Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  “You didn’t wake me.” Richelle stifled a yawn. “How long have you been out here?”

  He shrugged. “Since two thirty. I woke up with my mind racing. I knew I would never sleep, so I came out here.” He laid down the pen. “Come. I’ll go back to bed with you.”

  She didn’t move. “I want to know what you have been thinking.”

  “I’ve been thinking that I need to tell you how terribly sorry I am for what happened last night. I don’t know what came over me. But what Hans said about these new laws shocked me so deeply I had to. . . . I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

  “It’s all right.” She looked at his notepad. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “When I woke up, I had one thought come to me very strongly. Don’t act precipitously. There is no need to panic. It will take months, even years for them to fully implement the laws. The law hasn’t even been presented to Hitler yet. But. . . .” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I also feel strongly that we need to do something.” He touched the pad. “I was just writing out some of the options.”

  “Then I want to hear them. I want to be at your side in whatever it is we decide to do.”

  He leaned over and kissed her softly. “Do you know how much I love you, Richelle Maria Zeidner?”

  “And I you, my love. More than I can put into words.”

  They kissed again, and then he straightened and picked up the pad. “Okay. We need to begin planning now for every possibility.” He pointed to the bottom half of the pad where the paper was covered with figures. “One of the things I didn’t read to you last night was that in many of those attacks against Jewish citizens, there was an underlying motive. Greed. Houses were looted. Many were forced to sign over valuable assets to the troopers or pay huge bribes to be freed from jail. The government moved in and seized many bank accounts, claiming that the individuals had broken the law. We’re talking millions upon millions of marks. If Hans’s source is right and Jews are stripped of their citizenship, that will likely happen again, only on a much larger scale. So, that’s our first priority. Protect our assets.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “Mostly we hide them. But that’s easier said than done, because we cannot leave any trace of original ownership.”

  “What about our house?”

  “That’s more difficult. Unless we sign the title over to someone else, it’s vulnerable. But if we try that, they will see right through it. The house is so closely identified with us that we may have to sell it normally, saying that we are downsizing because our girls are now at school. I think we do nothing on that right now. We don’t want to alert anyone to what we’re doing. Of course we may want to take some of the things of highest value and put them into a bank vault or secure storage, such as some of our most valuable paintings.”

  Richelle, numbed by the implications of what he was saying, finally spoke. “Would you like me to start going through the house and make a list?”

  “Yes. I trust your judgment fully.”

  “Thank you. What else?”

  Alemann frowned. “I think that we say nothing to Erika and Leyna at this point. There’s nothing they can do, and it will greatly upset them. They’ll want to come home. And we must appear perfectly normal to everyone. The time will come when we may have to, but. . . .”

  “But not yet. I agree.”

  “The next thought I had was what I’ll call the Inga/Jolanda option.”

  Richelle stiffened. “You mean emigrate?”

  “It has to be a consideration, Schatzi.”

  “No!” She shook her head. “This is our home, Alemann. This is our country.”

  “Is it? I love the Fatherland. I don’t want to leave it, but the time may come when we do not have a choice. So I think I need to very quietly start inquiries into what that would require.”

  “Yes, I see that. But it is our last resort.”

  “I agree.” He glanced at his notes. “Those are the main things. The rest of this is mostly notes on how to deal with our assets.”

  He reached out and took Richelle’s hand, and they sat there quietly for a long time. Finally, he stood and pulled her to her feet and took her in his arms. “Come. Let’s see if we can get some sleep. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  As he turned to go, Richelle pulled him back. “Alemann?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  She studied him closely now, her eyes glistening in the light. “I. . . . I know you’ve asked yourself this question, so please answer me honestly.”

  “Is the guilt I’m feeling strong enough to decide that it’s time to step out of the shadows?” When she nodded, he answered, “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “And your answer?”

