The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII

by Marion Kummerow

  “I’m sorry, Gerlinde.” It was odd addressing her by her first name but somehow appropriate. Everything was out in the open between them now and the occasion itself called for such a familiarity.

  “I still don’t believe you.”

  “It is your right. Some people don’t believe the earth is round.”

  “Those people are idiots.”

  “They also believe that there’s such a thing as Jewish physics.”

  After a very long pause, she suddenly said, “those people are idiots too; physics is physics,” and Tadek smiled a bit wider this time, thinking that perhaps nothing was lost with her yet.

  The sun was beating down unmercifully. Tadek didn’t know any longer whether Gerlinde’s cheeks were flushed due to the sun exposure or her excited nerves. She made another small step toward him, having seemingly calmed herself.

  “Look, Tadeusz. I can imagine that a working camp was no vacation, by any means. I don’t argue with that.”

  Tadek waited while she was searching for the needed words. For a moment, she just stood there chewing on her lip and then, raised her face to his, shielding her eyes from the sun, with her hand.

  “Were you close to your father?” she asked.

  “Yes. Very. We were all very close to each other.”

  She nodded, as though encouraged by such an answer. “Would you say that you knew your father well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And now imagine that I came to your house and told you that your father was guilty of the deaths of countless people. What would you say to that?”

  “Nothing. I would laugh. My father wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Neither would mine. Do you know that he hit a baby deer with his car accidentally at night and brought it home, wrapped in a blanket and sat over its body all night by the fireplace and cried like a child when it finally took its last breath?”

  Tadek didn’t know that. But what he did know was that his family was dead and he would bet any money that Gruppenführer Neumann didn’t cry over them.

  “I believe that you believe that he’s a good man,” he finally said, carefully choosing the words. “I also believe that he was a very good father to you. But, can you imagine, just for one moment, that he could also be his Führer’s loyal servant, who would send people to their death because he was under orders and said nothing about it to you because he didn’t want you to think badly of him?”

  For the first time, Gerlinde was silent and Tadek welcomed that silence, for it meant that she was finally listening.

  “Let’s go before the Amis send a search party,” he said and resumed his jogging.

  She quickly caught up with him. For the first time in years, Tadek was enjoying the run.

  In the library, all the windows stood open, curtains billowing in the light summer breeze like the sails of some great ship. Tadek was reading “The Invisible Man.” For a dedicated Nazi, Gruppenführer Neumann certainly had quite a number of books which he shouldn’t have had but Tadek was glad that he did. He couldn’t imagine reading anything Third-Reich-approved on such a fine summer’s afternoon.

  Faint voices argued about something in the drawing-room but Tadek paid them no heed. The pages were too crisp and the words much too riveting; his chair was too comfortable in the shadow of the corner.

  “You have no right!” A shout this time, incensed and loud.

  Tadek lifted his head and listened. Gerlinde, yelling at one American or the other. He thought about closing the door to mute the unraveling argument but then didn’t, in the hope that the unfortunate American would sort her out.

  More shouts, this time on the verge of tears, followed by a man’s scornful laughter. Tadek thought he recognized it as Turner’s. He straightened up and listened closer, the book forgotten on his lap.

  Suddenly, Gerlinde stomped into the library and hurled herself onto the settee – apparently, to weep in solitude. In her distress, she failed to notice Tadek in his corner. Regarding her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, her arms folded to conceal her face, he moved noiselessly out of the library to investigate.

  In the drawing-room, Turner was busy stuffing forks and knives into a canvas bag. On the coffee table, an opened box stood, with its red-velvet lining exposed. It was almost entirely empty.

  “What are you doing?” Tadek’s voice was surprisingly steady despite some odd feeling already brewing inside.

  The American looked up and grinned broadly, recognizing the Pole.

  “The cunning little Nazi hid daddy’s treasures all over the house. I have just found this silverware set stuffed under the cushion of the chair.” Turner waved a fistful of forks in front of Tadek’s darkening eyes. “You want some? I don’t mind sharing.”

