“It was Himmler’s idea. The industrial city of the future. Poles and Russians to work underground.”
“I grew up on a farm,” Dieter broke in. “So did Liesl. We need the sky.”
“Where was your farm?”
“A village not far from Oberammergau, south of Munich.”
“Really!” Funkhauser leaped to his feet, quivering with excitement. “I heard in the village that Von Braun and his top scientists have been moved to Oberammergau! Maybe we should work our way south to join them. They’ll be protected by the Americans.”
Without further reflection he headed his party south toward the mountains, but on the second day he called a halt, deeply confused. “If the scientists moved south in a group, Himmler must have ordered it. When he has them all safe in one spot, he’ll machine-gun them, all of them, to prevent them from taking their secrets to the Allies.” He became so convinced of this that he changed course completely and headed due west, grumbling, “Lakes or mountains, Himmler or Hitler, to hell with them all. We’ve got to reach the Americans. Now!”
He was relentless in pursuit of this policy, forging ahead toward the sound of distant battle, and one night as the “ three lay down to sleep, completely exhausted, Liesl whispered to Dieter, “The general is making up his mind about many things,” and she left Dieter’s side and crept away.
In the morning Funkhauser bellowed, “Where’s my revolver? Where are my papers?” and Liesl said, “I took them,” and he shouted,. “Why do you betray me?” and she said coldly, “Because you planned to shoot us ... today or tomorrow.”
The bluster faded; with a contrition that might or might not have been authentic, Funkhauser said, “At Wittenberge, when we set out, yes, I did think of bringing you close to the Americans and shooting you. Anyone would have. But as we’ve traveled these dangerous miles ...” He paused and held out his hands. “I’ve said so many times [106] that you were my family that I’ve come to believe it.” Keeping his hands out, he begged, “Do not shoot me, I beseech you.”
“We never planned to shoot you, General,” Liesl said. “Now lead us to the Americans, for you are an excellent guide.”
He led them into a much different kind of confrontation, for as he crept like a cunning badger through a woods, with the Kolffs trailing, he stumbled right into a contingent of the German army, and in the confused gunfire that ensued, Liesl took a bullet through her left leg.
“Down!” Funkhauser bellowed, and the three travelers fell upon pine needles.
When they looked up, Liesl clutching her leg, they saw an amazing sight. Their assailants were a disorderly gang of boys, fourteen and fifteen years old, but in full military uniform. One of them was sobbing, “I shot a lady. Oh my God, I shot a lady.”
General Funkhauser, realizing that he had come upon one of the desperation units commissioned by the Nazi high command, began to storm at the children, “What are you doing in these woods? Why are you shooting women who are trying to save the Fatherland?”
When he announced that he was a general in the SS and in command of this section of Germany, some of the boys saluted, and he tried to console the little boy who was weeping: “You couldn’t have known it was a woman. Now you help bind her wound.” And he lectured the older boys on how they must maintain better control when on maneuvers.
“What are your orders?” he asked.
“We are to stop the Americans.”
“Where are they?” he asked eagerly.
“In the next town. We expect them soon, and we’re to hold these woods against them.” He looked at their feeble rifles, their thin arms barely able to manage the guns effectively, and saluted: “Protect the Fatherland.” And he called to the Kolffs, “Hurry, hurry! This is the day that determines everything!”
As they emerged from the woods to seek the town of which the boys had spoken, it became obvious that Liesl could neither walk nor pedal the Kolff bicycle, so in a burst of generosity Funkhauser performed an act which [107] would in years far distant be remembered with charity: “Liesl, my daughter, you must sit yourself on my bicycle so that I can push you into town.” And with a fatherly eye he kept watch on Dieter, who teetered along on the Kolff cycle, and in this way they struggled toward the fateful meeting with the Americans. “Hurry, hurry!” he encouraged his charges. “Our trusted allies will soon roar down this road.”
