A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love.

March 1945

He sat once more in the deepening twilight, smoking one of Klink's purloined cigars.

Major Wolfgang Hochstetter, known in a previous life as Professor Howard Cohen, was at a crossroads. There was no doubt now that the Allies would win the war; the only question was when the Third Reich would finally collapse. His usefulness as an MI6 agent was limited in the current situation and, in fact, London had indicated that they would be calling him back to England soon.

A further incentive for leaving Germany lay on the small table beside his chair: a formal summons to report to Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin, no later than next week.

He stroked the silky head of the cat curled up on his lap. "Well, Manfred, it was only a matter of time. How many lost rockets, fruitless investigations, and escaped prisoners were they going to tolerate, anyway? What floors me is that even though the whole regime is crumbling around them, the Gestapo still has time to investigate an obscure officer like me, in a small town like Hammelburg. It doesn't matter, I guess. It's time we hit the road, buddy."

It was time for Hochstetter to be gone, but Cohen had unfinished business in Germany unrelated to his alter ego. The first step was to contact London and get Mama Bear's blessing for his plan. He set Manfred on the floor and went to the soundproofed closet that housed the shortwave radio.

"Snow White calling Mama Bear. Come in, Mama Bear."

"Mama Bear reading you loud and clear, Snow White."

"Requesting termination of current assignment, Mama Bear."

"It's about time, Snow White. If the Russians don't get you, the Americans will, soon enough. Better burn that uniform."

"Roger that, Mama Bear."

"We have a new assignment available in London, Snow White, after you get some well-deserved leave, of course. We definitely could use a man of your talent and experience; we are looking into postwar issues to be dealt with, you understand."

"I am honored by the offer, sir, but I'm done here. I am more than ready to return Stateside and become a civilian again."

"Well, I am sorry to hear that, Snow White, but I understand completely. Anything we can do to expedite your plans?"

"Sir, I will definitely take that leave, but with your permission, I'd like to spend it in Germany."

"In Germany?"

Cohen explained his plan briefly, and then paused to listen to the reply from London.

"Snow White, it sounds a bit quixotic, but I wish you the best of luck. But on behalf of the entire department, I just want to say...thanks for a job well done."

Cohen flushed. "Don't mention it, sir."

"And keep in touch. I want to hear the results of your final adventure."

"Yes, sir. Over and out."

He paused a moment, thinking about all the conversations he had had with Mama Bear over the last few years. Sighing, he disabled the shortwave set and made a mental list of all the things he needed to do.

First things first. He and Manfred headed downstairs to his landlady's apartment.

Cohen paced back and forth in the confines of the small room, watched by the placid little old lady who sat knitting in the armchair and by the black cat stretched out on the back of the sofa.

"Frau Lindemann, I beg you to reconsider..."

"Major, I cannot leave my home yet."

"Why not?" Cohen made a sound of frustration. "I have some connections, I can get a tolerance permit for you in Switzerland..."

She shook her head, and deftly picked up a dropped stitch. "But who would look after you, Liebling?"

He stopped in his tracks, took a deep breath, and decided to lay it on the line. "That is the point. I cannot stay here any longer. Major Hochstetter has to disappear."

Her brows went up and she paused in her work to study his expression. "Well, that is different, of course. Why did you not tell me? But I have connections as well. A friend in Switzerland would be happy to sponsor me, and you too."

Cohen stared at her. "Who...?"

"Madame Louise Saint-Jean, of Geneva. I have received several invitations to stay with her, but until now I have declined."

"But why?"

Frau Lindemann smiled, and said again, "Who would have looked after you, Liebling?"

Cohen smiled back at her wryly. "Who, indeed? But I have someone else to consider..."

"A young lady, perhaps?" Her bright blue eyes met his with a hint of mischief.

"Well, yes, but not in the way you mean..."

"Of course. But let me propose this. If you and this young lady become relatives of mine, this would help us to cross the border, ja?"

"I suppose. We will need the proper papers." His brow furrowed in thought as he considered the possibilities.

"I will contact my friend in Geneva for the proper permits, and you will obtain the necessary papers for us to present at the border, ja?" She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. "I think our name shall be Weber—that was my maiden name, you see."

He eyed her with respect bordering on awe. "Weber it is, Frau Lindemann."

She shook her head at him. "And as the good son you are, you must call me Mutti."

An hour later, at a shabby building across town, Cohen waited patiently in the hallway while a door opened a tiny crack.

From the other side of the door a soft voice inquired: "Wer ist da?"

