THE little Republic of Switzerland, always one of the most interesting spots in the world, became during this war a most amazing and anomalous country. Completely surrounded by four great powers at war—and itself peopled by citizens each speaking the tongue of one or another of its neighbors and each allied by blood with one or with two or with three, or, perhaps, with all—the Swiss Confederation suffered a complex of passions, sympathies, and prejudices quite beyond possible parallel elsewhere. And, as everyone knows, the Swiss Republic during the four years of the war, successfully persisted in peace.
Peace! What a strange condition in which to live, Ruth wondered with herself as she encountered the astonishments on every hand when she had crossed the border. She had been in a country at war for not quite three months—unless you nominated America from April, 1917, to January, 1918, a nation at war. Ruth did not. As she thought of her life before she took ship for France, the date of America's declaration of a state of war with the Imperial German government was not fixed in the fiber of her feelings as were many other days before the date of that declaration—the September 6 of the Marne, the May 7 of the Lusitania, the glorious weeks of the defense of Verdun. The war declaration of April 6, 1917, seemed now to Ruth but a sort of official notification of the intentions of the American people which since then had only continued to develop. That home country which she had left in the last days of January was not nearly so different from its peace-time self as war-time France had proved distinct from war-time America.
Certainly Ruth's life had run on almost unchanged by the American declaration of war, save for the strengthening of her futile, stifled passions. But that day in January, which had embarked her for France, had ushered her into a realm which demanded dealings in realities which swiftly had made all before seem illusory and phantasmagorical.
The feeling of dreamland incredulity that she, Ruth Alden, could actually be experiencing those gloriously exciting days upon the Ribot and following her arrival in France had been supplanted by sensations which made it seem that these last weeks had been the only real ones in her life. When she thought of her old self—of that strange, shadowy, almost substanceless girl who used to work in a Madison Street real estate office for Sam Hilton—it was her life in Chicago which had become incredible. She did not, therefore, forget her own home; on the contrary, her work which had been largely the gathering together of scattered family groups and the attempt to reestablish homes, had made her dwell with particular poignancy upon memories of the little house in Onarga where her mother and her sisters dwelt. Regularly Ruth had addressed a letter to her mother and dropped it in a post-box; she had dared tell nothing of herself or of her work or give any address by which anyone could trace her. She simply endeavored to send to her mother assurance that she was well and in France. Obviously she could not receive reply from her mother; indeed, Ruth could have no knowledge that any of her letters ever reached home. She experienced the dreads which every loving person feels when no news can come; such experience was only part of the common lot there in France; but it helped to remove her life at home further into the past.
Switzerland, strangely and without warning, had undone much that France and the battle zone had worked within Ruth; the inevitable relaxing of the strain of work in a country at war had returned Ruth to earlier emotions. What was she, Ruth Alden, doing here alone in the Alps? She was standing, as one in a dream, upon the quay before the splendid hotels of Lucerne and gazing over the blue, wonderful, mountain-mirroring waters of the Lac des Quatre Cantons. Off to the southwest, grand and rugged against the azure sky, rose the snow-capped peaks of Pilatus; to the east, glistening and more smiling under the spring sun, lay the Rigi. The beauty and wonder of it was beyond anything which Ruth Alden could have known. Who was she that she was there?
Then a boy came by with newspapers and she bought a German newspaper and one printed in French at Bern. It was this one which informed her, when she glanced down its columns, that Gerry Hull had been shot down, and, strangely—and mercifully, perhaps—this knowledge came not to the girl who, during the past months had been his friend, his close comrade during days most recent; it seemed to come, somehow, only to a girl who lay awake early in the morning in a shabby room at an Ontario Street boarding house, a girl who day-dreamed about impossible happenings such as knowing Gerry Hull, but who soon must stir to go down to breakfast at the disorderly table in the ill-lit room below and then catch a crowded car for Sam Hilton's office.