Halfway between the exit from the woods and the entrance to the town the three fugitives met their first Americans, a patrol roaring out to locate the enemy. “Honored sirs!” Funkhauser shouted to the motorcycle vanguard. “I am General Helmut ...”
“Get your ass off this road!” a rude voice shouted.
“Honored sirs! I am General ...”
A big man in a dirty uniform wheeled his motorcycle, placed a foot in Funkhauser’s belly and shoved him off the road; the American did not have to discipline the Kolffs, for they had jumped into a ditch.
When the patrol passed, Funkhauser resumed his approach to the town, and he was pleased to see that a regular marching unit was now coming toward him. Hands up, he ran toward the American captain, shouting in clear English, “Sir, sir! I have papers which your generals will want.”
“Out of the way, you fucking Krauthead,” a soldier grunted, shoving him back into the ditch as heavy guns rolled by.
“Please, listen!” he cried from beside the road. “I have important papers which your generals ...”
The semitanks rolled past, and when they reached the woods Liesl could hear agitated gunfire, and she was about to weep for the little boys when she saw that General Funkhauser was standing transfixed, staring at the woods as he contemplated the awful tragedy his one-time leaders had brought to Germany. “Children with little guns! Defending against motorized cannon. And Hitler’s men promised us that no enemy foot would ever step on German soil. Damn them all.” He remained staring at the woods as the heavier American guns exploded into action; then, in total despair and silence, he helped Dieter mount his bicycle, then went back to the ditch to rescue the bleeding Liesl, and pushed her humbly into town.
[108] As they turned a corner leading to the main square, they found themselves face to face with another American, this one in dusty civilian clothes. At first he was as startled as they and began to call for troops to protect him, but then he peered inquisitively at Dieter’s face and took a deep breath.
“Dieter Kolff, I believe,” he said in German.
“From Peenemünde.”
“Did you bring the papers on the heavy water?”
“I brought the secret papers,” Funkhauser interposed, tapping Liesl’s knapsack and introducing himself. “General Helmut Funkhauser, Commandant General of Peenemünde, at your service, sir.”
The American ignored him and asked Kolff again, “Did you bring the papers on the heavy-water installations at Peenemünde?”
“Heavy water? What’s that?”
“You had no ...” Mott hesitated to say the crucial word, but he could not restrain himself. “You had no atomic works there?”
“What would they be?”
“No papers?”
“Sir, these are the secret papers of General Eugen Breutzl.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead. In the great bombing.”
Mott shook his head. “He was a good man. Before the interrogation-”
“I knew Breutzl well,” Funkhauser interrupted, pressing himself forward.
“You will all be properly interrogated,” Mott assured the three. “But Breutzl, what was he working on here?” and by his gestures and his interest he indicated that now the papers in the knapsack were his.
“On a rocket that will fly from Peenemünde to New York.”
The search was ended. For two years Mott had sought this little man, had studied diligently the one photograph available. Now he was found. Germany had produced no atomic bomb. But it had been on the verge of discoveries equally important, a rocket that could fly between continents, and the secrets were to rest
with America, not Russia.
[108] Intuitively Mott did something he would later recall with astonishment, something that bespoke his stern New England upbringing. Seeing in the much-damaged street the gaping doorway of the village church, its seventeenth-century façade blown away by American bombs, he said, I think we should pray ... give thanks ... for our deliverance.”
He led the three Germans into what was technically their church, and he sat on one of the old benches, depleted spiritually by his long search, and as he closed his eyes he heard General Funkhauser intoning, first in English, then in German, “We thank you, God, for directing us to make all the right choices.”
FOUR WOMEN
FROM the moment in that spring of 1946 when the Republican leaders of Fremont telephoned their war hero Norman Grant, asking if they could drive up to consult with him, his wife, Elinor, became apprehensive, and she showed it.
