A small taste of my Novel "FOREVER AND BEYOND"

NEUSCHWANSTEIN CASTLE IN BAVARIA, GERMANY... IN WINTER AND A CASTLE WE KNOW EVEN DISNEY FELL IN LOVE WITH... OH, YESSSSS!
NEUSCHWANSTEIN CASTLE
Berlin. We got English Monk! Hitler, Goering, Mueller..
An M upside down... for Monk or W for Willoughby...
Hairy bastard...? Holy mackerel and corset strings!!!
Is he Monk... and what does Hitler want?
INTERESTING...
AWWW... GOODNESS... GRACIOUS ME!!!
A SMILE IN THE SKY...

 

WELCOME!

I was waiting for YOU!

Oh, yessss! 

Want to smile, my Friend...? If so, hang on!

YOU are Invited to fly with me back in time... It's going to be a bumpy ride... so hold on to me and be prepared for the unexpected... Oh, yessss!  Any secret code word to enter? Yessss...

This: .... ( It is magical, dear.)

Done... or not... only today, all of a sudden we are not only lighter than a breath of air... We're even invisible as we silently enter through an open window, a key hole... a crack in a wall... emerge from under an old door... Watch out! Ohhh, dear... Aaa... Achouuuu! Oooops! Sorry! ... too dusty I'm afraid... Ooops! Almost there now... Hope no one noticed us! Naaaah... Come on!

You must meet the protagonist my Willoughby, who is quite a paradox and like opening a sealed, exciting jar... full of... you decide... In need of editing of course, I have called my novel: 

"Forever and Beyond."

Part One, is called: Nothing is Impossible.

Do forgive the vulgar language at times... You see this is not only a mystery, it is a very, very human novel. I like to think we might be flawed, but fabulous as well. Oh, yessss!

Merely for a bit of enjoyment for now... and a smile,  I present to YOU:

Chapter 1 and 2!

Ah, yessss... and should you wonder, if it is a war and romance novel... well, as Willoughby says:

"Yes... and... No... It's... Ehhhh..."

There it is! Splendid!

Let's just carry on... Shall we?

 

 

 

 

                                       Forever and Beyond

                                                     Part One

                                           Nothing is Impossible                       

                                  

                                                       Chapter 1

                                              Monk or Minstrel...?

 

                                    Neuscwanstein Castle, Bavaria April 18. 1940 

       The Luger silencer muffled the shot with German efficiency. Enough had become more than enough and now there was silence… at least for a while. Shot in the right thigh, the shackled prisoner finally lay bleeding on the floor. Even so the bastard from hell was smiling like an avenging angel: 

      Holy mackerel and corset strings, Gruebel!

      Far from smiling, Reinhardt Engel was livid with rage:

      “My ear! He bit my ear off!” 

      Albeit convinced the newly arrived SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer were a too ambitious narcissist and a sadist, podgy Udo Gruebel smirked with unusual compassion:

      “Sure did, Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel... sir! Yes, sir! Should have let me shave the singin' bastard…Want the doctor, sir?”

      The doctor must see to the Captain's ear… and the…

      “No!"

      A human bite were bad but no was no, as simple as that and not really the SS Junior Squad Leader’s problem. Besides, it could have been worse, much worse. Even "Uncle Adolf" knew that, realizing at a young age a few "things" that usually came in pairs not always did. The Gestapo however, now seemed to be an excellent representative for the missing twin. A teeny piece of bloodied newspaper covering a cut on Waffen SS-Unterscharfuehrer Udo Gruebel’s clean-shaven, mulish chin had lost importance as well. Still aiming his adored 9 mm automatic Luger at the prisoner, Gruebel just kept gawking mesmerized at the blood-spattered ear on the floor. Lying next to a pair of bloodied scissors and a sharp cutthroat razor made in Solingen, it was indeed a special ear he would like to keep… just for the hell of it. Not picking it up, instead "Affable Udo" gave the still bearded prisoner a cold, grey stare and barked:

    “Hey… You! Professor...!”

    The silent Professor did not move. A swift kick in the shot thigh changed that. Still not uttering a single sound he moved a bit, but only enough to hold up an insulting middle finger:

    Fuck you, Gruebel! You got your goddamn trophy!

    Gruebel just grinned and lowered the Luger. The Professor was still smiling, but less.  Not necessarily a Jew, even though there was an indication that perhaps… But hardly given a number, the only prisoner in Neuscwanstein Castle was to be addressed Professor. Safely shackled to the wall and thought unable to be violent, even so the bloody bastard had found a way. Sick to his back teeth of Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel, now there was even admiration in Gruebel's nasty grin. Today forbidden had gotten a whole new meaning. The stench of burnt wool still hung in the air whilst fresh blood kept spreading out over the Professor’s upper right thigh. Not only giving his grey trousers a whole other color as it trickled down his leg and into the cracks in the old wooden floor, the irony of finding the cocky prisoner’s true identity without torture had become almost farcical.

    As a rule void of humor, but eager to see the lower part of the prisoner's face well; today the SS Captain had even smiled after receiving orders to finally shave him. German meticulous precision were more than just words. They were religion… and Reinhardt was definitely a believer. Everything had to be neat, in order and the prisoner was no exception. Tomorrow was the German Chancellor and Leader of the Nazi Party, Adolf Hitler's 51st. birthday. Anew Germans all over the Third Reich would rejoice hearing the Fuehrer’s great eloquence broadcasted and Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria was indeed included.  Much anticipated, additional loud speakers had been set up not only in the towers of the castle and as expected, by now all of them worked to perfection. Hearing the German military march “Old Comrades” booming out of the speakers had made everyone sure of that. Proud to honor their beloved Fuehrer, several long red banners with Swastikas decorating the castle walls as well made every officer and soldier even more proud to be German and an Aryan. By now the castle was already looking festive and albeit absent, the Commandant and Hitler’s Chief SS Ideologist Alfred Rosenberg had made certain no details were forgotten… or else, which meant shot for disobeying orders. April 19. and undeniably Adolf Hitler’s birthday was an extremely special day no German of the Third Reich ought to forget for as long as he lived. The Fuehrer had not only made Germans proud of their Fatherland once again. Aryan culture and the true, old Germanic religion would again impress the world… not only soon cutting the snotty Brits and the unruly, emotional French down to size. Stubborn and never giving up hope; Engel was convinced this had to be so… and more.  If Alfred Rosenberg could so easily prove Hitler’s racial theories were correct, it ought to be be a piece of sweet Luebeck marzipan for Engel to ascertain the Professor was Monk.  Not exactly the case, the much hated and even feared Englishman was still an enigma. Nonethelesss, by now every Nazi Party Member was convinced Adolf Hitler and Rosenberg were right. Aryans were definitely of a superior Master Race. Czechs and Poles were subhuman whilst the Jews and the blacks at the very bottom were much less than subhuman.

    Already celebrating Hitler’s birthday with a drop of German schnapps, finally seeing the prisoner's lower face were something to look forward to as well as a satisfying way to make him understand who was in command… and more.  Not only wanting to show Udo Gruebel a thing or two, holding a cutthroat razor firmly against any man's throat, the choice of life or death was undeniably Reinhardt Engel's. Desperate and eager, for a split second the SS Captain had simply wanted to slit this prisoner's throat open as it suddenly moved and Engel had heard:

    “Don’t.”  Not removing the sharp cutthroat razor, Engel’s hand did not shake as he growled with remarkable distain:

     “Not an option. You’re fucked! One: Are you begging for your life, old boyOr…Two: Is that supposed to be a threat?”

     “One: No. Two: A warning.” Stubborn as hell, the cocky prisoner did not even wince.

     “Fry in hell with this generous introduction to the Gestapo from me, Monk!"

      His hands are even tied behind his back… Fuck the scissors…!

    Everything had happened so fast. It was the brainless idiot Gruebel who had ruined the wonderful feeling of power insisting:    

    “Just following orders, sir! The sharpened scissors, sir! Hot water, a brush, a cup and soap! Right here! Yes, sir!”

   The moment was gone, but there was always a next time… patience… Now even the warm glow of schnapps tasted like bitter beer vomit.

    Shit! Ah…the soap!

    “The scissors, idiot! A new cup? No! Make the foam in his bakelite cup… and don’t wash it afterwards!  Where did you say the soap came from, Gruebel?”

     “A work camp in Poland, sir! Auschwitz, sir! About 40… result in  25 kilos of soap, sir!”

   “Wonderful! Well made and useful… and remember hair is evidence… Observe, Gruebel!”

     Yes! Fucking hair… Dammit! Heil Hitler!

     Again calm and as always obeying orders, shaving another man were a rather delicate matter that had to be done properly and a fact as well. Willing to die for the Fuehrer, there was nothing Reinhardt Engel would not do for Hitler and if needed he was the one who knew how to shave to perfection. The twenty six year old moron Gruebel was merely a poor farmer's son without a single Holstein cow. Now strutting about showing off an SS uniform however, Engel was indeed convinced it was by sheer luck and not due to notable brain capacity Gruebel had been received by the Gestapo. Never even a “Hitler Youth,” by now the blond Junior Squad Leader was certainly much more than what should have been a simple dirt farmer. Born somewhere without a silver spoon near Kiel in Schleswig-Holstein and not even serving in the navy, Udo Gruebel was undeniably ordinary. Motherless at an early age, he had surely been plucking a scrawny chicken for the Sunday soup pot … if that much.

     Engel’s meticulous father, who had taught his only son well, had been an illustrious, prosperous businessman and not just a remarkable barber in Solingen, North-Rhine Westphalia. His lovely mother of noble origins was a delicate lady with culture, class and several distinguished connections. Not just any common riff raff, good-looking Reinhardt J. Engel was undeniably of an educated, privileged class. Highly intelligent as well as sharp, he was now the SS Officer expected to find unshakable proof the Professor, the British Fighter Pilot nicknamed both "The Bobby" and “Monk” were one and the same. Succeeding, an excellent Gestapo promotion and perhaps even a hero’s welcome to the General Staff were truly something to look forward to.

