Instead of heading home for a victory parade, Erik found his unit called back up to active duty on the eastern front, traveling by rail out of the occupied territories, across Germany, and finally back into the dreadful expanses of the Soviet Union. They’d arrived here near Kharkov only a few days ago. Now they were roaring forward again toward combat, his old enemy, and he faced the ever-present possibility he would never see home again.
The Russians were out there. Millions of them. Not the disorganized, frightened mob of 1941, but an army increasingly well equipped with superior tanks, air support, and endless ammunition. He knew when one matched the ferocious nature of the Russian with proper equipment they would be a formidable force indeed.
Still, there was hope. There were virtually no SS units fighting in Stalingrad. In Erik’s opinion, only the valiant fanatic spirit of the SS could match the Russians’ passion and power. Now he and his men were not only reequipped but provisioned with new materials, new tanks. This infusion of new men and equipment should turn the tide.
Erik rolled off the tank and into the snow, stumbling a bit and falling to his knees before he pulled himself up. He dusted his pants off and headed back into the column. Eventually he found Major Sauer, now a battalion commander, rumbling along the tanks in an armored car. Despite their history, Sauer had become the closest thing to a friend Erik had in the army since the death of Sergeant Messer. The major looked up from a map he was studying, smiled on seeing Erik, and motioned for the captain to climb aboard.
Erik jumped in and then looked out the back to see a long line of tanks spread out single file along with an endless train of covered trucks, huddling on the sole ribbon of the road.
“What’s the situation, Major?”
“Good question. No telling exactly what’s ahead. There’s supposed to be a batch of Russians coming in against us.”
“No idea how many?”
“Plenty. There’s a couple armies out there somewhere. Question is how much of it’s right in front of us. No doubt we get warmed up. I hope these Tigers live up to their reputation . . .”
“Can’t be worse than those Panzer III’s. The shells bounced right off the T-34’s like the rounds were made of paper.”
Sauer nodded. “That was quite a shock. Here we thought they were done, then they show up with a whole new tank, better than any of ours.”
“Village ahead,” announced Sauer’s aid, scanning the horizon with binoculars. As if in answer, Erik observed flashing lights and drifting smoke. Moments later a sharp report thundered across the sky followed by the whistle of incoming shells. The panzers returned fire, a massive echoing boom of the 88-millimeter cannon sending shockwaves through Erik’s ears. He covered them with his hands.
Incoming shells rained down in random fury. Erik saw with satisfaction a shell directly strike a Tiger and bounce off the armor. The steel behemoth kept moving forward as if nothing had happened.
The panzers rained fire down on the village, and in but a few moments the firing from the enemy had ceased. There must not have been more than a tank or two in there, thought Erik. It was suicide to attack this column, but that was typical of the Russians.
The Tigers accelerated, closing the distance with the burning village. The tanks stopped less than a hundred meters from the first houses.
“Better secure the place,” said Sauer. “I don’t want any Molotov cocktails destroying my panzers.”
Erik nodded and jumped down from the armored car. He called his company together. The men assembled in just ten minutes. He noted with approval that his company looked cool and collected, the handful of veterans helping the new men keep their composure under this baptism of fire.
“Pay attention, everyone. Listen up. We’ve got a village or a small town ahead. I don’t know what’s in there, but you can figure at least a few Russians are holding out. There may be some snipers. Everyone stay low and spread out!” He sent two platoons in at a rapid charge, with the third in reserve along with his headquarters support group and mortar unit. He did not bother to set up the heavy machine guns. There wasn’t sufficient time, and the Tigers would fulfill that role if necessary.
The men closed the distance quickly, and Erik was relieved to see no return fire. The tanks must’ve operated alone. His men occupied the village within a few minutes and waited for him to come forward. He jogged through the snow, his breath providing a foggy cloud in front of him as he ran. He noticed he was breathing heavily. Too much time in France.
He saw that his men had done an excellent job securing the location. The sole T-34 tank stood near the front cluster of the village houses. Smoke rose from the crumpled unit. A few dead Russians lay inside. Without exception, the village seemed deserted. Even the peasants were gone.
Erik explored the village further and soon realized this was something of a small town. They’d glimpsed the narrow outskirts from the plains beyond, but there was a rolling ridge that gently declined into a shallow valley below. The small cluster of houses his company occupied led to more houses dotted down the rolling hill and widened into a thicker cluster a few hundred meters away. This cluster contained a small downtown with several larger buildings and a significant church. Erik scanned the buildings with his field glasses carefully but could find nothing. The whole town seemed empty.
He heard the rumbling of panzers behind him, and soon the main body of the battalion rolled into the village. Major Sauer’s car pulled up and Sauer himself jumped out, his head hawkishly scanning the horizon.
“It’s much bigger than I thought,” he said.
Erik nodded.
“Sent anyone down there yet?”
“No, but I’ve scanned the area pretty carefully with these,” he said, motioning to his binoculars. “The rest of the town seems as quiet as this part.”
Sauer scanned his watch. “It’s almost three. Might be nice to give the boys a hot meal and a warm place to sleep tonight. Orders are for us to keep pushing forward.” Sauer grinned and gave Erik a wink. “I think I might ignore those for now. Captain, issue the instructions.”
