LOVE, MOM
DEAR ROBERT,
TODAY, I SAW PRESIDENT TRUMAN ON HIS SHIP, WALKING ON THE DECK. TELL WILLIAM THAT TOMORROW I WILL BE FLYING WITH THE PRESIDENT IN A SPECIAL TRANSPORT PLANE KNOWN AS THE “SACRED COW.” IT WON’T BE LONG NOW UNTIL I AM REUNITED WITH ELISABETH.
ALL MY LOVE, LOUISA
P.S. TELLING ME THE PIANO AND THE ORGAN ARE PRACTICALLY THE SAME INSTRUMENT IS LIKE TELLING YOU THAT YOU CAN PLAY THE VIOLIN JUST BECAUSE YOU PLAY THE GUITAR. FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO PLAY THE ORGAN!
I had actually caught sight of President Truman quite often. His ship was always a few hundred meters away, so it was easy to spot him on deck. Up at dawn, he took frequent brisk walks around the deck, chatting with the sailors. Someone said the President napped every afternoon and in the evenings he watched movies. Just like Aunt Martha!
Apparently, this was the smallest staff the President had ever taken on a war conference. Along with his aides, there were correspondents from the major news services, one from the radio networks, one still photographer, and two newsreel photographers.
I had hoped to find time with the judge’s nephew to finish my conversation about Herr Mueller, but he was on the President’s ship. Just what did that man do? I tried to find out from the reporters. They said if I could find that out, they would offer me a job.
So I decided to talk to the reporters about Friedrich Mueller, hoping they could think of someone who could track him down. They listened with mild interest, until one interrupted. “Mrs. Gordon, do you have any idea how many Nazi war criminals the Tribunal is trying to track down?”
I knew. I realized what he was trying to tell me. Friedrich Mueller was insignificant compared to others, for example, his cousin, Heinrich Mueller, head of the Gestapo.
But Friedrich Mueller was not insignificant to me.
Most of the sailors looked at me in the same way the Icebox looked at me, exchanging sly glances with each other as if I had more duties than merely translating. But one of the first things I learned in Resistance Work was to act more confident than I felt. “Whistling in the Dark,” we called it. Not even the dark could quite overcome our courage, or at the very least, our belief that what we were doing was right. So far, that helped me.
There were moments when I wondered what I was doing here, too, but then I would think about Elisabeth. I lay in bed at night wondering what she was like and how she felt when she first heard I was coming to get her. If she had even been told yet.
I replayed in my mind the very last time I had seen Elisabeth. It was years ago, before the war, when my father and I had visited relatives during Christmas. Elisabeth was very small for her age and had a surprisingly bold manner. I was a teenager, and she was, well, a nuisance. One time, my father asked me to play a piece on the piano. In the middle of it, Elisabeth—probably only seven or eight years old at the time—jumped from her seat, scowling, and told me I was playing the piece all wrong. Then she waved me off of the piano bench, as if shooing the butler, and sat down to play it correctly. Magnificently!
Below me, the Icebox snorted in her sleep, not unlike a wild boar. I hadn’t been sleeping well, but it wasn’t entirely the Icebox’s fault. I was seasick. My hands and wrists ached from so much typing. As I rubbed them, it reminded me of being a student at the University of Berlin, preparing for a piano exam, spending hour upon hour in the practice room.
Aside from not feeling well, my mind was working overtime. The closer we came to Germany, suppressed memories of my past kept popping, unbidden, into my mind. I had longed to return to Germany from the moment I left. Truth to be told, I had never stopped longing for Germany, though I never shared that sentiment with Robert.
At last the day came when our ship reached port. “Excited?” asked a reporter as we waited on the deck of the U.S.S. Philadelphia until the President and the Secretary of State disembarked.
“A little,” I lied.
