Playing With Matches

by Lee Strauss

  And he hadn’t even flown a plane.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  THEY WERE ready for the Americans when they arrived. They came with a convoy of army trucks, guns ready, but they showed no resistance, their arms were straight in the air in surrender.

  “I’m scared,” Günther said.

  “So am I,” Emil answered. The Americans leaped out of their vehicles, rifles directed at them.

  “Do you think they’ll shoot us, Emil?” Günther whimpered.

  “Shut up!” said Hans. “You’re going to get us all shot!”

  The leader of the American troop indicated to his men to lower their weapons.

  “I am Sergeant Corporal Elliot Jones. Who is the leader here?”

  Most of Emil’s crowd didn’t understand English. Would they shoot them if they didn’t answer correctly?

  “Reimer.” The Sergeant waved over one of his soldiers.

  “Wer is der Leiter?” Reimer said.

  They waited for Albert Jäger to step forward. He didn’t.

  What a pig! Emil thought. Where was all his brave macho talk now?

  Finally, they all turned to stare at him. An invisible spotlight. Sergeant Jones strolled right to him and stood directly in front of his face. Emil would swear Albert was shaking.

  “Are you the leader here?” Reimer said. “Sind sie der Leiter?”

  “Ja.”

  “Direct your men into the trucks.”

  Albert ordered them to climb into the back of the American army trucks. Emil had nothing but his light jacket and a small satchel that contained a pair of socks, a comb and a letter from home, an old one from Katharina. They dumped the contents out onto the ground before returning it to him. They let him keep the letter.

  They drove them to an old monastery that was set up to serve as a prisoner of war camp. One of the American soldiers set up a large sign, written in both English and German. It said:

  Give me five years and you will not recognize Germany again. - Adolf Hitler.

  It wasn’t just their group. It was filled with German POWs, mostly young men like Emil and very old men with thin silver hair and gray, stubbly whiskers.

  “Will they let us stay together?” Günther whispered.

  “I hope so.”

  The one they called Reimer instructed Emil and Günther to follow him. He took them to the kitchen and told them to wash the dishes.

  Emil and Günther did what they were told. Reimer stayed with them directing the work in the kitchen and even pitching in to help.

  Eventually, they finished washing the stacks of dirty plates and Emil and Günther worked to polish the kitchen. They wouldn’t stop until permitted to.

  Reimer watched them, puffing on a cigarette. “They sure taught you boys how to work, I’ll give them that much,” he said in German.

  Did he expect Emil to say thank you?

  “You don’t look old enough to be in the army,” he said. “How old are you boys, anyways?”

  Günther looked like a scared rabbit. Emil answered for him. “He’s fourteen, I’m sixteen.”

  “Just kids,” Reimer muttered. Maybe so, but Emil felt like an old man. Reimer took a last drag and dropped the cigarette, squashing it under his boot.

  Emil and Günther looked at each other. Should they clean it up?

  Reimer left the kitchen and Emil rushed to sweep the cigarette butt up and dispose of it.

  It was camp life, but far easier than any camp Emil had ever been to. Reimer took a liking to him and Günther.

  “Reimer is a German name,” Emil said to him one day.

  “So.”

  “But you’re American?”

  “Yes, but my parents immigrated to America from Germany. If they hadn’t, I would have been here, fighting for Hitler.” He looked at Emil oddly. “I could have been just like you.”

  The next day, Sergeant Jones ordered all of the prisoners to line up, twenty in a line, ten deep, with their hands up.

  What now? Emil thought. Surely, if they meant to do them harm, they already would have.

  One by one the American soldiers left the yard. It didn’t strike Emil as strange until there were only two left. All the blood in Emil’s arms had drained out long ago and they throbbed, but he didn’t dare drop them. No one did.

  Then, only one American soldier remained on guard. After a short time, he too, left.

  All of the prisoners remained standing, arms raised with no one guarding them.