     Finally holding his trembling fingers over the bleeding wound, Engel was still too furious to feel any pain.  Bitten off with savage speed, his right ear had even been spit out with such force it was a miracle he had not lost an eye as well. Thoroughly traumatized, even so all his brain still kept wondering was:

    Who is this bastard the Chief of the Gestapo Heinrich Mueller, Goering, Himmler and even Count Claus von Stauffenberg have ordered not to gag or torture and we must handle with great care? Who...?

    No longer asking why... Who was still a very good question.This unique covert assignment had undeniably become a horrendous trial to find answers after coded, austere orders had arrived from the General Staff not to lay a finger on the damn Biggie. Always more than able to see everyone else’s blood but unable to see his own, suddenly dizzy and sick to his stomach Engel’s head was spinning:

     Is the goddamn bastard really Monk? Yes, he is!

    More convinced than ever before he was Monk, insisting the prisoner was extraordinary was an understatement. The smartass was the most dangerous man alive… If … Engel could prove the Professor really was the elusive Englishman known as Monk. So or not, more than two squads of well trained Waffen SS-Guards still felt utterly relieved. Never ordered to shave the hairy bastard, by now he had a dark beard Santa Claus would have been proud of, had it been white.  Rather high up in that hairy jungle was a full, slightly humorous mouth partly covered by a long unruly moustache. Scrutinizing the remarkable rest of him as well, the word average quickly lost relevance. If truly Monk, the prisoner’s looks were not only downright mindboggling; completely illogical seemed to fit much better. Even plain everyday reason screamed out elusive Monk just had to look as ordinary as dirt and someone not a soul bothered to look twice at.

     Now however, good common sense made no sense. The Professor was a strapping bastard no man in his right mind would like to upset and Reinhardt Engel could hate with passion and instantly had from the moment he had seen him.  By now, it was undeniably uplifting imagining that the prisoner's covered face was just as repugnant as a heap of dog shit in a bakery window... and more. A stinking "gift" a beastly mutt had clearly left on top of a couple of tiny rolls... with only two minuscule, shriveled raisins.  On the other hand, Monk was a fox and perhaps his best disguise was not to hide among the dogs and as simple as that.

     Not only towering a generous 6 feet 6 inches, the Professor was even broad shouldered enough to feel really crammed in a single seat British Supermarine Spitfire cockpit. The no-nonsense German Luftwaffe had set a levelheaded limit of 6 feet 2" for pilots. Clearly having other rules and in dire need of what chaps in the Royal Air Force called “Peelows,” the Brits had a few awfully tall pilots. Nonetheless, any Fighter Pilot over 6 feet 2" had problems moving a bit when it really counted. Indeed a puzzle and still mostly thought to be of average appearance, Monk simply had to be suitably shorter if he was the British Royal Air Force "Ace" as well, German Fighter Pilots now called "The Bobby"… If they still could. Not exactly a London police officer, this bobby could literally stop traffic... in the air, and not only that. Easily recognizable doing unthinkable maneuvers with his Spitfire, much unlike other British Fighter Pilots who sometimes painted a sexy female with big boobies and definitely a Swastika on their planes for every German they shot down, there was nothing of the sort on his Spitfire. Clearly simplifying, the Bobby just painted a solid bright yellow fist with a damn fine thumb held victoriously up. Causing much German aggravation, by now the bloody bastard's Spitfire was crowded by outstanding thumbs. Unique and playing clever games with Hitler and the German General Staff as well as the Gestapo, Reinhardt Engel had no doubts whatsoever Monk was not only exceptionally bright.

     Why he was nicknamed "The Bobby" was understandable, but never reported seen dressed as a priest or a monk, the name or nickname Monk was still a brainteaser. Monk had however, left an M or a W on a piece of paper. Written in type A+ blood, it was the same blood type the clearly Caucasian prisoner had which could mean most anything, but still. There was even a hair, one single dark hair. Hardly doubting anymore the letter was an M meaning Monk; by now Engel was desperate to prove the unshakable Professor was Monk. Ringing Reichsmarshall Goering in Berlin with wonderful news tomorrow morning would be the best birthday present of all presented to the Fuehrer Adolf Hitler. A missing ear was nothing compared to how pleased Hitler would be. Engel suddenly even grinned a little.

    To hell with the fucking ear! Tomorrow is a new day! I will be promoted!

    Confidence was back and should hair not work out… there just might be other ways. Engel was indeed waiting for the safe telephone in his office to ring. Agent Horst Blumfeldt, the SS Captain had "planted" in York suspected the Professor's mates might have dubbed him Monk. Perhaps rather solitary and living like a monk whilst not having any time for women nonetheless, Monk was definitely not what Blumfeldt sarcastically called a "bumboy." Horst was convinced of that fact often hearing the name Monk more than mentioned in pubs whilst all sorts of chaps even called the bastard Wildman as well. His real name however, was never mentioned. By now Blumfeldt was firmly convinced fearless Monk was one hell of a fellow and a truly tough male and so was Engel. Pissed chaps and soldiers who had never seen him drank to him, honoring the Bobby they even sang about him... mostly off key before they fell down. There were more rumors not only in Yorkshire; Monk and definitely the Bobby fancied a good cigar, a pint of lager, a Guinness stout, a shot of single malt whiskey... and even a very pretty young miss curved in all the right places.  Over the moon by the Wildman, Monk and the Bobby, the bloody “Ace” was a hero, clearly one and the same and even someone who fancied playing rugby. No British rugby team had however, heard of him. Blumfeldt was even convinced he was a man women stood in line for and even more so if the Professor was Monk, but then again specially now a hero was needed. Again at war, most soldiers and officers seemed to find some solace from what they had seen and done in women and drink and the best therapy as far as yet. Even though wondering if Monk truly gave a damn if he lived or died, but human and just like any man, Horst Blumfeldt was still certain there simply had to be a sweet, willing female somewhere. Finding that loving woman or several women would be a good way to discover who he was, especially after there were rumors “The Bobby” had said:

    "A man who does not fear anything has nothing to live for."

    True or not, King and Country were both fine and nice, but not enough unless one was a saint. Horst who enjoyed several female friends had no idea if there was a “Mrs. Monk.” On the other hand, he was fairly certain Monk of considerable intellect had not fallen into that female trap and married. All the same, after enjoying the movie "Blue Angel" with alluring Marlene Dietrich... trice, Blumfeldt was still looking into that more than ever convinced sexy women could definitely be the downfall of any Professor.     

     Not all, a "mole" in London had by pure coincidence discovered a mysterious, overly tall, dark haired gentleman who not only might have been Irish or English. Unknown, he could not be a member of the well recognized aristocracy. Nonetheless, clearly of means the strapping fellow in a three piece, dark bespoke suit obviously made in Savile Row were seen carrying an umbrella and sporting an impeccable bowler hat. Dashing indeed, but perhaps of a rebellious nature, there had certainly been a suspicious, small green feather in the hatband. Albeit not seeing much of his face as he was quickly stepping out of a chauffeured English Bentley opening the umbrella, he was clearly a military officer with quite a lot of posture donning civilian clothing. Walking with great virility, he was even saluted by a bobby outside the Prime Minister's residence. Saluting as well, he had strangely just quickly held up an index finger to the brim of the hat… close to the feather and perhaps a sign... Not even carrying a briefcase, there was only a doubled up newspaper, “The Manchester Guardian” under his left arm. Indeed received in Downing Street 10 at tea time on Sunday August 27. 1939, only 4 days before Hitler gave the final orders to invade Poland it was instantly suspected he was Monk. Never seen leaving however, the young gentleman was still a riddle. What was even more, the still unknown English or perhaps Irish police officer with a reddish brown handle bar moustache had not been seen again either, nor had the Bentley. No bomb searching squad was mentioned. Even the "mole" had vanished and more was not reported. Nonetheless, should the mystifying strapping fellow be Monk, the Professor could indeed be him. 

    The discreet tailors in Savile Row in Mayfair had been very reluctant to reveal anything at all about their illustrious clientele. Even so, after bribing a young messenger boy with 10 Pounds Sterling, he suddenly remembered an awfully tall, well built German by the name of Franz Wilhelm Ritter from a place called Sclagenbuettel. The name would be William Francis Knight in English and perhaps Monk, but Savile Row had not resulted in much. There was a 64 year old Doctor William F. Knightly in Wolverhampton, but no thirty year old or younger William Francis Knight in England. Mister Knight or whatever his real name could be, was highly likely serving in M15 or M16 in the The British Secret Intelligence Service, more often called the SIS.  Engel even suspected he might be in or even commanding a new unit within a secret unit never mentioned. Posing as highranking  officers plotting to depose of Hitler, SS agents of the Abwehr and the counter esipionage of the Sicherheitsdienst SD, the Gestapo had indeed abducted two British SIS agents on November 9. 1939. ]

    Travelling a bit, Blumfeldt had quickly discovered the only Franz Wilhelm Ritter ever born in the small village Sclagenbuettel in the German Black Forrest. He however, had been an unmarried 77 year old baker who died whilst sleeping off quite a lot of schnapps in the warm church during Christmas services in 1874. The small village church had burned down in the winter of 1889 and the birth, marriage, death registers and records were lost. All the same, German civilians did indeed speak when threatened by the Gestapo.  Hardly leaving much, Franz Wilhelm Ritter's grave was not found. The simple wooden cross on it had evidently rotted away long since. Nonetheless, a few villagers swore the old baker who had fought at Waterloo when he was 18, serving under “Old Grouchy Bluecher,” still sat snoring in church on cold winter nights. The smiling young, blond priest with kind, sky blue eyes who always kept a candle burning on top of a worn, very old strangely English Book of Psalms from 1810 on the church floor, hardly had any comments except for generously insisting:

     "May the Good Lord always bless you, my son!" 

