She was surprised. He rarely spoke to her. “We haven’t done anything to you.”
Friedrich grunted. “I never knew a Jew before I met you.”
“Do you still believe all the trash about us?”
He was silent a moment. He pointed out the window at another boarded-up store. “The Fuhrer has taken everything away from them. The captain says the Jews are a scapegoat.”
“What do you think?”
He turned his head for a moment, staring at her. “You’re the only Jew I know.”
He was quiet then. She wanted to ask him more, to press him, but she wasn’t sure what to say. He was so stern, he scared her.
They arrived a few minutes later at Captain Dutt’s home without incident. Friedrich led her into the captain’s study and then politely pulled a chair out for her. She sat down, a little surprised. He never did that. He turned and left the room.
Captain Dutt was already at his desk waiting for her. He looked older and frailer than ever. So strange that the two people who were helping her so much were so elderly. She wondered at this. This elder generation seemed to have a conscience that was missing from those who’d grown up after the last war. Or perhaps it was because they had so much less to lose? She didn’t know.
“Good afternoon,” said the captain, smiling up at her, his stern countenance aglow and flashing like a lighthouse. “Have a seat.”
“Friedrich said you had something urgent.”
“I do. News of your husband.”
She couldn’t believe it. She’d heard nothing for a year and a half now. Finally, something. But then she realized the seriousness of Captain Dutt’s face. Johannes is dead, she thought, he’s gone.
“Tell me,” she whispered, bracing herself. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Perhaps worse.”
“What can be worse than death?”
“He’s in a prison. Perhaps ‘camp’ would be a better word. There have been rumors. Labor camps where they are collecting Jews and other undesirables. These camps are run by the SS. People go in, but no one ever comes out. I don’t know many details, but your husband is in one of these camps. The conditions, I’m afraid, are terribly harsh. There’s little food and much labor. There are even . . .”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated. “There are even stories of executions. Mass executions.” He raised his hands toward her. “Don’t put too much stock in this. I heard this from someone who heard it from someone else. The stories may be just that—only rumors. But I know that your husband is in a camp and that he is still alive.”
The news was terrible, but she felt joy surging through her. If he was alive, there was a chance. After the months and months of uncertainty she felt tremendous relief wash over her. The emotions welled up inside and the tears cascaded down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, unable to stop herself. It was long moments before she could continue.
“Is there anything you can do for him?” she asked.
“No. Outside of Königsberg I have some friends, but no one in the SS. I’m afraid I cannot help you, at least right now. But I will keep trying to find a way out for you and to see if there’s any way to help your husband.”
She thanked him again for everything he had done for her.
The captain called Friedrich back and directed him to return Trude home as soon as it was dark and with a load of groceries.
Friedrich nodded without responding, then busied himself with loading the car while Trude visited a bit longer with the captain. Darkness was falling already as this was one of the shortest days of the year. She stepped through the slushy, snow-covered courtyard, picking her way carefully to avoid slipping, and took her seat again in the back of the captain’s automobile.
Friedrich drove away and into the now-darkened streets of Königsberg. On the drive back, again she was shocked by the deadness of her town. Her home city had always been a bustling metropolis with cars and people traveling even in the evenings here and there. Now they were one of the sole cars on the street. A few travelers on foot were bundled up with heads down walking briskly to their destination. Otherwise, Königsberg was a ghost city.
Thoughts of Johannes flew through her mind. Her husband was alive. She imagined him emaciated, working backbreaking labor, starving, beaten. She shook her head. She couldn’t think of such things just now. At least there was a sliver of hope.
“The captain told you about your husband?”
“Yes.”
“He is a Jew also, yes?”
She nodded.
“Do you love him?”
The question caught her by surprise. “Of course. He’s my husband.”
Before he could respond they were turning on her street. She couldn’t wait to tell Britta that her father was alive. But the thought froze in her mind. Three dark cars were pulled up in front of Mrs. Werner’s house. Figures stood in front of the townhome. Gestapo, she knew right away. She reached for the door. Her daughter was inside. They would take her daughter. She must not leave her. She felt a strong hand on her arm pulling her back.
“No!” said Friedrich.
“Let me go!” she demanded.
“No!” he repeated. His eyes flared with violence. She’d never seen him like this before. “Get down!” he demanded. “They’ll kill you!” His voice was desperate and sharp.
She complied without thinking. Her heart tore itself into pieces. She just wanted to die. They were taking her little girl, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Friedrich pushed the accelerator, and she felt the car sliding by. Her head was down and her mind numb. She had to be with her daughter, but she was frozen with guilt and terror, every horrid emotion haunting her as they slipped into the cold darkness of the night.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Russia, 50 km from Moscow
December 1941
Erik rode along with several members of his platoon on the front of the Panzer III. They were rumbling down the dirt pathway frozen solid with snow. A white landscape covered as if by an icy quilt. The men were huddled together, pressed tightly against the tank, trying to draw heat from the machine and each other.
