The mover stood at attention and clicked his heels. “Jawohl.”
Gunther turned back to them. “I’m sorry about them. So hard to find professionals. Everyone is in the army now.” He clapped Johannes on the back. “Well, my friend, I will have your visas tonight. I’ll drop them by your organization office at six. Will you be there?”
“Yes, I can make it there by six.”
“All right then.” Gunther watched as the movers returned and carried out the dining room table and a few of the chairs. He lingered, shouting suggestions to them as they went, laughing with Johannes and seemingly oblivious to how much this affected the Bensheims. Gunther departed after another half hour.
Trude thought of telling her husband about the mover but decided against it. He would confront the man, and there was no telling what might happen from there. That would do no good. They were so close to escaping. Instead, Trude begged Johannes to stay, and he agreed. They sat on a couple of chairs in the front room, Britta at their feet, drawing. They sat in silence, watching the material items they had collected, that represented so much of their life, pass piece by piece out of the front door. The movers finished at four. They left the two chairs, a small kitchen table with some bare metal seats, the master bedroom mattress, and piles of clothing. They had taken the art, the tables, the sofas, even the pots and all but one of the pans. Virtually everything of value.
The process was an agony for them. Trude could tell that although Johannes acted indifferent, the loss of their possessions affected him deeply. He appeared drawn, gaunt.
With the movers finished, Trude and Johannes made their way upstairs, carrying Britta, who had long since fallen asleep on the floor. Johannes placed her gently on some blankets next to their bed, then he lay down to take a nap. Trude fell exhausted next to him, her arms around him, clinging in silent comfort, trying to heal from the wounds they both felt from this day of defilement.
When she woke, she sat bolt upright. She felt disoriented, her head groggy. They had slept too long, and her mind fought to remember why that was important. She looked at the clock. “Johannes!” she yelled, pushing on his back. “It’s already past six. You’re late!”
He groaned and blinked several times to try to wake up. He realized what she was saying and he sat up quickly, fumbling for his shoes. “I have to go. I’ll be back in an hour. Make us some dinner as quickly as you can. I don’t care what. Anything. We will eat, and then we will leave.” He turned to her, held her close for a moment, and kissed her forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said.
He turned and rattled down the stairs. She heard the door clang closed below. Britta was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Trude helped her up and led her downstairs to the kitchen, where she fumbled through the icebox, searching for anything to eat. There was a little ham left over and some cheese, along with a slab of bacon and a few eggs. She searched the bread box and found some stale rolls. She took a knife and cut crudely at the crusty bread, making rough sandwiches for the three of them. All day she had possessed too much time, but now it seemed she didn’t have enough. She heard a loud crash, and the front door was thrown open. Johannes was there, already returned.
“You scared me,” she said, starting to take a step toward him. He reached his arm out and grasped hers, pulling her toward him. He motioned for their daughter.
“Britta, go upstairs.”
“But, Daddy, I want to show you something.”
“Upstairs now!” he shouted. Trude was shocked. She’d never heard him speak to their daughter like that.
Britta stepped back, and her face drained of color. She burst into tears and flew up the stairs.
“Johannes, what’s going on? You’re scaring me!”
He moved quickly to the window and peeked through the curtains, straining to see to the curb.
“They arrested everyone,” he said.
“Everyone? What do you mean?”
“I arrived at the office at about six fifteen. Thank Gott I was late. The Gestapo was crawling all over the place. They were pulling my people out and shoving them into cars. I hid behind some trees and watched the whole thing.” He balled a fist. “I shouldn’t have watched. I should have done something.”
“What could you have done?” she demanded. “They would have taken you, too. Oh, Johannes, what are we going to do? They will come here any moment!”
“We have to leave. Are you packed?”
She nodded, but it was too late.
A sharp banging on the door echoed through their home. They were here.
CHAPTER THREE
East Prussia
August 1939
Erik rode along in the jarring truck as twilight dimmed the evening sky. They’d driven for hours, bumping along in an endless line of vehicles starting and stopping, the exhaust filling the covered canvas like a suffocating balloon adding to their misery. Erik oversaw the group, but he didn’t know what to say. What orders do you give to men jostling down the road? Nobody was misbehaving or even speaking for that matter. Every man’s head bobbed, lost in his own thoughts.
Erik was thinking of home. He’d left only a few days ago, but he missed his family terribly, especially his darling Greta. He glanced at his watch, straining to pick out the dials in the dim light. They would be finished with dinner now, he realized. His mother would be doing the dishes while his father puffed at his pipe and skimmed the paper. Corina would be straightening up or getting Greta ready for bed. Perhaps she would come down and pick a final evening fight with Peter before turning in for the night? He smiled to himself. Those domestic conflicts seemed so trivial now.