As a loyal Republican she realized that Fremont was crucial to the Republican cause; it would be a linchpin in the off-year drive to purge Congress of the Democrats who supported the incompetent Harry Truman. Through some aberration, fanned no doubt by the recent war hysteria, Fremont had in the last election sent one Democrat to the House of Representatives, and it was imperative that he be thwarted in his bid for reelection.
Elinor was eager to see this correction made, and had her husband lived in that congressman’s district, she would have encouraged him to contest the seat. Unfortunately, the Democrat represented the big industrial city of Webster on the Missouri River, which made Grant ineligible.
What the politicians wanted, as they explained when they convened in the local headquarters, was some young man of good reputation who could head that statewide ticket in the race for the United States Senate. And therein lay the difficulty, as Elinor saw immediately: “Senator Gantling considers that seat his ... for as long as he lives. Some of the visitors showed their impatience at having to [111] discuss such matters with a woman, but Grant had insisted upon his wife’s presence: “She’s always given me sound advice.”
“Gantling’s an old man. He weakens the ticket.”
“He’s only sixty-two,” Elinor protested.
“Sixty-four,” one of the downstaters said, “and he looks eighty.”
“He is sixty-two,” Elinor said primly. “I looked it up.”
“You guessed what we wanted to talk about?” the downstater asked.
“Yes, and I must point out that my father has always been a close personal friend of Senator Gantling. Ran his campaign for him when he first went to Congress.”
“We all supported him then, but he’s had his day, Mrs. Grant.”
“And I would remind you that my husband’s father also worked for Gantling. This family simply cannot serve as the spearhead to defeat that fine man.”
“Mrs. Grant, I think we should take a very careful look at the state of Fremont,” and the downstater spread the map on the table. “You summarize our thinking, Lewis.”
A burly gentleman who regularly delivered a heavy Republican majority from the sparsely settled northwest section of the state jabbed at corners of the map as he spoke with considerable force. “Four areas matter, and mine’s not one of them, so I’m free to speak realistically.”
Fremont was the most typical of the great Western states. Named for the flamboyant explorer John Charles Fremont, it had honored in its four major cities those outstanding politicians of the early nineteenth century whose interest in the West had helped that vast area become an integral part of the nation. In the east the commercial city of Webster; in the west the regional capital of Calhoun; in the north, with the state university, Grant’s home city of Clay; and in the center the capital city, named after the man who may have been the best of the lot, Thomas Hart Benton.
“Senator Gantling is an important man in his home district of Calhoun,” the big man was saying. “But the whole damned town has only nineteen thousand people. Over here in Webster, where the votes really concentrate, Gantling is known as a fool.”
“That’s too strong,” Grant protested.
[112] “Tell him, Henry.”
And Henry did. “Senator Gantling has run his course, Norman. And you. too, Mrs. Grant. You must wake up to reality. He’s insulted our people, ignored them, passed them by when goodies were distributed. It’s the old fight of the eastern end of a state versus the western end. It happens everywhere. Philadelphia versus Pittsburgh. St. Louis versus Kansas City. And right on your doorstep it’s Webster versus Calhoun, and I warn you right now. If we Republicans run Gantling again at the head of our ticket, Webster and the whole eastern half of the state is going to vote Democratic. I warn you.”
As the discussion continued, even Elinor Grant had to concede that her antique favorite, Ulysses Gantling, had probably worn out his welcome in the state of Fremont. The little town of Calhoun still favored him as a local boy, but the big city of Webster was fed up with his posturing ways.
Then the big man from the northwestern district revealed the deeper purpose of this meeting: “Norman, you must keep your eye on the bigger target. 1948. Tom Dewey will pretty surely be our man then, experienced, one national campaign under his belt, a born leader. He’ll run against that goddamned haberdasher from Kansas City, and you know and I know that if the election were held today, Truman wouldn’t get ten electoral votes. Even Senator Fulbright of his own party advised him to resign, the country’s so against him.”
