A Bitter Rain

by James D. Shipman

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Near Kharkov, Russia

  February 1943

  Erik sat in the frozen snow, his hands bound tightly behind him. Two guards stood over him, weapons drawn. He was turned facing the church. Major Sauer had ordered that he watch what was about to happen.

  He could hear the screams from inside. The desperate pleading in Russian that didn’t need translation. Members of Major Sauer’s staff were busily stacking wood all around the base of the structure. Others doused the walls with jerricans of gasoline. Sauer stationed himself directly in front of the structure, calling out orders and sharply barking commands. Throughout the process he never looked Erik’s way.

  Finally, the preparations had been made and Sauer gave the order. A sergeant lit a homemade torch consisting of a long wooden broom handle with a rag wrapped around the end, soaked in gasoline. The torch ignited immediately, and the sergeant tossed it onto the stacked wood, which burst into a roaring flame. At first the fire merely licked at the foundation, but soon an inferno swallowed the building.

  The screams inside deepened from begging to terror, to the shrieking agony of pain. The prisoners screamed in a bloodcurdling symphony, their cries reaching a terrifying crescendo before fading off to silence. The fire belched out a sweet, cloying fragrance. The battalion stood in silence, the flames flickering in the growing darkness. In less than an hour it was over. The church collapsed in on itself and soon devolved to glowing embers, the sole remaining evidence that the building or the lives of those hundreds of Russians within had ever existed.

  Only when the fire had burned low did Major Sauer return his attention to Erik. The major’s face was red from the heat. His blue eyes threatened to burst out of his skull with a fanatical euphoria as he strode swiftly back and stood in front of Erik. He jerked a thumb back at the crumbling embers.

  “You see this!” he shouted. “Nothing you did changed anything. They’re all dead. None of them can hurt any of us ever again. I just made room for another German family to farm these lands. I took another step for the future. Our future.”

  Erik shook his head, not knowing what to say.

  “Why did you refuse me?” said the major. He softened. “You are my friend, Erik, my only friend here.” He stepped closer, his voice a whisper. “Take it back,” he said, his voice pleading. “Say you were exhausted from the battle. Apologize to the men. If you do, all will be forgiven. I can make that happen. Please, I beg you. You saved my life. Let me save yours.”

  The major was offering him everything. His life back. His future. What should he do? Could he condone what had just happened? Feign a moment of weakness? He knew what Corina would tell him to do. She would be furious with him. How could he destroy everything over a few dead Russians? What would his father say? He wasn’t sure. Certainly, he was only following orders. But to kill hundreds of unarmed people? He looked around. Nobody else in the entire battalion had hesitated to follow the major’s orders. Why should he be different?

  He’d made his compromise long ago. He would not stand up to atrocities, but he would commit none himself. Now the major was giving him an out even for that. He had taken no part in this; all he had to do was make these excuses and all would be well.

  He was ready to acquiesce. The words were on his lips. But something stopped him. This was too far. He didn’t know what the difference was, but he couldn’t remain who he was and take this final step. Without thinking further, he shook his head.

  The major’s eyes grew wide in surprise and his cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe you. You’ve been my brother. I would’ve given you the world. And now for this,” he said, motioning to the burned church, “for nothing, you give up everything.” He tilted his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry, Erik, I cannot help you further.” Sauer walked slowly away, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

  Erik wanted desperately to call him back, to beg forgiveness, to take the offered excuse, but he could not force himself to do so. He sat that way into the night, watching the stars come out above the remains of the church still glowing in embers. He watched the men busy themselves with their evening meal and then go off in small groups into the deserted houses to find some rest. He was freezing in the snow, but he could not rise, could not move. The church no longer gave out any warmth, and he shivered in the darkness. He couldn’t sleep or think. He didn’t know what would happen next.

  At dawn a car arrived and an SS officer he didn’t recognize stepped out. The officer spoke with Sauer for a few moments, turning to glance at Erik before saluting to the major. He stepped over toward Erik. His face was hard, almost angry. He was flanked by two guards with machine pistols held at the ready.

  “You are the prisoner Mueller?” asked the officer in crisp, clipped Pomeranian German.

  “Jawohl.”

  “Don’t look at me!” The officer snapped. “You are a traitor to the Fatherland. My name is Lieutenant Messerschmidt, and I’m taking custody of you. You will do what you are told when you are told. Do you understand?”

  Erik nodded, staring at the ground.

  “Get up, we are leaving now.”

  “Where we going?”

  “Keep your mouth shut!” ordered Messerschmidt. He motioned to one of the guards, who stepped forward and kicked Mueller in the face with his jackboot. The blow sent Erik spinning, and he hit the snow hard, his chin and nose scraping against the mud and ice. As his body twisted and jerked itself, his back, which had not recovered from the fall yesterday, wrenched again and sent searing pain through his body.

  The guards roughly grabbed his arms, pulling him to his feet. His back exploded and he screamed in agony.

  “Silence,” ordered Messerschmidt. “Blindfold this worthless dog!” A dark piece of cloth was tied tightly to his head, and he was pushed and dragged, then roughly shoved into the back seat of the car.