      Of the Catholic clergy indeed, but peaceful and a good honorable soul, Father Siegfried Herzenschweig from Heidelberg was a true German who clearly enjoyed Richard Wagner’s music. Even so measuring his cranium, he was  promptly proven to be an Aryan and not thought to oppose the great importance of Adolf Hitler.  The Holy Grail said to hold miraclusous powers and indeed the most prized relic of Cristianity was never mentioned. Not found yet, it was well known the still missing grail would proudly prove German Aryans were the divine masters with rights to rule lesser beings. Alfred Rosenberg had long since insisted even science agreed the grail provided eternal life for the pure and noble. Not only the Fuehrer was obsessed by the Holy Grail, Heinrich Himmler had indeed found what he was looking for in the triangular, romantic Wewelsburg Castle shrouded in mist close to the Teutoburger Forest in Westphalia. There a proud new order... a German brotherhood  of brave warriors much like ancient crusading Templar Knights had been born. The new "Knights of the Round Table," were Gestapo, true Aryans, ideal men, impressive and very good looking. These tall, strapping, blond and blue eyed men dressed as medival knights with Swstikas on their chests now proudly paraded in German towns. Mounted on fine war horses holding up Swastika they were true Aryans, the best of humanity, Germanic warriors just like the ones long ago residing in Atlantis. There on the ancient island of Atlas art, beauty and science  had flowed like wine. It was no secret German archeologists, and the best in the world had for years not only been looking for the Holy Grail, but Atlantis as well. Shrouded in sagas ever since tine of yore, one more than the other... Now however, the Fuehrer as well as Himmler were getting impatient.

      "I'm sure Monk knows something really tasty Himmler or Goering wants... not to mention the Fuehrer, Strudel!" 

     Never mentioning any secret SS numbers, all this and more Horst Blumfeldt still kept repeating to Engel who hated his nick name, but then again gallant Horst had a wide space between his front teeth. Promptly given the ridiculous nickname name "Tooth" by the Gestapo, nothing could be worse than that. Nonetheless, today the Professor's teeth certainly were.

      Dammit!

      As far as yet, Monk was still shrouded in secrecy, but Blumfeldt was on to something. Asking for his cousin Helmut Blumfeldt Braun who was only a spy and not an agent to come and help him, eager Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel had quickly managed to send Helmut Braun to York.  Speaking perfect English, Helmut was fascinating enough to be invited to tea by any English spinster who sat spying behind her curtains all day, if not spreading juicy gossip. In a nice British uniform, handsome Helmut could definitely charm the underwear off most females which should be interesting. On top of something getting warmer as well, Horst Blumfeldt was clearly not only trying to find out in which British RAF Fighter Squadron Monk served. No British prisoner had ever heard of him. Lies of course, but even "helped" a bit in order to speak, not a single British bastard cursing broken, bloody thumbs and nail less fingers had. It was however, already known there was no one in the Royal Air Force by the name W. Monk… or with the initials M.W. Turning the M upside down, a few British Fighter Pilots did indeed have a surname beginning with a W, but the baffling Bobby was clearly none of those either nor was his name Robert or William, although awfully common English names. Never less than a true German meticulously considering every impossible possibility and not only tapping English telephones, even the Royal Navy and the Army had been scrutinized by Engel as well as the Home Guard, just in case. Trying everything to find proof, nothing seemed unimportant. 

     By now the SS Captain was even firmly convinced Monk could not be any of the daring Polish pilots forming the rather unruly Royal Air Force “Slayer Squadron” 303.  Now in England and undeniably excellent Polish Fighter Pilots, those chaps hardly spoke any English except for mumbling utterly befuddled yes or no, mostly mixing up one or the other at the wrong times. Not only speaking several languages to perfection, the Professor was clearly a renaissance man of uncommonly high intellect who liked to simplify. Definitely a dilemma, the intimidating prisoner had become a bamboozling labyrinth of questions without answers. Albeit dying to prove he was Monk, it was no secret most Fighter Pilots German or otherwise were chaps in their early twenties. The Professor seemed to be in his late twenties or very early thirties. Having seen all of him back and front nature had been uncommonly generous with, except for his still covered head, he hardly had a mark on him.

      Built like a solid brick outhouse, full of muscle and definitely sticking out in a crowd, he looked even better than a heavy weight boxer with a very nice waist. An enigma indeed, all of his head and even his face down to the tip of a clearly straight nose was thoroughly covered up by well-fitting black leather. An irritatingly fine package and truly a work of art, but having received strict orders not to remove the leather there was nothing Engel could do to open it. Indeed having two things in common, not only the Professor was stubborn as hell and persistent as toenail fungus. Doggedly doing his utmost to be patient, Engel kept telling himself every single day; No man is perfect! Reinhardt, be steadfast! Patience is the mother of the porcelain chest... Dammit!

      Unable to be more impatient, Engel could not even see the color of the prisoner's eyes.  All there was were two narrow slits that had been cut out so he could see, as well as small holes where his ears had to be. Highly identifiable, every single soul worth spit in any Secret Intelligence Service knew there were not two men with identical ears… as well as “other very personal things.”

      Often testing little tricks of “the trade,” Engel had even informed Gruebel about the importance of a man’s thumb, just for the hell of it. Whatever worried about when “raising the Swastika,” the size was always three times the thumb. It never failed. Thinking twice about holding any of his thumbs victoriously up ever again, podgy Udo Gruebel had just been staring at his for a whole week. The Chief of the Gestapo Heinrich Mueller and Reichsmarshall Hermann Goering had sent the right man. Not much liked, SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer Reinhardt Joachim Engel was indeed an expert on all sorts of torture. Singing however and more, the Professor was the one truly applying torture. A week ago he had even insisted:

     "Fear is the worst and best torture ever created, Engel."

     Shackled and not much feared before by gallant Engel, now the bloody ingenious bastard certainly was.

     Shitty bastard!

    Today, the highly educated, specialized and well trained Gestapo Captain had not only seen, but even felt the prisoner’s excellent, white teeth and the kind many Americans were so proud of, but hardly any Englishman had. Still holding a hand over what was left of his ear; the bitten Hauptsturmfuehrer was more than fuming with anger:

      Fucking moron!

     “You shot him, Gruebel! Kiss your promotion goodbye! What the devil is wrong with you? We’re Gestapo! Elite, the best of the best! Following orders to the letter is everything!”

     Conveniently declared above German law, the Gestapo even Germans feared were not a visit to granny with biscuits and kisses.

      "Sure did, Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel, sir! Had to…! He attacked you, sir!"

      "Yes… Dammit!" The podgy Unterscharfuehrer was right. Gruebel had only done his duty.

       Shit!

      Definitely an enemy of the Third Reich and indeed the Gestapo, now the Professor seemed to be playing dead on the floor. Convinced he was hurting like hell; Reinhart Engel just kept scrutinizing the cocky bastard with staggering contempt as he pissed on him. The suddenly wet Biggie sat up rather slowly against the wall and grinned. Still damn cocky his mellow deep, slightly hoarse voice had even gone down a notch:

      "Howdy! Just expectin’ bullshit what do you know? April showers!"

      Mockingly enjoying a perfect American Texas drawl, there seemed to be no end to all the languages and dialects he knew. Definitely more than a dozen and not only that, the bastard seemed to be a walking dictionary as well. Over a week ago he had certainly been insisting the true Aryans were Persians and not blond and blue eyed at all.  He had even given Engel a history lesson about the more than 3000 year old Swastika. Originally representing something quite else, Hitler and the Gestapo had moved slightly and now were using, simply turning the Swastika into an Aryan symbol. Said with great irony, he had even laughed insisting that cross no longer invoked the Vedic goddess of wealth… nor good luck. Instead, now the ancient Swastika was conveniently Nazi now invoking fear and a fact no educated German civilian dared mention, but then again even famous religions stole from other beliefs and had for millenniums.  

      After irrefutably pissing like a race horse on the prisoner with great enthusiasm, Engel had finally finished. Just giving his best friend a slight shake and beginning to close his fly Engel’s zipper was suddenly stuck.

     "Shit!" He could not believe it.

     "Aye! With Gestapo uniforms fuckin’ full of shite it happens all the time, man! Try bloody soap!"  All of a sudden sounding Scottish, the smartass had advice for everything.

     "Go to hell!" Engel furiously growled. Even though anxiously tugging at the damn thing… several times, the stuck zipper was unshakable.

     "Gruebel! Bring soap!"

     Desperate and hating himself to distraction, Reinhart Engel had been humiliated again, just like yesterday, the day before that and every day since he had first seen the Professor three weeks ago.

      "Yes, SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel, sir! With… Or without alluring fragrance, sir… Or perhaps better both? Yes, sir!"

      Damn you, Gruebel! We're fucked, you dimwit oaf! Shot,  thank God the bastard is not dead...

      "Respect, Unterscharfuehrer Gruebel!"

      "Always, Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel, sir! Always...Yes, sir!"

      Running to get two bars of the fine French soap Engel favored, Gruebel was clearly having a field day. Secrets however, were always useful. He had certainly discovered Engel still dreamt of the now US citizen Marlene Dietrich, Gruebel was not impressed by. Seeing her starring as "Lola-Lola the Blue Angel" as well, Udo had thought she looked hard and cold. Thirty one year old handsome Engel had not, but preferring warm and soft as well he had written to an American movie star diva called Rita Hayworth. She had hips as well as legs and more… Rita had enough of everything to dream about on cold long nights. Quickly receiving an alluring, signed picture of her, Reinhardt Engel still carried it around in his wallet not only looking at Rita... every single day.  Suddenly walking calmly, not always affable Udo almost sniggered as he heard the prisoner speak again:

      "Hell?" Anew the Professor flashed a smile. “Been there… didn’t like it much. No. Too many really tiny SS officers… Oh, yes…” 

       Informed with great sarcasm in excellent Parisian French, the tough bastard was clearly having a field day as well.  Too big for his breeches, he was indeed asking for it. Already shot by the idiot Gruebel who would take the blame, Engel could no longer help himself.  Unable to loathe the prisoner more, he sent an open blood spattered hand into the Professor’s lower face with force. Quickly splitting his under lip, but feeling the sharp, perfect teeth again and definitely wiser, the fuming SS officer did not hit him twice.

      You are Monk! British Secret Service, you bloody English bastard! Why are you still alive...?

     “Who are you? Tom, Dick or Harry? Name!” Engel instantly spat into the professor’s beard instead.    

