The Malta Pass
Chapter 17
The ship was a Liberty vessel, the kind of American workhorse that had become the backbone of the Allied supply line. It was bulky, utilitarian, painted a dull, non-reflective grey; in other words, not a pretty cruise ship. It had no plush lounges or grand staircases; the Civilian Section was open deck forward of the smokestacks, lined with rows of folding canvas chairs and small tables bolted to the steel floor. It smelled of diesel fumes, salt spray, and the faint, oily taste of the sea.
Gertie found an unoccupied chair near the starboard railing. She dropped her canvas shoulder bag—Brigid’s gift—and her duffel beside it, the soft thud echoing slightly. She stood at the railing, gripping the cold metal, observing the harbor of Tunis.
A great, resonant horn blew, a deep, mournful sound that vibrated through her. Then came the rhythmic chugging of the engines, a steady, mechanical heartbeat that signaled the ship was underway.
The city’s white buildings blurred into a hazy smudge, then vanished behind the curve of the hull.
She exhaled, a long, slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The luck of this passage was staggering. A freighter, civilian manifest, no questions asked. It was a miracle she would have attributed to divine intervention in another life. In this one, it was fate.
Her mind drifted to Tobruk. She had wanted to visit it. To stand on the soil where her father, Field Marshal Rommel, had achieved his greatest triumph, the moment the Afrika Korps had seemed invincible. But the thought of crossing the Libyan desert on land, through danger and heat, was daunting. Too risky. Too laden with baggage.
Perhaps it is just as well, she thought, watching the white wake churn behind the ship. Her father was taken advantage of by Hitler for propaganda. A showman’s puppet. When he was no longer useful, he was discarded. Why pay tribute to a charade?
She let the thought fade, pushing it aside for later. The tranquility of the deck, the gentle surge of the hull, and the rhythmic slap of waves against the steel hull invited a different kind of reflection. She reached for the canvas bag.
Inside, amidst the personal items, her fingers brushed against the spine of a book. She pulled it out.
It was an English-language edition of “Rebecca,” by Daphne du Maurier.
Gertie stared at the cover. She was baffled. She had expected a guidebook, perhaps a map of Cairo, or even a field manual. Instead, she held a Gothic romance. “A story of a woman haunted by the shadow of her predecessor,” the book jacket said.
"Not my cup of tea," she muttered, a dry joke at the British stereotype of tea-drinking. She riffled the pages, the paper crisp and new. Why me? Why this book? It made no sense. Was it a joke? A subtle mockery of her, perhaps?
She flipped to the inside front cover.
There, written in a bold, familiar hand, was a signature: Erwin Rommel.
Beneath the name, etched with the same pen, was a small, precise Teutonic cross.
Gertie’s breath caught in her throat. The boat’s hum seemed to drop away, replaced by a sudden, raging silence in her ears.
This is what she was seeking.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t just a book. It wasn’t just a copy of a novel. It was the key to unlock the mystery.
Her father had spoken of a Rebecca affair. The book is a cipher. The historical record spoke of a German spy, Johannes Eppler, using a copy of “Rebecca” to encode messages to Rommel. But the record was incomplete. It spoke of the spy, the code, the capture. It didn’t speak of the source.
Her father, the Field Marshal, the man who had commanded the desert war, had required a copy. Not for reading, but for verification. To check the work of his cryptographers. To ensure the messages sent in the name of the Afrika Korps were true.
It all suddenly snapped into focus. It wasn’t just a legend. It wasn’t a joke. It was the book itself. The key that unlocked the victory of the desert war.
Gertie pressed her thumb on the signature. Her heart sank. Could it be a forgery? It seemed too good to be true. Here was the proof, the physical link between the father she intended to find, and the legend.
The ship coursed through the water, a grey arrow pointing east. Gertie looked up, her eyes searching the horizon. The Mediterranean stretched out, vast and indifferent, a sea of blue and white.
Far in the distance, on the shore of a land she could not yet name, a plume of smoke rose into the sky. It was thin, dark, and curling against the pale blue.
She wondered if it was a portent.
The wind picked up, blowing her hair, in her face. Gertie closed the book, holding it tight against her. The game had changed. She was no longer seeking blindly. She was a witness.
The story was just beginning.