The manufacturer from Webster laughed. “Did you hear Truman’s reply to that one? Said he needed no advice from Senator Halfbright.”
“We all know he’s a disgrace, totally unfit to sit in the White House, and our job is to get him out. Returning this state to its proper stance in 1946 is the best thing we can do in preparation for 1948. A good strong senator. Knock off that damned Democrat in Webster ...”
“That’s why I’m here,” the manufacturer said. “Grant, I need your help. Enormously. With you heading the ticket, I can defeat that Democrat. With Gantling, I’ll not only lose the House seat but also the Senate.”
“Is he really so weak?” Grant asked, and as soon as he uttered these words Elinor realized that he was beginning to visualize himself as savior of the party, as a man [113] standing before the voters with fresh new ideas, and she was frightened.
Elinor Stidham had been born in 1917, when her father, a well-to-do farmer from north of Clay, was absent fighting in France. She therefore never knew him as the robust, simple man he had once been; she saw him only as a frail person, badly damaged by the war and unsure of himself. She was two when he was finally released from the hospital, and she could not recall his ever playing with her, or bouncing her on his knee; he certainly never spoke of the war or of the adventures she imagined him as having.
She developed into a quiet, stately girl who always seemed much older than those in her class. She did extremely well in school, and at the university, too, and could have become quite popular had she sought that kind of approval. Her marks were mostly A’s and she joined one of the good sororities, but she was elected to no office, not even in Kappa Alpha Theta, and most students were ignorant of her presence on campus.
Boys always noticed her, but after chilly rebuffs they allowed her to move alone, which she did, from sorority house to library to classrooms to the gymnasium. She was tall, slim, attractive, with very dark hair which she kept tight about her head, and it pleased her that several of the more serious male students, especially the bookish types, signified a serious interest in her, even though the rowdy element no longer did.
The campus was astonished, therefore, when its premier football player, Norman Grant, suddenly started dating her. Half a dozen campus beauties had invited him to their dances, and several dozen others would have liked to do so, but it was obvious that he’d settled on Elinor Stidham.
A wealthy alumnus, proud of Norman’s football skills, had casually given him a Chevrolet on the sensible grounds that “any football player as
good as Norman Grant is entitled to a convertible.” In it Norman drove Elinor up to the Stidham farm, where he spent long hours talking with Frank Stidham, who still refused to mention his experiences in the war but who was eager to talk about the nature of a good society.
Stidham was a Republican, of course, as all responsible citizens of Fremont tended to be, but he had an extremely [114] wide social comprehension which encompassed Burke, Jefferson, Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson and especially the Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville, whose ability to identify the fundamentals of the American system astounded him: “If a young man wanted to grasp the true nature of this country, the only book he would have to read is De Tocqueville.”
“Professor Bates says the same thing about Lord Bryce.”
“Well, now ...” Stidham twisted in his chair as if his back hurt, then smiled. “Bates has something there. Yes, he has. But when I was in England, I felt that men like Bryce, and I met a lot of them, ponderously elaborated the obvious, which is what Bryce does, I’m afraid. But in France the brilliant mind cuts right into the heart of a problem, laying waste the verbiage, and that’s what De Tocqueville does. Have you read him, Norman?”
“No, I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with my classes. Pre-law is no snap.”
“Why do you play so many games, Norman? Isn’t football enough? Do you really need basketball, too? And then baseball?”
“I’m just geared that way, sir.”
When two of the football players asked Grant why he bothered with that Stidham broad, seeing that she never put out, he smiled and said, “Elinor and I’ve known each other since high school. We dated a couple of times then.”
“Did she put out then?”
“It’s none of your business-but no. But one thing kept sticking in my mind.”
“What?”
“When I drove up to the farm in a borrowed car for our first date, her father spoke to me as if I were his equal. Maybe you’ve seen him. Smallish fellow, seems to be in pain a good deal. And he told me that his daughter was very precious to him-”
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