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No one else in here . . . he’s got to be the one.
He turned to Polko and said, “Let’s get him the hell out of there.”
Polko signaled for two of his men to come closer.
He pointed with the Luger toward the SS officer and rapidly ordered: “Get that Nazi pig the hell out of there!”
The two men immediately crawled in through the door opening and then went to the SS officer. Szerynski was somewhat surprised when Polko also crawled in behind them, but then wasn’t when he went over to the two bodyguards, put the muzzle of the Luger to their temples, and fired a single round into each.
Then he spat on them.
When the two men pulled the heavy wooden table off the chest of the SS officer, he made a deep groan.
The bastard is alive!
Szerynski’s men, with some obvious effort, then dragged the overweight SS officer out the door, stopping about fifteen feet away from the passenger car. As the taller of the two removed the officer’s Luger from its holster and stuck it in his waistband—the checkered wooden grip was inlaid with a silver skull-and-crossbones Totenkopf—the shorter one yanked open the officer’s tunic and roughly searched inside. After a moment, he made a face of self-satisfaction.
He pulled out a black calfskin wallet, then walked over and handed it to Polko, who then passed it to Szerynski.
“The Nazi pig’s papers,” Polko officiously announced, needlessly.
Szerynski opened the wallet, unfolded the SS identity booklet, and shone his flashlight on it. After he studied it, he glanced at the fat officer lying on the ground, then back at the ID.
An SS-sturmbannführer? he thought, then whistled lightly.
“What?” Polko said.
Szerynski ignored him. He walked over to the SS officer. The Nazi had his eyes closed. Szerynski nudged him in the hip with his boot.
“Herr Sturmbannführer, what is the purpose of your trip?” Szerynski said in German evenly, shining the flashlight on his bloody face.
The SS officer, who looked dazed, stared back but did not reply.
Polko quickly walked up and aimed his Luger at the officer.
“I shoot Nazi pig with Nazi pistol,” Polko said.
“No!” Szerynski said, as he pushed away the arm aiming the Luger. “Not yet.”
Szerynski reached to his shoulder holster, thumbed open the snap securing his semiautomatic, then aimed the .45 at the officer.
Szerynski looked back at the officer. “The purpose of your trip?”
The officer, after trying to wipe blood from his face, nodded once.
“I . . . I cannot say,” he said thickly, clearly in great pain.
“Cannot or will not? Tell me the purpose of your trip here!”
After a moment the SS officer answered, “I . . . I do not know. I was sent here on orders.”
“What do you mean, you do not know? And sent here by who?”
The SS officer, apparently considering his options, coughed once but did not answer.
“Who the hell are you?” Szerynski pursued.
He coughed again, then said, “SS-Sturmbannführer Klaus Schwartz.”