I was prepared to feel great emotion as the ships approached the harbor near Antwerp, Belgium. Surprisingly, I felt numb. Antwerp, an important seaport, remained relatively undamaged. Belgium had fallen quickly when invaded by Hitler’s Blitzkrieg. As the ship drew closer, I spotted clumps of fat cows in fields. Strangely peaceful.
But then we got off of the ships and into cars to go to the airfield in Brussels to fly down to Berlin. Indications of war were everywhere. Our convoy passed lines of tattered civilians, camping by the road, hauling anything they could find in wheelbarrows. One weary looking man dragged a child’s red wagon. The refugees watched us as curiously as we watched them. Fierce looking Soviet soldiers stood guard at the crossroads, out of place against the sweet azure sky.
I had thought nothing could be worse than seasickness, but airsickness came close. I was only able to get my mind off of my churning stomach by looking out the window, absorbed in the scenery below the plane.
As we crossed into Germany, my heart rose into my throat. I had fled Germany before the Allies had started any air campaigns to bomb the country. Since then, Allied aerial bombing had damaged over half of the major cities of Germany. It was more horrifying than I could have imagined. Everywhere I looked was evidence of destruction. Shelled out buildings, heaps of brick and rubble. Scarred landscape. Lone chimneys standing amidst ruins. Charred remains from fires that followed the bombings.
The railway system had been targeted by allied air offensive. That knowledge was especially worrisome to me because that was how I had hoped to get down to Munich to get Elisabeth. Suddenly, the numbness I felt when we arrived at Antwerp wore off, a flood of conflicting emotions caught up with me.
And the last emotion of all, surprisingly, was joy.
For the first time in over two-and-a-half years, I was back in my country! A Germany freed from twelve years of tyranny. Yes, the sights of destruction were shocking, but it was over. It was finally, truly over! A reporter told me the Germans referred to May 8th, 1945, the day of surrender, as the Stunde Null, Hour Zero, in which life started again.
I took a deeply satisfied breath. Even the air seemed fresher. A new beginning for this wonderful country that had brought the world such light and goodness over the centuries—from Martin Luther to Beethoven and Bach. I would never understand how such heritage could have borne the evil of Adolf Hitler.
After arriving in Berlin, a military convoy took us to the secret location where the conference of the Big Three would be held. All that I knew was that it was to be held in an unbombed suburb of Berlin. Allied troops, made up of Americans, British, and Soviet soldiers, surrounded us at all times. I almost smiled as I thought of how relieved Robert would be to see the protection I was getting.
My lightness quickly faded as the cars pulled out, and I was able to observe, at ground level, the condition of Berlin. This beautiful seven-hundred-and-fifty year-old medieval city was in shambles. I had avidly followed the news stories. I knew that over half of a million Allied bombs had dropped on Berlin, most of them in the last six months. By Christmas of 1944, Berlin was being bombed around the clock. Bombs fell like rain. But the material destruction I observed represented something far more devastating—how many lives had been shattered? How many families had been destroyed?
The reporters had shared some basic information with me about Germany’s current conditions while we were still on the ship. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. The most serious problem that faced the Germans was how to survive. Emergency feeding stations were set up on city corners to provide meals to long lines of hungry Germans—mostly women and children, I noticed, with a few old men, standing passively, waiting for a meal. In the last weeks of the war, both state and economy had virtually collapsed. Store shelves were empty. Shortages were severe. Allied soldiers in weary uniforms covered the city by foot or by jeep to keep order and maintain a curfew. And yet there was an eerie quietness to the streets, belying the savagery of the prior few months.
One building looked as if it had gone through the war unscathed; the house n
ext to it was a mountain of rubble. We passed by the stately and imposing Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. It had been bombed out in 1943, and only its shell remained. From the street, I could look inside the church and see the roof rafters through crumbled brick.
Memories of Berlin started to flood my mind. I could hardly recognize this city I had once cherished. A part of me longed to find my home and, near to it, my Lutheran church, to see if my parents’ graves remained undisturbed. But I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to know the answer.