"Major Hochstetter, Fräulein."

The door swung wide and Hilda smiled at him. "Please come in, Major. May I take your hat and coat?"

He relinquished the items and looked around the small, cozy room. The lamps had been lit and the curtains at the window closed against the chilly night.

"Please, sit."

Cohen took a seat on the sofa and Hilda gracefully sank into a chair opposite. Her brows lifted as she silently asked why he was there. Her puzzlement was understandable, as he had never been to her apartment before.

She probably wonders how I even know where she lives. Or maybe not. The Gestapo has everyone's address.

Cohen cleared his throat. "Fräulein Hilda..."

"Why do you not just call me Hilda, Major?"

"Why do you not just call me Wolfgang?" he challenged her.

She lifted her chin. "Very well, Wolfgang. Why are you here?"

"Hilda, I am concerned for you."

She surprised him by getting to her feet in an irritated movement. She paced the length of the room before turning to him accusingly. "That is what you told me two years ago, when you fired me from my job."

"I did not fire you..."

"When you forcefully encouraged me to resign."

"It was for your own good."

"You kept saying that, but I did not want to leave Berlin!"

"Fräulein..." At her sharp look, he corrected himself. "Hilda, I knew what you were doing in Berlin."

Her gaze flickered briefly to the Gestapo uniform he wore. "I do not understand what you mean."

Cohen got to his feet too. This was proving to be more difficult than he had imagined.

"Hilda, I knew that you were involved in the White Rose movement, and others would soon have found out." He still remembered the fear that had gripped him when he had discovered her activities.

Her head came up and she looked at him with defiance. "I did nothing wrong! A few pamphlets..."

"A few pamphlets, a few words...and Sophie and Hans Scholl were put to death." He held her gaze for a moment, willing her to understand. "I knew what was going to happen to them. I could not let it happen to you."

Hilda dropped back into her chair and covered her face with her hands for a moment. Eventually she lowered them and looked up at Cohen. "So I took the cowardly way out and came to Hammelburg. Did you arrange for my job at Stalag 13 as well?"

Oh, hell no. Talk about out of the frying pan, into the fire...

"No! That is the last place I would have chosen." He paused. "Hilda, I am aware that you have been assisting the prisoners there."

Her hostility seemed to evaporate as her eyes lit with laughter suddenly. "Oh, Wolfgang! Is that supposed to frighten me?"

Her words rendered Cohen speechless.

Hilda shook her head. "I worked for you for nearly a year, remember? You were said to be ruthless, obsessed, almost mad. Yet I knew you were none of those things. Since you have been coming to Stalag 13, you appear to be still obsessed, but foolish and easily tricked by Colonel Hogan. Yet I know you are not foolish either. You, Wolfgang Hochstetter, are not what you appear to be."

Cohen sank down onto the sofa again, his eyes never leaving her face. "What do you think I am?"

"You may wear a Gestapo uniform, but you are working for the Allies. So we are the same."

She certainly has a way of putting things in simple terms. But it doesn't change anything. I need to know that she's somewhere safe!

He sighed. "Then you will understand when I tell you why I am concerned for you."

Hilda tilted her head to one side. "I do not understand. The war cannot last too much longer—the Allies will soon overrun Germany, and Hitler will be gone."

"And there will be unimaginable chaos. Already food supplies are short, you know that. I fear that the occupation of Germany will be, at least at first, anything but orderly. We are talking of millions of people: hungry, desperate, and in fear. And what I fear the most is that the Russians will be the first to occupy this region."

"The Russians..." she whispered, her eyes widening.

"I have heard terrible stories of their vengeance, Hilda. I know you have as well. The British and the Americans...I think they will be more humane, but even the most civilized countries have been known to commit terrible deeds among the vanquished. And no young woman is safe."

"But what do you want me to do?" She raised her hands and dropped them again in a gesture of helplessness.

"I want you to go to Switzerland, at least for a while."

She seemed to withdraw into herself. "I cannot do that..."

Cohen decided to play his trump card. "I need you, Hilda. My landlady, Frau Lindemann, is a frail old woman. I want her to go to safety in Switzerland, but she needs someone to look after her."

Hilda wavered for a moment, but she shook her head. "You do not understand."

"Tell me." His voice was gentle.

Her eyes searched his face for a moment, then she appeared to come to a decision. She called out, "Helga! Please come in here."

A door opened, and a young woman came into the room, fair-haired like Hilda, but pale and and withdrawn. She looked at Cohen with some trepidation, noting his uniform.