       Not only shot in the thigh, the prisoner’s hairy chin had been cut by the cutthroat razor. Still bleeding into the very dark brown beard, fresh blood was slowly dripping in a long, glistening red and russet colored line as Engel heard:

      "Still wondering…? Jack... the Ripper, of course! What a relief! Here… Here… There it is, old boy! Perhaps a lullaby…?"

       "No!"  Engel’s voice was colder than ice in Antarctica.

       Fucking singing bastard!

      Blood was certainly trickling down from the Professors already swollen lip whilst he sarcastically informed who he mockingly was in the finest King’s English. He even had the bollocks to flash a small smile although the gunshot wound in his upper right thigh had to be terribly painful. A 9 mm Luger bullet was large.

       Relief! Relief…?

      All of a sudden Engel smiled as well… with quite a lot of venom. The prisoner had certainly stopped singing. No longer giving a damn if his own blood kept soiling the impeccably white stylized sig runes insignias on his black uniform collar now that even his cherished Iron Cross was blood splattered, Reinhart Engel had finally found some relief.  Driving everyone crazy, the Professor had definitely been singing… for three infernal days and nights without stop in the strangest British slang, even dropping the h's like a London working-class Cockney:

       “Beat up 'avin' bottle an' so,

       Plummy ye throw,

       Te' smashin' hell,

       Fags don't tell!

      Biggies an' bloody spin,

      Can’t do me in!

      Tin can… Hi and Ho!

      Nanny… Nanny… Go!"

      He had clearly "fixed" a silly English nursery song, but quickly sheer torture the unflinching bastard just kept on singing that one nonsensical verse as persistently as the Spanish Inquisition that had lasted 580 years.  Unable to eat or sleep and out of schnapps a piggy eyed and desperate Reinhardt Engel, certain fags just meant cigarettes, was undeniably chain smoking Lucky Strikes the doctor provided.

     Lucky Strike… dammit!

     Even the cigarettes in the dark green American package seem to be mocking him. Engel already knew “beat up” was British RAF pilot slang for diving down at an object in order to frighten… All the same, after seeing "bottle" had nothing to do with German schnapps meaning "guts" instead, Reinhardt had even looked up the English slang word "biggie" at 4 in the morning. Grinning like an idiot, he had with great satisfaction soon discovered it meant turd. Not only certain "plummy" was someone from the higher social circles, it was clear the "poetic" Professor was mocking him with rhymes from the gutter. The other English slang words Engel had not found, but turd was "jolly good."

      Yes, not only a bloody bastard! You're a fuckin' big, beastly British turd!

       Not exactly citing Shakespeare, singing with a tenor clearly meant for the opera the maddening song had seemed endless. Having a rather rare voice more than bordering on a husky baritone and his usual speaking voice, the Professor's singing voice was strangely so amazingly loud and strong he could wake the dead. He could even curiously hold very high notes which under normal circumstances would have been thought magnificent… but were definitely excruciating after three nights and days of unheard of persistence. By then a normal simple, stabbing neuralgia headache was nothing compared to Engel's blinding migraine:

        For heaven’s sake!  Choke and go to hell, fucking nanny!

       Never mind Hitler who had quite a voice as well, Richard Wagner would have loved him, Engel had thought at first. The song seemed too silly and simple to be a code of some kind and if so, meant for whom…? There was no one. They were closed off from the rest of the world.  

      Even though definitely enraging, in the beginning the Professor's singing was merely horribly annoying to say the least. Not quite so, finally convinced a deadly bullet was much too good for him, every soldier and officer near enough to hear him… which was rather far, had just wanted to smash his goddamn scull with a rifle butt. Still a secret, but whoever he was… Sending several good kicks into the singing bastard before they stomped him to death with their solid boots had seemed like a damn good idea as well. Even dancing barefoot to the silly song as well as he could do shackled whilst mocking all of them; the Professor was clearly a man of many talents and it certainly seemed so, but was he really Monk…? It was him, but absolute certainty was required by Reichsmarshall Goering… Proof.

       Not allowed to inject the Professor with dubious drugs to make him tell the truth nor having permission to give him alcohol to make him drunk and just as voluble as any man, even so Engel never gave up trying to find out how his mind worked. Enjoying chess, the Hauptsturmfuehrer had provided chess games and challenged the Professor to play. By now Reinhardt hated chess. The Professor played fast and quickly won with great speed if he did not let Engel win, which was even more embarrassing. Soon demoralized Engel was reduced to guessing games the Professor usually presented with a humorous twist and equally humiliating. Rapidly understanding humor was not Engle's forte, this man definitely saw fit to mock the Captain with silly games he was no good at and could not solve. Even so Engel stubbornly fell for the riddles, convinced each and every time he was able solve them. Just as stubborn and persistent, neatly and methodically lowering the SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer’s self-esteem with astounding creativity, the Professor kept making up mind games just like that and not all… 

       Having lungs like a whale as well, his sardonic tenor had definitely been torture after a few hours. Forbidden to gag him, not only Engel had desperately held his hands over his ears after not even cotton balls had helped. Several had asked both the Father and the Son for help, but not answering at all both were apparently already going deaf and the Holy Spirit had clearly just given up. Finally not even a handful of Aspirins swallowed down all at once... with strong German schnapps were of any use. Intolerable pain was still hammering like a sledge in Engel’s head this morning whilst his neck and shoulders had become beastly painful and stiff.  Nonetheless, the ambitious SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer had used all his self-control to merely stare longingly at his Luger for days, before finally bellowing out:

       "Shut the fuck up!"

        It had been to no avail and by now he was convinced he was not the only one in Neuscwanstein Castle who would hear the damn song on his deathbed even if he got to be a hundred. Then the miracle came. The Professor stopped singing as suddenly as he had begun; calmly insisting to Engel in what had become a rather hoarse voice:

       "You got two options, Engel.  One: Ask nicely. Two: Not. Which is it? One… or two…? Should not be a difficult choice… No."

       You fucking bastard! Think I’m going to beg? One or two? I’m Gestapo for Christ sake! I could shoot you… saying you were trying to escape, but there would be hell to pay…

        "Please, stop singing!" Almost crying with rage and desperation and again humiliated, the sudden bitter taste in Engel’s mouth was again killing him… as it often did lately.

        "Splendid!" The infuriating wise cracker had just said whilst the SS officer wanted to strangle him very slowly… before he had the nerve to calmly add as well:

      "And two more things, Engel; Number One: Always be civil. Number Two: Never forget Number One.  Just simplifying… There it is. Oh, yesss…" Said with great sarcasm, the bloody bastard had made sure to smile just enough.

       Fry in hell!

       Engel was far beyond furious hearing as well: "Sound is amazing... not only taking hold of a man's soul, it can be bliss, sheer torture... or quite useful, Engel."

      "You will pay for this with your life... very slowly... suffering... !" Engel fumed. "Who the devil do you believe you are, you... fuckin' big turd!"

      "Believe? No, I don't believe. I know who I am. I even know who you are. Oh, yesss! Turd..? You can do better than that, Reinhardt!" The Professor could hardly stop laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

                                           Chapter 2

                 Games Galore or Cloak and Dagger?

       Obsessed with his Aryan good looks he now could kiss goodbye, Reinhardt Joachim Engel’s blood spattered face had become almost purple with rage. Not only exceedingly infatuated with the Spanish Inquisition, but relishing all sorts of torture and seeing Adolf Hitler’s hatred for Jews, Engel had been certain he was sailing in a sea of opportunities. Instead of basking in the warm glow of agreeable rewards in the Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin however, less than a month ago he had received a Top Secret German Enigma, electro-mechanical rotor cipher coded order of the greatest urgency directly from Hermann Goering. Two days later the bewildered Hauptsturmfuehrer arrived at Neuscwanstein Castle in Bavaria where he was expected to find out if a clandestine prisoner was Monk... without applying torture. Unusual indeed, the prisoner Engel soon nicknamed "Biggie" was clearly someone out of the ordinary the Gestapo had not chosen to disappear  into the “The Fog and the Night.”  

      Officially however, the unsmiling Hauptsturmfuehrer had arrived to be part of the highly trusted Gestapo task force of officers, soldiers, curators, historians and art experts selected to receive, painstakingly categorize, classify and describe in writing priceless "gifts" of war.  Quite a lot of exquisite paintings, even masterpieces of Rembrandt as well as of several other well known great masters were carefully lowered down from German army trucks several times every week, and more kept coming. Not only ancient or religious statues, beautiful old, large luxurious vases, old wall hangings and medieval armor superbly adorned by gold kept arriving. Even gold bars, as well as ancient Bibles, books and texts painstakingly written and ornamented by medieval monks arrived at the castle on military vehicles. By now, everyone was well aware why they were there and it was indeed a great honor.

       Adolf Hitler had his heart set on building the finest museum in the world in his birth town in Linz in Upper Austria. The museum could only be named after the Fuehrer, of course.  That Hitler’s surname was originally Hiedler was never mentioned by anyone. Without a doubt bewildering and even more so to a confused priest who years ago had misspelled the name after seeing Hitler’s father had been baptized with his mother’s surname, Schicktlgruber. A shame hardly mentioned either nonetheless, she had been an unwed mother until a Johann Hiedler married her... but then again every family had its secrets.

       Avoiding all problems the magnificent museum was to be called the “Fuehrer Museum” and as simple as that. Highly trusted and thrilled to be of even more service, as far as the Gestapo was concerned what Hitler wanted, the Secret German State Police saw to he received. By now, there were thousands of priceless objects of art not only taken from occupied Poland at the castle.  Furious Czechs if still alive seemed to have been most "generous“ as well as churches, Jewish synagogues and "assorted" wealthy collectors... who could no longer protest, Jewish or not.  More and more priceless art kept coming carefully packed in crates of all sizes. Few were numbered, but somehow there was still order in the chaos. Art of great value was by now hidden in mostly unmarked wooden crates all over Germany, but the finest pieces seemed to arrive at Neuschwanstein Castle. Even so the Gestapo could still only dream of what would arrive from soon conquered France, which was a treasure trove. 

