by Paul Grant
CHAPTER 9
MARCH 1943, BERLIN
Maria Schultz had been busy. She refused to accept the official story about Stalingrad. After spending each day for two weeks at the Wehrmacht headquarters on Bendler Strasse, making enquiries about her husband, she found herself hitting a brick wall. The Wehrmacht Agency for War Losses had told her nothing new, except that a separate agency was to be set up to “determine the identities of those fallen at Stalingrad.” No survivors. She didn’t buy any of it. She’d talked to other women in her position. It was hard to discern the facts due to the litany of rumours. Many of them had swallowed Goebbels’ story. A few had not, and it was among these few that, after two months of trying, she eventually struck on what she believed may be a genuine lead.
Maria sighed as she stood in front of the red-bricked church. The place was intact except for the damaged darker dome, which was a surprise after the ferocity of the previous nights’ raid. She wasn’t the slightest bit religious, although she was looking forward to getting out of the sulphurous air. It was the invitation for private prayer for the fallen of Stalingrad at St Maritius, slipped under her apartment door, which had brought her here. She knew there were risks. She’d already been warned at Bendler Strasse to cease her enquiries, but that wasn’t Maria. She was determined to know what had happened to her husband, for her, for Ulrich and Eva.
She placed the scarf over her head as she entered the nave, the door creaking as it closed behind her. The place was dimly lit by the few candles that could be spared. There were unoccupied wooden pews on either side. Maria walked towards the small candles, lit one, then made her way to the fifth pew on the left as she’d been instructed. She felt her heart quicken as she sat down. She had moments where she feared Klaus dead amongst the rubble of the battlefield. That was when she drew comfort from the foreign radio broadcasts. She didn’t much trust Russian radio, but when they were saying the same on the English BBC, that up to one hundred thousand German prisoners had been taken after the battle, then that had to be something. It was what she was clinging to, that hope, and the knowledge that her husband was one of life’s survivors.
Maria noticed large cracks in the archway above the altar. All the stained glass windows had been painstakingly taped. One of the windows behind the altar was missing, replaced by blackened board. She thought the buildings of Berlin, much like its people, would have much more to endure before the war was done.
The closing of a door brought Maria back to the reality of her situation. The priest appeared in front of the altar and made the sign of the cross in front of his chest. He turned to walk towards Maria’s pew and she felt her heart quicken once again. Was this the time she would find out the real story about Klaus? The priest was old, in his late sixties Maria guessed. What hair he had was close to his temples, white and unruly. He shuffled along the pew and settled himself next to her.
‘Thank you for coming, Frau Schultz.’
‘How do you know my name...?’
‘I think it’s best we start with a prayer,’ he interrupted. He shook his head ever so slightly and widened his eyes in warning.
Maria looked furtively over her shoulder and nodded her understanding.
The priest then took her hand. Maria allowed him to do it. She hated all the religious stuff. Her grandmother had been a catholic and was also well and truly strict. Maria had always put the two together. It made her shudder slightly.
‘I believe you are here to gain solace for your recent loss.’
Maria didn’t say anything, so he inclined his head. His eyes were kind and warm. She sensed she was being led along a well-worn path.
‘That’s correct, my husband. Stalingrad.’
The priest took a dramatic gulp of air. ‘His sacrifice will not go unrewarded, Frau Schultz. I am sure of that.’
Maria had the feeling this was being said for another audience, somebody else, but nodded her thanks anyway.
‘There is a special prayer for those who have fallen in battle.’ He reached for the dark blue leather-bound book on the pew. He let go of her hand and passed her the book with both hands.
‘Page sixty-four, I believe.’
Maria took the book and instantly felt a piece of paper underneath it. She opened the book and found the correct page, keeping the slip of paper where it was. She hesitated when she saw the words on the page. She wasn’t prepared for this. She wasn’t in mourning because she didn’t believe her husband to be dead.
He recognised her delay as grief. ‘Perhaps it would be easier if I read the prayer?’
Maria nodded quickly and returned the book to him whilst retaining the piece of paper, slipping it into her coat pocket.
The priest read the short prayer in a loud voice, as if he was saying it to the whole congregation. Again, Maria felt this was for the benefit of prying ears. She switched off to the actual words. She’d come here for one reason, and it certainly wasn’t to pray. She just hoped whatever was on the note would give her the confirmation she needed.
After a short time, Maria realised the priest had finished his blessing. She managed a stumbled, ‘Amen!’ The two of them sat in silent contemplation for a while before the priest stood and squeezed her hand.
‘Be strong, my child,’ he said. He looked at Maria once more, nodded his head slowly, then left her alone.
As soon as the kindly man had left her, Maria scuttled out of the church, all the time resisting the temptation to look at the note in her pocket.
She just hoped it was the news she yearned for.
***
Ulrich and Günther had come to the centre of the city to see the damage for themselves. With scarves wrapped around their faces to combat the acrid, yellow smoke, they ventured down the Unter den Linden. Ulrich noticed that many of the branches of the famous Lime trees had been charred black in the fires; they were still smoking now. Many buildings had taken hits in the raids. He had never seen such destruction. He couldn’t understand how this had happened, given the stories they’d heard of the Luftwaffe superiority over the enemy.