  “I. . . .” Alemann took a deep breath. “If it was just me, the answer would be yes. But it’s not just me, Richelle. It’s you and the girls. So no. I am not planning on doing that. If it ever does come to that, I want you and Erika and Leyna in a safe place first.”

  Richelle’s head came up, and her eyes were suddenly fierce. “If it comes to that, we will send the girls to Utah. Ask the Westlands to take them in. But I will be here at your side.”

  “No, Richelle!”

  She went up and kissed him softly. “You are not the only one who feels shame, my dearest Schatzi.” When he started to reply, she pressed a finger to his lips. “Not tonight. We don’t have to decide tonight. But that is the way it will be.”

  Chapter Notes

  The document about the storm troopers’ 1933 campaign against the Jews is not based on an actual document, but it heavily draws on the description of what happened at this time as given by Anthony Read (see Devil’s Disciples, 317–19).

  October 9, 1935, 10:40 a.m.—Albertstadt District,

  Dresden, Saxony, Germany

  Elder Carleton raised one hand and let his bicycle roll to a stop. Benji and Elder Roberts pulled up alongside him. Carleton straddled his bike as he looked at the street marker.

  “Okay, Herr and Frau Fuhrimann live about three blocks down this street. But since we have this small public square here with the fountain and benches, I thought we’d stop and cool off for a few minutes before going on. Elder Westland, that will also allow Elder Roberts and me a chance to tell you about the Fuhrimanns. When you get your new companion next week, we’ll divide the area, and the Fuhrimanns will be in your half of the city.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Benji said as he dismounted. It was a very pleasant autumn day and they had come three or four miles from their apartment. All of them were perspiring now.

  They walked their bikes across the square and propped them up against a low wall, then refreshed themselves at the fountain. When they were finished, they sat together on one of the benches. “Okay, here’s the deal,” Elder Carleton said. “About four months ago, we were given a referral by a family in the branch who used to be neighbors of the Fuhrimanns. They said Herr Fuhrimann was a devout believer in God, and though he already belonged to a church, he seemed quite interested in the gospel.”

  “But not the wife?” Benji asked.

  “That’s right. I’ll say more about her in a minute. So we came out and met them, and he invited us back. Frau Fuhrimann made it quite clear she was not happy about us being there in any way. Though she let us in, she manifested a bitter spirit toward her husband and the Church.”

  “And us!” Elder Roberts said.

  “Very much so,” Elder Carleton agreed. “As we began to teach, she left the room in a huff and refused to speak to us any longer. Over the next few weeks as we returned to teach him, we didn’t see her again. But he was a golden contact. He started coming to the branch meetings each Sunday. He eagerly read the Book of Mormon and did everything else we asked him to do.”

  “And when we asked if he would be baptized,” Elder Roberts conclude
d, “he didn’t hesitate.”

  “Did the wife come for the baptism?”

  “Nein. He said she was very angry with him.”

  “Any children?” Benji asked.

  Elder Carleton shook his head. “Franz—that’s his name—said they had tried with no success, but both Elder Roberts and I had the feeling that this was not a happy marriage, and that might explain why there were no children.”

  “So,” Elder Roberts continued, “he was baptized on the sixteenth of August in the river here. It was a Sunday afternoon, and all the branch was there. It seemed an auspicious beginning.”

  “I’m anxious to meet him,” Benji said.

  They exchanged glances, then Elder Carleton quietly went on. “Well, that’s the problem. Two weeks ago, Franz didn’t come to church. When we called him afterward, there was no answer. Last Sunday was the same. We called again. Again no answer. Which seemed strange. They are not a well-to-do family, so it wasn’t likely they were on holiday. He works in a butcher shop. She takes in ironing.”

  “So last night,” Elder Roberts said, “I tried again, and to my surprise, Frau Fuhrimann answered. And she was quite distraught. When I asked if we could speak to Franz, she said that two weeks before he had not come home. And that she hasn’t seen him since.”