  The automobile was still running, and he felt the motion as the vehicle lurched to life. They traveled over bumpy roads for what seemed an age. For the most part it was quiet, punctuated by whispered conversations he couldn’t quite make out. Erik could hear the dull thud of artillery in the background. He asked about it but was told again that he was not to speak. Time passed slowly.

  It must’ve been hours until finally the vehicle slowed and he felt the car turn off the main road. The vehicle stopped, the engine was turned off, he heard the door open, and rough hands ripped him out of the car. He felt a new rush of pain, but he gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw, and managed not to make a sound.

  He was walked slowly a few dozen meters and then pulled up some stairs and shoved into a seat again. He felt the handcuff being clipped tightly to his wrist and then connected to something next to him.

  “Prisoner Mueller, can you hear me?” said Messerschmidt.

  Erik nodded.

  “You’re being transported to Berlin to await trial. I’m your escort. We are on the train. You are not to speak until spoken to. If you must go to the bathroom, you will ask permission. That is the only reason you may talk. Do you understand?”

  Erik nodded. “What’s going to happen to me?” he asked.

  A stinging slap ripped across his face. His mouth filled with liquid and he spat, tasting blood.

  “You may be used to giving orders instead of receiving them, but I assure you that time is past. If you open your mouth again, you’ll wake up in Berlin, if you ever wake up at all.”

  Erik sat miserably in the silence. He wished he could talk to Sauer again. Not to relent, but to ask him to reconsider. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. They had been close friends, but always the gaping rift existed between them. A difference in ideology that could never be bridged.

  Erik felt the train lurch into motion and soon gather speed until he felt the familiar clip-clap as the car sped over the rails and away from the front. For days, they traveled that way. He would doze off and on. Occasionally he was handed a slice of bread. He religiously followed the lieutenant’s instruc
tions only to speak when requesting to go to the bathroom and thereby avoided any further blows. He was alone with himself, his mind racing, fear swallowing the beats between the aching agony of his back and the occasional fitful nap. He was moved once, from one train to another, shifting from the wide gauge of the Russian line to the narrower German rails. The seemingly endless journey continued.

  Finally, the train stopped and he was pulled to his feet. He didn’t know how many days they had been traveling. Each had merged into another in the dreadful and eternal agony.

  He was moved down the narrow corridor of the train. He felt so weak he could hardly walk, but hands were all over him, pushing and pulling. He was thrown into another car and whisked through the streets. He hadn’t heard the sound of wheels on pavement in some time. The smooth surface was so unlike the endless mud and icy dirt of Russia. The vehicle traveled for about an hour and then came to a halt. His blindfold was removed, and for the first time in days he could see where they were. At first the light was too blinding, but as he adjusted he could make out the inside of a building of some kind.

  He blinked painfully, trying to get his bearings. The room was no bigger than an average office, with a single bare bulb hung from the ceiling. He was surrounded by SS in black uniforms, the skull and crossbones of the Totenkopf embossing their caps.

  Lieutenant Messerschmidt stood before him. The officer reached up and with scorn tore the insignias of rank off Erik’s uniform. He ripped off Erik’s medals, throwing everything to the ground and stomping on them. The men jeered and mocked Erik as he endured this humiliating ceremony.

  Messerschmidt looked back to his men, nodding and apparently sharing some kind of joke. He spun violently around and flailed out, punching Erik in the face. The blow caught Erik by surprise, landing hard on his cheek. The force knocked him backward and he fell over, still in his chair. He rolled out of the seat and curled up as blow after blow rained down on his back, his stomach, and his head.

  He felt sharp, wrenching pain from so many different directions he was unable to process it. He felt a hot blackness covering him and all was dark. He awoke later, disoriented. His body ached everywhere. He was naked, lying in the fetal position on the hard concrete floor.

  Looking around groggily, he realized they had moved him into a tiny cell. A heavy iron door covered the entrance with a tiny glass window. He tried to rise, but the pain was too great. His back hurt worst of all, along with his right arm. He stared down and saw, horrified, that it was broken. His eyes were puffy and felt like they were spilling out of his skull. His lips were cut in several places. He was freezing. He closed his eyes again and lay there, shivering and in wretched pain. He could not remember ever feeling such agony, even on the freezing steppe of Russia. The darkness spun around him and soon he was overwhelmed again, and he lay there unconscious, alone in this wretched place, a hell on earth.

  He woke abruptly later. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but the agonies had dulled to a throbbing soreness all over his body. His arm and back still burned, but otherwise the pain was bearable. As he struggled to get his bearings, a tiny slat at the bottom of his cell door was unlocked and a tray of food shoved into the cell. There were some cold beans smeared on the tray along with a small piece of bread. He grabbed the crust and sopped it through the beans, hungrily gulping down the food in a few greedy bites. The meager portion was gone quickly and hardly satisfied the first tinge of his hunger, leaving him almost more ravenous than before. The door swung open, and an SS guard stared down at him with contempt.

