The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

of Grimm’s fairy tales. It occurred to him that the tram would not be the most convenient means of transport for the laden beast he was about to become. So he ordered a taxi to get him to the station.

It was a good feeling to check out of the hotel that had been his home for so long. It had become a dispiriting place to live in, especially in the last three weeks or so, when his privacy had been so rudely and so regularly interrupted – right down to the unannounced appearance of this suitcase. He wondered how Achim had managed to get into his room in the first place. And why he had not waited. Was it perhaps Silverstone who had put it there, he asked himself. But however it had come to be there, it told him one thing: the space he moved in today really had no borders to defend him against life’s invasions.

Sadly, Patricia proved not so indiscreet in delivering the key she had made to her flat, but had simply left it in an envelope at reception with a message inside: ‘Bon voyage’.

Had the envelope not contained the key to her flat, he would have instantly seen this message as the final brush-off. Instead it left him wondering why she could not find the time to deliver it in person. Recalling now the sound of the man called Lutz knocking on her door the night before made him wonder whether perhaps she had another appointment with Breitner.

Accompanied by the disappointment of not seeing Patricia again before he left, all these thoughts rode with Frank on the short taxi ride over the river to the city’s German station. This disturbing oddity of German property on Swiss soil was where travellers came face to face each day with the chilling evidence which proved to him that his obsessive thoughts about the bully from Berlin were not the meanderings of a paranoid schizophrenic.

The station tower rose above this German station like a finger up the arse of Switzerland, mocking the quiet, disinterested streets of Frank’s refuge as it let the swastika billow from its large, stubby digit. It came as a shock every time he saw that frightening symbol of hatred flying over Swiss soil. And it reminded him now of Breitner’s words when he tried to impress on Frank that the arm of the Third Reich was more than long enough to reach across the border as and when it pleased. There really was no safe refuge from its arrogance.

In the station itself, on the far side of the booking hall, the uniforms and the ominous leather coats and wide-brimmed hats at the customs barrier underlined the menace with fearsome effect. A menace that was enhanced all the more for Frank by the knowledge that the local Swiss branch of the NSDAP had their offices in this station building.

Tucking away the threat as comfortably as he could, he walked over to the ticket office to buy a first-class return to Cologne. With his back to the customs barrier, he felt wide open to everything he had been running from these past months. The feeling chilled him to the bone. After taking his ticket, he remained at the counter for some time, bracing himself to pick up the suitcase and turn with composure towards that guarded gateway to purgatory. He had nothing to fear, he kept telling himself, so why act so guilty?

When he reached the barrier and handed over his passport at immigration, it was taken from him with officious brusqueness and examined in painstaking detail.

“You have been living in Switzerland for almost three months.”

The observation came without so much as a glance from the immigration officer. He might have been talking to himself. But it was hard to argue with the truth of the statement.

“Why?” he asked. “What do you have against your Fatherland?”

“On the contrary. I love my country,” Frank replied. “If I had something against it, I wouldn’t feel the need to return.”

The man disappeared into an office with his passport, giving Frank the impression he was less than satisfied with this half-hearted declaration of patriotism. The struggle to retain his composure was becoming desperate. And the sweat was starting to gather. But he was keenly conscious of the need to keep calm. He was aware of the wide-brimmed hats and leather coats watching everyone who passed through the gate. And he sensed their prying eyes wander down to his suitcase. He tried to throw a casual look in their direction. Their eyes met. The looks that pierced Frank with a force that made his stomach churn appeared to be saying: ‘Frank Eigenmann, your number’s up’, and he had to keep telling himself not to be so foolish, that he had nothing to fear – he was an innocent traveller with nothing more incriminating than a suitcase full of Grimm’s fairy tales that he was delivering to a bookseller friend in Cologne.

The waiting seemed interminable. To his relief, the two Gestapo men turned their attention to another target of interest: a younger, more shabbily dressed traveller with rucksack, who had just arrived at the gate further back down the line. At that same moment, the immigration officer returned with his passport, thrust it into his hand and wished him “Gute Reise”. It did not have quite the same appeal as Patricia’s ‘Bon voyage’, but it was no less welcome. Indeed, he found it hard to conceal his sense of relief, and his expression of thanks was perhaps a little too effusive. But he was through. And it struck him as he walked through the gate that anyone seriously considering this as a route for smuggling propaganda into the country must need his head examined. He was thankful that this was a dummy run.

The real advantage of travelling first class, Frank told himself, was that you can usually find a compartment to yourself. And this train was no exception. At one point, a shabby