Erik could not remember ever having been so cold. Königsberg, in East Prussia, at the extreme northeast end of Germany, often experienced frozen, snowy winters. But while the temperature there hovered at or slightly below zero, here he’d experienced a real Russian winter. His unit was totally unprepared for the weather. They’d received no winter clothing and were still dressed in their summer uniforms with no overcoats, gloves, or winter boots. They had taken blankets from villages and stolen gloves or made crudely crafted mittens out of socks or anything else they could find. They discovered that stuffing newspaper into their boots and around their legs and arms helped keep out some of the biting cold, but the materials they possessed were woefully insufficient for their needs, and the men suffered from frostbite and other ailments.
Worse yet was the effect of the cold on their machinery. Tanks refused to start. The men lit fires underneath them in order to get the engines to turn over in the morning. Airplanes were grounded or froze in the air, crashing to the ground. The biting cold brought one blessing: the slogging fall mud finally solidified. After storming across much of Western Russia, the autumn rain stopped them cold. The rain churned the dirt roads into a river of mud that would sink a tank up to the turrets. Now the ground was frozen, and the German army was swarming forward once again.
Erik looked around, his men riding the various tanks as they rumbled along. He had scarcely twenty soldiers left. Less than half his original platoon. Sauer’s entire company was less than fifty. Headquarters kept promising them new replacements, but their casualties exceeded the fresh troops by a ratio of two to one.
Still, they were making rapid progress. The Russians on the eastern front had died or surrendered in the millions. They were reportedly on their last legs. Sa
uer informed the company if they captured Moscow, Stalin would surely surrender and they could all go home.
As if invoking his commander to materialize by thinking of him, the captain pulled up next to the tank in his command vehicle, motioning for the tanks to stop. The panzers rumbled to a halt for a midday break. Several of the steel monsters rumbled off the highway and into the field to form a defensive perimeter. Other men removed the field cooking equipment from a nearby truck and prepared a hot meal, the first in days.
“Lieutenant, come over here for a second,” commanded Sauer.
Erik jumped stiffly down from the tank. He worked his arms and legs, trying to restore circulation as he made his way to his captain. Sauer withdrew a metal cylinder from his command car. He unscrewed the top and poured coffee into a cup, taking a sip himself before handing the same to Erik.
“How are you doing, mein Freund?” Sauer asked.
“Frozen,” said Erik, his teeth clicking together as he stomped his feet, waiting for the hot liquid to warm him.
Sauer chuckled. “The whole German army is frozen,” he said. “Hopefully these Russian bastards are about the same. Like the Führer said, one more kick and the whole rotten structure will fall in.”
“We’ve kicked them awfully hard, and they haven’t quit yet,” Erik said.
“An animal is always most desperate when it’s wounded and in a corner.”
“How much farther to Moscow?” asked Erik.
“Fifty kilometers at the most. One more push ought to do it. Anything I can do for the boys?”
“Do you have coats, and food, and ammunition, and boots, and gloves?” Erik joked.
Sauer laughed and clapped Erik on the shoulder. “I have all those things in Berlin, my friend. We just have to get back there. Don’t you worry; I think the whole show will be over in a few days.”
“This hot meal will help. It won’t solve all the problems, but it will make a difference.”
Sauer nodded approvingly. “You make quite an officer.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sauer saluted him and turned to attend to his other platoon commanders, leaving Erik alone with his thoughts. Erik felt the hot, churning mix of emotions rifling through him again. Sauer was an excellent combat commander who took care of his men and fought fiercely and courageously. In many ways, they were perfectly matched, and Erik was proud he could keep up with his commander. But on the other hand, Sauer was a ruthless killer fully indoctrinated into the Nazi cause with no remorse for the torture and killing of civilians and unarmed prisoners. His newfound respect for Erik grew from the mistaken belief that Mueller’s feelings on this issue had changed. But Sauer had merely witnessed a moment of weakness on Erik’s part that haunted his every hour awake and ran through his dreams each night.
By some miracle, in these many months of fighting Erik had avoided any other incidents. Sauer had fortunately not called on him to do anything Erik would struggle morally to perform. But he knew that moment would come again, and he did not know what he would do.
With frozen fingers, he removed a crumpled letter from home and read it again. Corina wrote that word had reached her through Karl that Sauer was pleased with his performance. There was talk of another promotion eventually. Sauer said the same to him directly. Corina’s letter was full of praise and excitement, plans for a new home and their future after the war. Karl told her that the next promotion would open even more doors. Erik’s position in Königsberg as a leader in postwar Germany was assured. Perhaps they would go even higher, she hinted. Karl was on his way up, recently given command of SS activities in East Prussia. Now after a period of disappointment, Erik was apparently back in his good graces, and Karl hinted he might wish to bring Erik onto his staff. With the war almost over, their future seemed assured.
Erik folded up the letter and closed his eyes in prayer. He prayed that the war would end in the next few days. He prayed for the safety of his men and that he would not be called on by Sauer to do anything that would ruin his career or destroy his soul further. He prayed for protection for his family, and that when these battles were over peace would come to the world. He smiled at the thought. He’d dreamed of Germany taking its place once more as one of the world’s mightiest, freed from the humiliation of the last war. He had been reared on stories from his father of the kaiser’s Germany when the great nation stood poised on the brink of empire, when anything seemed possible for his country and his family.