  “What’s going on, Emil?” Günther said.

  “I don’t know.”

  Eventually one of the older men dropped his hands. Nothing happened. No sniping from the towers. Then another dropped his hands, and another. Still nothing. They all dropped their hands, rubbing their arms viciously.

  “We’re alone!”someone shouted.

  Emil couldn’t believe it. The Americans had left them?

  The German POW’s raced to the entrance and sure enough; all the American army trucks were gone.

  They were free to go.

  “What should we do now?”Günther looked small and frightened. Emil wished he could offer him more than a shrug.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Go home I guess.”

  The men moved around, dazed, until the truth hit. Then it was almost hysteria. Everyone began rushing away before the Americans changed their minds and came back.

  “You’ll be okay,” Emil said. “Just follow the others who are heading north toward Berlin. I’m going to go back to Passau.”

  Günther swallowed hard, and stared at his feet.

  “Günther?” Emil waited until the boy looked him in the eyes. “It was great knowing you.”

  Günther offered his slender, bony hand. “It was great knowing you, too, Emil.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  HE HADN’T eaten anything since the day before the soldiers left the prisoners in the field. Emil grabbed at his stomach and kept walking. He thought of his parents and his brother, imagining them alive and waiting for him to arrive at their home in Passau. He could see them sitting around the kitchen table, four places set. A roast chicken with potatoes and carrots sat on a platter in the middle, with large glasses of milk for all of them. They were waiting for him to get home so they could celebrate.

  It was this dream that pushed him forward day after day. Then he saw a pillar of smoke rising on the horizon. It could only mean one thing: a farm, which meant food.

  Emil limped across the sloping field, brittle and dry from lack of rain and irrigation. He lost his footing twice, falling, grabbing at his leg, his mouth opening in a teeth-baring groan. The first time he beat the pain, pulling himself back onto his feet, hunger pushing him on. The second time he gave into the primal urge to scream and cry, until sleep threatened to take him again. The warm sun beat down, heavy, his mind lapsing into a drug like state.

  Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew he couldn't stay there; if he did he would die. He pulled himself up again, shaky and quivering. Finally a house came into view. Out of breath, he slipped through the narrow opening of a stiff iron gate and knocked on the door.

  A cup of milk wasn't much but it was more than he'd had in days. He was starting to lose count. Every day was the same. Dry fields on either side of a broken road. Only the weather changed, some days were warm and sunny, others saw spring rain. Despite his limp and the pain, Emil walked. Walking, walking, walking.

  When it rained, he lay down on his back, his mouth open wide, his thirst demanding, but never satisfied, drop by drop. Every so often he’d pass another wanderer, and they’d ask each other for food and leave mutually disappointed. At times, Emil was fortunate to get a ride from a passing farmer and gifted with a small portion of food. It seemed no one had much left over to share with strangers.

  Emil constantly thought of Katharina, longing for one last chance to hold her and kiss her. When the pain of that was too much to bear, he’d switch back to thoughts about his family. Wishing for them to be ali
ve. Father and Mother. Helmut. Just concentrate, one foot after the other.

  A black wave washed over him and his knees gave out. Emil collapsed on the side of the road, semi-conscious. Maybe he would die here? On the side of the road, half-way home. His death would come not from bombs or bullets, but from starvation. He didn't even know for sure if he was walking in the right direction anymore.

  Sleep came unbidden.

  Someone was shaking him. His bad shoulder complained and Emil heard himself groan.

  “Boy? Are you all right? Boy?” It was a woman's voice.

  Groggy, Emil assessed them. A housewife with a gray dress and sweater, low-heeled boots and her short hair pinned back off her face and a young girl, dressed similarly, about twelve.

  They tried to help him stand but his legs were too weak. Somehow they managed to pile him into their wagon and pull him to their home in the next village.