"Please sit, Helga." After Helga had taken a chair, Hilda went on firmly, "I think maybe Wolfgang will help us. Wolfgang, this is my cousin Helga. She worked as Colonel Klink's secretary before I came to Hammelburg. She, too, helped Colonel Hogan. But she was active in the Underground as well, and your predecessor Kommandant Heydrich was on her trail. She went into hiding, and when I moved here, she came to me."

"Helga, you have been hidden here for two years?" Cohen was astounded.

The young woman nodded. "Hilda has been very good to me, but it has been...difficult."

Cohen looked from one girl to the other, thinking rapidly. "That settles it. You are both now my nieces."

Helga was bewildered, but Hilda was amused. "You are not old enough to be my uncle," she pointed out.

"I feel old enough," said Cohen wryly. "What is more important, I look old enough. Our sponsor in Switzerland will be able to accommodate my family, I'm sure. This is the plan: my mother and my two nieces will accompany me to Geneva; sadly, my older brother Hans and his wife died when you two were but children."

"And who raised us?"

"My mother, your Grossmutter Margrethe."

Hilda nodded. "Frau Lindemann."

"But, Wolfgang..." Helga looked at his uniform again.

Cohen looked down at himself. "Ja, Wolfgang Hochstetter has outlived his usefulness, I am afraid. Just as well, I have no wish to be a target for the Allies when they get here."

Helga was even more puzzled. "If you are not really Wolfgang Hochstetter, who are you?"

"Sometime soon I will explain it all to both of you. Right now, I am your Onkel Fritz Weber. And you will be Hilda and Helga Weber. We will all need papers, passports..."

"Newkirk," said the two women in unison.

Cohen sighed. "Newkirk."

"And we will need photographs." Helga went to rummage in a bureau drawer.

Hilda looked at Cohen critically. "You will need a new photograph, Onkel Fritz, after we alter your appearance."

Helga looked up from the drawer. "Ja. The mustache must go."

Cohen's hand went involuntarily to his upper lip. "What?"

Hilda nodded firmly. "And we will dust your hair a bit...just to make you a little gray, a little more like an uncle might be. And no one will recognize you as Major Hochstetter."

Armed with photographs of his new family, Cohen made his way to the tree stump entrance of the tunnel at Stalag 13. He noted that no patrols were in evidence, and even the searchlight seemed to sweep the area less frequently.

I can only hope this is a symptom of the war winding down.

He made his way through the tunnels, whistling the tune to the Army Air Corps Song to give notice of his approach. And very soon Olsen came into view.

"Is that you, Professor? You look different without the mustache." He craned his neck to look around Cohen to see if he was alone.

"Not to worry, Sergeant, I left the cat at home."

"I wasn't worried! Anyway, what brings you here?"

"I need a favor from Corporal Newkirk. Does he happen to be available?"

"Professor, at the moment we're all available. Not much going on in the operation these days." He led Cohen to the radio room, where Kinch and Newkirk were playing a game of gin.

They both looked up.

"Professor! What happened to the mustache?" asked Kinch, stroking his own as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

"Bit of an improvement, if you ask me," opined Newkirk.

"Bit of a necessity, actually. I need a photograph and papers," Cohen said, not beating around the bush. "A family is seeking asylum in Switzerland."

Kinch whistled. "They're awfully strict with their refugee policy there, Professor. They have to be."

"I know, but tolerance permits are in the process of being obtained. All I need are the necessary papers to get us to the border."

"Us?" said Newkirk. He grinned. "That rocket was the last straw with the boss, and you need to fly the country, eh, mate?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much the situation. Major Hochstetter is about to disappear. And I have three other people to consider—my landlady Frau Lindemann, Helga Schiller, and Hilda Ackermann."

Kinch stared. "D'you mean our Helga and Hilda?"

"Yes."

Newkirk shook his head. "Now that's a relief, it is. How long 'as it been since we've seen 'elga, anyway? We were afraid to ask about 'er, for fear that the Gestapo were on 'er trail...no offense, Professor."

"None taken. She's been in hiding, but I plan to get both girls out of the country. At least until the current situation is resolved."

Kinch nodded slowly. "I understand, and I agree with you. Newkirk, why don't you get started, and I'll let the Colonel know what's up."

"Right you are, Kinch." As Kinch departed, Newkirk took the photos from Cohen and looked them over with a professional eye. "No problem. We'll just snap a picture of you, and I can have the 'ole thing for you in a couple of hours."

Cohen breathed a sigh of relief.

