Franka’s father made frantic inquiries as to his son’s whereabouts and was met with a wall of feigned ignorance and denial. A few agonizing days passed before he was informed by letter that Fredi had died of a heart attack and his body had been cremated. The letter was accompanied by a death certificate, and at the bottom was the official salute of Heil Hitler.
The ruling came from Hitler himself. The führer was inefficient and lazy and prone to giving vague directives, which he expected to be followed in quick order. He had spoken in the past about the “useless eaters” at home who wasted resources while the flower of German youth was being sacrificed on the battlefield. People “unworthy of life” were to be cleared from their hospital beds in order to make room for the wounded coming home from the front, or for the mothers whose children could make up for the losses in battle. What use were the incurably ill, the physically and mentally disabled, and the senile, in this time of war? “Disenfranchising” them would make for a healthier, more vigorous nation, and go toward securing the future of the Aryan race. Hitler appointed a panel of doctors who were to decide who should live and who should die. Countless thousands were selected to be murdered.
Thomas Gerber was destroyed. Fredi’s death sucked any life or love or joy out of him. The vitality and mirth he’d once been known for disappeared. Franka never heard him laugh after that. It was as if he didn’t know how to anymore. He lost his job soon after and retreated into a drunken stupor. The depth of agony was beyond anything Franka had ever felt. She cried for days, unable to eat or sleep, the hatred for the Nazis burning like molten glass inside her. Fredi’s murderers were glorified as heroes, and the man ultimately responsible deified. There was no escape—Fredi’s murderers were everywhere. They were everyone who wore the Nazi armband or sported a Nazi pin. They were every SS man, and every loyal Aryan. They were every Hitler Youth and every wild-eyed hysteric screaming the Nazi salute at countless rallies. Who knew how many thousands had been slaughtered under the National Socialists’ euthanasia program or subjugated because they were Jews, Gypsies, communists, trade-union leaders, political dissidents, or just citizens caught saying the wrong thing? Franka realized that a line had been drawn in German society between the perpetrators and the victims. There were thousands to share in the collective guilt that Hans wrote about, but there were so many more victims of the regime—those whose families had been sent to concentration camps or murdered as “unworthy of life.” Their whole lives were lived in the open prison that was Nazi Germany under the rule of those who had committed heinous crimes against them.
They had no body to bury, and no one would ever face prosecution for Fredi’s death. Franka went back to visit the institution, hoping for some closure. The nurses broke down upon seeing her. Franka’s friend who’d called her fell into her arms, begging forgiveness for something she had no power to stop. Franka didn’t stay long. The place was haunted now, and the staff reckoned it was only a matter of time before the SS came back for the rest of the patients. Franka returned to Munich, tried to immerse herself in music, work, anything to distract her from the ever-present pain inside her, anything to stop remembering. She met Hans. He understood, and they joined together in outrage, willing to die in service of the German people.
Fredi never left her. She saw his face every day, heard his laugh everywhere she went. He had been too good, too pure for the sewer of prejudice and hatred this country had become. This country wasn’t for angels anymore. Only those twisted by hatred and fear could prosper here now.
The wind rattled the windows, then died down. A wordless two minutes had passed since she’d finished her story, and only the sound of her crying filled the air.
“I said too much,” she said. “It’s time I left you to get some sleep. There’s nothing to be gained by—”
“Franka?”
She was walking toward the door but stopped at the sound of his voice.
“My name is John Lynch,” he said. “I’m from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and I need your help.”
Chapter 9
The island of Guadalcanal, November 1942
The wind brought some respite from the relentless heat, and John took his helmet off and brought his wrist up to his forehead to wipe away some of the sweat that seemed to cover his entire body. The men around him took off their backpacks and rifles, many using their helmets to sit on. The long grass on the hill above them hissed and danced in the breeze. John reached for the canteen on his hip. His hands were dry, cut to shreds, and shook as he held the water to his lips. He drank just enough to quench his thirst and screwed the cap back on. They hadn’t been resupplied in several days, and water was running low. It didn’t seem to be a priority for the top brass. A thousand tiny agonies wracked his body, and even crouching down seemed like a luxury after the day’s march. He let his rifle rest against the wall of the ridge his platoon sat on. Some of the men peeled the tops off tin-can rations and dug in with filthy fingers. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted past. Men groaned. Few spoke. They knew what was coming. They knew that this was only a brief respite. This hill had to be taken.
Albert King, a farmer from Kansas, offered him a cigarette. John shook his head.
“Too good for my smokes, are you?” King said. “And that silver spoon up your ass’s preventing you from sitting down, I see.”
“I’m just waiting for the valet. It’s so hard to get good service these days.”
They heard the major’s voice before they saw him stalking the line of exhausted soldiers, eyeing them each in turn. He stopped where John and King were sitting.
“I need volunteers,” Major Bennett said. “I need five men to go up and take a look at what’s up on that hill.” He walked on a few feet, the weight of his stare on each of the men. “We’re sitting ducks down here. If the enemy has a gun up there, which I think he does, he’ll cut us apart like a scythe. I need five men to take out whatever’s up there. The artillery came through earlier, so there’s a good chance the only thing you’ll find is a bunch of yellow bodies. Who wants the job?”