He was headed to war. He wasn’t sure when or where it would start, but it seemed clear now that his unit was going into Poland. They’d been issued rifles and ammunition, along with rations. His SS Deutschland Regiment was combining with other party units and some Heer regiments to form Panzer Division Kempf. They’d never drilled together. The SS units hadn’t even worked as a larger unit before, let alone functioned at the division level with regular army commanders and soldiers. Most of all, they were unused to maneuvers with tanks. In the past few days, as Erik had sat on the fringes of some of the command meetings, he’d seen firsthand the confusion as the leaders of various units tried to work out logistics, supply, and communication—to elbow for control. He’d hoped they would have a few weeks to sort out the kinks before the unit went into the fight, but time had run out.
Combat. That word lanced through his thoughts again like hot fire. He didn’t know anything about real fighting. Sure, he’d drilled, marched, shot rounds. He’d even participated in some war games. But none of that experience added up to anything more than playing at war. When they were in training exercises and people were “killed,” they stood up at the end and started over. Erik and the men around him had never experienced live fire or real casualties. So, each man juddered along at present, lost in his own thoughts, grappling with this same notion: How will I handle myself when the shooting starts?
Maybe the Poles wouldn’t fight. The hope flared through Erik’s mind for the thousandth time. The Austrians hadn’t. Neither had the Czechs. With the Russians gone over to the German side, nobody could come to their aid in time. Certainly, the French were a worry, but what could they do to help the Poles, who were hundreds of kilometers away from them on the other side of Germany? He prayed the Poles would give in, that a last-minute miracle would stop all of this from happening. He would be home in a few days, perhaps promoted, ready to take the job Karl was striving to arrange for him. He would never have to face these fears again.
He shook his head. He was deluding himself. They’d never been this close to a real fight. The Poles were stubborn. They had the French to back them, and even if that meant no immediate help for the Poles, it meant the Germans would have to fight on two fronts. No, this fight was coming.
Finally, as darkness surrounded them, the trucks ground to a jolting halt. Shouts of
“Raus!” filled the night air, and Erik motioned for the group to hop out of the back. He rose to his feet and jumped, his legs on fire as he hit the ground. He stretched his back, trying to straighten. His joints were stiff. Some way to prepare for a fight. They would be worn out before they even moved out for the front. If there was a front.
“Sergeant, get your group together and then assemble with the rest of the platoon and company. We’re over there!”
Erik recognized the voice of the company commander, Dieter Vogel, in charge of Second Company, Third Battalion, SS Deutschland Regiment. He saw the captain standing near a Panzer II light tank. Vogel looked like an old man among all the kids running around, although Erik doubted he was much past forty. The captain smiled at Erik and waved him over, placing a hand on Erik’s shoulder as he approached.
“How are the boys?” he asked.
“Good so far. A little rattled from the ride.”
“Is that all? I bet they didn’t talk much.”
“Not a word.”
Vogel assumed a serious expression. “They’re worried, and so are you. Nothing to be done about it, Erik. You can’t prepare for combat; you just have to experience it. You’ll be all right. They all will. Just remember what they’ve trained you to do, and stick together. You’ll be fine.”
“How am I supposed to lead when I’ve never been in combat myself?”
“Don’t let it trouble you. The men like you. You’re a good man. When it starts, just follow orders, make sure the boys are with you. Nothing to it.”
“What about when people start dying?”
“It will happen. You’ll lose some of your people. Maybe a lot of them. Just keep going. You can’t save everyone. Your first duty is to accomplish your orders. But don’t let anyone be a hero, either—quickest way to get killed. Just remember the basics: lay down some fire, then move fast to the next cover.”
Erik drew comfort from his captain, one of the few with real experience from the last war. So many of the officers had none. Even the senior ones. He noted, too, that the advice echoed his father’s from not more than a week ago.
“Mueller, don’t you have your men together yet?”
Lieutenant Reinhard Sauer, his platoon leader and immediate superior, strolled up. Sauer spotted Vogel and clicked his heels in the Hitler salute. “Guten Abend!” he intoned, a sly grin creasing his lips.
“How is the platoon, Lieutenant?” asked Vogel.
“In good shape and all together, except for Mueller’s group here.” Sauer turned to Erik, and his eyes sharpened. “Sergeant, gather your men and get them over to the platoon. I need to talk to the captain about a few things. Get some hot food in them and be ready to move out in the next few minutes.”
“Do we know where we are headed?” asked Erik.
“Now, Sergeant.”
Erik stiffened and shot a salute to the lieutenant. He turned crisply and strode away, barking commands at his men to form up around him as he led them to where the platoon was gathered around a steaming pot of stew. A cook ladled the hot liquid into mess tins while the men waited greedily in line. There was fresh bread and tea as well.
“Eat your fill, boys,” ordered Erik. “This might be the last hot food we’ll have for a while. When you’re finished, check over your gear. If anything needs to be repaired or replaced, now is the time to do it.”
He felt like a hypocrite. What did he know about leading men into war? Still, having a command, even a small one, forced him to dig deep for courage and gave him something to worry about besides just the coming bullets.
He stood last in line, waiting for his turn to eat. Eventually Lieutenant Sauer returned, and he motioned his way. Erik didn’t want to leave the line, but he couldn’t refuse. He just hoped there would be something left for him by the time he got back.
The lieutenant watched him with eagle eyes as he approached, a stone statue frozen without emotion. “You and the captain seem to get along,” Sauer noted.