One less problem. Now I just need to go home and destroy all evidence of Hochstetter's existence.

After the initial anxiety of getting through the frontier checkpoint, the trip to Geneva was uneventful. The countryside, like that of Germany, was at the ugly sodden grayish-brown time of year when green growing things seem a distant memory.

But here and there a crocus poked its head above ground, as a promise of spring. Cohen took this to be a good omen.

As they entered the city, they could see that signs of armed neutrality were everywhere. Soldiers patrolled the streets and Cohen could see anti-aircraft batteries on some of the roofs. No peace even in Geneva, it seemed.

But they did what they had to do to keep their country safe, even though they were surrounded on all sides by the power of the Third Reich. I seem to recall one of their officials describing his country as "a little lifeboat". They've probably feared every minute that it might capsize.

Their car rolled up to a gracious home set back from the street. Cohen rechecked the address to make sure they were at the right place—he hadn't expected anything so grand.

Stealing a look at Frau Lindemann's face, he thought that she seemed a bit surprised as well. From the back seat came the murmuring of the girls' voices.

"But it is so large!"

"I have never been to such a home..."

Cohen parked the car and they all piled out, with Helga carrying Manfred, and Cohen assisting Frau Lindemann. She leaned on his arm slightly as they slowly made their way to the imposing front door.

A smiling maid opened the door in response to the bell, and she ushered them into a drawing room, where an elderly lady was seated near the fireplace. She rose to her feet as they came in, and moved forward to greet them.

"Frau Lindemann! It is my pleasure to welcome you and your family to my home. Please, all of you, be seated. Verena, you may bring in the tea."

A short time later Cohen sat and listened to the women make small talk as they drank their tea and nibbled on cakes. He was puzzled. He had assumed that Madame Saint-Jean had perhaps been a childhood friend of Frau Lindemann's, but it was apparent now that this was their first meeting.

Then Madame said, "My grandson has told me so much of all of you, and I am so glad to meet you all. But I wanted to thank you personally, Frau Lindemann, for saving his life." She looked up, her eyes on the doorway. "And here he is now."

As a tall young man walked into the room, there was a confusion of voices as everyone but the two elderly ladies leaped to their feet. And no one was more surprised than Cohen.

Nimrod?!

"Mannheim!" exclaimed Cohen.

"Corporal Langenscheidt?" said a puzzled Hilda.

"Oskar, my dear..." smiled Frau Lindemann.

"Oh, Karl..." breathed Helga.

Meanwhile, Manfred jumped off Helga's lap and trotted over to the newcomer, rubbing himself against his legs. The young man stooped to pat Manfred, then straightened and crossed the room to the two elderly ladies.

"Grandmère, Frau Lindemann, I am pleased to see you both." He raised Frau Lindemann's hand to his lips and then turned to his grandmother.

Madame Saint-Jean presented her cheek to be kissed. "It is good to see you, Charles, but there appears to be some confusion as to who you are. Would you care to explain to these nice people who have come to stay with me?"

"I would be delighted." He reached out to shake the stunned Cohen's hand, and favored the equally bewildered Hilda and Helga with a gracious bow. Then he accepted the cup of tea his grandmother handed him, and took his seat among the group.

"I'm afraid that you each knew me as different person. My friend Wolfgang knew me as Deputy Gruppenführer Mannheim, Helga and Hilda knew me as Corporal Karl Langenscheidt, and Frau Lindemann knew me best as Oskar Danzig, although she met Mannheim as well. But my name is actually Charles Saint-Jean, and I would like to join with my grandmother in welcoming you to our home."

He looked across to Frau Lindemann and smiled. "I owe Frau Lindemann my life. When I was wounded by a Gestapo bullet, my Underground friends fetched her to help care for me. I never knew what was in that poultice that managed to stave off the infection until Newkirk came with the penicillin. It did the trick, though, and I was able to return to my work as Oskar Danzig. But little did I know when I sought out Major Hochstetter a few months ago that I would encounter Frau Lindemann again."

Frau Lindemann smiled back. "And you were wearing a Gestapo uniform and calling yourself Mannheim. But I knew you were still my Oskar, one of my boys."

"One of your boys! How many do you have?" Cohen asked.

"Just two, Liebling, and you are the other, of course."

Charles Saint-Jean grinned at Cohen. "That makes us brothers, I think, Wolfgang."

"We call him Onkel Fritz," volunteered Helga. "But Karl—I mean, Charles—why did you not tell me when you were at Stalag 13?"

