Sleeper Agent Read Online Free PDF

brought him. He’d stand, dammit!
    The civilian turned his full attention to the young man before them. He began to walk around him slowly, studying him. The commandant read from the dossier: “Rudolf Kessler. Born July seventeen, 1915, in Linz, Austria.”
    The young Waffen SS lieutenant listened to the clipped, direct voice of his superior officer. It seemed to come from far away, but the officer himself was right there in front of him. He was mildly amused. He couldn’t understand how it could be. . . . Linz, Austria. Yes. He’d always been proud of being Austrian. Like Adolf Hitler. Like the Führer himself. Austrian.
    The commandant went on reading from the dossier: “Father, Wilhelm, served as Feldwebel in the Imperial Austro-Hungarian Army during World War One. Wounded and taken prisoner of war by the Italians at Battle of Piave River, June, 1918. . . .”
    . . . He remembered the scars. His father had shown them to him. The only war decorations I’m really proud of, he’d said. The bullet had gone right through the lung. The scar in the chest was small and round. The one on the back much larger and ragged. He remembered putting his finger on it in awe. It felt smooth and glossy—like the wax paper in which his favorite candy came wrapped. His father had told him about the battle. About crossing the river with General von Bojna’s army and beating the Italians back; about the downpour of rain that bogged down the advance and forced the Austrians to retreat, only to find that the flooded river had washed away the bridges they’d thrown across, trapping them; about the Italian counterattack, and the bullet that smashed through him. He’d fallen at the river’s edge. The rushing water kept washing over him, keeping him conscious. The . . . water. His eyes were drawn to the carafe of water on the table. It was still half full. The memory of his swollen bladder suddenly flooded his mind. He had a sharp urge to urinate and a flash of alarm before it left him as abruptly as it had come upon him.
    The commandant’s voice was a distant drone to him: “. . . Mother, Erna, died August, 1920. . . .”
    . . . Mutti. He hardly remembered her. He’d been not quite five years old when she died. He thought of her as a large round-faced woman, always warm, who would envelop him in soft arms and a moist, pungent odor, which came to mean protection and comfort to him. Comfort Rest. The pains in his tired legs shot up across the small of his back. If only they wouldn’t cramp. Not now. He had to stick it out He had to.
    The commandant’s voice again broke in on his rambling thoughts: “. . . Rudolf accepted for foster home placement by the Danish organization to aid needy Austrian children after the war, called Wienerbörn—Vienna Children. Arrived in Denmark September, 1920. Placed as foster child in home of Helga and Jens Peter Rasmussen, a childless couple, in Copenhagen. . . .”
    . . . He had not understood. He had been frightened. First his father went away, and he remembered his mother crying all the time; and then she was gone, too. He felt abandoned. A lot of strangers had shunted him from place to place and finally put him on a big train that traveled away forever. He had not been able to understand the speech of the people in whose home he found himself, and he thought he would have to be different from everyone else for the rest of his life. But Helga and Jens Peter were warm and understanding people, and he soon looked upon them as a family. He had a natural gift for languages, and he was young enough to talk on and on in this new tongue without being embarrassed about any mistakes he made. Soon he was playing with the Danish children as if he’d always been one of them . . .
    “. . . Enrolled in Danish School Vestre Borgerdyd, Copenhagen, 1921. Allowed to remain with Rasmussen family beyond normal time limit, for four years, due to the fact that there was no family in Austria to accept responsibility for