       Cultivated Engel, who appreciated and was an expert of art as well, had been ordered to look busy with a new German Kodak box camera made in Stuttgart.  Describing what he saw for a few hours every day in the morning as well was like having a really nice holiday. The rest of the time was not, having something infinitely more important to accomplish. Mindboggling did not even begin to describe what seemed like a brainstorm battle fought by two opponents. Never troubled by a few of the other Gestapo officers at first asking what he really did, soon seeing Engel was not very affable they hardly spoke to him again. What was more, Gruebel did not hesitate to inform everyone that Engel had received orders from Reichsmarshall Goering himself to quietly “investigate” a few things for the Fuehrer. Reinhardt had never really trusted anyone. Except for Gruebel, the only "outsider" he spoke to was the well educated and indispensable SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer and Physician, Doctor  Dieter E. Schmier-Messermann Engel liked... with reservations. The other useful person he accepted with suspicions, he never said a single word to. Just a Corporal, but useful the burly butcher provided the best foot long sausages in the world as well as boiled potatoes at least twice a week. The jovial Bavarian was an agreeable connection “Affable Udo” had made and spoke with. Udo even insisted the Corporal’s Bavarian sausages could beat the socks off a full German "Iron Ration" any day. Never saying so, Engel certainly agreed.

          Today however, Corporal Baldemar Schlachtbaum was even making liver cheese loaf Bavarians refused to live without. Not containing neither liver or cheese, but pink and delicious as a woman, it was instead made of beef and pork meat. It even had a crust that could make any man sing… if beer was served as well. Enough for everyone, all was set for the birthday celebration tomorrow. By now, most everyone looked forward to a change from the usual “Iron Rations” of tinned horsemeat and vegetables, dry black bread and biscuits, coffee, hard sausage, jam and a bit more if lucky. Corporal Schlachtbaum had even promised gravy made from bacon fat as well as Sauerkraut… with apples. Albeit liking the acid cabbage, Engel never touched anything looking like meatloaf. He preferred the fried Bavarian sausages with French Dijon mustard and the high class English catsup with mushrooms and walnuts which the doctor provided. A veritable shop keeper, the doctor even "found" schnapps... Scottish whiskey, American tinned peaches, cookies, real coffee and lovely French soap. Even Cuban cigars, Russian Caviar tins, French wine, "Bubbly" and more could be had as well, for it was no longer a secret not all the crates contained art.    

      All the other officers ate better than the soldiers, enjoyed wine, cigars and spoke with each other or listened to the radio. By now however, as far as they were concerned "Grumpelface" Engel simply occupied an office in the main castle building where he could eat his toenails for all they cared. Well liked, but never questioned as well Udo Gruebel merely seemed to be a convenient mix of both a messenger boy and a highly trusted secretary who saw to that Engel had what he needed. Soon as clear as ink, no warning sign was needed on the former service door leading to Reinhardt Engel’s office insisting: “Forbidden! Keep out!” Simply seeing Engel tense and even with his shoulders over his ears was more than enough to make other SS officers think twice about visiting his office for a friendly chat, a drop of whiskey, cognac or schnapps and good cigars.  No one messed with the Gestapo. Not even the Gestapo messed with the Gestapo.

       Engel was a loner and only Gruebel knew that one of his normally unseen well trained squads of SS-Guards not on duty often smoked German Juno cigarettes outside at night too, just like everyone else. Togged up in field grey uniforms as well, they blended nicely in with other sleepless soldiers in the dark and were not of much importance to any officer when nothing and no one arrived at the castle. Not a soul could get through the secured guard entrance without being seen. Entering the castle was only permitted after first being reported by field telephone and presenting a written authorization with identification. All the same, hearing what others spoke about in Neuschwanstein Castle was still useful for spies were everywhere and security was imperative.

     Anew at war with Britain after a little more than 20 years had passed since World War I ended, the irony of locking the impressive English bastard up in this exceptionally beautiful nineteenth century Romanesque revival palace had become immense. Neuschwanstein Castle had been built by King Ludwig II of Bavaria as homage to the composer Richard Wagner. Replacing the ruins of more than two medieval castles it was truly magical. There were days the white fairy tale castle with soaring turrets even seemed to float high up into the haze and the white clouds in the skies between the Alps and the lower Austrian border hills. A safe place indeed, it was with a stroke of genius Hermann Göring had put the Professor there in the beginning of January. In winter the roads up to the castle were not only very difficult and slippery for German military jeeps, even now army trucks were struggling on the roads.  Spring had finally arrived, but Neuscwanstein Castle was the last place anyone suspected would hold someone like Monk and the British were certainly not bombing Bavaria. Much unlike the picturesque palace however, the prisoner kept there in secrecy was not what fairy tales were made of… or perhaps he was indeed, if one was not a German Gestapo Captain who had to be patient…

       He had been taken prisoner in the Eifel mountains near Rodert Village and the old spa town Bad Muenstereifel in North Rhein-Westiphalia. How that had happened was still a mystery to Engel. Mostly notified by "need to know" information he hated, even so Reinhardt had his sources. By now he  knew with certainty the Professor had clearly been  in the simplest of Hitler's Headquarters coded  Felsenrest, but the Brits called "Rocky Nest." Not impressive at all and clearly a serious place for planning, the 4 room wooden house was spartan and close to it was an austere, camuflaged bunker, nothing more. Soon informed by a young Corporal owing a favor... it was a fact that an unidentified civilian had been having a cup of coffee there whilst enjoying a cigar outside with someone, anonymous and sitting smoking as well in the cold dusk. Hitler who detested and had forbidden tobacco smoke of any kind, was not there when Monk was captured. Never known to be a counter agent albeit still a mystery, the civilian had to be him.  Not only wondering who the other man was, Engel was convincd even the brightest made mistakes. The coffee had clearly been "fixed" and although strange, it was the only way to take Monk alive on Saturday, January 5.  Not standing close at all, the Corporal had seen that the two men dressed in heavy overcoats had soon left in a chauffer driven black Mercedes Benz with Gestapo plates... no one in the Gestapo had ever heard of.  One of the men however, had great trouble walking and was helped…

     Only 5 days later, on January 10. a German aircraft carrying secret plans to invade Western Europe had inded been forced to land in Belgium. After that, the defense forces in the Low Countries had not taken long to mobilize. Even so, a German invasion was imminent in early May and England was next after the French had stood and openly cried hearing "Heil Hitler" and German boots marching, not only on Champs Elysee in Paris. The stiff upperlipped English might just stare into a cold cup of tea, even so tea was tea... from "the colonies." They even said tea could fix everything but war and death. Having no doubts, Engel just knew the flegmatic Brits who had long since fought and conquered an empire would just "carry on," insisting they would as always never... Never... Never bloody give up, in or out! So there!

        Goddamn snotty British bastards!

     Convinced power was definitely the thing to have, Engel was certain everything else would fall in place when he had power and the Gestapo was where to get that.  Hitler had only been a Corporal and now he was the Great Chief of The Armed German Forces. Powerful men were indeed a breed of their own and Reinhardt Engel intended to join that exclusive club. 

     The Professor had been brought to Neuschwanstein Castle shortly after midnight on a very cold Tuesday, January 8. Udo Gruebel, who had been picked up in Schwangau close by and arrived on the same truck, had soon seen that the prisoner was already shackled and that his head and face were covered by leather. Strangely lacking socks, shoes or boots however, the prisoner had been put in a sack in a crate. Sleeping like a baby surrounded by packed paintings, he had been dressed in warm clothes normally used by simple workmen. Not beaten up at all he had clearly only been drugged.  Not risking suffocation, the thoroughly closed crate had small holes made on two sides at the top and bottom. Well hidden and apart from “facing” an ancient statue of the very scantily clad Roman Goddess Venus, he was almost “embraced" by famous women.

     Leonardo da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa,” known to be in Paris had strangely been on one side of him whilst Gustav Klimt’s “Portrait of Adele” was on the other.  Someone with a great sense of humor must have put Edward Munch’s “Scream” over the top of his head whilst his feet almost rested on Claude Monet’s “Waterloo Bridge.” Still drugged, he as well as the paintings had been unpacked, thoroughly scrutinized and photographed. “Au naturel,” he had good, healthy skin without any freckles or birthmarks what so ever and just a few scars, but nothing out the common for a man who clearly favored sports. Not allowed to take the leather mask off that had a metal lock, but lifting a flap covering his neck, nice not abnormally long, very dark brown hair had been seen. Not wearing a wrist watch or any rings a wallet was however, mentioned in the report signed by Goering and the prisoner arrived with. The report was safely fasted to his jacket with a pin, but had mysteriously disappeared. Ten days ago however, the report and the black wallet were found by Engel behind a heavy filing cabinet in his office and both were quite interesting… One more than the other…

     Avoiding any escape and even though there had been sub-zero winter temperatures in January and snow but a dangerous man and not wearing warm long johns, at first he was only allowed to wear his Sanforized boxer shorts, trousers and nothing else. Awfully cold however, he had been given a very red woolen sweater with a hood that could easily be seen in the snow. Finally waking up, the Professor had been furious and a bit confused, but not for long. Clearly wondering where he was, but soon calm and gentle as a lamb at first he had not said or moved much, apart from being generally annoying and a bloody bastard. Too small, the sweater had caused much mocking laughter from the guards. Soon after he was given a warm, very red woolen blanket Gruebel cut a hole in to stick his head through. Loosely worn and comfortable, but seeing there was a Nazi Swastika on it, the prisoner had just grinned calling it a "Poncho Puteado," whatever that meant. Gruebel could certainly imagine even if he did not understand Spanish. Seeing the prisoner could express amusement and appreciating a good laugh, affable Udo had even found a couple of extra large stockings for him. Customarily given filled with small gifts and sweets on St. Nicholas Day and even hung up over fireplaces for Christmas, the empty long stockings were still quite a show. Obviously not giving a damn what he looked like, and seeing the stocking were just as red as the blanket whilst even having white rabbit fur on top as well as lace snowflakes, doubling over with laughter he had been more than happy to put the warm stockings on. Still laughing, the Professor had even told Udo Gruebel it made no sense being a good boy anymore for by now modern Santa Claus was happily working for the American Coca Cola Company. Gruebel had however, safely kept his distance. The guards bringing him and the prisoner a bit of food had certainly seen that several times and soon informed Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel of that fact.