Saint-Jean leaned forward, regret in his voice. "I could not tell you, for your own protection. I knew you were involved in the Underground, and Kommandant Heydrich was showing far too much interest in your activities. My role as Corporal Karl Langenscheidt was far too constraining at that point and I planned to set up as an Underground operative myself, with a different identity."

Hilda nodded slowly. "That accounts for why I only saw you occasionally at Stalag 13, and then eventually not at all. Did you know that Helga was in hiding, and staying with me?"

"Yes, but the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to the two of you."

Frau Lindemann looked around at the younger people in the room. "But now, at least, you are all here, and safe, and God willing, the war will soon end."

Cohen cleared his throat. He had purposely not let the women know of the second part of his plan until they were all safely in Switzerland. "I am sorry, Mutti, but I will be leaving soon and returning to Germany."

The women all protested, asking questions, but he waved them aside.

Saint-Jean tilted his head, regarding Cohen quizzically. "As Major Hochstetter?"

"Hochstetter no longer exists."

"London has another assignment for you?"

"They offered, but I turned them down. No, I have a much humbler ambition, but I hope to be useful during the last days of the war. I understand that Red Cross packages to the POW camps have been delayed for months due to the war being brought to German soil. I plan to volunteer as a driver, if they will take me."

Madame Saint-Jean had been listening to this exchange with interest, and she now spoke up. "It should be no problem, Herr Weber. Monsieur Burckhardt is an old acquaintance of mine."

And so it proved. Saint-Jean accompanied Cohen to the headquarters of the International Committee of the Red Cross at 19 Avenue de la paix. In a high-ceilinged office they found its president, Jacob Burckhardt, snowed under by reports piled on his desk. He rose politely to greet them, however, and listened to Cohen's request with every evidence of attention.

"It is indeed a tragic circumstance," he said, "that we have all these desperately needed supplies in our warehouses here in Geneva, but limited ability to distribute them due to the exigencies of war in Germany itself. The almost complete destruction of the rail system there is the most important factor. We are trying to get around that by trucking the packages to the various POW camps and we have received vehicles from the Allies to do this, but it is true that manpower is needed most urgently."

He moved to the tall windows, looking out over the streets of Geneva, and spoke over his shoulder to the two men. "And it is an even more difficult situation now that for some reason, the Germans have decided to evacuate many POW camps and send the prisoners on ill-equipped marches to nowhere."

Cohen said, "I believe I can be of assistance in this situation, Monsieur Burckhardt. I speak English quite well, and I can drive a truck."

Put myself through college driving trucks in all five boroughs of New York City, as a matter of fact.

Burckhardt regarded him in some amusement. "No need to sell yourself, Herr Weber. As Monsieur Saint-Jean can vouch for you, we will be more than happy to avail ourselves of your services." He sat down and wrote out a permit for Fritz Weber, new official for the ICRC.

Later, as they left the building, Saint-Jean remarked casually, "I've a mind to accompany you on this quest of yours."

Cohen turned to look at him. "Really?"

"You heard Burckhardt. Each one of the relief trucks has to have a German guard. Who better than..."

"...Corporal Langenscheidt. Well, I am glad to hear it, Charles...or perhaps I should say Karl."

"Wolfgang, I believe that you and I are going to need some serious psychiatric treatment after the war for our identity crises."

When Cohen prepared to leave Madame Saint-Jean's home, Frau Lindemann and Helga each gave him a hug and wished him well. Hilda, however, was not ready to watch him return to Germany without a protest.

She took him aside and made him look her in the eye. "Will you be safe?"

"Ja, ja."

"And you will return to Geneva?"

"Of course."

She narrowed her eyes. "And when you return, you will explain who you really are."

"I promise."

Hilda smiled then, and she touched his face fleetingly. "I will be waiting."

After tearful goodbyes, Cohen and Saint-Jean (who had now resumed the identity of Corporal Karl Langenscheidt) left Geneva for the small border town of Konstanz, Germany, where they helped load a truck full of Red Cross packages. The official in charge shook his head when they told him they were bound for a small POW camp outside of Hammelburg.

"Better you should stay with the convoy and go directly to Moosburg," he told them.

"That's hours farther than Hammelburg," said Cohen. "We can make our delivery there first, then proceed to Moosburg and reload at the depot."

The official stroked his chin. "Well, that makes sense...but be careful, ja?"

They promised they would, but as it turned out, their main problem was mechanical.

The truck sputtered to a stop outside of Sindelfingen, and Cohen struck the steering wheel in frustration. Langenscheidt looked at him sideways.