  “Why are you taking it?”

  Turner started as though Tadek had asked him something incredibly moronic. “What do you mean, why? Souvenirs.”

  “That’s stealing.”

  “That’s property of the US by right of conquest,” Turner countered, unimpressed.

  The Russians had the same logic but with them, it was somewhat understandable. The Germans came to their land and robbed them of not only material possessions but their very homes and sometimes entire villages and cities. The Red Army soldiers considered taking at least something back, as the only fair thing to do. In Tadek’s eyes, the prosperous Americans raiding the Germans’ personal belongings “for souvenirs” could have never been justified in the same manner.

  He clutched the American’s bag before he could stuff more spoons into its bottomless abyss. “Put it all back.”

  Turner’s face darkened but he didn’t budge.

  “Put it back,” Tadek repeated, his voice gathering force along with the volume. It was strangely liberating, to be able to raise it once again and Tadek felt himself shivering from its unexpected power. “It’s not yours to take.”

  “What blooming nonsense is this? Why do you care about some Nazi’s silver? They must have stolen it from you, Jews!”

  “Must have. And your stealing it from them makes you no better than those Nazis who stole it from the original owners.”

  “Do you want it all for yourself then, original owner?” Turner said mockingly, narrowing his eyes and tugging the bag slightly toward himself.

  “No. I want you to put it back into the case and give it back to Miss Neumann. It belongs to her.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Put it back.”

  For some time, they stood and eyed each other without uttering another word. In Turner’s eyes, suspicion was gleaming along with greed. In Tadek’s, calm resolve.

  “Why do you care about that little broad so much?” Turner began talking, slowly and quietly. “She can’t stand your type. Had you appeared here just a few months ago, her own daddy would have dispatched you on that very front porch, like a rabid dog.”

  “Perhaps so. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re taking what doesn’t belong to you. So, put it back before I report you to Agent Morris; it is my profound conviction that he won’t fancy your views on the right of conquest.”

  Before he knew it, the bag was shoved at his chest and Tadek caught it just in time before all of its contents tumbled onto the expensive Iranian rug.

  “Suit yourself,” the American threw over his shoulder, stalking off. “They must have dropped something on your head there, in the camp, to scramble your brains to this extent.”

  With that last courtesy, Turner was gone. Feeling oddly triumphant, Tadek regarded the bag, emptied it onto the chair and began sorting the silver. He nearly jumped when cool fingers touched him by accident and Gerlinde Neumann’s pale face materialized from behind his back.

  “Forgive me, please. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said in her usual, cultivated tone but this time there was unexpected warmth hiding behind the words. For some time, they sorted the family heirloom in silence.

  “It’s not stolen from anyone,” she began again, in a
much softer voice and turned one of the forks to demonstrate him the stamp on it, Wellner Patent 90 30. “It’s made in Germany. See? It’s our silverware. We bought it. We’ve had it for as long as I can remember. We didn’t steal it from any Jews. We’re not thieves.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I do.”

  He helped her stack the spoons and knives and forks neatly into the case. On top of it, a familial coat of arms was embossed.

  “Are you nobility of some sort?” Tadek regarded it with curiosity.

  “No. Well, not in the old sense of the word, I suppose. Not like Margot. She’s a countess, we were nothing of that sort.” She smiled briefly. “It’s neo-Germanic. The new leaders of the Reich were allowed to create these for their families.”

  “I see. It must have been nice for you in that new Germany.”

  “It was nice. While it lasted.” Another smile, albeit passing and still strained.

  “I can keep it in my room if you’re afraid that he’ll try to take it again. They don’t come into my room.”

  “It’s all right. They don’t come into mine either.”

  Tadek nodded and turned to take his leave. Suddenly, she called his name. When he turned around, she stood there with the case pressed to her chest, clasping it tightly as one would a child.

  “Thank you, Tadeusz.”