Would Germany be great, or would it be the Nazis’? His father believed that after the war the rhetoric and propaganda would cool and Germany would return to the peaceful civilized nation full of artists, scholars, musicians, and industrialists that he had fought for. A new Germany would rise with all the resources of Europe open to it, taking its rightful place in the sun. But if the leaders of the new Germany were like Sauer—and his darker self—men forged in such hatred and hardship, could his country ever move forward into lasting peace?
The company did not move again that day. The men ate their hot meal for lunch and another for dinner. Captain Sauer decided to check in with battalion and regimental headquarters before proceeding forward for the last push to Moscow. He left Erik in charge of the company while he was gone. Erik made sure the panzers were properly positioned and that each man had a full share of the hot meals. He sent a runner back for what ammunition could be spared and made what seemed like his hundredth requisition for winter clothing.
Captain Sauer arrived back at the company early the next morning before the sun had risen. He brought with him a reserve of gasoline and some additional rations but not any warm clothing.
“I gathered what I could,” he explained. “Ammunition supplies are dangerously low. I only have enough fuel to get us to Moscow. No real room for maneuver. I guess we must take what the Russians leave us when they retreat.” He outlined regimental plans for the final push: the entire division would stream forward beginning at eight a.m. on a five-kilometer front. This attack would represent not only a divisional effort but the entire army and indeed the army group. High command was throwing everything available into the last effort to capture the capital and hopefully end the war.
“They expect us to be in Moscow by the end of the day, or at least by the end of day tomorrow. They say this will be the end of them,” said Sauer.
“They’ve said that before.”
Sauer laughed. “I know, but this time it might really be it. There’s been very little resistance in the last week or so. I think they are at the end of the rope.”
Erik was doubtful but kept his mouth shut.
“Make sure the gasoline is distributed equally and that the cold rations are picked up by each group. There should be enough for three days for each man.”
Erik nodded and turned to issue the orders. Soon the quiet morning was interrupted by the coughing motors of the panzers as they struggled to life in the subfreezing temperatures. Erik noted the crews were getting better at coaxing the machines back to life out of the stunning cold. They were marvelous at adjusting to the extreme conditions, and he was proud of them.
Soon the tanks were sufficiently warmed up, and Erik briefed his men. They would be in the lead today as they so often were. Erik chuckled to himself. He used to take point because he thought Sauer wanted to get rid of them. Now he drew the same duty because his commander depended on him.
He checked to make sure his machine pistol was armed with a full clip of ammunition. He only had two in reserve. If they ran into any real fighting, he would run out quickly. He shook his head. The entire platoon was dangerously low on bullets.
He pulled himself up onto the lead Panzer III and helped two of his men up behind him. Soon they were rumbling down the road ever eastward toward Moscow. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon they rolled onward, encountering no resistance. Perhaps Captain Sauer was correct. Perhaps the Russians were done this time. He couldn’t imagine they would let their capital city go without a fight unless t
hey had truly exhausted all their resources already.
“Lieutenant!” One of his men was shouting to him enthusiastically and pointing. Erik looked down the road to the horizon. For long moments, all he could see were pastures covered with snow, the fences and the farms. Finally, he sought the extreme horizon and could make out a glint of red: the very top of a tapered tower far in the distance. He realized with growing elation he could just make out the tip of the Kremlin. They’d made it. They’d traveled more than a thousand kilometers into enemy territory. He couldn’t believe after all this time, all this struggle, they were nearly there.
“Come on, boys!” he exclaimed excitedly. “A few more hours and we will have dinner in Moscow!”
The cheering of the men was harshly interrupted by the long, shrill arcing whistle of incoming shells all along the horizon. Erik strained to see. Flashes of light popped in and out all along the borders of his vision. There were tanks out there and artillery, he realized. Dozens and dozens of them, perhaps more. They had moments to react.
“Spread out!” he screamed, even as the first shells landed among them. A tank nearby exploded in a furious ball of fire. Hot shrapnel flew in each direction as the tank disintegrated. He’d never seen anything hit that hard, and he wondered what sort of weaponry the Russians had brought to bear. He dropped off the panzer and sprinted behind the tank as the machine rotated its turret to return fire.
Shells sprinkled their position like deadly raindrops. Erik was covered in frozen mud. A sliver of hot metal landed on his neck, burning him. He screamed and frantically clawed at his uniform, trying to remove it. The fiery steel stuck to his skin—too hot to handle with his fingers. He tore at it and ripped the shrapnel away. He nearly bit through his tongue from the pain. He fought down the agony, trying to concentrate on the chaos exploding around him.
Panzers blasted apart. He felt the flashing roars and the heat. An explosion knocked him back away from the lead panzer and into the mud. He stared up at the heavens, blinking for a moment, as he tried to remember where he was. He ran his hands over his body, feeling for wounds. Miraculously, he hadn’t been hit. He rolled over, striving again for a glance of the enemy.
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