      Engel had arrived with a small suitcase, a heap of books, dictionaries, a notably large old family bible, two most reliable German Telefunken recorders and an impressive black bag full of "instruments" at the end of March. Moving into a simple room with an adjoining office, Reinhardt Engel was all of a sudden "planted" in a locked secret little world that did not officially exist as well. Replacing Hauptsturmfuehrer Wolfgang Tetzel who had suddenly been promoted and would be sent to Norway before ordered to serve under Field Marshall Erwin Rommel in his 7 Th. Panzer Division, was not much of a puzzle. Favored by Hermann Goering, the invasion of France was indeed imminent. Engel could only dream of Paris he was fascinated by. Seeing Tetzel leave, pea green with jealousy Engel had certainly thought: 

     Drop dead in Moulin Rouge if you don’t get the fucking clap first from the French Mademoiselles in Montmartre!

     It was no secret 6 feet 2 inches tall, blue eyed and very blond, handsome Tetzel had even been ordered to produce more than a couple of Aryan babies with lovely Norwegian blondes who might not be overly willing, but still. Soon convinced Tetzel was a real disgrace and a nincompoop however, Engel had indeed been informed by Gruebel that something quite unusual had happened only 4 days after the Professor arrived. Not seeing any details reported of that event or ever mentioned by Wolfgang Tetzel, Engel had at first been convinced the strict orders had been painstakingly followed. Not yet laying eyes on the prioner and still incredulous, tired and more than irritable, even so Engel had at first read what he could. Tetzel’s very faulty report beginning and ending January was hastily scribbled with a few incompetent words:

         January 1940

        January 8. 1220 Prisoner received. Crate MW1096-1 brought to prison cell. Unpacked and photographed.  Prisoner shackled to wall.  Given:

       1 Bucket w. lid. 1 Year old newspaper. 1 Bucket w. water. 1Black Bakelite cup. 1 Aluminum bowl. 1 Spoon.  2 Stamped woolen navy blankets. 1Towel.  

       January 12. Acquisition 1 Steel door and steel shackles. Door put up January 13. 1940. New shackles put on prisoner same day.  

       Signed:  W.Tetzel  Waffen SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer

       All before February arrived, but those few words were of utmost importance. The prisoner was still detained in utmost secrecy. The steel door clearly kept him in the only room converted into a secured prison cell. It was behind the last door to the left at the end of a sealed off corridor with several doors leading to former servants’ rooms. Thought a thoroughly safe location indeed, the closed off corridor was not all too far from the kitchen that only had a small rope elevator up to the extravagant Royal, Wagnerian Dining Hall. Clearly suspected to be Monk, two squads of armed SS-Guards were still ordered to watch the Professor day and night. From the outside, there were 3 doors to get through before getting to the prisoner and  it would be a miracle if any unauthorized person should manage to do that.

     Almost looking like a wellmade speakeasy door with a barred peep hole, the first door was an iron spiked former service entrance leading out to a small yard. One guard was always posted behind it. 3 guards were posted outside the next compact, second solid oak door fortified by iron spikes and even bars as well. The guards were no longer armed with the customary Mauser K98 rifles. Ordered to shoot should the prisoner try to escape; by now they had new MP 40 Submachine Guns as well as Walther PPK Pistols. Engel had seen to that. 4 Guards stood sentry outside the secured, third steel door made in Solingen. Locking the prisoner in the cell, but camouflaged by oak to look like all the other doors on the outside, the steel door was immediately fancied by the new Hauptsturmführer. Solid and having key and a lock with a strong box combination only Engel and much trusted Gruebel knew, it was quite a door even Hitler himself would fancy in one of his bunkers.

     At first Udo Gruebel just kept looking wide eyed and strangely intimidated at the new Hauptsturmfuehrer. He even had a horrid and most annoying hiccup as he began informing to very impatient Engel.

         "As you were, Unterscharfuehrer Gruebel!"

         Speak up... Dammit! What the devil is wrong with you, numb scull?

         Holding on to his arms he liked to cross over his chest, as always Engel sat straight as a candle whilst scrutinizing anyone with great intensity. The impressive furrows over a narrow aquiline nose made his dark blond wing shaped eyebrows almost seem ready to fly away like an eagle… or an even more effective bomber plane. Warmth had no place in his cold, light blue eyes. Instead there was only pitiless impatience as he soon lowered his eyes and arms as he leaned slightly forward filling a glass with water. A second later however, he stared anew at the well recommended Udo Gruebel who was said to be the best "watch dog" there was.

        "Sit! Drink water!"

         Boot heels suddenly gave out a sharp sound as Gruebel stood in attention, lifted out an arm and saluted.

        “Hepp…! Heil Hitler!”

       Wondering if SS-Junior Quad Leader could possiby be  mocking Hitler, still impatient Engel’s somewhat full mouth was instantly pressed into hard, angry line over a rather square, stubborn, clean shaven strong chin that hardened too as he quickly raised a gloved hand.

       “Heil Hitler!”

         Certain Gruebel would soon enough see his shamefully bitten thumbnails he was not yet removing his gloves nor his SS hat. Gruebel just stared at Engel who had a face found on fine old gold coins... and in Hollywood period movies.  Albeit as if  chisled and elegant the rest of Engel's head was not... balding under the SS hat. Loosing his hair at only 20, to remedy that devastating fact at 31, Engel's slightly curly, gold blond hair was always carefully combed forward to hide that flaw once the hat was taken off. Hating winds and beaches, but handsome and indeed favoring women,  the finest French hair pomade always kept every single hair where it ought to be. Instantly seeing the curious look on Gruebel's common face and not repeating the command, Engel all of a sudden remembered that British Fighter Pilot "Aces" were now even nicknamed the "New Gladiators."

      Gladiators! Nothing but amusing slaves... Britannia was conquered once for over 400 years... Now with the Luftwaffe... it will be forever! London shall burn!

      Feeling infinitely better Engel removed his gloves and repeated to Gruebel who still stood in in attention, clearly not mocking anyone:

       "Drink water! Sit!"

        He pointed with studied indifference at the glass of water with a refined, long index finger. His mother always kept insisting his hands were made to play her fine old Wilh. Steinberg grand piano for her moron "connections" Reinhardt could not hate more. Quickly fishing out a cigarette and breaking all rules, the new Captain offered Gruebel one of his cigarettes.

      Hmmm... the moron might be useful...

      "Are you deaf or just an idiot?"

      "No... Hepp! Thank you, sir!  No, not deaf, sir! Hepp...! No thank you, heppp...! Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel, sir!" Gruebel shook his head. "No water either... Hepp...! Ohhh... No. Just need to swallow 3 times, sir...

      "Be brief!" Engel waved an impatient hand.

      "Beggin' your pardon, sir... Heppp! And hold my breath. Kind of difficult, but... heppp..! After that it's gone, sir! Hepp! Dammit! Sorry! Hepp..!"

      "Who told you that rubbish?"  Cigarette ash was impatiently flicked away from the immaculate, large office desk… where the report, 2 telephones, a typewriter and a Czech crystal ashtray had been placed. The were even cigars, a silver tray with a lovely Polish water decanter and indeed a matching glass filled with water as well as a welcoming bottle of German schnapps.

      "With all… Heppp..! Due respect... the prisoner is… The Professor, sir… Hepp..!"

      "What...?"

       Gruebel was clearly struggling with a nervous hiccup. Quickly collapsing like a deflated accordion on a chair in front of Engel's desk whilst looking as if someone was strangling him, he mumbled:

      "The Professor... Hepp! Is hell on wings, sir!"

      "Calm down! Elaborate Unterscharfuehrer Gruebel!"

        What the devil...? The prisoner must be Monk!.

        Not touching the water, it was not all Reinhardt Engel was told about the Professor. After finally managing to swallow three times, Gruebel held his breath for a couple of seconds. Engel just kept scrutinizing the young Junior Squad Leader's ash blond hair, his perky nose and a rather slim mouth full of crooked teeth.  An old scar parted one of his unruly eyebrows.

      "Don’t be an idiot prick, Gruebel! If anyone… has put a finger on the prisoner he will be shot!"

        Holy box of shit! A fucking, ignorant moron!

      "Ohhh… Finger, sir? Heppp…! No... No finger... No, sir! And no prick, sir! Heppp…! It might have been the nutcracker… Sir!"

       "Music..? Tchaikovsky... Ballet…?" Engel who loved music instantly blurted out, before realizing what had happened.

       "Tchai… Ballet? No, sir.  Not exactly… Hepp…! No, sir! More flying... than dancing...  yes, sir! Hepp!"

         Not wondering for long what had happened, Gruebel's hiccup was soon gone and the Junior Squad Leader informed as well, before he finally rambled on with quite a story:

        "The Professor says a spoon full of sugar is even better... and the bastard sure knows what he's saying, Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel, sir! Yes, sir!"

           "Be brief and get to the point, man!"

           Gruebel certainly did, even needing to stand. The steel door had been put up with the utmost German efficiency only 5 days after the Professor arrived and new fortified steel shackles had even been put on him as well. Certainly not all, on the fourth day the still barefoot prisoner had suddenly broken the old shackles between his ankles and wrists as well as those safely locked to the wall.     

       Jumping like a panther, he had kicked the former solid oak door straight to hell. Albeit fortified with iron spikes, he had quickly converted the door to pitiful firewood as large metal hinges flew in the air and still not all. Whilst promptly sending an SS-Guard Squad crashing headlong straight into the wall as weapons simply hit the floor too, the Professor had strangely not made a single sound. Yet it was pandemonium over almost before it had begun. None of the 8 guards would ever know what had happened to them. Quickly down and out, they were swiftly lying like uniformed rag dolls over the weapons the Professor never touched. Not a single shot had been fired. Like hell on wings and quiet as a shadow in the night, unarmed and half naked the Professor had "cleaned up" with amazing speed... apparently just for the hell of it. Over and done, he just sat down on the floor. Calm as midnight blue, ancient Alaska ice and not giving a damn if the guards were able to hear him or not, he had calmly told them in perfect German... holding up a large nutcracker:

      "I warned you, boys.  You don't fuck with me. No. Had to convince you of that. Enough. Me? From the Cleaners. See you in messy hell. Oh, yess..."