Such was the work of peace and Pilatus and the Rigi and the images upon the lake. War—war which had become the only reality, the sole basis of being—miraculously had vanished. She passed through throngs speaking German and by other groups conversing in French; these stood side by side, neither one prisoner to the other; they had no apparent hostility or animosity. These people, in part at least, were German and French; but there beyond the border—Ruth gazed in the direction of Alsace—men of such sorts sprang at one another with bayonets; and Gerry Hull had been shot down.
Ruth searched the German newspaper for further word of him; she looked up a news-stand and bought several papers, both French and German. In some she discovered the same brief announcement of the fate of the American pilot; but no further information. But it was certain that he was dead or a prisoner—wounded, probably, or at least injured by the crash of his airplane in the "some sort of a landing" which he had succeeded in making. It had been "some sort of a landing" which he had made that time he was shot down when she had gone to him and helped him free. Tales of German treatment of their prisoners—tales which she could not doubt, having been told her by men who themselves had suffered—recurred to her and brought her out of this pleasant, peaceful Lethe from realities in which Lucerne, for a few hours, had let her live. Tension returned; and, with the tension, grief but not tears; instead, that determination imbued her which she had witnessed often enough in others, when loss of their own was made known to them. Gerry Hull, she thus knew, was her own; and as she had seen men and women in France giving themselves for the general cause, and for one particular, personal vengeance, too, so Ruth thought of her errand into Germany no longer as solely to gather information for the army but to find and free Gerry Hull, if he was a prisoner; and if he was killed, then to take some special, personal vengeance for him.
She had come to Lucerne—ostensibly—to rest and to recuperate; and Mrs. Mayhew had given her letters to friends who were staying at one of the large hotels. Ruth had registered at the same hotel and a Mrs. Folwell, an American, had taken Ruth under her chaperonage. Ruth's name, upon the hotel register, of course stood as Cynthia Gail; and as Miss Gail, she met other guests in the hotel, which was one of those known as an "allied hotel" in the row of splendid buildings upon the water front devoted to the great Swiss peace and war industrie des etrangers. The majority of its guests, that is, designated themselves as English or French, Italian or American—whatever in fact they might be. The minority laid claim to neutral status—Norwegian, Danish, Hollandish, Swedish, Spanish. But everyone recognized that in this hotel, as in all the others, the Germans and Austrians possessed representatives among the guests as well as among the servants.
"It is the best procedure," Mrs. Folwell said half seriously to Ruth upon her arrival, "to lay out all your correspondence upon your table when you leave the room so that it may be examined, in your absence, with the least possible disturbance. They will see it anyway."
Ruth was quite willing. Indeed, she was desirous of advertising, as quickly as possible, the presence of "Cynthia Gail." She had taken the trouble to learn a simple device, employing ordinary toilet powder and pin perforations through sheets of paper, which would disclose whether the pages of a letter had been disturbed. Accordingly she prepared her letters, and, merely locking them in her bureau drawer, she left them in her room. Returning some hours later, and unlocking the drawer, she found all her letters apparently undisturbed; but the powder and the perforation proved competent to evidence that secret examination had been made.
Of course examination might have been at the hands of allied agents; for Ruth did not imagine that the Germans and Austrians alone concerned themselves with war-time visitors to Switzerland; but she felt sure that the Germans had made their search also.
After breakfast the next morning Ruth met a man of twenty-eight or thirty—tall, reddish-haired, and with small gray eyes by name Christian Wessels, known as a Norwegian gentleman who had made himself agreeable to the Americans at the hotel. He was an ardent admirer of American policies and could repeat verbatim the statement of American war aims given by President Wilson to Congress three months before. He was a young man of culture, having graduated from the Swedish University of Upsala and was now corresponding with the University of Copenhagen. He proved to be a man of cosmopolitan acquaintance who had visited London, New York, San Francisco. He spoke English perfectly; and he nursed profound, personal antipathy to Germany as his family fortunes had suffered enormously through the torpedoing of Norwegian ships; moreover, he himself had been traveling from England to Bergen when his ship was destroyed and he had been exposed to winter weather in an open boat for five days before being picked up. He was only now recuperating from the effects of that exposure, meanwhile carrying on certain economic studies to guide trade relations after the war.
