Under Cover of Darkness
Chapter 3
The rain had turned the road to a slick, black ribbon, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamps. The Mercedes-Benz 320 hummed through the mist, a stealthy prowler in a landscape that felt increasingly hostile. Gertie sat in the back, pondering the iron cross which she dangled before her eyes, hypnotized, an enigma she could not dismiss.
Key, her father had called it.
She clutched it in her fist, feeling the sharp edges of the cross pinch her hand. It was not a pretty bauble. It was not a notion she might have at a jewelry store. It was a piece of history, a piece of his history. It was the symbol of the Teutonic knights, the Crusaders who had passed the sea fortress of Malta, to reach the Holy Land. It was a symbol of valor, of battle, and of the men who had shed blood for a quest. It was stronger than the swastika. It endured.
The car slowed.
Ahead, the road was blocked by a checkpoint. A pair of searchlights cut through the rain, blinding and harsh. Two soldiers stood by a wooden barricade, their rifles slung low. A third, a heavy-set man in a helmet that looked too large for his head, stepped from the guard house, waving a hand to stop the car.
The driver braked smoothly. The engine idled, purring in the silence.
Gertie held her breath. She clutched the iron cross more tightly, so tightly that it hurt her hand. If they stopped her, if they found it, if they realized who she was...
The soldier in the helmet approached the driver's window, his boots splashing in the puddles. He tapped on the glass with a gloved knuckle. The window rolled down a crack.
"Documents!" the soldier barked, his voice rough. Bending to peer through the glass, and in a condescending tone, said: "And Passengers?"
The driver did not turn. He did not speak. He reached into his coat pocket, unhurried, deliberate. He pulled out a large, Iron Cross, on a chain. The driver regarded it for a moment, then held it up for the checkpoint commander to see.
The soldier's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, the rain dripping from the brim of his helmet. He looked at the medal, then at the driver, then at the car. The tension in the air shifted, palpable and sudden. The soldier's expression changed from suspicion to a strange, almost reverent awe.
"Ah," the soldier said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Schutz. You are one of us."
The driver nodded once, a snap, respectful motion. He held the medal up, letting the flashlight catch the gleam of the cross. The symbol seemed to shine more brightly in the harsh glare, a symbol of good authority and old traditions. His salute was returned with a crisp, military motion, that spoke respect without words.
"Passage authorized," the gate keeper said, "And may God protect you, Mein Herr."
The driver rolled up the window. The soldier stepped back, saluting the car as it passed. The tires hissed on the slick pavement, and the car sped away, leaving the checkpoint in the rear window.
Gertie breathed again, her heart hammering in her chest. She looked down at the Iron Cross, its cold metal now feeling warm against her skin. She realized then what her father had meant. The Iron Cross was not just an adornment. It was itself a Key.
It was a key that opened doors, doors to places forbidden without it. It was a key that commanded respect from those who understood its way, the way of the knight, the way of the battlefield. But she understood that it was also a key that locked her out of the world of the Allies, marking her as an enemy, a spy, a target.
She dangled the cross again, playing with its possibilities.
The car, and its secret passenger, sped on. Gertie closed her eyes, the Iron Cross again pressed against her, dreaming of the Iron Cross, the Crusades, the Holy Land, but also of the unknown passage ahead, and the danger.
We shall see what we shall see, she mused, half asleep.
The car pressed relentlessly on its mission, the Iron Cross secure in its place, silently leading her to a world that was about to change forever.