Erik called a few men together. He sent a lead platoon into the main part of the town, a couple of panzers rolling after them. In a few minutes, he received the all clear, and the rest of the men made their way to the main part of the city. The downtown was only one street, barely two blocks long. This was full of abandoned storefronts with broken windows.
In the very center a two-story brick building with a large portrait of Stalin towered above the rest of the structures. This must be their city hall, Erik realized. The building was composed of light sandstone. The exterior walls were pitted with rifle bullets and tank shells, proof positive of heavy fighting in this area before. Erik wondered how many times the small town had changed hands, what it would’ve been like to live here, through it. There had to have been fathers, mothers, children, elderly—all gone now. Most of them probably dead. The Russian civilian casualties in this war were in the millions. Erik knew they had to be. He thought back to some of the things he had seen. Thankfully, he had been spared direct responsibility, the promise he made himself. Except that one time.
The soup wagons were set up in the courtyard in front of the government building. Erik gave further orders for a series of outposts in each direction. He smiled as he heard the men who drew this assignment grumbling. They would have to dig foxholes or find other cover and stand for hours in the freezing cold while everyone else had a warm meal and found shelter in the various houses. What a strange life he lived, where a little hot soup eaten outside in subzero temperatures and the chance to huddle in a dirty, unheated, windowless home felt like the pinnacle of luxury. He wondered if there might be any extra food hidden around somewhere, or, even better, vodka. He doubted it. The town looked picked clean.
He waited while the men lined up and made their way to the food. When everyone had eaten, he took his own bowl and took a portion of the thin, watery soup. He mopped the lukewarm liquid up with stale
bread and munched away, sitting with a group of replacements who nervously asked him questions about the war in Russia. So few men had survived 1941—only nine out of a company of well over a hundred. Most of these privates were mere boys, eighteen-year-olds who were still in the middle of high school when the war began. He was thankful, though; at least these were real Germans. Some of the SS divisions were filled out with French, Dutch, and any other foreigners that Himmler could scrape together.
Major Sauer came over and sat down in the snow, warming his hands and feet at the fire the men had constructed. “How are you doing, Captain?” he asked.
“Well enough.”
“Enjoying the feast?” Sauer joked.
“Never better,” said Erik, grinning in return.
“Look at this.” Sauer handed Erik an envelope.
Erik blew on his hands to try to work out some of the frozen stiffness, and then he unwrapped the paper. It was a letter written to Sauer from his wife, and inside was a photograph. The picture depicted a middle-aged blond woman and two children, a boy and a girl. The girl looked about eighteen, the boy, in a Hitler youth uniform, about sixteen.
“That’s my family,” he said. “My oldest just graduated this last spring. She’s quite the dancer.” Sauer smiled. “You should see her.”
“What is she doing now?” asked Erik.
“Getting ready for university. She took a year off to help my wife with the household. It’s a lot to manage when I’m never there.”
Erik nodded. “My wife lives with my parents so she has a lot of help.” He’d never thought of the burdens that might fall on a wife whose husband had left for war. His parents, at times an added responsibility, nevertheless provided tremendous support.
“My boy there, Peter,” said Sauer pointing to the picture. “He’s quite the football player. Plays forward most of the time but sometimes mid. In another time, he might’ve played professionally, but now I don’t know. If this mess isn’t sorted out soon, he’ll be called up.”
“Surely you can pull some strings?”
“Oh sure, I can get him into the SS, probably with a commission. That’s hardly a delay. A little extra training. But does that help him? Lieutenants die out here faster than the privates.”
Sauer was right. Of the three lieutenants in their original company, Erik was the only survivor. More than that, he’d seen a half dozen more come and go since then. He thought about his own girl, Greta. Almost twelve now. As tall as her mother the last time he’d seen her. On her way to becoming a beautiful young woman. Thank God he would never have to worry about sending her to war. But Gott forbid if they lost this one.
“What will you do when the war is over?” asked Erik.
Sauer chuckled. “Would you believe it if I told you I teach little kids at the gymnasium? Before all this mess I spent my days teaching eight-year-old boys and girls: grammar, music, history, and math.”
Erik was surprised. He assumed the major had always been a soldier. He was stern and martial at all times. He tried to imagine Sauer in the classroom attending to the young children, but he couldn’t make the image fit.
“What will you do?” Sauer asked.
“I don’t really know. I taught history before the economy fell apart, and I lost my job. I came across this by chance, a friend of my wife’s.”
“I know,” chuckled Sauer. “I thought you were too soft for the SS. Remember?”
Erik started to answer, but the head of a private across the fire burst apart in a hurricane of brain and bone, a flash of scarlet rain. Instinctively, Erik fell toward the snow as his senses absorbed explosions and the bullets landing swiftly among them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Königsberg
February 1943
Trude woodenly ran the soap over the cloth and dropped the shirt again into the sudsy warm water. She perched on a stool in the protected courtyard behind Captain Dutt’s home. A tall hedge blocked prying eyes from access to the massive stone enclosure. She came here often, performing chores, trying to keep her mind off the past, the present.