      Just sitting unmoving, that was it and enough. The broken brick, the light colored limestone, plaster and the paneled wall were repaired. None of the SS Guards had died. Just wishing they were dead for the rest of their lives whilst needing to be fed, paralyzed and in diapers none of them would ever walk again, speak, see or hold a gun or anything at all for that matter. Standing like a pillar of salt awfully close to the opened prison cell, but mustering all the courage he had after seeing the Professor was calm, Udo Gruebel just ran for his life and for help. Yelling out and jumping like an erratic frog, soon the SS-Squad not on duty came running with a large, heavy velvet curtain they threw over the terrifying prisoner. Albeit not moving a muscle, even so they held him down whilst the blacksmith repaired and shortened the shackles. The unconscious guards were carried out on stretchers by other soldiers, never told what had happened or seeing the prisoner. Sworn to silence, the still fit SS-Guard Squad had quickly been sent to Warsaw by Tetzel. Shortly after however, they were sent to serve under “Quick” Heinz Wilhelm Guderian who had led the XIX Corps during the invasion of Poland. Even though often disagreeing and not always well seen by Hitler, General Guderian was the expert on armored troops. With his XIX Corps Panzer Division and his two motorized Infantry Divisions, he even insisted he could easily wipe out any French resistance as fast as saying matchbox… five hundred times. A difficult word often used by Engel to quickly discover foreign agents and spies, he did not hesitate to use it again.

   Rather small, a matchbox had been awarded with the long word “Streich-Holz-Schachtel” in German and difficult to say correctly for foreigners.  Ordering him to say it three times, the most willing Professor had without halt repeated the word to perfection for over two days to Engel's great irritation. Dying to gag the bloody English bastard, but not even when offered a full "Iron Ration" and a luxury, had the persistent Professor stopped to sleep, eat or drink water.

        "Eat! Eat, you English bastard! Coffee...!" Treated like a prince even given warm water once a week so he could wash well and more than most Germans did, Engel had even been willing to find Ceylon tea... Really wanting scold the bloody English bastard to death with a hot kettle of water... till his skin and flesh fell off and more... The English always seemed to: "Put the kettle on..." The irony of that almost made Engel grin a bit, but not for long as he kept hearing:

        "Streich-Holz-Schactel, Streich-Holz-Schachtel, Streich..."

       Oh, yesss... Engel. Mister W. More is here... Want More... little SS sadist? Howz that? I'll have you for breakfast... Not a cornflakes man... In a nice soufflee with mushrooms fed shit and kept in the dark... Oh, yesss! 

        Even sounding like a native Bavarian, the Professor was smiling like a devil as he kept repeating matchbox in German. After that, Engel swore he would never touch a matchbox ever again for as long as he lived.

        What the guards had said or tried to do to the Professor whilst Gruebel was fetching the book to write the daily report in and Tetzel just signed was still a mystery, but Udo could definitely imagine. Most anything was done to prisoners just for fun.

        "The Professor is not exactly... Ehem... You'll see him, sir."

        Engel certainly had. Finally entering the dark prison cell, he put the lights on. The shackled prisoner sitting on the floor with his back against the wall stood up. Not at all what the SS Captain had expected to see, his mind went instantly blank as his heart sank, this time into his boots, but just for a split second.

      I’ll be...! He cannot be Monk! I’m fucked if he’s Monk! Goering might be a morphine addict, but he doesn’t fool around! Holy shit! The bloody bastard is Monk!

      As if meeting in an elegant London gentleman’s club Engel suddenly heard a very pleasant deep voice:

     "Good evening!”   The overly tall prisoner even held out a welcoming hand.

      This was a man clearly sure of himself. The Professor was not only mocking Hitler and the Gestapo; looking mighty strange, the British bastard was calmly making a statement. Quite clearly not giving a damn what he looked like he seemed to insist; Dare to be different! Elegant clothing and fine uniforms might make impressive impacts… but people make clothing. Never making men, attires changing with fashion and time only cover what is underneat... and even the truth... not always easily seen.     

    Clearly enjoying himself, the Professor was undoubtedly a man of action and not of false words or empty promises. Only gifted Monk could pull off something like this. Even though highly surprised, Engel was instantly certain he was not only Monk; he was the Bobby and the Wildman as well. Engel just had to prove it.

      Holy shit! This man is dangerous!

      Certain hardly anything is simple, Engel just stared wishing he could see the prisoner’s eyes. Still holding out his hand the Professor simply kept on speaking calmly with a melodious, husky baritone Rita Hayworth would have loved:

      "The element of surprise is... Never mind." Said dead seriously in German, he continued in British English with a slight smile: "Oh, dear, look at what the cat dragged in! One: Another weasel...? Or are you just... Two: A dog obeying orders? Which is it? Just tell me the truth and get it over with! One… or… Two?"

       Yes! Irony and goddamn humor, you fucking English bastard!

       An element of surprise indeed and even hearing perfect German without any accent at all was acceptable. It had however; never occurred to Engel the prisoner had the nerve to interrogate him. Not only flagrant rudeness, it was an unpardonable insult to Hitler, the Gestapo and Engel. Apart from the beard, the bloody bastard looked like a rather new American comic book superhero now called Batman, who Reinhardt had secretly admired since 1939. Not all and indeed different, he even looked like a mix of Batman and the pirate Edward Teach from Bristol… better known as Blackbeard. Quite a notorious bastard who even so had spurned force and instead relied on a fearsome image.  All of a suddden Engel was even thinking his real name could be Edward… Tom, Dick or Harry Teach, whilst staring at this unusual man:

         Teach…? A damn good name for a Professor…

        Clearly a highly trained warrior now in a world at war full of all sorts of men… the prisoner definitely had a damn fine pair of bullocks as well as uncommonly high intellect. Suddenly even the fortified steel shackle bands seemed like a joke on his wrists and ankles whilst the chains rustled with a distinctly metallic sound.  As Gruebel lifted up the poncho a bit with a rifle barrel to show he was safely shackled, Engel even realized he was symmetrical. Still not all, the tail of secured shackle links formed as eights that were falling down from the solid belt of steel around his waist under the red poncho blanket looked like signs of eternity.  Convinced the prisoner could not break the rather short shackles, Engel just gave the still welcoming hand a cold stare and finally insisted louder than intended:

      "I am Waffen-SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer Engel! Gestapo!" Pausing slightly, he let that unnerving fact sink in. "When I have finished with you... You will be begging me to kill you! Heil Hitler!"

        Clearly not having much effect at all, the prisoner calmly answered as if they were having a pleasant Sunday morning stroll in Hyde Park whilst insisting in British English:

       "Engel..? Lucky me… An angel. This should be interesting... but how very uncivil of me! I am Mister Fox. Do sit down and make yourself at home, Engel."

        Pointing to one of the simple two chairs close to a small table, he even flashed a smile adding in French Engel knew well:

       "You can't be tired of flying a Heinkel He 111… really a twin engine bomber and a wolf in sheep’s clothing…" He suddenly smiled and switched to English: "... Sorry, old boy! Yess, you being only a teeny weenie inch too tall for the Luftwaffe... Pity, indeed a rather wibbly wobbly timey wimey German thing... Oh, yesss!"

      How he had instantly seen the SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer's greatest deception was still a puzzle.

       Jesus H. Christ! How in the bleedin'...?

       Not sitting down, the furious SS-Captain simply threw his hat with the Gestapo skull and cross bones on the table, instantly condemning the prisoner to a horrid death. As if seeing Reinhardt Engle's fuming thoughts crawling around like cockroaches in his skull, suddenly again speaking English the Professor added in an overly calm voice:

      "Hmm... Most people see, but they never observe... and usually only hear what they want to hear, old boy. There it is. Oh, yesss..."

         Fry on a fucking spit in hell, you... You bloody English bastard!

        There was even more: "Nothing new… Fanatics with obsessive, ailing minds however, do not only lack humor and tolerance, they are blind as well as often completely deaf... Engel." 

          Only pausing slightly, there seemed to be no end to what he had observed:"... but they are always useful to men with greed for power... whether of Church, State... or wanting the whole World, of course. Indeed having one thing in common, think Hitler will do better than Napoleon...?"

         Again the Professor smiled, this time with great sarcasm. The sudden flash of white, perfect teeth was more insulting than a slap in the face with an open hand. Clearly trying hard not to smile and just like a naughty boy, the Professor was suddenly even sticking his tongue out. Not only surprised Engel gave the obnoxious tongue a blank stare before finally insisting:  

      "You will show respect!"

       "But, of course!" The prisoner agreed without smiling and explained: "You see, I was just wondering if I can breathe through my nose with my tongue out... Interesting... Can you, Engel?" The Professor was clearly dead serious.

       I'll be damned! Sure I can! Interesting...?  

       "Yes...!" Highly surprised, Engel had no doubt he could, suddenly sticking his tongue out as well he demanded in a funny voice indeed ashamed: 

      "Ehhhaa... Enough of this nonsense!"

      "Precisely! That cleared up...  Splendid!"

      "What?" Dead serious as well, Engel was still breathing through his nose with his tongue far down his chin.

     "Only simplifying... One: A small example of what the "Element of Surprise" can do to a person... Two: Not another weasel... You clearly look like a... Dog, Engel! Do sit!" The Professor suddenly laughed.

       What the devil...?

       Thoroughly humiliated, unable to hate the prisoner more and on top of that never seeing such a perfectly annoying smile nor hearing such contagious laughter in his life, Engel could not have been more knocked for six had the Professor fallen down from the moon. All the same, should the bloody bastard really be Monk and not just anybody... Monk was Monk. Nothing escaped him.

       Fuckin' British shit!