  That caught Benji by surprise. “You mean he disappeared?”

  “That’s what she said. I tried to talk to her, but she was very much in distress. She asked if we could come help her in any way. So I told her we would come this morning and explained that we would have another missionary with us. And so here we are.”

  10:47 a.m.

  The street they were passing along was filled with small, drab, one-story row houses. It was a narrow street that meandered through a working-class neighborhood. As they moved up the street, Elder Carleton saw something that made him draw in his breath. “Eyes straight ahead,” he hissed over his shoulder. “Don’t look at them unless they speak to us.”

  Benji was bringing up the rear, and so he wasn’t sure who “them” was. Then as his two companions moved into the center of the street, he saw two men approaching them on the sidewalk. He didn’t have to ask who they were. The uniforms said it all. Greyish, dark-green wool trousers tucked into highly polished black jackboots that came to their knees. Tailored jackets of the same material, with a single epaulet on the right shoulder. Thick black leather belt with silver buckle. Holstered German Lugers on their right hips, wooden truncheons dangling from their left. The silver insignia of the Third Reich—the German eagle clasping a laurel encircling a swastika in its claws. And just below that, the grim silver Totenkopf—the death head, the skull and crossbones insignia. They were Gestapo.

  As they rode slowly by them, eyes to the front, out of the corner of his eye Benji saw the officers stop and stare at them. The one leaned in and spoke to the other.

  “Keep peddling,” Elder Carleton hissed. “Don’t look back.”

  But there were no shouts. No commands to halt. No gunshots in the air. As they turned a corner, Benji glanced back. The men were walking again, not looking back. And with that, the prickling sensation at the back of his neck subsided.

  A minute later, Elder Carleton stopped in front of one of the cookie-cutter houses, dull grey with black shutters and drooping eaves, a small area of grass that was already fall-brown, a dilapidated picket fence with several pickets missing.

  “This is it,” Elder Carleton said as he dismounted.

  To their great surprise, barely had they gotten off their bikes and leaned them against the fence when the front door flew open and a short, somewhat portly woman with greasy hair and a soiled dress came rushing out. “Elders! Elders! Oh, thank you. You have come at last.” She crossed herself twice.

  Elders Carleton and Roberts exchanged glances, then Elder Carleton opened the gate and stepped into the yard as he swept off his hat and smiled. “Guten Morgen, Frau Fuhrimann. Any word from your husband yet?”

  Her face crumpled and she began to wail. “Nein. Nein. Nothing! Oh, what shall I do?” Then one hand shot out and she gripped Elder Roberts’s arm. “Will you pray for him? You are men of God.”

  “Of course. We have been praying for him, Frau Fuhrimann. And we’ve been making inquiries as well. So far, no one in the branch has either seen or heard from him. But our branch president has asked that we all fast and pray that we shall find him.”

  “God bless, Elders. God bless you.”

  Benji watched in surprise. This was the woman who had so bitterly hated the elders before?

  Suddenly she straightened. “There is one bit of hope. My neighbor just called. She told me that she saw someone who looked like my Franz down by the train station, but she didn’t get a good enough look to know if it was him.”

  That brought Elder Carleton’s head up. “How long ago?”

  “She called just before you arrived. Said she saw the man shortly before ten o’clock.”

  “How far is the train station?” Benji quietly asked Elder Roberts.

  “About two miles from here.”

  “We must go!” Elder Carleton exclaimed. He turned back to Frau Fuhrimann. “We will call you from the train station.” He spun around and strode over to his bike. “Stay by the phone.”

  “God bless,” she cried as they jumped onto their bikes. “Hurry! Please hurry!”

  Ten minutes later, as they leaned into a corner and started up the streets that led to the train station, they saw four policemen in blue uniforms. They were standing near a black car with the word POLIZEI on the driver’s side door. They were blocking the sidewalk, so Elder Carleton turned into the street so they could go around.