They stopped on Parisier Platz in front of the Brandenburg Gate.
‘The Tommies are idiots,’ Günther said, scornfully. ‘Look, they’ve even bombed the Yankee embassy.’
Ulrich couldn’t bring himself to laugh about much in the last few months. Since Stalingrad. He did notice that, of the fire crews and volunteers still helping to douse the flames and clear the rubble, nobody was working on the American Embassy.
‘Come on, I heard the Air Ministry had been bombed. Let’s go take a look,’ Günther said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
They headed on down Friedrichstrasse, passing a group of foreign workers clearing bomb debris from the road. Ulrich watched them at work, slow and begrudging in their actions. They looked thin and frail. Everybody seemed to be hungry in Berlin these days.
They reached the huge Air Ministry on Leipzigerstrasse. It appeared there was no damage on this side of the building, so they carried on along Wilhelmstrasse, the large stone eagles staring down on them.
It’s strange how such a heavy raid happened yesterday of all days,’ Ulrich said, thoughtfully.
Günther’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
Before the news of Stalingrad, Ulrich wouldn’t have considered it, but now he was less careful.
‘It being the Day of the Luftwaffe.’
His friend stopped, clearly angry. ‘Just what are you suggesting?’
Ulrich knew he should have left it alone, but he couldn’t help it; he had such feelings of anger and bitterness.
‘Didn’t Göring say he would change his name to Meyer if the Tommies ever bombed Berlin?’
Günther grabbed him by the collar of his coat. ‘My dad and those akak crews are doing their best. Do you know how many men they lost last night?’
Ulrich was struck dumb for a moment, shocked by his friend’s sudden outburst.
‘Well, come on, do you know?’
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Ulrich shook his head.
‘Two men dead and three injured out of my dad’s attachment of eleven. More than a thousand people were killed. You won’t know that, because nobody is supposed to find out.’
Günther let go, calming slightly.
‘I didn’t mean...’
‘Forget it.’
Günther walked on ahead with his own thoughts. Ulrich eventually caught up with him and they continued in silence for a while.
‘You know you’re going to have to get over your dad. I know it’s hard, but there are thousands of others like you,’ Günther said.
Ulrich could have said the same to his friend, but instead he just felt the familiar sadness rise in his throat. It was the same feeling he had felt when he heard the radio announcement. It hadn’t gone away. He had always felt his father indestructible, a strong soldier, a man amongst men. His father, Klaus Schultz.
Günther turned towards him. Ulrich couldn’t help the tears welling in his eyes. His friend put an arm around him and pulled him to him slightly. He had become like a brother to Ulrich. They did most things together.
‘I’m sorry I got a bit mad back there. It’s a touchy subject.’
Ulrich knew the boys at school teased Günther about his father being in the Luftwaffe, manning the anti-aircraft guns. Some people wrongly saw it as a “safe” job, away from the front line, but it wasn’t. Not now the Tommies had returned with a vengeance.
Ulrich quickly wiped the tears away with his sleeve. He pointed towards the smoke coming from the far side of the Air Ministry building. ‘Look! Over there.’
They ran along the tall black railings, past the sentries on duty, towards the scene of destruction. They could see part of the façade had been stripped away to reveal offices with chairs and desks strewn across the floor. Amazingly, Ulrich could see boards with papers still pinned to them. Inside the railings, the courtyard was bustling with the activity of the clean-up. They joined some other children, and even some adults, staring on in silence.
The place had always impressed Ulrich, so grand in scale as it was. It made him feel small under its mighty omnipresence. Now, it seemed somehow different, slightly broken and stained, touched by the enemy, not so indestructible. He looked across at Günther. His eyes were glazed. He wasn’t sure what it was, amazement, shock, horror, realisation. Whatever it was, Ulrich felt things had changed, like he had when the defeat at Stalingrad had been announced.
He wondered if this is what Dr. Goebbels had meant. Listening to the radio, he recalled the people in the hall had been asked by Goebbels, “Do you want Total War?” They had all shouted, some even screamed “Yes!” in response. Looking at the scene in front of him, feeling the yearning for his father, Ulrich wasn’t sure he did.
***
Maria had expected more. She wanted something to grab onto, something to help her through. She had thought the note would give her some news of Klaus, anything. But it hadn’t. There was no news, just another time and place to meet somebody else. She had no idea who, or more to the point, how the priest had known her name.
As per her instructions, she was standing among the relative peace of the Tiergarten. She had considered not coming to the meeting. She knew there were risks involved and, God knows, she had enough demands on her time; looking after Eva, keeping tabs on Ulrich’s whereabouts, queueing for rations, asking faceless bureaucrats questions about Klaus. She wondered how she coped. Then, in a moment of clarity, she realised she had to be here. Klaus was everything she wanted in a man, and now, it wasn’t only about her. She knew how badly Ulrich had taken the news, and how he continued to be: sullen, detached, lacking hope. So here she was, among the tweeting birds, on this cold, crisp March morning. At least the air here was fresh, away from the smoke and debris of the city streets.