More than a year had passed, and she hadn’t seen her little girl. Poor Britta, locked up in a Gestapo prison cell, protected by Gunther from the worst of what might happen to her, but still caged, alone, afraid. Trude died a little each day since then. At first, she had contemplated suicide—a swift end to the anguish she couldn’t escape. Eventually she’d decided to live. To survive for her little girl. If there was any chance of saving Britta, she needed to stay alive.
In the past year, Captain Dutt had risked everything to secure Britta’s release. He had contacts all over Königsberg, but in every case, he was met with a sympathetic but firm refusal. Gunther was only interested in one deal for the girl: he wanted the location of the mother. The SS officer knew she was out there somewhere, and that she must have a powerful connection. For each contact made, there was a stab back. A grasp at information from the Gestapo. Captain Dutt gambled with his life. Someday, Trude knew, he would go too far. He would trust someone he shouldn’t. If that happened, the Gestapo would materialize abruptly, and they would arrest not only her, but everyone in his household.
She lived with that irreconcilable guilt. She had to risk the lives of everyone who protected her, to save herself and her daughter. At least there was some hope because she continued to receive some updates about Britta. She had heard nothing else about Johannes in all this time. They’d tried to find out more, but Dutt’s only source was gone, on the eastern front now. Everything was silent.
She pulled the shirt back out and scrubbed it again sharply against the metal washboard. She didn’t need to do this. Captain Dutt had a machine for washing. She didn’t care. The chore kept her busy. The pain from the blisters and the bloody hands dulled the scorching agony of her mind. She ran the cloth back and forth vigorously, the grooves tearing at her flesh, letting the physical pain burn through her, cleanse her.
“That’s a waste of time.” The gruff voice drifted over her shoulders. She turned. Captain Dutt held his cane in both hands, leaning heavily, watching her intently. She didn’t know how long he’d been there.
“It feels good to be out here.”
“It’s freezing. You’re out of your mind.”
“I’m allowed to be.”
He took an unsteady step toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve some news.”
She looked up, dropping the shirt. “What do you mean?”
“A contact. A hope.”
“For Britta?”
He nodded. “I have just discovered one of my friends has a nephew that works at Gestapo headquarters. This nephew was recently placed on guard duty in a row of cells that contains, among others, a young Jewish girl. A rather special prisoner who is protected by a middle-aged Gestapo agent. A fat one. Sound familiar?”
“Can he help her escape?” She was too afraid to let her hopes rise. They’d been dashed too many times.
He placed his hands out. “Not too hasty now. He’s only a nephew of a friend. I don’t know anything about him. He could be another one of these maniac believers. If so, it will be for the worst for all of us.”
“I put you in too much danger.”
“We aren’t going to discuss that again. We need to make contact, but we have to do so carefully.”
“Why would he betray his country? Certainly not for a Jew.” The captain is going to bribe him, she realized. “I can’t let you pay him. That’s what you intend, isn’t it? No. You can’t. You’ve done too much already.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I don’t even know if he’ll do it, but if he will, it’s not very much money. Far less than your friend Gunther wanted. I still think we should contact them directly.”
“No! You can’t trust Gunther. He’ll pretend to negotiate. He’ll take your money, and then he’ll arrest us all.”
“You don’t know that for sure. He has protected Britta all this time.”
Trude knew this and hated it.
Hated having any sense of gratitude. He didn’t deserve it. She knew Gunther held Britta as bait. He wanted Trude. But why not torture her daughter? Why protect her? She’d tried to understand this so many times in the past year, but she couldn’t come up with an answer.
“How soon can you contact him? The guard, I mean.”
“We’ve already started. I may know more tonight.”
“Who’s going to talk to him?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“It’s Friedrich, isn’t it?” she asked.
Dutt hesitated then nodded. “I don’t know who else to send.”
Trude’s heart sank. If the guard refused, he might arrest Friedrich on the spot or call for help. Again, she was so helpless. Everyone else was putting their lives on the line for her.
“When will he leave?”
“He’s gone already. They’re meeting for a drink after the guard gets off duty.” He looked at his watch. “They might already be there.”
“Thank you,” she said, dunking her hands back into the warm water to retrieve the shirt.
“Trude . . .”
“I’m all right,” she said, not looking up. She returned to washing the shirt, then wrung it out over the bucket, twisting the cloth over and over to remove the moisture before hanging the cloth on a line attached to the corners of the stone wall of the house. She had a basket full of clothing, and she cleaned each item one by one, trying to work through the minutes and the hours before Friedrich would return.
Eventually she made her way inside and sat through a quiet dinner with Captain Dutt and several members of the staff. The captain had a huge dining room that would seat more than twenty people, but he never used it except on formal occasions. Typically, he would eat at a small table in the kitchen with the staff. Tonight, he instructed the cook to take the night off, so they ate cold sandwiches and soup while they quietly sipped white wine.
The captain made a few attempts at conversation that Trude found she could not answer. Soon he stopped trying, and the minutes ticked by in silence.
A Bitter Rain Page 20