  But the instant the police looked up and saw the missionaries, they leaped into action. The oldest of the four, who had prominent yellow sergeant stripes on his sleeves, drew out his pistol and waved it at them as he ran out into the street. “Halt! Halt!” he shrieked. The others lumbered after him, drawing their weapons. The missionaries skidded to a stop. All three raised their hands.

  Three of the officers raced forward, shouting and waving their pistols back and forth. “Keep your hands up! Stay where you are! Don’t move!”

  The sergeant stayed back a few paces. He was a beefy man with a large, red nose—the sign of a fondness for a pint of lager—and a girth that hung over his belt by a couple of inches. He barked something to them that Benji didn’t catch, but the meaning soon became clear. Two of the officers yelled at them to produce their papers. Hearts pounding violently, the missionaries did as they were told. Their papers were snatched from their hands, and they were quickly patted down. Only then did the officers step back.

  The sergeant came forward, glowering at them angrily, and took their papers from the other officers. His eyes widened as he looked at them one by one. “Amerikaner?”

  “Ja, ja,” Elder Carleton said. “We are missionaries for The Church—”

  “Shut your mouth!” the sergeant barked. “You are under arrest.”

  “On what charges?” Elder Carleton gasped.

  “For belonging to an organization officially declared by the Reich to be illegal and subversive.”

  1:03 p.m.—Precinct Station, Dresden City Police

  The sergeant had flecks of spittle on his lips, and Benji’s eyes focused there instead of looking into his eyes. He leaned in once again and screamed in Benji’s face. “You are a member of the Deutschland Church of the Holy Spirit, an organization plotting against the German state. You were recruited by Herr Franz Fuhrimann. You are preaching doctrine contrary to the laws of the Third Reich. Admit it, or things will go very badly for you.”

  Benji looked him in the eyes and started again. “I am a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, commonly called the Mormons. We are a legally approved church in the state of Saxony and throughout the Third Reich. I arrived
in Germany in June of this year. I have shown you my papers, which prove all of this. I and my companions know nothing of the Deutschland Church of the Holy Spirit. And I personally have never met Herr Fuhrimann. I—”

  “You lie!” he shrieked. “You were at Herr Fuhrimann’s home and you have never met him?”

  “Elder Westland arrived in Dresden only a few days ago,” Elder Carleton explained hurriedly. “So he has not yet met Herr Fuhrimann. Elder Roberts and I baptized Herr Fuhrimann into our church about two months ago. But he went missing two weeks ago. His wife called and begged us to come out and help her find him.”

  “Silence!” the sergeant snarled. “Herr Fuhrimann is not missing. We arrested him for seditious activities against the state.”

  “What?” Elder Carleton cried. “Does his wife know that?”

  His response was a short, mirthless laugh. “Who do you think reported him?”

  Elder Carleton just gaped at him. Then Elder Roberts spoke up. “Sir,” he said deferentially, “if you will just let us contact our mission president, he will verify our identities and our affiliation.”

  The sergeant’s head swung around and his hand came up as if he was going to cuff Elder Roberts across the mouth, but after a moment he stepped back. “I am not authorized to make calls to Berlin,” he said in disgust. “Is there anyone else here in Dresden who can verify who you are?”

  Elder Carleton’s first thought was of their branch president, but then he decided that would not be wise. Then another thought came. “We have two other missionaries here in the city. We were going to meet them in Old Town, by the State Museum, at one o’clock to have lunch together. What time is it now?”

  “After one,” the sergeant growled.

  “They are probably wondering where we are. If you would allow us to write a note and have someone deliver it to them, they will call our president in Berlin, who can then call you and verify our story.”

  The sergeant considered that, then grunted. “Paper and pencil, please,” he called over his shoulder. A moment later one of the young officers appeared at the bars of the cell and handed him a single sheet of paper and a stub of a pencil. The sergeant thrust it at Elder Carleton. “Keep it short.”