Seated next to me in the car, a reporter tapped me on the shoulder, pulling me back from a fixed stare out the window. He handed me a handkerchief. “Here, Mrs. Gordon. You’re crying.”
* * * *
The conference was held at the Cecilienhof, the palace of the last crown prince of Imperial Germany, though everyone involved roomed elsewhere, in villas around Babelsberg. A day or so later, Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of England, and Joseph Stalin, leader of Russia, joined President Truman.
By eavesdropping on conversations among reporters at meals, I knew that postwar Europe dominated the Potsdam agenda, but lurking offstage was the war in the Pacific. One reporter said Truman and Churchill were suspicious of the motives of Stalin, who already had a toehold—with a very large foot—of communism in the central European countries.
Not that I was privy to any details about the conference. Except for meals, I was stuck in a stuffy little room with a typewriter. It seemed as if every time I turned around, the judge’s nephew sent over more stacks of press releases to translate so the German people would be duly informed. I worked so diligently I had to ice my hands each evening. Still, I felt that wonderful feeling I often had while in the Resistance. I was doing something for my country!
And in the few free moments I did have, I tried to talk to anyone who would listen about Friedrich Mueller. Military guards, workers at the Palace, even cooks in the kitchen. They listened, but no one offered to help me find him.
By listening in on conversations among the President’s staff, I could tell there was a rising pressure for the three leaders to agree on something before July 26th, when England was having general elections for prime minister. Churchill left the conference to return to London for the election; he was expected to return a day later.
But Winston Churchill didn’t return. He had been defeated. Defeated! The greatest Englishman who ever lived, ousted by his own country in a landslide vote! In his place, newly elected Clement Atlee arrived to continue the conference. From what I could overhear among the reporters, even President Truman was shocked at Churchill’s defeat.
On July 26, 1945, the Potsdam Declaration—a demand for unconditional surrender—was broadcast to the Japanese by the Allied forces, but two days later, on July 28th, Prime Minister Suzuki announced to the world he would ignore it.
The last few days of the conference inched along; I couldn’t wait to get to München to reach Elisabeth. Finally, on the last night, the judge’s nephew knocked on my door. “Okay, Mrs. Gordon. You have one day to get your cousin and get back here again.”
I still wasn’t sure how I was going to accomplish that. On my desk were maps of Germany, with large X’s crossing out routes I had considered but abandoned.
My latest plan was to “temporarily” borrow a military motorcycle. I was a little concerned because I had never driven a motorcycle. I tried to ignore images of Robert clasping his head in his hands, shouting, “Have you lost your mind?!” Still, I refused to be deterred. I was going to find a way to get down to München and back to Berlin again, even if I had to hitch rides as a last resort.
The judge’s nephew walked over to my desk and looked over the maps, shaking his head. “You can’t do it, Mrs. Gordon. Not by rail.” He crouched down to look directly at me. “But…I do have an option. I’ve taken the liberty to assign a private to escort you. I’ve also requisitioned a jeep. He’s going to drive you there and back again.”
I looked at him, shocked. “You were able to get permission for that?”
“Well, let’s just worry about little details later.”
As Robert would say, this man had definite pull.
The judge’s nephew grinned. “You’ve earned it. You’ve done a great job for us.”
I fought back the sting of grateful tears. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. Four a.m. sharp. And you must be back by noon the next day to catch the flight to England with the President to rendezvous with the ships.” He winked at me, walked to the door, and turned around to say, “If you aren’t back, you’re on your own, even if your husband is a friend of my uncle’s.”
“But wait! Couldn’t we talk about Friedrich Mueller?”
The judge’s nephew looked blank.
How could he not remember what I had told him?! Why didn’t anyone seem to care about bringing Herr Mueller to justice?!
In rapid speed, I gave him an account of Herr Mueller’s crimes. For the first time, I realized, I felt free to share the story of my Resistance work and Dietrich’s involvement with assassination attempts against Hitler. And I even told him that Mueller had stolen more than money from the Gordon home. He had charmed Robert’s wife into going with him, promising her wealth and fame, then shot her in cold blood after she rescued William and me.
