
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