Hans checked his petrol gage, saw it contained plenty, and drove back onto the highway north of Berne toward Zurich. A large sign announced the Emmental section of Switzerland. His mouth watered for Emmental Cheese, particularly his favorite, aged Premier Cru, a passion he inherited from his father back home.
Pulling off the highway at the first Emmental cheese farm he saw, he parked beside the brightly painted chalet. Getting out, he stretched, allowing the scent of the wondrous cheese to fill the air and his memories.
Inside the dark wood shop a vivacious young woman dressed in a lace-up red, corset dress, blue skirt, white poplin apron and white stockings greeted him. She held a wooden tray of cheese samples. Hans ignored her, walked to the counter where several customers waited. He nudged his way closer to the counter and in a rather loud voice asked for some Emmentaler Premier Cru.
“Just a minute, sir,” The woman behind the counter responded.
Angrily Hans glared, and said “I’m not a tourist and I’m in a hurry”.
A big, florid man came out of the back of the shop and walked toward Hans.
“Did I hear you say you wanted Premier Cur, sir?”
“You heard right, and I don’t have time to wait.”
“If you would follow me, I will see what I can do. We don’t get that request every day.”
Hans left the cheese shop through a side door and walked back to his car with a large wedge wrapped in brown paper. In the car, he unwrapped the pungent cheese, removed his dagger from the sheath behind his neck, and cut several slices from the wedge. He ate quickly and drove back onto the highway, savoring the remembered flavor of his favorite cheese, and his father.
An hour later, Hans circled Zurich on the by-pass and headed toward Lake Constance. On the other side of St. Gallen, he crossed the border into Austria and marveled at the blueness of the Lake as he finished the last of the Emmental.
Ahead lay the border crossing between Austria and Germany. Knowing there had been no pictures of him, or even a description in the news accounts of the Swiss killings, yet somewhat nervous, Hans took a deep breath as they waved him to stop at the border. The guard, a big, florid man, walked to the car, whistled at it, and said. “Great car”
“Thank you,” Hans replied, smiling.
Looking closely at Hans’ passport, the guard asked Hans to wait there a minute, turned and walked into the guard house.
Hans breathed deeply. With a carefully forged French passport, a slick German car, and killer instinct, he knew he wasn’t any match for these border police, or Interpol either, for that matter, but why the delay? He could see the guard who had taken his passport talking to someone inside and pointing to him. Both border guards walked toward the car and Hans thought about the Luger resting in the car’s glove box, wondering if he could get it out in time should he need it.
The guard handed back the passport. “Sorry to delay you, but Fredrick there has always wanted an auto like this. He even has a picture of one just like it in our guard house there.
The other guard continued walking around the car, then with a loud thank you sorry for the delay and a sweeping gesture with his hat bid Hans to drive on.
Just after the Starnberg exit to Munich he slowed and drove into a gas station. The young attendant ran out.
“Fill it up?”
“Yes, and hurry. Say, Have you ever heard of a nursing home called St. Joseph’s in Munich? The gangly youth with a blotchy face nodded and replied, “Sure, an uncle of mine lives there. It’s on Theresienstrase, across from St Joseph’s Church, just about three miles ahead. You can’t miss it.”
Leaving the gas station, Hans He drove on, humming with the music of Siegfried and drumming the beat on the steering wheel. I am Siegfried, and the emerald is my Brunnhilde, he thought, as the street signs flashed by.
Suddenly he saw in the rear view mirror the flashing red lights of a police car. Adrenaline pumping he pulled to the side of the road. “Shit, what have I done now?”
The oak of a patrolman walked up to the Mercedes and said. “You missed a stop sign back there sir. Let me see your driver’s license.” Hans pulled out his international drivers’ license and passport from the glove box, being careful to shield the Luger from view. “I’m so sorry, officer. I’m on my way to see my uncle in the St Joseph Nursing Home. They called me and said that he’s dying. I guess I just didn’t see that stop sign. I’m very sorry.”
“Well, since you’re on an errand of mercy, I won’t give you a ticket this time, but slow down or you’ll be going to heaven with your uncle. Have a nice day.”
Hans took a deep breath and thought, errand of mercy, my foot and slowly continued along the city streets until he found Theresienstrase. Turning onto this residential street, he drove until he saw the church steeple a block ahead. Across from the church stood a large, grey house with a sign in peeling paint.
A shabby place for the servant of a wealthy industrialist, he thought with a sneer.
He parked, walked up the steps, and entered the building. Strong odors of disinfectant accosted his nostrils. A gray haired nurse in a soiled uniform looked up and asked in a tired voice, “What do you want?”
“I want to see Herr Fritz Getman,” Hans replied. “Can you help me?”
Returning to her paper work the nurse asked, “Are you a relative?”
“No, I am a close friend who has come a long distance to see Herr Fritz.”
Without looking up, the nurse pointed down the hall and said, “116.”
The interior was cut down the center by a single corridor. Hans walked past several old men in wheelchairs sleeping in the hallway, the nursing home disinfectant smell almost stifling his breath. 112, 114, 116. Hans paused and looked inside. An obese, balding, sloppy old man sat in the shabby room, his back to the door looking out of the dirty window, bordered by anemic pink, sun-bombarded curtains. The reflection in the dirty window showed a face shriveled and deeply lined as a relief map.
“Herr Fritz?”
In a raspy voice, without turning the old man said, “I knew you’d get to me sooner or later.”
“How did you know I would find you, old man?”
“Because of all those murders I’ve been reading about, with the SS slash marks, just like your father.”
The old man wiped his nose with his sleeve, looked at Hans, “And I’ve heard that you are looking for your grandfather’s emerald. Why should I help you?”
“For old times, Fritz.”
“Old times aren’t worth shit — look at me in this hell hole. But I’ll tell you what you want to know just so the police will have more to pin on you.”
“So, where is my emerald? Tell me and I’ll give you a reward”.
“Why don’t you ask the Klein’s? You drove near their farm on your way here”.
“You mean those fucking Jews have my emerald? Tell me where they are, Fritz.”
“They live in Rorschach, Switzerland”.
“Are you sure, old man?”
“I’m sure, now leave me alone and get out of my sight, you bastard.”
“And, now for your reward, my old friend.”
Hans stood behind the old man still looking out the window, and smiled. He drew his stiletto from his neck sheath, and drew the razor sharp blade across the wrinkled neck, being careful not to get caught in the blood spray from the carotid arteries.
“Thank you, for the information old man, may you rest in hell with the rest of my family!”