“I see,” he replied, rubbing his chin.
He didn’t.
“An interesting tale, Mrs. Gordon.”
“But it’s not just a tale. It’s the truth.”
“I meant that it is a fascinating story, but there are many other stories, similar to yours. With repercussions that were far more damaging than a little town in Arizona losing its savings. I’m sorry,” he added, seeing the crestfallen look on my face. “We can only do so much right now, and our focus is on the Nazi war machine.” He opened the door and turned back to me, “So four a.m. tomorrow morning, right? Good? Good.”
The next morning, I was packed and waiting in my room at three a.m. I had hardly slept, so worried I might oversleep. Right at four a.m., there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, for a split second, in the inky dawn of morning, I thought it was my husband. This private looked like Robert—tall and lean, with a thatch of black hair. I fought a wave of emotion, of missing Robert.
“Ma’am? My name is Private Ryan Wheeler. I’m assigned to escort you to Munich. All ready?”
I couldn’t be any more ready.
After facing the ruins of Berlin over the last few weeks, I had grown somewhat inured to the sights on the drive to München. Strange as it sounds, I was getting accustomed to destruction. We headed out on the A-9 then the A-10 and began the long journey to München.
At first the private would only answer my questions in one word responses. After living with Robert, I was accustomed to men with an economy of words, but that didn’t stop me from asking. Finally, the private expanded to two words, then to three, then to four. After a hundred miles or so, he actually started to visibly relax. Or perhaps he was getting tired of the sound of my voice. “So where did you say you lived in the United States?” I asked again.
“All over.”
“Why did you live all over?”
“My folks were in the military.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
Another quality that resembled Robert. Trying to get information out of this man was painstaking. “Where are they from?”
“My mother is from some backwater town in Arizona.” He grinned at me. “She opened the oven one day, when the temperature dial turned up high, and said that was hot it felt most of the year in Arizona. Like crawling into an oven.”
I smiled back at him, understanding that kind of heat. But a backwater town? But there was no water in Arizona. “I live in a copper mining town, not too far from Tucson. Have you ever been to Arizona?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“What do your parents do in the military?”
“My folks are doctors in the Army.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Your mother, too? She’s a doctor? A medical doctor?”
“Yes, Ma’am. She was determined to go to college and the military was her only ticket through. Her father didn’t believe women should be educated, but she proved him wrong.”
What an intriguing woman! “Are you considering becoming a doctor?”
“No.”
“Do you have plans after you’re discharged?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“What sort of plans?”
“Seminary.”
A minister? I looked sharply over at him. “What makes you want to be a minister?”
“Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of the reason is to make my folks mad. They’ve always thought religious people have small minds,” he grinned at me, his first smile all morning, as he cast a glance at me. “But mostly, it’s because I feel The Call.”
I smiled back at him. “I wish you could meet my husband. He’s a Presbyterian minister. You even remind me of him, a little.”
Now that the private was finally talking, I asked what he thought of Germany since the war ended. I wondered if he hated the country and its people like the rest of the world did.
“Well, Ma’am, the most curious thing to me is to see folks come out of hiding. The news that the war is over is taking time to get broadcasted, maybe even to be believed. I’ve seen people coming like ants from an ant hole, entire families, from the tops of barns, out of cellars. Would you believe, even out of haystacks? I saw it with my own eyes! People living in haystacks for years, hidden by some kind-hearted farmer. So, Ma’am, I keep seeing that a lot of Germans tried to do what they could.”
I could have hugged him.
The hours flew by. Before I knew it, I saw a sign for München. Munich. As the private exited the autobahn, the highway, I pulled out the map that directed us to the Red Cross facility where Elisabeth was sheltered. My heart began to pound in anticipation. What would she be like after enduring a labor camp? I didn’t even know how long she had been there. Would she remember me?
The Copper Series Page 27