  He just nodded again. It must have been difficult for her to say it but he was grateful for the effort.

  7

  Days grew gradually shorter but it was still stiflingly hot. They were lucky in their little safe haven for they had running water and the sewage system was undamaged in their area. Morris said, most parts of Berlin were still drenched in it and it seeped into the cellars, to which the orphaned population had been driven, for everything above was quite uninhabitable. Both Tadek and Gerlinde waited impatiently for more news from the outside. They all ate together now, in the kitchen, at least lunches. Morris told them about the Potsdam Conference and the posters with faces of their new leaders that looked on, grave and victorious, from their grand memorial erected by the Soviet forces in the center of Berlin. With her face almost buried in the plate, Gerlinde asked for permission to go into the city, already suspecting what the answer would be.

  Tadek saw Morris regarding her closely. It was obvious the OSS agent was calculating and working things out in his mind.

  “Why?” Morris finally asked, his head cocked slightly.

  “Just to see everything with my own eyes.”

  Morris considered, stirring his coffee, searching for signs on her face. Tadek could almost read the thoughts passing through the American’s mind at that moment. What was there for her, in the obliterated carcass of the city? Or who? Tadek would bet any money that Morris was thinking about Frau Hanke and things that she brought from her scavenging trips to the heart of Berlin. The US War department supplied Morris’s group with food just fine but the housekeeper still insisted that she needed things that the Amis couldn’t provide. Good shampoo for Fräulein Neumann. Good soap for Fräulein Neumann. Nylon stockings for Fräulein Neumann. Gruppenführer Neumann was quite a smoker and left an entire cabinet filled with cartons of good cigarettes and cigars before he’d disappeared from the city – an unwittingly wise thing to do, for now, when the Reichsmark plunged so low it virtually lost any value, it was the cigarettes – the new Berlin currency – that allowed Frau Hanke to spoil her only surviving charge, with all the loyalty of a true servant of the family.

  What else was she smuggling into the house, for Fräulein Neumann? Messages from a friend in hiding? Tadek wondered, along with Morris, even though neither of them uttered a single word. There was no need; they spoke quite often when the entire house would go to sleep and they stayed up in Neumann’s former study, making plans, pondering strategies, speculating about Neumann’s whereabouts. Morris was certain Gerlinde’s father was still on the continent. Tadek was of the opinion that Neumann was on the continent all right, just not the European one.

  It was during one of these conversations that Morris admitted to Tadek that when he had first arrived here with his OSS group, he considered banning all comings and goings by both Frau Hanke and Gerlinde Neumann but then realized that it would be quite an unwise thing to do. After all, how would Otto Neumann establish contact with his only daughter, if the house had been turned into a virtual fortress? And so, the loyal Frau Hanke was allowed to roam free.

  Was that what they’d been hoping for all along? Did the American indeed calculate it all correctly?

  “I understand that you’re afraid that I’ll run away.” Gerlinde’s voice cut into the wild torrent of Tadek’s thoughts. “You can send one or two of your men to accompany me if you like.”

  Instead of replying to her, Morris looked at Tadek. That would be utterly idiotic and they both understood it. No contact would approach her with two American OSS men on her tail.

  Morris stirred his coffee some more, took a sip. It was lukewarm now but he still drank it. “As a matter of fact, I thought to send Tadeusz to accompany you.”

  Tadek kept his face impassive so as not to betray his emotions. It was truly outstanding how they’d learned to understand each other without a single word exchanged.

  “It would do you both good,” the American continued. “I’ll tell Johnson to drop you off at the Tiergarten. Walk around there, stretch your legs, see the ruins of the Reichstag if you like. He’ll collect you a couple of hours later. Will a couple of hours do?”

  Gerlinde regarded him closely but even if she suspected something, her face didn’t betray anything.

  “Couple of hours will do just fine,” she replied evenly.

  “I don’t need to tell you that you have to stay together the entire time, do I?”