His method of recuperation, Ruth observed, was to eat as heavily and as often as occasions permitted; he was a sleek, sensuous young man, ease-loving and, by his own account, a connoisseur of the arts. He talked informatively about painting, as about politics. Ruth did not like him; but when she encountered him as she was wandering about alone gazing at the quaint houses in the interior of the old town, she could not be too rude to him when he offered himself as a guide.
"You have seen the Kapellbrücke, Miss Gail?"
"Yes; of course," Ruth said.
"And the historical paintings? You understand them?"
"Yes," Ruth asserted again.
"To what do they refer?"
"I don't know," Ruth admitted, and accompanied him, in no wise offended, back to the old bridge over the Reuss; then to the Mühlenbrücke with its Dance of Death; next he took her away to the Glacier Garden.
While they had been in the town with many people close by, his manner to Ruth had not been unusually offensive; but when they were away alone, he became more familiar and he took to uncovert appraisal of her face and figure.
"You are younger than I had expected," he commented to her, apropos of nothing which had gone before but his too steady scrutiny of her face and her figure.
"I did not know that you expected anything in regard to me," Ruth said. "Mrs. Folwell did not know I was coming until I arrived."
"Ah! But your orders were given you—the thirtieth of last month, were they not?"
Ruth stiffened. The thirtieth of last month was the day upon which she had arrived in Paris from Compiègne, the day upon which she had visited Charles Gail and, upon her return to the Rue des Saints Pères, had met George Byrne. Only one order had been given her that day; and that order had been given by the German who struck down Byrne. No one else had known about that order but herself and the German; she had told Gerry and he might have told it to the French authorities. But she could not associate this sleek, sensuously unpleasant person, going by the name of Wessels, with anyone whom Gerry could have informed. She readily could connect him with the German who had for her attempted to strike Byrne dead; and she had been awaiting—impatiently awaiting—the German agent here at Lucerne who must accost her.
"Yes; the thirtieth," Ruth said.
"Then why did you not come sooner?"
"I applied at once for permission," Ruth defended herself. "It was delayed."
"Ah! Then you had much difficulty?"
"Delay," Ruth repeated. "That was all; though I may have been investigated."
"You used Hull again to help you, I suppose."
"Yes, I used Hull," Ruth said.
Her heart was palpitating feverishly and the compression in her throat almost choked her while she fought for outward calm. She was a German girl, she must remember; she had come from her great peril; she had passed it; this was relief and refuge with one of her own before whom, at last, she could freely speak; for—though she dared not yet fully act upon the conviction—she no longer doubted at all that this Wessels was the enemy agent who was to control her henceforth. How much did he know about her, or about the girl she was supposed to be? He knew that she had been ordered here on the thirtieth of last month; he knew that she had at times "used" Gerry Hull.
"We have him now, you know," Wessels said, watching her with his diagreeable, close scrutiny.
"He's captured?" Ruth said. She had remembered that she must have no real concern for the fate of an enemy pilot whom she had "used."
"Dead or captured; anyway, we have him," Wessels assured. He had continued to speak to her in English, though no one was near them; and if anyone did overhear, the German tongue certainly would arouse no comment in Lucerne. "Mecklen seems to have only half-done your other flame."
In his conversation at the hotel he had affected the use of slang to display his complete familiarity with English, Ruth had noticed; and she caught his meaning instantly. Her other flame was George Byrne, of course; Mecklen, who had "only half-done" him, must be the German of the ruined house.
"Byrne did not die?" Ruth asked.
"Who's Byrne?" Wessels returned. "The American infantry lieutenant?"
"Yes."
"No; he did not die. Mecklen shut his mouth; but any day now it may open. When you did not come, I thought it had."
