Bridge Over Troubled Waters

My father was as smart as anyone I’ve ever known.  As a child, I saw Wernher von Braun interact with him at parties and other functions.  I could tell how much he respected Artur’s intellect.  Yet, a man like my dad could never accomplish what von Braun did.  In addition to intelligence, that required charisma and a towering personality.

When I saw the movie Rain Man, it made me think of Dad.  Perhaps he was a borderline idiot savant.  If you let him get going, mathematics rolled off of his tongue like an auctioneer’s chant.  But he wasn’t big on typical dad things like changing the oil in the car.  Mom was more interested in throwing footballs or flying kites than he was.  

He could be absentminded.  Eventually, I figured it out.  He could never turn off the math.  No matter where he was or who he was with, all or part of his brain was stewing about something to do with numbers.

One summer day as we picnicked on the Flint River, I assumed he was doing just that, when he tripped over a tree stump.  He never saw it.  Typical Dad stuff.  Years later, I mentioned the incident.  He laughed and said, “No, I was actually having a flashback.  When I heard the water rushing over the rocks, it took me back to the day I tried to swim across the Vltata River, in Czechoslovakia.”

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He didn’t know it would soon be referred to as the Cold War, or the implications of its politics.  But when he saw the two camps of soldiers on either side of the border, Artur knew he wouldn’t be crossing into Czechoslovakia there.  He walked back to Wildenau and had lunch at an inn.  It was good and he ate until he was full.  He had food and water in his suitcase, but no idea when he would eat another hot meal.  

 

Artur sat on the steps outside the restaurant and let the food digest.  He looked over the ad for farm help.  He had to be convincing if he used his cover story.  The job was outside of Dürrwiesen, to the south.  A small town that did not have a railroad line.

When he began walking, he was sure he could tell a good lie.  Hans had made him practice.  Hans would pretend to be a suspicious policeman, coming across a stranger on a road.  After a while, nothing Hans said or did would rattle Artur.

His real destination was the thick stand of trees he was approaching, on the left.  About a kilometer into the woods was the border.  If he made it across, he could travel another 15 kilometers into Czechoslovakia without leaving the forest.

The story would have to be even more convincing, once he turned down the side road.  He was no longer on the road to Dürrwiesen.  If questioned here, he would act surprised, and claim he must have misread the sign at the last intersection.  Artur had become a confident liar.

Fortunately, there was only one farm on the short road.  He saw a dust cloud on the far side of the field.  The farmer was steering a plow behind a horse, he wouldn’t notice Artur.  The mathematician was able to slip into the trees at the end of the road, unseen.

So far, so good.  But the stakes were higher.  His story wouldn’t work anymore.  Artur knew, anyone caught snooping around the border would get shot or end up behind bars.  He would have to be careful.  He found a spot in the dense vegetation, and laid down.  He would not attempt to cross into Czechoslovakia until dark.  Now, he would rest.

Now, Artur knew something about stealthy movement.  Bertina had made him practice.  Her father had gotten over the disappointment of not having a son by making sure his daughter could do anything a boy could do.  When the farm shifted into low gear during the winter, her father taught her to hunt and trap. 

For Bertina it was like reliving her childhood, when she showed Artur how to move around in the forest.  Not being noticed by people is a lot like not being noticed by the animals you hunt.  Once he realized what she meant by “slow down and see everything”, he was a good student.

In the 1940s, in rural Europe, there were very few automobiles.  Trains and boats were available for longer trips.  Horse drawn vehicles were still common, and bicycles were popular.  The rest of the time, people made their way around on foot.  

There were plenty of trails through the forest Artur was traversing.  He was making good progress.  But he knew he couldn’t make himself invisible.  His adventure would end quickly if he ran into the wrong people.

He was counting his steps, trying to estimate when he crossed the border.  He got confirmation when he reached a stone marker.  The letter D on the near side, and the C on the other, could only mean one thing.  Artur had made it past his first hurdle.  There was no one in sight as he walked out of Deutschland, into Czechoslovakia.  

Artur wasn’t sure how he was going to get all the way to Poland.  He would run out of forest soon and would have to make his way across large parts of two countries undetected.  And not starve or die from exposure.  