"Now what?"

"I'm not sure. Flat tires I can handle, but when it comes to engine trouble..."

He was interrupted by the roar of an engine as an American jeep pulled up alongside on the muddy road. Its driver called out: "Need some help?"

"Are we behind Allied lines now?" Cohen asked Langenscheidt in some consternation. To the American, he said in English, using his own Brooklyn accent, "Sure, buddy—can you give me a hand?"

As Cohen opened the door, he said to Langenscheidt, "You might as well keep a low profile—we don't want any trouble."

As he got out of the truck, he took stock of the young American. A lanky private with a shock of black hair and vivid blue eyes, he looked no more than twenty years old.

"Happy to help out the Red Cross," said the private. He stuck out his hand. "Name's Adam Markiewicz—but call me Addie, everybody does."

Cohen shook his hand. "Name's Weber," he said, giving the American pronunciation. "Engine quit, just like that."

"Lemme take a look at it." Markiewicz already had the hood of the truck open and was leaning in. "You're in luck, a spark plug wire came loose from the distributor cap. Go ahead and try it now."

Cohen hopped back in the truck and turned on the ignition again. He grinned as the engine roared into life.

Markiewicz gave him the thumbs-up sign and slammed the hood shut. He came around to the driver's window and asked Cohen, "Are you taking packages to the POW camps?"

"Yeah."

The private's eyes were very serious. "Tell 'em it won't be long now. Tell 'em we're on our way, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks a lot, soldier."

As they drove off, Langenscheidt said, "Nice kid."

"Yeah."

"He didn't sound much like you."

Cohen grinned. "He had a definite Midwestern twang. I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. Lots of different ways of mangling the English language in America."

"Your German is very good."

"Should be—that's where I was born. We came to New York when I was seven."

"Parlez-vous français?"

"Un peu. Pourquoi demandez-vous?"

"Just wondering." Langenscheidt gave Cohen a quizzical look. "I thought perhaps you might reconsider London's offer. The more languages you have the better, of course."

"No thanks. And I know what London is going to need most are Russian speakers. I don't speak it, and don't plan to learn. Listen, I am now retired from the espionage business. I want to go back home to America. I want to face an auditorium full of students who are half-asleep and help them to realize that Shakespeare still lives. I want to direct plays and see kids grow as actors. I want a life again. I want a home."

Langenscheidt smiled at his vehemence. "Wife and children?"

Cohen laughed without much humor. "I'm forty-three. It's a little late for all that."

"The war stole our lives, didn't it?"

"Did we have a choice?"

"No, we didn't. But the conflict with Germany will be over soon."

"And the one with Russia begins?"

"Perhaps."

Cohen turned his head briefly to look at Langenscheidt. "You're staying on with MI6, aren't you?"

As if Nimrod would do anything else.

Langenscheidt said, almost apologetically, "It's my gift, you see—becoming another person. And I'm quite fluent in the Russian language, as it happens."

The truck bumped along the road for a time. Then Cohen said, "What about Helga?"

"Turns out she's interested in learning Russian."

Cohen shook his head. "Hilda's not going to like that."

"Of course no—she's spent the past two years shielding her cousin. But it's going to be a whole new world out there, and Helga deserves to find her own place in it." Langenscheidt gave Cohen a sidelong glance. "Hilda, now...I think she's ready for a home and children."

"Huh."

The next morning, after passing groups of refugees and a few straggling German columns, Cohen was glad to see Hammelburg come into sight. Langenscheidt put on his helmet and assumed his Luftwaffe corporal persona as Cohen pulled up to the front gate of Stalag 13.

A subdued guard looked at his papers and waved him in. By this time, groups of prisoners had come out of the barracks into the muddy compound and started milling around the truck.

Cohen shut off the engine and yanked on the brake. He and Langenscheidt climbed out of the truck, to be met by Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz.

Cohen found his hand wrung by Klink, who had tears in his eyes, and apparently didn't recognize him as Major Wolfgang Hochstetter at all.

"Thank you, sir!" the Kommandant said. "The prisoners have been waiting so long...we have done the best we could, but the rations are so short..."

Cohen looked around at the prisoners and guards, who were now engaged in unloading the truck. "You are all thin, to be sure. But it looks as though you have managed to keep them safe and relatively healthy, Kommandant."

Klink adjusted his monocle with a distracted air. "Yes, I have tried my best. I believe there were some evacuation orders that came through a week or so ago...now, where did I put them? Ah, well, I'm sure they'll turn up eventually. Yes, yes, eventually."