"His mouth opened?"
"Yes; we had better walk, perhaps. There are many more places of great interest. I shall show them to you."
He pointed Ruth ahead of him down a narrow way; and when she proceeded obediently, he followed.
She welcomed the few moments offered for consideration. So George Byrne had not died! That was a weight from her heart; and Wessels had only fragmentary facts about her, however he had received them. He knew that she had had another "flame," an American infantry lieutenant; but Wessels had not known his name.
"You were lucky to get here," Wessels offered, coming up beside her when the way widened. Their direction was farther out from the city and they continued to be quite alone. "But it cooks your chance to go back."
"To France, you mean?"
"Where else?"
She had thought of the possibility of being dispatched from Switzerland not into Germany, but back to France. If someone was to meet her at Lucerne who could take complete report upon the matters which she had been supposed to observe, the logical action would be to return her to work again behind the allied lines. Her original instructions, received in Chicago, had only implied—they had not directly stated—that she was to go on into Germany; but she had clung to the belief that she would go on. And now the failure of Mecklen to fully do his work with Byrne had settled that doubt for Ruth; for with Byrne alive and likely at any day to "open his mouth," obviously the Germans would not order her into the hands of the French.
"We may use you in Russia or Greece; but not France for the present, or even Italy," Wessels said. "But first you can visit home, if you like."
He meant the Fatherland, home of the girl whom he believed Ruth to be; and Ruth knew that she had come to the crisis. If the fragmentary facts which had been forwarded to this man comprised any account of the girl whom the Germans in Chicago had meant to locate and whom they had failed to find when they entrusted their mission to Ruth, she was stopped now. If not . . . .
"I'd like to look in at the old home," Ruth said.
"Where is it? What town?"
"My grandfather lived near Losheim."
"Where is that?"
"It is a tiny town beyond Saarlouis; near the Hoch Wald."
"Oh, yes; I know. What is your name?"
"Luise Brun," Ruth said. There was a German girl of that name who had lived in Onarga; Ruth had gone to high school with her and had known her well. During the early days of the war, Luise had told Ruth about her relatives in Germany—her grandfather, who had lived near Losheim until he died the winter before, and her two cousins, both of whom had been killed fighting. Ruth did not resemble Luise Brun in any way; and she did not imagine that she could go to Losheim and pass for Luise; but when questioned about herself, she had far more detailed knowledge of Luise's connections to borrow for her own use than she had had of Cynthia Gail's.
Wessels, however, appeared less interested in Ruth's German relatives than in herself. "You have been in America most of your life?" he asked.
"When I was a baby I was brought to Losheim and again when I was a little girl," Ruth said. "My father and mother never forgot the Fatherland."
"Of course not," Wessels accepted, impatient of this loyal protestation and desirous to return to the more personal. "I was saying you are much like an American girl. American girls, I must admit, attract me."
He began speaking to her suddenly in German; and Ruth replied in German as best she could, conscious that her accent was far from perfect.
It appeared to pass with him, however, as the sort of pronunciation to be expected from a girl reared in America.
"How old are you now, Luise?" he questioned familiarly.
"Twenty-five."
"Yet eines mädchen, I warrant."
"I am not married, Herr Baron," Ruth assured, employing the address to one of title. Either he was a possessor of baronial rank and pleased with the recognition of the fact, or the assignment of the rank was gratifying and he did not correct her.
"And in America you have no sweetheart of your own—other than your 'flames?'"
He spoke the slang word in English, referring to Byrne and to Gerry Hull, with both of whom, as he believed, she had merely played.
"No one, Herr Baron," Ruth denied, but colored warmly. He took this flush for confession that she was hiding an attachment; and he laughed.
"No matter, Luise; he is not here."
He was indulgently more familiar with her—a von something or other, admitting pleasure with the daughter of a man of no rank who had emigrated to America. Ruth brought up the business between them to halt further acceleration of this familiarity.
"I am to make my report to you, Herr Baron?"
