Gorilla Republic: Deutschland: Part 19
25th February 2025
As they approached Ludwig’s house, Mapacha knew it was imperative to conceal the car. Not out of fear of the Yugoslav agents, but because it was wiser not to announce their presence. He preferred fewer entanglements, given the enormity of what he had in mind. He picked a desolate street about half a kilometre away. It had a quick exit back onto the main road with little traffic. The lighting was just right, some street lamps worked, others did not. More importantly, there was a dry culvert nearby. If things went south, they had somewhere to jump.
“Are you ready?” he asked Banou.
The agony on her face betrayed her hesitation. Mapacha drew out his revolver, checked it one last time, then slid it into the small of his back. Banou, almost unwillingly, did the same.
“Ready.”
They stepped out and slowly walked towards the house. The earlier warmth had given way to a crisp evening chill, stiffening their movements. They did not approach directly but circled the neighbourhood for a few minutes, canvassing the area. Mapacha had learned from past mistakes.
When they were finally within view of the house, they stood in the shadows, watching. No lights. No movement. His frustration rose. Banou pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and they waited. Patiently. Nearly half an hour later, a light flickered on the bottom floor.
“So, what is the plan?” Banou whispered.
“We go through the back like before, surprise him, get him to tell us where the Hamsa is, take it, get out, and leave Munich.”
It sounded simple. Banou was not convinced.
“What if he refuses to talk? What if he does not have the Hamsa?”
“He will talk.” Mapacha was certain. “I will make him. And if he does not have it, well. . . bad luck for him.”
Darkness thickened, wrapping around them. The street remained quiet. Nine o’clock struck, and a few minutes later, the light on the bottom floor went out. Moments later, the upstairs light came on.
“Let’s go.”
The next tense minute had them skirting the house wall, moving in silence until they reached the kitchen door. Mapacha tested the knob. Locked. Quickly, he pulled out his lock picking kit, laid it on the floor, and got to work. This one was easier. Less than 30 seconds later, the lock gave way. He turned the knob, and the door swung open without a sound. Banou smiled.
They slipped inside, shut the door behind them, and in the darkness, groped their way into the main room. The hinges to that door were also silent, Mapacha had taken care of that earlier, but the wooden floors were treacherous. They had to tiptoe. Slowly. Carefully. When they were certain the room was empty, they crept up the stairs, ears straining against the silence, catching every creak beneath their weight.
At the landing, Mapacha’s sharp eyes scanned the darkness. Satisfied, he crept to the first room, tested the door, and entered. It was empty. They moved to the master bedroom. A light glowed beneath the door.
Mapacha signalled Banou to stand to the side, if the man inside had a gun, he did not want her in the line of fire. He grabbed the handle, pushed the door open, and rolled in, landing on one knee. The old man flinched, startled. Banou peeked inside, saw it was clear, and stepped in, revolver trained on him.
“Hey! Wer bist du (Hey! Who are you)?” the frail voice croaked, his book slipping from his hands.
His arms flailed, reaching for the bureau drawer, but stopped when he saw the two revolvers pointed at him. A thick finger lifted to Mapacha’s lips, demanding silence.
Ludwig was frail, his brown pyjamas wrinkled. He sat in bed, spectacles perched on his nose. The floral bedspread looked ridiculous against the plain wooden frame. Beside him, a single chair held a neatly folded brown woollen gown. Banou almost pitied him. He looked like an invalid.
Mapacha took two steps forward, grabbed Ludwig by the collar, and yanked him out of bed. Banou snatched the gown, pulled out the sash, and tossed it to Mapacha. In one swift move, he flipped Ludwig over and drove a fist into his lower back.
“Mein Gott (My God)!” Ludwig gasped as pain exploded through him.
Like a seasoned cowboy, Mapacha bound his hands, then flipped him over to face him.
“Ludwig!” he roared. “If you shout, you will regret it.”
The old man’s eyes flickered with recognition. They knew his name. That meant trouble.
Ludwig nodded quickly, swallowing his fear.
“Please, who are you? What do you want?”
“You served in the Afrika Korps in North Africa, right?”
“Ja! I did. It is no secret. I was already punished. I was a good soldier. A great soldier.”
Mapacha pulled a photograph from his pocket and held it up.
“Is this you?”
Ludwig stared stiffly at the image. His heart pounded. There he was, handsome in his Waffenrock, medals polished, bars pristine. He hesitated. Would answering put him in danger? But these two were not the Nazi hunters he had feared all these years.
“Ja.”
Banou smiled. They had their man.
“What did you bring back from North Africa?”
“Me? Nothing. Just desert sand and shame.”
Mapacha’s fist curled. He slammed it into Ludwig’s stomach. The old man doubled over.
With little effort, Mapacha lifted him with one hand and struck him across the face with the other. The slap cracked through the room like a starter pistol. Ludwig flew onto the bed.
Mapacha dragged him up again.
“Do not waste my time.”
Ludwig spat blood onto the rug. His left cheek bloomed red, Mapacha’s fingers imprinted across his skin.
“I brought nothing. I swear.”
“We will see.”
Banou led the way downstairs, revolver aimed into the dark. Mapacha half-carried, half-dragged Ludwig to the door leading to the Nazi room.
“Open it.”
Dread painted Ludwig’s face.
“I cannot. There is nothing there. Just an old basement. I do not even have the key.”
Mapacha shoved him against the door.
“Either you open it, or I put you through it.”
“Nein! I do not have the key!”
Mapacha dropped to his knee and pulled out his lock picking kit.
“Nein!” Ludwig pleaded.
“Last chance.”
“Nein!”
The snap gun worked fast. The lock clicked open.
“In you go,” Mapacha ordered, pushing Ludwig through the door.
His fingers found the switch. Light flooded the room. Ludwig stood frozen.
“So this is where your sins are, Ludwig?” Mapacha mocked. “We know about your little Nazi room. Tell me where the Hamsa is.”
Ludwig flinched.
“What is a Hamsa?”
Mapacha shoved him into a chair and bound him to it. His fingers slid under the panel.
“The Hamsa. The thing you stole in Morocco. Hidden behind this panel.”
Ludwig blinked rapidly.
“Niemals (Never)!”
Mapacha, fed up, backhanded him. The chair tumbled, Ludwig’s nose bleeding.
“Du schwein (You pig),” he spat. “I earned my Edelweiss. You cannot break me.”
Mapacha set his foot against Ludwig’s shoulder joint.
“Last chance.”
“Do it, I dare you.”
With all his strength, Mapacha pressed down and yanked the arm upwards. The joint dislocated with a sickening pop. Ludwig howled.
“Du dreckiges tier (You filthy animal)!”
“How do I open the panel?”
“Please! Do not make me!”
“Ludwig, I will take your other arm next.”
“OK! OK!” Ludwig gasped.
Banou watched in silence, horror creeping over her.
“Banou,” Mapacha said coldly, “if anything happens to me, shoot him in the head and leave. Clear?”
Her breath hitched. Could she do it? Was this what she had signed up for?