He knew the odds were against him.  But the freedom of the forest was preferable to what he had run from.  The mathematician cared about one thing, returning home.  His only chance was to do it on his own.  For Artur, the odds didn’t matter.

The first night’s hike passed without incident.  Artur slipped and fell once, but the thick coat cushioned the fall.  When the sun came up, he found a spot, and slept.  It was mid afternoon when he woke.   He ate some of the food Bertina had packed.  At dark he resumed walking.  By one a.m., he’d run out of forest.  

There was a field in front of him.  The barbed wire reminded him of the Müller’s farm.  Beyond the field, he could see lights and the outline of buildings.  According to the map, he was looking at Spálená.  A rural community much like Glashütten. 

 

His next move became apparent when he heard the distant rumble.  Only one thing makes that sound.  A train.  Artur triangulated the sound and knew it was to the right, and heading toward the buildings in front of him.

Going north, and closer to Poland, the train would be passing through Spálená in a matter of minutes.  He could tell it was moving slow.  Typical for a steam engine pulling a string of heavily loaded cars.  

People have been jumping trains as long as there have been trains.  Artur climbed over the fence, and crept forward.  He didn’t see any people under the dim lights of Spálená, but he couldn’t afford to take chances.  A hundred meters from the track, he laid flat on the ground.  He could see the shadows cast by the approaching headlamp.

When the engine passed, Artur made his move.  He noticed a flatbed car that had some kind of industrial equipment strapped to it.  He ran to the train, put his suitcase on the bed, and jumped up.

They looked like electric motors, what you would see in a factory.  Big enough to hide him when he hunkered down between two of them.  It wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d ever been, but he was getting used to life on the lamb.  After a few minutes listening to the hum of the engine, and the rhythmic clicking of the cars rolling down the track, Artur fell into a deep sleep. 

Unfortunately for the mathematician, the sleep, and the ride, only lasted four kilometers.  The tracks ended in the town of Luby.  Artur woke up to the voices of men yelling in a railyard.  He felt like he had slept for a long time, and was shocked when he looked at his watch.  He’d been on the train for less than an hour.

He didn’t know yet he’d reached the end of the line.  Artur was assuming this was just a stop, and the train would resume moving north.  Then he saw the crew unloading the cars ahead of him.  If these motors get unloaded here, he’d need another place to hide.  

It was a small station.  The depot, a warehouse, and a road were on one side.  A stand of trees on the other.  Artur grabbed his suitcase and snuck into the vegetation.

From there, he could see the bumper stop the engine was resting against.  The end of the line.  Artur’s spirits sagged.  Then he considered the trucks the men were loading.  They were going somewhere.  

He needed to get closer and hitch another ride.  He watched as the crew unloaded a boxcar.  The kind with sliding doors on both sides.  They left the doors open when they were done.  Artur  climbed into the empty car.

When the crew got to the flatbed with the motors, they brought a forklift out of the warehouse.  As on the train, the motors would be strapped to the open bed of a truck.  The driver pulled the truck next to the train.  Artur watched as the crew worked.

Artur did not speak the Czech language.  He wasn’t sure what the driver said to the crew when he got out of the truck, but he caught one word.  Prague.  The largest city in Czechoslovakia, and 150 kilometers closer to Poland.

When no one was looking, Artur snuck in between the motors.  In a few minutes, he was on a highway, moving considerably faster than before.  After a few hours, the truck reached its destination.  A warehouse on the north side of Prague.

So far, Artur’s luck had held.  From Prague, it was only 100 kilometers to the Polish border.  But any gambler can tell you.  Luck has a way of disappearing when you need it most.  As he crept out of the warehouse parking lot, he headed northeast.  He was assuming the shortest distance between two points was a straight line.

Had he gone west, he could have hitched a ride on another train.  He didn’t know that just east was the Vltata River.  His luck worsened when he reached the shore.  After heavy rains, the water was deep, cold, and moving fast.

There was a bridge to his right.  The current was flowing briskly to the left.  Artur considered his options.  He could try to swim across the river, or walk across the bridge and hope no one noticed him.  He looked at his clothes.  After two days in the forest and a day on the road, he was filthy.  His jacket and pants were torn.  He looked like a hobo.

Either option was risky.  He could drown in the river, or get arrested on the bridge.  He decided to hide in the trees until dark, then swim across the river.