Cohen had to hide a smile.

Good for you, Kommandant.

Meanwhile, Schultz had recognized Langenscheidt and swept him up into a huge embrace. "Karl! It has been so long, we thought perhaps you had been at the Russian Front, and were never more to be seen."

"No, no," Langenscheidt managed, in a half-strangled voice. "Reassigned, ja...Russian Front, nein."

Colonel Klink went over to greet his erstwhile corporal as well, but refrained from hugging him, to Langenscheidt's evident relief.

As Cohen watched them, Colonel Robert Hogan materialized out of nowhere and surveyed the scene. "Glad to see you, sir...?" He regarded Cohen with raised brows.

"Fritz Weber, of the International Committee of the Red Cross."

Hogan grinned. "Congratulations on your promotion—Major Hochstetter."

Cohen gave him a rueful smile in return. "Wasn't sure you'd recognize me. Actually, I wasn't sure you'd even be here to recognize me."

Hogan nodded in weary resignation. "We've heard about the forced marches. Klink's been able to avoid that so far, God bless him."

"So I gathered. The Allies have crossed the Rhine, you know. We met up with an American private yesterday, who wanted me to let you know that they are on their way. It's just a matter of weeks now."

"Weeks..." Hogan sighed. "We'll get through it. The end is in sight, anyway."

Klink came back over to the two men. "Hogan, how are the men in the infirmary?"

"Sergeant Wilson says they're on the mend, sir."

Klink nodded. "Good, I have been concerned about them." He paused for a moment. "Hogan, do you remember telling me about that nineteen-year-old lieutenant from Wichita, Kansas who was going to roll up here in a Sherman tank and demand my surrender?"

"Yep."

"I wish he were here right now."

"Me too, sir. Me too."

The three men were quiet for a moment, and then Cohen observed that the truck was now empty of its cargo. "Gentlemen, it is time for us to depart. There are many more packages to be distributed, and we need to get to Moosburg."

He nodded to Klink and Hogan and went over to the group of prisoners surrounding Langenscheidt.

"Time to go, Corporal."

One of the prisoners turned toward him, eyes widening in surprise.

"If it isn't the Professor! Now, don't be telling me your papers didn't pass muster. Some of me finest work, they were."

"Oh, they worked, all right, Corporal Newkirk. I'm still Fritz Weber, but I'm with the Red Cross for the duration."

"And les filles?" inquired LeBeau anxiously.

"Yeah, did Hilda and Helga make it to Switzerland okay?" asked Carter.

"I'm guessing they did, since the Professor is here as a representative of the Red Cross," observed Kinch.

"You got that right, Sergeant Kinchloe. They are volunteering for the Red Cross as well, but their assignment is in Geneva. As for me, my next stop is Moosburg, where a depot of Red Cross packages has been established. Langenscheidt and I will be taking packages into the field from there, in search of POWs on the march."

"Poor devils," Newkirk said, and they all assented sadly.

"Yes, there's a tremendous backlog of packages, and not enough drivers..." Cohen met Langenscheidt's eyes. "Paroled prisoners!"

"I think the Kommandant would agree to it," said Langenscheidt.

"Wouldn't hurt to ask for volunteers," said Cohen. He looked around the group of men. "Moosburg is the main depot, and packages are distributed from there. They have set up a system where paroled prisoners act as drivers and maintenance men for the trucks. We met some of the Canadian parolees at the embarkation point at the Swiss border, and they have worked themselves to exhaustion, trying to get the packages out. I'm sure they could use some help."

"Lord knows we've all put in enough time at the motor pool 'ere," Newkirk said.

"Only this time, we'd actually be fixing the vehicles," said Carter. "Make a nice change for us."

"Count me in, Professor," Kinch said.

"Et moi, aussi! We are all healthy and fit, or reasonably so."

Kinch added, "You know us, Professor. We're not used to sitting out the war."

Cohen said, "I must caution you, though. This is dangerous and exhausting work. There are still Allied air attacks to contend with, refugees everywhere, and German columns are still active. And you would have to give your word of honor not to try to escape."

All four men looked at him and began to laugh.

Colonel Hogan approached the group, his attention caught by the laughter. "Care to share the joke, gentlemen?"

Kinch became serious at once. "Colonel, the Professor has a proposition for us, but of course we would need your permission, and that of the Kommandant, too."

Hogan listened closely to Cohen's explanation, and then nodded. "Kommandant!" he called.

