Chapter 6

An Austrian millionaire, who was in the real-estate business, built the Grand Hotel in 1923, along the shore of the Vassacher Lake. The habits of international clientele influenced his dream resort — a place where young and old relaxed and enjoyed the beautiful Austrian landscape. Some patrons rented boats and went fishing, while others enjoyed the beach, covered with imported white sand from the ocean. Sailing on the lake was another of their favorite past times. In the winter, ice-skating and ice fishing was a much-loved activity. An enterprising fellow rented horse carriages for romantic couples. It was quiet in the evenings, and one could hear the clap, clap of the horses on the cobblestone road. On Fridays and Saturdays, big bands played dance music. The evening started and ended with a waltz by Johann Straus. During WWII, the German SS confiscated the hotel and used it as one of their headquarters. In 1946, right after the war, an unknown foreigner remodeled parts of the hotel, and that included a new dance hall, and it has been in operation since then.

On the following Saturday, Peter, Hilde, and Franz visited the dance hall of the Grand Hotel. They were curious about this place, especially since they heard horror stories about white slavery originating from the hotel. Peter was not sure that an Arab would find the note under the desk drawer and would wait with a van in the parking lot of the Grand Hotel. If no one reads the message, the van might not be there. However, all three were determined to be careful, and regardless of the outcome, they hoped to have fun. Both Peter and Franz carried their .38’s with silencers attached. They paid their cover charge, then Peter and Hilde found a table, strategically placed, while Franz sat by the bar. It didn’t take long for a waitress to come to Peter’s table. “What will you have, folks?” she asked, bored and unfriendly.

“Can you get us two highballs, please?” said Peter. The waitress left, dragging her feet. It was still early. However, the place filled quickly. Only one table in the corner was always empty, but someone reserved it. At ten, the band started playing dance music, starting with a waltz. Then they played rumbas, sambas, and polkas. The lights dimmed. Peter got up and danced with his wife. When they stepped on the dance floor, it was nearly empty. Slowly the dance floor filled with couples. Hilde saw two kinds of folks; couples just like her and Peter, trying to enjoy themselves dancing to a few melodies and couples thrown together for the night, looking for action. Some slid majestically along the powdered floor, while others hopped, skipped, and jumped, pushing boisterously across the dance floor. After two dances, Peter and Hilde sat.

Franz was still at the bar, and he ordered a beer. He drank it slowly. A working girl sat next to him, looking him over. She was a paid dancer.

“Would you like to dance?” she asked Franz, smiling at him.

“No, not now, thank you. Perhaps later.”

“Then, how about buying us a drink?” she asked.

“What are you drinking?”

“Bourbon and a glass of water.”

“Waiter, get us two bourbons, please,” said Franz, bored. The waiter poured Franz’s bourbon from a bottle on the shelf behind him. Then he reached below the bar and poured the dancer’s bourbon from another bottle. Franz noticed that, prompting him to taste his bourbon. It appeared in regular strength. While the dancer looked to the dance floor, Franz switched the two shots of bourbon. Then he picked his up and toasted. The dancer did the same. She drank hers, coughed, and choked. “What did you give me?” she asked the waiter, pissed.

“The regular stuff.”

“No, you didn’t. You fool. Taste it,” the woman said.

“How can I do that? You drank it all.”

“How about a refill,” said Franz, amusing himself, “and this time pour both of them from the same bottle.”

“No, thanks, I don’t care for more,” said the dancer, disgusted. She got up and walked away, trying to find another sucker.

“Bitch,” said Franz, knowingly, under his breath, while he watched the dancer approach another man at the end of the bar.”

Peter and Hilde finished another waltz. They enjoyed dancing.

“Can we sit? I’m a little tired,” said Hilde, somewhat uneasy.

“No problem. I’m warm, and I need a drink. I could soon use some fresh air, being a non-smoker.” The dance hall was warm, hazy and the smell of beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke filled the atmosphere, though ceiling fans operated at full speed. A few men still danced, wearing their jackets. Others got comfortable in their shirtsleeves. Hilde looked over to the table with the reserved sign and said, “Peter, look who is sitting by the table in the corner.”