"Report? Ah, yes! No; of course not. Why should you make report here now? It is simply trouble to record and transmit it. You are not going back to France, I said, did I not?"
"Yes."
"Then the report will be tomorrow."
"Where, Herr Baron?"
"Where I take you to—headquarters."
Ruth went weak and gasped in spite of herself. She had thought that she was prepared to meet any fate; but now she knew that she had built upon encountering her risks more gradually. To be taken to "headquarters"—das Hauptquartier—tomorrow! And, though Gerry had warned her, and she had said that she had recognized and accepted every sort of danger, still she had not reckoned upon such a companion as this man for her journey.
"Ha, Luise! What is the matter?"
"When do we start, Herr Baron?"
"The sooner the better; surely you are ready?"
"Surely; I was thinking—" she groped for excuse and could think of nothing better than, "What way do we go?"
"By Basel and Freiburg."
"What time, if you please, Herr Baron?"
"At eight o'clock the train is."
"I would like to return now to the hotel, then."
He complied and, conversing on ordinary topics in English, they reentered the town.
She had no arrangements to make. Wessels was to see to all necessary details. She could pack her traveling bags in a few minutes; and she dared not write to anyone of the matters now upon her mind. She desired to return to the hotel only to be alone; and, as soon as she had parted from Wessels, she shut herself in her room.
Long ago—a period passed in incalculable terms of time—she had determined, locked alone in a room, to undertake proceeding into Germany. Her purpose from the first, and her promise to the soul of Cynthia Gail—the vindication which she had whispered to strengthen herself when she was writing to Cynthia's parents, and George Byrne, and when she was receiving their letters, trading upon Cynthia's mother's friends—was that she was to go into Germany.
It must be at tremendous risk to herself; but she always had recognized that; she had said to Gerry that she accepted certain death—and worse than death—if first she might have her chance to do something. Well, she might have her chance. At any rate, there was nothing to be done but go ahead without futilely calculating who Wessels actually was, what he truly believed about her, what he meant to do. Here was her chance to enter Germany.
An hour later she descended to dinner with Mrs. Folwell, and noticed Wessels dining at his usual table in another part of the room. Ruth informed Mrs. Folwell after dinner that she was starting that evening for Basel; it was then almost train time and, after having her luggage brought down, she went alone to the train.
Wessels also was at the train, but he halted only a moment beside her to give her an envelope with tickets and other necessary papers. Ruth entered a compartment shared by two women—German women or German-speaking Swiss, both of middle age, both suspicious of the stranger and both uneasily absorbed with their own affairs. No one else entered; the guard locked the door and the train proceeded swiftly, and with much screeching of its whistle, through darkened valleys, through pitch-black, roaring tunnels, out upon slopes, down into valleys again.
Late at night the two women slept. Ruth tried to recline in a corner; and repeatedly endeavored to relax in sleep; but each time, just before the dissolution of slumber, she started up stiff and strained. Dawn had not come when the women awoke and the train pulled into Basel. It was still dark when, after the halt at the city, all doors again were opened and everyone ordered to leave the cars. This was the German border.
Ruth stepped out with the others and rendered up her luggage. She was aligning herself with the women awaiting the ordeal of the German examination, when Wessels appeared with a porter, who was bearing Ruth's bags. He passed without halting or speaking to her; but a moment later a German official touched her arm and, pointing her to go on, he escorted her past the doors before which the others were in line for examination. He brought her to the train which was standing on the German side and showed her to an empty compartment, where her luggage lay in the racks. Ruth sat in the compartment watching the people—men and women—as they issued from the depot of examination; they went to different cars of the waiting train; but when anyone attempted to enter the compartment where Ruth sat, a guard forbade until Wessels reappeared, got in, and told the guard to lock the door.
Immediately the train started.
"Welcome to the Fatherland, Liebchen!" said Wessels, drawing close beside Ruth as the car gathered speed and rushed deeper into Germany.