  “No, Agent Morris. It’s quite clear.”

  The jeep had long sped away but Gerlinde still stood on the same spot, a look of utter disbelief etched into her features. She turned her head slowly this way and that, taking in her surroundings, yet didn’t budge. She hadn’t said a word the entire time that they’d driven there, only stared around with horror, her fingers clasping at the door of the open jeep in silent desperation. The rubble was mostly cleared from the roads and neatly piled up along its sides and the middle. The sun burst in golden torrents through the empty sockets of the bombed-out buildings. Inside some of them, entire rooms could still be visible, with furniture, cupboards, wallpaper, and neatly made beds. The rooms, cut in half, like the lives of their former inhabitants. Not counting his stay at Neumann’s suburban villa and the street-to-street fighting along with the Russians, it was Tadek’s first time in the heart of Berlin as a civilian; a civilian, who could actually look around without fear of catching a bullet from some Hitlerjugend pup’s rifle.

  It was not how he’d always imagined he’d see it.

  In front of them, across from the overgrown lawns, replete with the singed bodies of the trees, the former building of the Reichstag stood, just as singed and riddled with bullets. Red flags fluttered their wings in the wind, completing the picture of utter obliteration in their mocking brightness. A blood-spattered past stared right back at them and for the life of them, neither could look away.

  “War Merit Cross?” A child’s voice, from behind.

  Startled, Tadek swung round. The boy, hardly ten years old, pushed the military award, on its velvet bed, toward him. Speaking a wild mixture of German and English, he continued his pitiful sales pitch, “with swords, Mein Herr. The highest distinction.” Tadek looked at the boy’s feet. They were bare. “Bitte, Mein Herr.” The wind-bitten little lips trembled imperceptibly. “Only ten cigarettes. Awarded by Reichsmarschall Göring himself, from his own hands… Bitte!”

  Tadek stood before him at a loss, trembling like a leaf as well, for a reason he couldn’t possibly comprehend. Suddenly, it all surged up in him once again – the occupation, the ghetto, the black market, his father’s gold watch
. He wasn’t much older than this little fellow back then. Fourteen only, with the same bare feet and pleading voice.

  “I have an official paper to go with it, too. It’s not stolen, Mein Herr, I promise! A real award, for war merit—”

  A shrill whistle cut his woeful sales attempts short. A Soviet MP was running across the lawn toward them, shouting something in Russian.

  Tadek recognized “natsist” – a Nazi – out of the torrents of curses and quickly shoved the pack, with cigarettes, into the boy’s hand. “Make yourself scarce, if you know what’s good for you!”

  The boy was trying to push the award into his hand but Tadek only shook his head vehemently. “Keep it and get going; well?!”

  “Danke schön, Mein Herr!” the boy shouted, already running towards the Reichstag where more people mingled with more khaki-clad figures.

  The Russian came to a halt before them, seemingly forgetting the boy. “Chego etot gadyonysh natsistky tebe prodal?”

  Tadek understood the question – what did that snotty-nosed Nazi sell you? – but didn’t reply anything and showed the MP his empty hands instead and, after a moment, American-issued papers. Gerlinde quickly extracted hers as well.

  “We didn’t buy anything from him. I just gave him cigarettes,” Tadek explained, in German, wisely omitting the fact that he spoke fluent Russian.

  It would all be much too difficult to explain – both his past and his present – and less than anything he needed to make an acquaintance with the local SMERSH commissars now that he worked with the OSS. Whatever they would make out of such a swift switching of sides was anyone’s guess and Tadek was firmly set on escaping any unnecessary interrogations if he could help it. More often than not, people didn’t return from those and he’d witnessed far too many examples of it to toy around with the Soviets in this manner. A former Red Army soldier working for the Imperialist West? The stern political fellows mightn’t see the joke. Or worse – imagine that he had been a spy all along and try and prove it to them that the entire Auschwitz incarceration wasn’t an American set up.