“Two Middle Eastern men,” said, Peter surprised. “I wondered who would eventually sit there.” They dressed in light-colored suits, starched shirts, colorful designer ties, and unusually good looking. Peter and Hilde kept watching them, without arousing suspicion. A waitress served them drinks. They kept looking at the row of dance girls, lined up, waiting to dance. They talked to each other, deciding what to do. Eventually, one Middle Eastern rose and walked to the youngest and prettiest girl. He asked her to dance, and she agreed. After the dance, he took her to his table and bought her a drink. Then the second man danced with another good-looking girl, and she sat joining the other couple. The girls were happy and content. Their demeanor showed that their date would take care of them. They did not worry because nothing can go wrong. The band played a rumba. Both couples went dancing, and they danced well. The waitress brought them another round. Then they danced again. The Middle Eastern men knew how to deal with women, and they felt comfortable in turn. Peter looked at his watch. It was one-thirty a.m. He remembered the note that the Arab found under the middle drawer of the desk. He hoped that another Arab would have seen the same message later. Franz looked at Peter, and he motioned to him to check outside for the van. Nonchalantly, Franz walked to the toilet. It was in the hallway on the way to the front entrance. Then he walked to the front parking lot. On the left, in a dark area, Franz saw the van while the driver was behind the steering wheel, lighting a cigarette. Franz returned to the bar. When Peter looked at him, Franz nodded, raising his brows for confirmation. Peter understood. He looked at the table in the corner. He noticed that the Arabs were restless, sliding in their chairs, crossing their legs, looking at their watches, finishing their drinks. The Arabs smiled at the girls and talked to them persuasively. Then they stood, smiling at the girls, heading for the door. The girls followed. The two couples went toward the van. Franz threw money on the bar, and then he walked behind them. Peter and Hilde got up and followed Franz.

“Start the truck, Franz,” said Peter. “We’ll follow them. I hope that they’ll drive to the warehouse.” The van left the parking lot, and fortunately, the driver drove to the warehouse, however slowly, checking the surroundings. Franz stayed clear, headlights off. He parked his truck before he reached the warehouse, and he kept the engine running.

“Hilde, move to the driver’s seat, keep the engine running and the doors locked. We may have to take off in a hurry,” said Peter. Franz and Peter looked around the corner. The van driver stopped the van behind the warehouse. One Arab jumped out from the back of the slave van and used a key to open the garage door, and the van driver drove in. The Arab quickly closed the garage door.

“Shit,” said Peter, “that’s not good. Let’s go to the front, to the same window.” Both put their rubber gloves on. Then Peter tried the window and luckily, it opened. No one checked it since last week, Thursday. Franz went in first, and then both kept low. The Arabs carried the limp girls to the second floor. The slave mongers must have chloroformed them in the van. Peter and Franz sensed danger and drew their 0.38’s. Quietly, they followed them up the steps.

“You take the one on the left, and I’ll take out the one on the right.”

“What about the third one, Peter?”

“We have to do the best we can,” said Peter, somewhat uneasy. Peter reached the top first, and his hands shook. Franz was nervous, wiping sweat from his forehead. One Arab turned and shouted something in Arabic. Before he finished his sentence, both Arabs had a caliber 0.38 projectile piercing their bodies, and they silently dropped. The third Arab reached for his weapon, trying to rip it from his holster, but both Peter and Franz simultaneously fired their guns. Because of the double impact, the bullets’ force lifted him off his feet, and then he fell back. The girls regained conscientiousness, and they screamed, ready to escape again. They were frightened, and their bodies shook.

“Shut up, we are here to save you,” said Franz aggravated. Peter quickly emptied the Arab’s pockets, and he took all their weapons. He found a paper bag to carry the wallets, passports, and guns. They left the bodies where they were, but they took pictures of all three faces. They might need them for their report.

“Can you walk?” Peter asked the girls.

“Yes, yes, we can walk,” said both girls, crying.

“Let’s go, quickly,” said Peter. They ran down the steps and to the back door. Franz tried the side door, and it was still open. Then they ran around the corner, and Hilde pulled up. Peter sat in front, and Franz, with the two girls, sat in the Mercedes truck’s back.

“Where are we going?” asked Hilde, wondering which way to turn.

“Where do you live?” asked Peter, “We’ll take you home. Is that what you want?”

“Yes, please take us home. We are neighbors. We live close by — we walked to the dance hall,” said the girls. Hilde followed the girl’s directions and drove them to their homes.

“Are you going to tell your parents what happened to you?” asked Hilde.

“No, we won’t, but we’ll never go back there again.”

“Do you have any idea what the Arabs were going to do with you?” queried Peter.

“No, we aren’t sure.”

“They were going to sell you as white slaves,” said Peter. “That will give you something to think about in the future. You had better be more careful the next time and stay away from Arabic-looking men.”

“We will, we will,” said the girls, and they ran home, still quivering of fright.