Tired, reluctant hands went up, John’s among them. Bennett picked him first. The five men corralled around the major. “Lynch is going to lead you. If there’s a gun up there, take it out. Report back to me.”
The men followed John as he stuck his head up over the ridge. Waves of grass flowed with the wind three hundred feet up to the crest of the hill. The sun was setting. The sky turned orange and gold, daubed by some celestial painter. The light seemed to be thickening, as if they could reach out and feel it. John wiped sweaty palms on his faded fatigues and motioned for the others to follow him. He crouched, his eyes barely above the line of thick grass that hissed all around them. The men fanned out, King and Carpenter on his left, Smith and Munizza on his right. They moved in silence, their legs pumping through the thick grass. A hundred yards separated them from the rest of the company now. He motioned for the men to stop. They crouched as one, instantly invisible. He took binoculars from his belt. Nothing. The crest of the hill was just beyond his view, hidden by a ridge.
John motioned for the four men to follow him as he rose to his haunches, inching forward. The men were level with him, spread out thirty yards on either side. The company behind them was invisible now, hidden by the slope of the hill. John, his breath stilted and ragged, felt his heart beating faster. Each footstep was more painful than the last. His feet were blistered and raw, his socks crusted with blood. There was nothing here. They could signal the others to come up. He just had to see over the ridge in front of him. The crest of the hill was almost in view. He turned to look at the men with him, and in that split second they reached the ridge first. The clatter of machine-gun fire ripped through the air, and Munizza’s chest opened up and sprayed a fountain of crimson. Rifle fire cracked, and Smith’s head spurted blood, his body flopping backward. John threw himself to the ground. Bullets chewed the dirt in front of him, and he rolled to the side, where King was lying ten yards away. John
crawled to him, the rattling of the machine gun filling his ears.
“I’m going to die here,” King said. He was lying on his back, the fatigues on his chest stained red.
John took his hand. “You’re not going to die, Al. I’ll get you out of here.”
John raised his head again, just enough to see the bunker a hundred yards away. He held the binoculars to his eyes, could make out the gun spewing fire. The ground in front of him erupted again, and he dropped his face to the dirt. A few seconds passed before he dared raise his head again. The others were dead. Carpenter’s body was lying thirty yards to the left, Munizza beside him. Smith had rolled down the hill, his body punctured and pouring crimson blood. A bead of sweat ran down John’s face as he opened up King’s shirt. The wound was on the right side of his chest, below his lung. It wasn’t a death sentence if he could get him some attention. How was he going to get him back down the hill? That machine gun would open up on them the second they moved. He could have crawled back down himself, but what about King, and the men who’d be cut down by this same gun later? They had to take the hill. There was no getting around it.
He took King’s hand. “I have to go up and take a look. I’ll be back. I’m going to make them pay for what they did to you and the others.”
King’s grip gave way, and John crawled below the line of the ridge, past Smith’s corpse. He stuck his head up, could see the bunker, but no bullets came. The machine gun fired a few indiscriminate shots toward where King was lying, and a few rifles cracked, tearing up the ground where John had been. None came toward his position. He climbed up over the ridge and began crawling forward, using the two-foot-high grass as cover. His hands were shaking, his throat so dry that he longed to go back to Smith’s body to check his canteen. He had left his own with his backpack and the company. He ignored every instinct crying out inside him to run back down the hill. Every movement forward felt unnatural, insane, but still he kept on.
John moved out to what he hoped would be an open expanse on the right. For all he knew, there would be a whole battalion of Japanese up there, and these would be the last few seconds he’d ever have. He thought of Penelope, remembered the way the sun had illuminated her skin in that hotel room in Honolulu before he’d shipped out. He could almost feel her touch again, could almost hear her voice. He thought of his father, his mother, his brother, and his sister and fought back the bitterness he still felt. He didn’t want to feel that way. Not now. He remembered fall in Pennsylvania, and how the red leaves carpeted his parents’ backyard, and how he and Norman had kicked through them as children.
The shower of bullets didn’t come. He slithered forward on his elbows, rifle in hand. The bunker came into clearer view, a hundred yards away on his left, and just beside it, a mortar position. They were waiting. They would tear the company to pieces. Three Japanese soldiers sat readied at the mortar position, staring down at where King and the others were. The bunker was built into the ground, and a heavy machine gun protruded from its dark window. The Japanese were moving the gun from side to side, searching for any movement. John rolled onto his back and held the rifle above his chest. He thought about King. Should he return to him and try to make it back down to the rest of the company? The Japanese hadn’t noticed him slipping through. He was in a perfect position to flank them. The machine gun wouldn’t be able to stretch around to where he was at this angle. He was likelier to be picked off if he tried to make it back down. The Japanese would make sure he didn’t have the chance to report their positions.