  Soon Emil sipped hot thin soup in a small kitchen, sitting across from his hosts with a blanket around his shoulders. He had already devoured a thick slice of unbuttered bread.

  The woman introduced herself to Emil as Frau Kohn and her daughter, who had yet to speak a word, was called Inge. When Frau Kohn offered him a second bowl of soup, he nodded yes, and by then he was eating slowly enough to answer her questions.

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Emil Radle.”

  “And do you live around here?”

  “No. I am from Passau.”

  “Passau? That is a long way from here.”

  “Yes.” Emil finished the last of his soup, and pushed the bowl away. Inge picked it up and took it to the sink. “I am going the right way, though, aren't I?”

  Frau Kohn nodded. She picked up the tea pot. “Tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She poured him a weak cup and he drank gratefully.

  “Who is in Passau for you?”

  Emil paused. “I left my mother and younger brother there. My father was fighting in the North German Army. We haven’t heard from him.”

  Frau Kohn wiped crumbs off the counter top with a wet cloth. “Why are you so far away from home?”

  Emil sipped his tea then set the cup down. “I was a flight student in Nuremberg. At the Fliegerschule. But, mostly I manned the Flak.”

  Frau Kohn paused, mid-wipe. “I see. That was very dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  She motioned at him with her chin. “Is that how you hurt your leg?”

  Emil shook his head. “That happened in western Ukraine.”

  “On the front? You are so young!”

  “Not young enough, it seems.”

  She rung the cloth out over the sink. “I am tiring you out with all these questions, forgive me. Let me show you where you can sleep.”

  With a mattress, a pillow and blanket, Emil felt like royalty. He fell into a deep sleep.

  Inge woke him the next morning. “Emil? Would you like breakfast?”

  Breakfast was a heady feast of scrambled eggs and coffee. Frau Kohn boasted of her five laying hens in the back yard coop. “We’re far enough away from the cities,” she said in way of explanation. “The soldiers didn’t bother us too much.”

  “Where is Herr Kohn?” Emil asked.

  Frau Kohn bit her lower lip. “He is… missing. We are hopeful that he will return to us soon.”

  Emil nodded.

  She continued, “Inge and I were talking and we would like to give you something for your trip.”

  Besides a satchel full of bread, Emil couldn’t guess what else to hope for. He was in for a big surprise.

  They led him out to a back yard shed and Frau Kohn opened the door. Inge went in and backed out a bicycle. Emil could hardly believe his good fortune. It was old and rusty, but it was like a carriage to him. Anything would be better than walking.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Frau Kohn and Inge nodded in unison.

  “Thank you, thank you.” Emil took the bike, his eyes traveling over the frame. He felt like giving Frau Kohn and Inge a big kiss, but restrained himself. Instead, he stretched out his hand to shake theirs, first Frau Kohn’s and then shy Inge’s. It truly seemed to make them happy to give him this amazing gift.

  Emil said his good-byes and headed off in the direction of Passau. The sun shone brightly and he squinted his eyes against its glare, enjoying the gentle breeze that blew through his hair. He was full and rested and best of all—not walking!

  Emil covered a lot of ground over the next week, until came upon an American Army camp. The American flag flapped in the air and his curiosity was aroused. He wondered if Reimer was there and stopped to stare.

  The American soldier seemed to come out of thin air. Emil hadn’t heard him approach. Suddenly, he was nose to nose with Emil, speaking rapid-fire English.

  He poked at the patch on Emil’s shoulder. On it was a propeller with the name of his flight school inscribed.

  The soldier shouted to someone behind him, and Emil realized he’d made a serious error in judgment.

  He didn’t understand a lot of English, but he did know the word “Nazi.” He decided it was a good time to leave and lifted his foot to press down on the pedal. The soldier jumped in front of him grabbing his bike by the handlebars.

  The soldier spit out angry words while shoving the bike, and Emil lost his balance, falling to the ground. He kicked Emil’s bad leg, and Emil cried out in pain.