      The Biggie had certainly arrived, but so had SS Hauptsturmführer Reinhardt Engel.

       I'm here now... Fox..? I'll make you squeal like a pig!

      Engel suddenly smiled as well, feeling much better:

      You're damn right... This will be interesting...

      Seeing how very tall the Professor was, Engel quickly ordered the shackles to be shortened a bit more. After that the Professor could not stand up straight anymore. Never taken to the nearest hospital, the plastered and bandaged up squad of SS-Guards still looked like Egyptian mummies in a closed ward in the rather empty infirmary.

       Not only warned as well, the new highly trained SS-Guards were definitely civil as they stood sentry around the clock, but just for four hours before relieved by rested and alert guards. After that incident however, the Professor was always very calm and even affable... when he wanted to. Busy and clearly having better things to do, the Chief of the Gestapo was never told since nothing was reported. Engel however, was still wondering where the idiot Wolfgang Tetzel had been when the unacceptable incident had happened.  All the same, Engel swore none of it would ever happen again as surely as he was from a highly respected, fine German family and Waffen SS-Hauptsturmfuehrer Reinhardt Joachim Engel. An expert, he had much more sophisticated methods to make any man squeal... and more.

      At first grateful to have been chosen, Engel was excited and no longer asking: “Why not me?” Truly honored to be regarded as an excellent expert of all kinds of torture by now however, a little more than three weeks later his future in the Gestapo seemed to be dangling in the air over the Bavarian mountains in a very fine thread… made by a spider.

      A month earlier he had been convinced Monk who did not only favor the very quiet British 9 mm bolt action Welrod with a silencer, but suspected to cherish the never failing German Walther PPK semi automatic Police Pistol Kriminalmodell too would rather commit suicide before letting anyone take him prisoner. Nonetheless, should the Professor indeed be Monk, why the sudden paradox?  There had to be a very good reason and who had put the leather mask on him? The ones doing that must have seen his face. Even so it was obvious Mueller or Goering seemed to want something from the Professor, but what? Said to be an expert on many things, but perhaps not even 30 years old it could not be all that many. Young, but a master of disguises and more, dangerous did not even begin to describe Monk. Brilliant was a much better word. What the Gestapo knew about him was very little, still somehow more than enough.

       Not just any Englishman, Monk was a professional killer who could “take care” of any man with his bare hands in about three seconds… without leaving any trace. If he did, it was because he had chosen to do so, just for the hell of it. Whatever he set out to do was quickly, well and neatly done before he vanished like a spirit into a heap of Victorian rags and London pea soup fog... after it had been raining cats and dogs in Germany, Italy, Poland, even Spain and other places.  Not only said to have style and class, the bloody bastard seemed to have humor and loads of English irony as well.  Definitely unnerving, more than ever not only Mueller, Goering and Himmler feared the prisoner was Monk who might have been sent to “take care” of the venerated Führer Adolf Hitler once and for all. Terrifying, Monk was not only a mystery and too good to be true. Monk was a legend. 

       On long nights when not even more than a "few drops" of Schnapps could put him to sleep, Engel was not only wondering why Monk had not simply been killed. There had to be a very good reason, but what?

      What is Hermann Goering waiting for? Torture will make the bloody bastard squeal! No man can stand real torture for long... Dammit! Just pouring water on a piece of cloth over his mouth and nose would do miracles...

      Tired, unnerved, mad as hell and still hoping something truly horrid had happened to the prisoner's covered face, being as ghastly and disfigured as the devil's prickly ass was no reason not to show it. Making the conundrum even more perplexing, there were more than rumors Monk had died in Berlin in 1939.

       Standing close to the moved, now even taller Victory column during Hitler’s glorious 50 Th. Birthday celebration parade on April 19. last year, he was seen shot once right in the face and twice in the chest. Down and out and bleeding copiously, an ambulance had taken him to the nearest hospital.  Never arriving, he had not received any treatment in any other Berlin hospital either. Not found in any morgue and desperate to find his corpse the Gestapo was at a dead end... Or perhaps not, but still investigating and debatable indeed, not a single physician in Berlin had reported any well dressed gentleman shot trice on April 19. Brains and pieces of scull had been all over the place where he had been standing, but it was quickly cleaned up, of course.  Discovering his real identity after that might be difficult, but not impossible. Not only were there photographs of English Fighter Pilots, there were always very personal ears...

       Hoping for the best, but as always preparing for the worst it had become imperative to know if the brilliant Englishman who was said to insist: “Nothing is impossible,” was truly dead.  For almost a year not only Goering kept suspecting Monk had simply given an amazing public performance in Berlin and perhaps what the rather phlegmatic English who even liked cold toast called: “A jolly good show.”

      The big question was, had this unbelievably composed Englishman just kept calm and carried on...? Engel hated crowds. Monk however, had been standing calmly in a sea of people. Fascinated by the impressive parade showing off how powerful Hitler's Third Reich and Fatherland had become, everyone had been cheering. At first no one could give a description of Monk, but finally an elderly spinster came forward. Nervously twisting an embroidered handkerchief, myopic Frauelein Fieke Rottenmeier could certainly remember the tall, charming elderly gentleman next to her from Wiesbaden who enjoyed visiting Berlin. "Out of the blue..." on a rather grey day, three shots from nowhere had hit the "poor man" and everyone just ran… very much afraid, except for her. Albeit a nurse able to help she had however, not been allowed in the ambulance.

     Clearly of no interest to her, the nurse never mentioned that the Headquarters of Germany’s Wehrkreis XII and the German Infantry battalions needed to occupy France as well as Fighter Squadron 53 of the Luftwaffe were close to, if not in Wiesbaden.  She did however; say the polite gentleman dressed in a nice three piece dark grey suit and a discreet tie... and perhaps a diplomat did not have a wedding ring or any other rings for that matter. Clearly of means, he definitely had an overly fine watch that might have been a very expensive Swiss Rolex... with all sorts of things on it. Furthermore, she had truly admired his graying, well groomed moustache and not at all balding, his hair was distinguished “salt and pepper,” with more salt than pepper by his nice ears. Looking awfully sad, Frauelein Rottenmeier had almost concluded by saying he had been an interesting, hatless gentleman who wore rather dark, fashionable, cable bar aviator sunglasses and not only that, he had a delightful smile. After being shown hundreds of pictures of British officers, soldiers and civilians, but clearly never any of Monk, the drawings made of him by a very capable artist never seemed to look right either. Even his eye color could have been a bluish... something or rather... perhaps. The Gestapo had however, finally scrutinized a portrayal of a friendly looking, tall, distinguished elderly gentleman with a slightly bulging stomach and a well groomed moustache. Showing a humorous, full unsmiling mouth, a large aquiline nose, a stubborn chin and somewhat bushy eyebrows as well... he could be anyone's nice Uncle Fritz.

      Too upset after he was shot to look well at the ambulance that came to take him to a hospital emergency, Frauelein Rottenmeier had simply hurried home for a strong cup of coffee. Unable to forget him and convinced he had died, she quickly hurried back to put a large pot of lovely “forget me not” flowers where he had stood and smiled. After saying a few friendly words to the two young soldiers who were cleaning up all the blood and mess, they had shown her a small piece of paper the elderly gentleman might have lost.

      The blood spattered paper was clearly not his for written on it was a simply red W or an M turned upside down. Obviously of no value to anyone, but even so the soldiers gave it to the Gestapo officers who came, all the same.

    An hour later the German Secret Police did not only discover the M was written with blood. Stuck in the blood, was one single dark hair following the lines of the mystifying M… or W to perfection. Being such a special day, when a young, eager forensic scientist on duty  discovered that the human blood type A+ was offensively mixed with a tiny tad of bacon fat, he jumped on a bicycle to inform Heinrich Mueller and Hermann Goering. The latter just stared. Heinrich Mueller however, carefully covered the bloodied paper with a piece of clear celluloid and put it in his wallet… next to a British 10 Pound note.   

      Although never described before and certainly not elderly, the Gestapo was instantly more than suspecting the man had been irreverent Monk. Several of Heinrich Mueller's SS Officers were instantly sent to Wiesbaden to investigate, but never finding anything of concern they were still waiting there. With ghostly eminence Monk’s brilliant mind seemed to work in intricate ways, yet with a contemptuous simplicity normal people failed to comprehend.  

     Attempts on Hitler's life had already been made, but without success. More than ever the Gestapo was not only eager to know who had shot Monk whilst fearing the Englishman was still alive. If he was planning to "take care" of Hitler, the Fuehrer was as good as dead already... and not only him. Using strategies and tactics not even Napoleon would have thought of, Monk was an avalanche when he wanted to. For him, nothing was impossible... but now Monk was a prisoner and Engel held a trump card… only waiting for the telephone to ring…

 

Copyright©2013 Kari M. Knutsen

 

 

 

Enough.

Hope you enjoyed my unedited scribbles! If you did, or did not please leave a commentary telling why in a few words. Love to hear from You! Oh, yes!

I Thank you, my Friend!

 

 

 

 

 

Best wishes to You from me
Granny Kari M. Knutsen
A FINE THUMB

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Edward Wilks | Svar 15.03.2014 05.35

Loved it! Exciting, fun and written with humor! A very good beginning! Can't wait to read more about Willoughby, Granny Kari. Edward

Robert Shannon | Svar 18.02.2014 02.41

WOW! Fun! Well written indeed! I look very much forward to read more about Willoughby in Forever and Beyond so keep writing!! Great Story, Granny Kari!

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Nyeste kommentarer

13.03 | 22:56

Fantastic stuff, bold and original, much enjoyed...

...
23.02 | 17:10

Beautifully written....
Lost my twin, so I feel your pain.
You are a beautiful soul.
Thank you.

...
05.01 | 13:01

Click here to write your message@Kari! My dear friend. I am proud and humbled to have known you. In sum, I found you as a well-traveled person in "Body", "Mind" & "Soul".

You experienced living in exciting
places in the world, roughly, 70%.
Rubbing shoul

...
03.11 | 09:02

The story of Waterloo is an amazing account of a enormous battle.

...
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