He crawled on, fifty yards from the mortar now. The Japanese soldiers were still staring down the hill, unaware of him. He was close enough to hear the men talking. One of them laughed. John jumped up, brought his rifle to his shoulder, and fired. He ran toward them, squeezing the trigger again. One of the soldiers went down, hit in the neck. The other two reached for their rifles as the roar of the machine gun began again, shooting at nothing. John saw his bullets strike one man in the chest. The last soldier raised his rifle, but John already had him and loosed off his last two rounds, hitting him in the head with both. John was still running, hot breaths thundering in and out of his lungs. He reached for a grenade on his belt, stopping at the mortar position to heave it toward the entrance to the bunker. It landed just as two Japanese soldiers were emerging, and they disappeared in a shower of mud and gore. He ran to the bunker, unhooked another grenade, and tossed it into the opening from six feet away. He hit the dirt as the concussion rocked the earth around him, almost lifting the roof off the bunker. A scream rang out as the figure of a man stumbled out, samurai sword aloft, his crazed eyes protruding from a blackened face. John reached for his rifle, pulled the trigger, but the hammer clicked—empty. The bloodied and burned soldier stumbled toward him, slicing down on the ground as John rolled away and reached for his knife. Half the man’s face was gone, the skin hanging off like ribbons. He swung the sword at John again, but his swings were languid and weak. John grabbed at his arm, pulled him on top of him, and thrust his knife into the man’s stomach. Hot blood spurted, and the soldier’s eyes widened, life ebbing from his body. All fell silent. John pushed him off. Coated in the man’s blood, he raised himself to his knees. The hiss of the wind in the grass came again and a deep darkness fell, the silhouettes of the company advancing up the hill to support him barely visible against the evening sky.
Washington, DC, February 1943
They had overstarched his shirt.
“Stop pulling at the collar,” Penelope said, radiant in her red-sequin dress. “You’re going to mess it up, you idiot.” She seemed livid.
“It’s fine, Penny. What does it matter?”
“It matters because people are watching.”
She took him by the hand and led him into the ballroom. He felt out of step, as though he weren’t there at all. The men in his platoon were in his thoughts always. The memories seemed to drag him back. The part of him that truly mattered was still there, would always be there.
He looked at his wife. She was as beautiful as she had been in his daydreams. Though they were together now, holding hands, she was nevertheless inaccessible. Something was lurking behind her smile, behind the kind words she’d offered upon meeting him at the train station. Her obsession with what others thought and felt seemed more alien to him than ever. Had she been like this when they’d first met in college? That fall evening in Princeton came into his mind. It had been a meeting of two great families—the ultimate merger. It had seemed forced at first—a ball at her parents’ nearby mansion arranged almost specifically for them to meet. His first impulse was to reject the whole charade, but her beauty, and the urgings of his parents, drew him in. And he had loved her for a time—until he realized that the man she wanted wasn’t the man he wanted to be. He felt her grip on his hand loosening as they weaved between the tables to where his parents were standing, waiting for them.
His father was friends with senators and congressmen, had met the president once, back in ’38 when he’d toured the factories in Philadelphia. The photograph still hung above the desk in his study. He’d used his connections to get John home for a month’s rest he had never asked for.
John still bore the marks of his time in the jungle, but the scabs were healing. It had taken him days to get clean, to scrub the dirt out from under his fingernails, to make himself presentable. People were watching. His father greeted him with a handshake. He hugged his sister, Pearl, and shook his brother Norman’s hand, though he couldn’t quite look him in the eye. This was the first time he’d been seen with them in public since he’d been back. This was their chance to show him off in front of their peers. Penelope kissed each of her in-laws and waited for John to hold out her chair before she sat down. Pearl sat on one side of him, with Penelope on the other. Pearl’s husband was with the air force, stationed in England. The bombing raids on Europe had begun. Her eyes betrayed the worry she was working to hide.
The time for speeches arrived, each speaker proc
laiming the urgent need to purchase war bonds. John’s father took his turn and, motioning to his son from the podium, asked John to stand. He did his duty, holding up the Silver Star he’d won in Guadalcanal for clearing the machine-gun nest and saving King’s life. The entire room of more than two hundred people stood as one to applaud. He felt Pearl’s hand on his shoulder, saw Penelope standing back, clapping with the rest. He sat down once the applause had ended, the weight lifted.
Dinner ended, and a steady stream of family friends and well-wishers, some of whom he knew, came to shake his hand and tell him how much they admired the job he was doing out there, how they’d be right beside him if they weren’t so damned old. His wrist hurt from shaking hands. His face ached from smiling. Penelope charmed them all, and old men opened their checkbooks.
The music had begun when John’s father called him over. He was standing beside a silver-haired, rather dumpy man in his sixties wearing a tuxedo.
“John, I’d like you to meet someone. This is William Donovan. Bill, this is my son John.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Donovan said, offering a bone-crushing handshake.
“John wants something more than I can offer him.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?” John had a sense of where the conversation was going—it was one he and his father had often had, one that always left him feeling guilty.
“I planned for him to take over my business,” John’s father explained, “but he didn’t want it—almost broke my heart. But my other son, Norman, is doing a great job.”
“Why didn’t you want to continue your father’s work, son?” Donovan asked.
“It wasn’t for me.”
“It’s truly a shame, but John never wanted to become the captain of industry I groomed him to be. He wants to make his own way.”
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