Klink walked over to the group and smiled slightly as all of them looked at him with hopeful, expectant expressions on their faces. "How can I help you, Colonel Hogan?"

"Herr Weber here has informed us that the Red Cross could use some volunteer drivers and mechanics, to help get the backlog of Red Cross packages out to the POWs. They are using paroled prisoners for this job, and my group here would like to volunteer, with your permission, of course."

Klink narrowed his eyes, looked at each of the men in turn, and then nodded. "Request granted. Schultz!"

Schultz came puffing up. "Herr Kommandant?"

"Have Captain Gruber process paperwork to parole these prisoners for a work detail with the Red Cross, at once."

"All of them, sir?"

Klink looked at Hogan. "What of you, Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan shook his head, real regret in his eyes. "I wish I could go too, Kommandant. But my duty right now is to help you keep this camp safe until the Allies come to liberate us."

Klink was visibly relieved. "Thank you, Colonel Hogan. Schultz, have the paperwork made out for Kinchloe, Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau."

"Better add Olsen, Baker and Thomas, Kommandant," said Hogan. "Something tells me they'll want to be part of this little shindig."

"And Olsen, Baker and Thomas, Schultz."

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."

Hogan looked at his four men. "I guess you've got a new mission, guys. You heard the man. Brief Olsen, Baker and Thomas, get your stuff together and get on that truck."

"Yes, sir!"

After a flurry of goodbyes and handshakes, Cohen and Langenscheidt got back into the truck, and the seven newly paroled prisoners clambered into the back. As Cohen started up the engine, Colonel Hogan came to the driver's side window.

"Professor, I hope to see you again sometime."

"When the war's over."

"When the war's over. Good luck." He called out to his men who were leaning out of the back of the truck. "Good luck, guys. Stay safe...and don't forget to come back!"

Cohen drove through the gates of Stalag 13 for the last time, blinking because his vision was unaccountably blurry.

Langenscheidt looked over at him and smiled. "They did good work back there, you know. And so did you. Remember that."

"I will."

May 8, 1951, New York City

Cohen sat in front of the dressing room mirror and carefully removed the stage makeup from his face. First nights were always a tense occasion, and the subject matter of the play made this one even more so. His part in the play had been a relatively minor one, but several of his former students had been involved in the production and he was anxious that their work be appreciated.

By the thunderous ovation they had received, he was pretty sure that it was.

A knock fell on the door, and he called, "Come in!"

Rising from his chair, he turned and saw two figures, both vaguely familiar. One was wearing a United States Air Force dress uniform and the other was in an elegant gown.

"Colonel—I mean, General Hogan!" Cohen quickly corrected himself, after noting the two stars on each shoulder of Hogan's tunic. He bowed slightly to Hogan's companion, and then did a double-take. "Lily Frankel? The lovely, charming, and talented Lily Frankel?"

She laughed delightedly. "It is a pleasure to really meet you at last, Professor. Such a shame that I never got the chance to dance with Major Hochstetter."

"The regret is all mine, I assure you!"

"You two can rectify the omission later," Hogan smiled as he put his arm around Lily. "But I want to warn you, Professor, that the lady is my wife."

"Congratulations to both of you. I would like to—"

A brief knock sounded on the door and it opened to reveal a gorgeous blonde in blue.

"Liebling, it was marvelous! All of that fretting for nothing..." The woman stopped suddenly, noticing the other two occupants of the dressing room. Her eyes opened wide. "Colonel Hogan!"

"Hilda! You look wonderful! Wait a minute..." Hogan turned to Cohen. "Don't tell me you brought home a war bride as well."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't resist her any longer. We got married in Switzerland to celebrate V-E day. Four kids now." He smiled at Hilda who linked her arm in his.

"Well, belated congratulations to both of you." Hogan bent to kiss Hilda's cheek, and shook Cohen's hand.

Cohen looked at his visitors and cleared his throat a little nervously. "If I may ask...what did you think of the performance tonight?"

Hogan nodded, his expression serious. "Do you mean, was it a little too close to home? It could have been, but I understand that the guys who wrote the play wrote from their own experience, and I'd have to say they got it right on the nose. Definitely a story that needed to be told, and I'm glad I was privileged to see it."

He pulled a crumpled program from his pocket and looked at the title. The others in the room watched him in silent sympathy.

"You know, it's been years, but still...I can't forget. Maybe never will. But to know that somebody else was there, and understands what it was like...it means a lot."

Hogan looked up again and smiled.

"Yeah, I'm glad I was at the opening night of Stalag 17."