Maria heard a small cough next to her. She saw, at first glance, a man in his forties wearing some kind of uniform. Wehrmacht probably, but it was hard to tell under his greatcoat. His hair was a greying blond, almost silver. He had a high rank of some kind, she felt sure of that.
‘Shall we walk, Frau Schultz?’ His voice was deep, reassuring. Maria fell in next to him as they strolled among the bare-branched trees.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘You don’t know me, but I have been watching out for you for some time.’
Maria felt slightly uneasy.
‘Last year, I was involved in looking after your friends,’ he half explained.
‘My friends?’
‘The Steins, I believe it was.’
Maria was worried now. That had been months before. The night Klaus had taken them the food and a man prevented him from being arrested. Who was he?
‘What...happened to them?’
‘Denounced by the neighbours above the place they were being sheltered. I dread to think what has happened to them,’ the man said, forlornly.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is not important. What I do is important. I work with people who help others, like you helped the Steins.’
‘Jewish people?’
‘People in need of help. Usually the ones persecuted by this regime.’ He said the last words with some distaste.
‘Yet you wear a uniform?’
‘Abwehr. Military intelligence.’
Maria felt her heart leap. ‘You know what really happened at Stalingrad?’
The man turned to her, his face deadly serious, his eyes piercing blue. ‘What I am about to tell you, Frau Schultz, must remain with you. Nobody else must know and I mean nobody. You must understand that this information is classified. If anybody finds out that you know, then it would be very serious for all concerned. You know what that means, Frau Schultz?’
‘Is he alive?’
He took a deep breath, then eventually nodded. ‘We believe so.’
Maria felt a mighty weight being lifted from her chest. Her breath became heavier, her body overcome with a wave of relief.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Your husband’s regiment, or what was left of it, was taken into captivity on 2nd February, at the very end of the battle. They’d been surrounded since he arrived back from leave.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘They went to a transit camp then on from there. We’re not sure, but the men will eventually be scattered to different camps all over the Soviet Union. This isn’t to say he is among the survivors, or that he will survive captivity if he is. You have to understand just how badly we have treated Russian prisoners.’
Maria pursed her lips. At least there was hope, and if she knew Klaus, there was a good chance he was still alive.
She stopped suddenly. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Why me? Of all the wives with missing soldiers, why have you chosen me?’
The man smiled for the first time. ‘You’re a brave woman, Frau Schultz. Today, in Germany, few people would do what you did for the Steins. I felt you deserved to know.’
Maria’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s all?’
A soldier cycled towards them, so the conversation stopped until he passed.
‘I hope this war doesn’t last much longer.’ The man glanced around him before he continued. ‘The war is lost. It is just a question of how long Germany can survive, and how many more will die fighting and in its concentration camps...’
The man’s voice tailed off. Maria knew, or had guessed that people were dying in camps or prisons at the hands of the Nazis. Most people knew, but didn’t dare ask, let alone challenge the government about it.
‘And?’
‘Well, we need people we can trust to help.’
‘Who are “we”?’
‘A group of people trying to help others. Jews and others.’
‘And you want me to be involved?’
‘That’s up to you, Frau Schultz. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask just anybody, only people who we know share our beliefs...’
‘How do I share your beliefs when I don’t know who you are, or indeed, what you believe in?’
He stopped again and stared with intensity at Maria. ‘People who believe in common decency. People who believe that others should not be persecuted for their faith or their beliefs. People who know the truth about how the war is being waged in our name and believe it should be known.’
Maria took a deep breath. Could she trust this man? She still didn’t really understand why she had been chosen. Yes, she’d helped the Steins but they were her friends for years. Anybody would have done the same thing. She didn’t feel she was different to anybody else.
That said, she had a gut feeling. The meeting in the Church, the priest and now this man. There was something right about it, something refreshingly positive, hopeful for the future, not tainted by this disastrous war and this dreadful regime.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
CHAPTER 10
MARCH 1943, RUSSIA
The door of the cattle truck slid back. I gulped in a lungful of freezing air. Curses filled the truck as we started to stretch. There was more space than when we’d set out from Pitomnik. There was a reason for that.
‘Put out your dead,’ the guard shouted, ensuring he kept a safe distance as soon as he’d let go of the door.
I got to my feet, trying to ignore the jarring ache which permeated my limbs. I was lucky to be merely cold and hungry. Dysentery had taken hold. The unlucky ones had already been removed from the truck on previous stops. Our journey had only been a week so far, but it seemed like an eternity in those conditions.
We needed to get organised. I didn’t know how long this stop would be. Sometimes it was more than a day, sometimes, less than an hour. Insignificant human cargo like us made way for more important equipment travelling to the front. I looked around the truck wondering how many more men we’d have to leave on a railway siding.