“I don’t know if that’s true. He seems a good man, though. He’s stopped to talk to me a couple of times.”
“Just remember who your commander is. You take orders from me, not directly from Vogel. Do you understand?”
“Jawohl.”
“I can’t wait to get into these Poles,” said Sauer with unexpected relish. “They’ve never experienced anything like the SS. They hid behind the Russians in the last war. This time they will face our steel storm without any help. These Untermenschen Slavs have no right to our lands. We will take back what is ours.”
Erik nodded without comment.
“What’s wrong, Sergeant? Don’t you believe in our destiny?”
“Of course I do, Lieutenant.”
Sauer’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure that you do. You were privileged to join the SS. I’m aware of how you received your position: a friend calling in a favor. There are many others who earned their rank here. Make sure you merit yours as well.”
“I will, Lieutenant.”
“You’re dismissed.”
Erik saluted again and made his way back to the mess area. The stew was gone, and he had to satisfy himself with the butt end of a roll and some lukewarm tea. Sauer’s words stung him. More so because they were true. Erik hadn’t worked his way through the SS ranks. He wasn’t sure he even believed half of what they stood for. He had received his rank through Karl’s personal influence, attained through his wife’s efforts and connections. He’d hoped that was not an issue, but apparently it was—at least with his commander. He would have to work doubly hard. Sauer was not a man to be crossed.
He was summoned to a company meeting a few minutes later. Captain Vogel addressed them with a face as white as the klieg lights illuminating his command tent. He began his briefing with only two words: “It’s war.”
Erik spent the rest of the evening and the early morning hours of September 1 getting his men ready for battle. They checked and then double-checked their equipment. They counted ammunition, made sure canteens were full, and confirmed that they had three days of rations. He looked through his field mess, which was composed primarily of coarse bread and a pasty sharp cheese in a tube. His head jerked back when he sniffed the stuff. A little after midnight, Captain Vogel appeared. He talked to some of the men and then approached Erik. “Ready, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” Erik replied.
“Remember what I told you. I’ve been through this. I know your type, Mueller; you’ll do fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wished he felt as confident.
“I have something to help you.” He motioned for a nearby guard, who retrieved an MP 40 machine pistol. Vogel gripped the weapon and handed it to the sergeant. Erik was surprised and delighted. He’d only fired the MP 40 a dozen or so times in drills, but the lightweight submachine gun would give him a decided advantage over the unwieldy standard-issue bolt-action 8mm Mauser in close combat. He also had a P38 pistol and a bayonet for hand-to-hand combat.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“A good leader needs a good weapon. You take care of yourself this morning. We’ll have coffee in Warsaw.”
“Sure thing, sir,” said Erik. Vogel reached out and shook his hand, giving it a hard squeeze before he evaporated into the darkness. Erik returned his rifle at the depot and was handed six clips for his machine pistol.
When he returned, he pulled his group together to review their initial orders. The company was to provide infantry support to a platoon of Panzer I light tanks as they rolled into Poland.
“Those are the ones with a couple machine guns, not a cannon, right, Sergeant?” asked Franz Messer, a private from Königsberg.
“That’s right, Messer,” he said. He liked the private, a devout Lutheran who spent his leave at church instead of at the bars and brothels.
“Why can’t we have some of them cannon tanks?” asked Corporal Heinrich Hensel, his second-in-command. Hensel bit down on an unlit, half-consumed cigar that slurred his words.
“Can we trust these regular army types?” asked Hensel.
“They are well trained and equipped. Perhaps more than we are, to be honest.”
“Didn’t help them in the last war,” noted the corporal.
“They just needed the SS to help them get the job done,” joked Erik. That drew a laugh. “I do wish they would have given us more time to train together.”
Lieutenant Sauer appeared and ordered them to gather their equipment and follow him. Erik motioned to his group, and within a few minutes they were connected up with the entire platoon, fifty men making their way as silently as they could through the darkness that was already starting to fade from the eastern sky.
For hours, they marched down a dirt road. Always toward the southeast. They were forced to stop and wait at times, and at others they were required to trot to keep the next platoon of the company in view. The tanks were nowhere to be seen. They must have either been behind them or prepositioned at the front, Erik realized.
Finally, they reached a village on the road south of Neidenberg. They were informed they were near the Polish border. The sun was well up by now. Erik noticed among the houses there were Panzer I tanks, part of the Second Battalion of the Panzer Regiment, the armored component of Group Kempf. He looked over one of the tanks. Two MG 13 machine guns poked out of the upper turret. He’d seen them operate in drills a couple of times. They were short and narrow, fast but lightly armored, and without the punch of the bigger tanks. Still, they would be a comfort to have along when the fighting started.
As he looked over the vehicles, he realized he could make out a dull thudding. He strained his ears: artillery. The war had started. As if in answer to this awareness, a droning buzz out of the west grew in volume. He looked up to see a flight of six Stuka dive bombers rumbling slowly past above him, heading southeast toward the sound of the fighting.
A Bitter Rain Page 5