  “How pathetic,” the stranger said and threw a couple of articles of gray cloth onto the ground, slamming the door shut harshly behind him. Erik fumbled gratefully for the tattered, coarse trousers and faded rank-less tunic. The clothes were several sizes too large, but Erik didn’t care. He was thankful to feel less vulnerable and to have something to assuage the freezing chill of the cell.

  He pulled himself up to a sitting position and rested his back in the corner farthest from the door. His back and arm seared in pain from the effort of moving, but the food and clothing had perceptibly improved his condition. He found he could think.

  So much had happened so quickly he hadn’t considered his condition in any detail since he refused the final plea from Sauer. He’d had time on the train, but he’d felt too distant, too numb. Now that he was able to think clearly he was terrified about what might happen. However, he was not without hope. Although it was true he had refused a direct order, it was also a reality that Major Sauer had committed mass murder and ordered him to do the same. How could the SS possibly try him for refusing such a command?

  Erik knew that there were many instances of atrocities on the eastern front. He had seen many and heard of far worse. But none of it was condoned officially or discussed publicly. In fact, not only did the government deny any of these atrocities even occurred, the Nazis had even gone out of their way to prosecute a few soldiers who had committed them. Could he be tried on the record for refusing to burn hundreds of unarmed Russian prisoners in a church? No, they might demote him, transfer him, or quietly punish him, but if he launched an official protest and demanded a trial, there was some hope he would be vindicated and ultimately released.

  Here was the problem, though: How to make his situation public? Nobody even knew he was here. He had to reach out to the outer world. Otherwise they might quietly execute him in a cell and nobody would ever know. It would be the easiest thing in the world to simply inform Corina that he had been killed on the eastern front fighting the Russians. A part of him realized perhaps this might be for the best. Then they would not take away his rank and humiliate his family. Corina would become a widow, respected in the community. The wife of a dead hero. Perhaps he should even request this?

  No! He wanted vindication. He wanted to live. If he allowed himself to be killed, the world would never know what he stood up for, what he defied. He wanted justice.

  The door opened again abruptly, jolting him out of his thoughts. He looked up. Lieutenant Messerschmidt was there. “Bring him!” he shouted.

  Two burly SS privates forced their way into the cell. He tried to resist them, but he was far too weak. The guards grabbed him by the arms, jerking him onto his feet, wrenching his back and arm again as they dragged him out of the cell. He was pulled out of the small enclosure and down a narrow stone hallway, passing dimly lit cells before they came to a barrier at the end of the hallway. Another SS guard unlocked it, and they pulled him through and down another long corridor with a second barred entrance.

  They finally approached a door. A guard reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He tried several of them and eventually found the right one. He opened the door. Inside was a lonely table and two chairs, nothing else. The guards dragged him to a seat and thrust him down. Lieutenant Messerschmidt lowered himself into the chair opposite Erik across the table. The guards stood behind Erik on each side. Messerschmidt tugged on the bottom of his tunic as he sat, straightening the cloth until it was tailor fit. He scanned his decorations for a moment, making sure all was in order before looking back to Mueller. The lieutenant’s face was a mask of cold, calculated fury.

  “Talk,” he said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Messerschmidt nodded, and Erik felt a hard crash on the back of his head. One of the guards had struck him. He felt the bright flashing lights and he blinked several times, trying to maintain his balance on the chair. Finally, he could refocus on the lieutenant.

  “Talk,” Messerschmidt repeated.

  “I need to reach my family.”

  Messerschmidt nodded again. Another crushing blow landed on the back of Erik’s head.

  “Talk.”

  “I . . . I was ordered to set fire to a church full of hundreds of Russians. Ordered by Major Sauer. I refused.”

  Messerschmidt looked at him for a moment and then scoffed. “You lie.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s what happened
.”

  “Nonsense. I have Major Sauer’s report right here,” said Messerschmidt, picking up a brown folder and opening it to scan the contents. “Sauer was wounded and unconscious. When he came to, he saw you commanding the burning of the church over his protests. He directly ordered you to stop, but you merely laughed at him and continued. He was too weak to stop you.”

  “That’s not true!” exclaimed Erik. “He gave the order to kill the Russians. I was the one who refused!”

  “Funny. That’s not how the rest of the battalion saw things. Major Sauer’s report is countersigned by three other officers and a dozen enlisted men. They all agree under oath that Major Sauer’s recitation of the facts is richtig.”

  Erik was incredulous. He would never have anticipated this strategy. Sauer had turned everything on him, and other officers and men had apparently gone along. Of course they would, he realized. The cowards—they would do anything Sauer told them to do, particularly after what had happened to Erik.

  Erik shook his head. “That’s not what happened. Sauer was the one ordering me to burn the church.”

  Messerschmidt nodded and the guard struck him again.

  “Stop it!” yelled Erik. “I’m telling the truth.”

  Messerschmidt leaned forward across the table, putting his lips almost against Erik’s ear. “It doesn’t really matter, you know. Truth, lies. No one will believe you. No one will want to. You want to take down a decorated battalion commander with stories of murder. How could we ever let that out? You’re an embarrassment to the party, to the SS. You will never leave here alive.”