  Just then, another soldier appeared. He spoke sharply to the first soldier.

  The angry soldier wound up to kick Emil again. He covered his face, but the second soldier held the first one back.

  The angry soldier shook free from the second one and they argued. The nicer one must have been convincing. Instead of kicking Emil, the mean-spirited soldier snatched his bike out from underneath him and swung it against the flagpole.

  When the men left, Emil stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes and decided he didn’t need to see Reimer.

  Emil tested out his leg. It hurt, but not more than he was used to.

  He picked up his bike and examined it. He shook his head, but gave it a try. He could still ride it, only now it was bent in the middle and it only drove in circles.

  It was back to walking for him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  JULY 19, 1945

  SOMETIMES EMIL would get help and food from strangers; sometimes his hunger would drive him to eating dirt, but each passing day brought him closer to Passau.

  An American soldier pulled up beside him in his army truck. “What are you doing?” he said in German.

  “I’m walking to Passau to look for my family.”

  “Get in.”

  His German was very basic, but Emil got the point. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the soldier, remembering clearly his encounter with the angry one who liked to kick.

  The American noted his hesitation. He asked in German, “Is Passau your home?”

  Emil nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m going that way. I’ll take you there.”

  Emil got in and was shocked when the soldier shared his sandwich.

  “You must register with the American army when we get there,” the soldier said, mouth half full.

  Emil mumbled, “I understand.”

  Two hours later, six weeks after starting his walk from Nuremberg, Emil was dropped off in Passau.

  American soldiers moved through the streets, much like in Nuremberg. They still wore weapons, but since all German artillery had been confiscated, they weren’t threatened.

  Emil limped down the center of his hometown and was lost. He meandered like a drunk, his clothes shredded and soiled; and he smelled like he’d just trekked two hundred kilometers through open sewer, rather than through the rubble of broken highway.

  A store sign hung from one hinge, squeaking rhythmically in the wind. It looked familiar; the image, the words. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes: Jäger’s Shoe repair.

  He was in the righ
t town. What the bombs hadn’t destroyed, five years of neglect had. An unexpected flood of memories filled his head: his childhood, or the small amount allowed him, shopping with Mother, running, playing games with Moritz and Johann in the park, going to church as a family. It was beautiful and safe then.

  And of course, Katharina. A lump formed in this throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut to fight back tears. Lots of painfully beautiful memories of her.

  He collected himself and kept walking. For a moment Emil couldn’t remember, was he sixteen or seventeen? Did he just have a birthday? He didn’t even know the date.

  Emil knew his way home from the park, and the anticipation of reuniting with his family at last propelled him on. How would he find them? Helmut would be twelve by now, or was it thirteen? Was he able to take care of Mother? Did Father make it home from Berlin?

  He knew the odds. It seemed that every family had lost someone. Some families lost everyone. Boom. Gone. No more family. But Emil held out hope. They could be an exception. He made the last turn onto his street, stumbling on the jagged cobblestones.

  Maybe it was the enormous dry knot in his empty stomach, or dehydration, or simply exhaustion. His eyes blurred over, and Emil felt faint. They lived in a two- storey, stucco, row-house.

  It was gone.

  All that remained was a row of burned-out holes, debris, and a silhouette of brick chimneys, tall and erect like a line of over sized soldiers.

  “Mother! Helmut!” With urgency, Emil dragged his bad leg to their house, stepping over broken brick and stone, half burned timbers, until he found the steps to the cellar. Soot and dust stirred like a small storm and he felt the filth land on his face.

  “Mother! It’s me, Emil!”

  Emil stepped down into the blackness. The ash was slippery like oil, and he fell hard on his backside. He bumped down one step at a time. Dry, mold-filled air invaded his lungs and he broke out in a fit of coughing. Emil wiped his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the dark little room. The potato bin was still there, but it was filled with ashes now. Nothing else. Emil hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out all at once.