“Engine,” he commanded. The driver turned the vehicle off. When the motor sputtered to a stop, Von Duesen listened carefully. He heard nothing. So he waited.
There was no chirp of insects or call of night birds. Perhaps the noise of the half-track had scared them away. And if the rustling he’d seen wasn’t coming from the animals, it could mean only one thing.
Someone was nearby.
“Arms,” he said. His driver and the two other men he brought with him took up their rifles and exited the vehicle. Von Duesen removed the Luger pistol from the holster at his belt.
“Fan out.” He and his sergeant, a man named Eberhardt, took the right side of the half-track and the driver and another private took the left. Slowly, they crept forward, stepping lightly and listening for anything that sounded out of place. Von Duesen’s pulse quickened and he tried to slow his breathing. There was someone close by, he was sure of it.
“Forward,” he whispered. The four of them moved slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He flicked on his flashlight. They walked along the road until they reached the place where he thought he’d seen something move.
“Here,” he whispered. He shone his light on the wheat field and spotted several crushed stalks, bent as if someone had recently tread on them as they passed through.
“Form up,” he said. The four men made a line along the road facing the field. With hand signals, Major Von Duesen motioned them forward. He kept the Luger pointed straight in front of him. They entered the field single file, the others switching on their flashlights. Von Duesen was sure someone was close by. He could feel it. He wished he had brought a dog with him. The dogs were exceptional at tracking runners.
Cautiously, the men inched forward. Von Duesen swept the ground ahead of him with his flashlight. He was not afraid of the Jews. They did not fight back. But if resistance or militia fighters were nearby, the Germans’ lights could give them away.
“Watch the tree line,” he ordered. “If you see anything moving, shoot.”
He followed the tramped-down trail through the wheat field. Someone had definitely come through here. But by the time they had almost reached the tree line, they had yet to spot anyone cowering in the field. Perhaps the runners had rushed across the field earlier and were long gone.
No. He was sure someone was close by. He could sense their fear.
“If you are here,” he called loudly, “you must show yourself. I promise you will not be harmed.”
There was no reply.
“Spread out,” he said quietly.
The men widened the gap between them. Von Duesen waved them forward and they crept along, listening for their prey. But they heard nothing.
Suddenly, Von Duesen thought he heard what sounded like a human gasping for breath up ahead. He held up his hand and his men stopped instantly. Were his ears playing tricks on him? No, he was certain he had heard something. A noise that did not belong in a wheat field in the middle of nowhere.
Slowly, he snuck forward, his pistol raised. He swept the gun back and forth in front of him. They were about twenty-five meters from the tree line. He carefully examined the ground, expecting to discover a group of terrified Jews huddled together, cowering in fear.
But he saw nothing.
Where had they gone?
The Germans were now at the tree line. He glanced behind him. Had they missed these mystery Jews somehow? Unlikely. He turned his attention to the forest ahead and considered his options. There were many more places to hide in the woods. He should have brought along the dogs.
“Mein major?” Sergeant Eberhardt asked. He was waiting for orders.
Major Von Duesen holstered his Luger.
“We will return to camp. Tomorrow when we have the light on our side we will come back and pick up the trail,” he said.
The four men returned to their half-track and turned it back toward the east. It zoomed away in the night.
Silence was life.
Stillness was freedom.
Anton turned his head to the dirt, so light would not reflect off his face. He curled his body tightly and tried to control his breathing, certain he was going to be discovered.
As the sound of the half-track grew nearer, he and Bubbe had hurried toward the tree line. But his grandmother had slowed them down. Behind them, he could hear the engine stop and the men leave the vehicle. He heard orders barked in German.
“Bubbe,” he whispered. “Cover yourself with dirt.” The soil was damp from the recent rains. He dug his hands into the ground and smeared his face and hands with mud. He helped his grandmother cover hers and pulled her shawl up around her face.
“When the soldiers come, you must make yourself as small as possible and keep your face turned to the ground,” he said.
“Be brave, my kinder,” she said. He watched his grandmother curl herself into a ball. Many years of hard work on the farm had made her stiff, and she grunted with the effort.
Anton lifted his head slightly and studied the four men. They were spreading out along the road and he heard automatic weapons being cocked. The noise of the guns carried across the field so loudly he felt as if the sound was cutting through him. When the gestapo entered the wheat field, he ducked down, burrowing into the ground as best he could.
I must not look, he thought to himself. I must not look. He repeated the words over and over in his mind.
Anton focused on the sound of the approaching men. Their boots whispered through the wheat stalks. He wondered if he and Bubbe had somehow been spotted. The approaching vehicle had caught them by surprise. Anton willed himself to total stillness, praying that he could make himself invisible. To Anton, the men’s footsteps sounded louder than cannon fire and he was certain his heart would explode. The voice of one of the soldiers startled him so much he nearly cried out.
Bubbe spoke several languages. Because of the war, he had not been able to attend school. But Bubbe had been teaching his lessons, and for the past several months she had been instructing him in German. So far he could understand and write it better than he could speak it. He heard the man ordering him and Bubbe to show themselves. Telling them that they would not be harmed. Anton wondered how this could be true. Their guns said otherwise.
Silence was life.
Despite the cool night air, Anton was sweating. He could not believe the men did not hear his heart hammering in his chest. He tried to keep his breathing regular, but it was difficult because he was so afraid.
The men were moving again. They would be upon him in moments. Should he run? Should he take Bubbe by the arm and make a break for the trees? No. They would never make it. The soldiers would gun them down before they had taken more than a step.
The soldiers inched closer. One of them was only meters away. The man’s steps sounded like thunder. Anton desperately wanted to look, but he did not dare.
Stillness was freedom.
Every muscle in Anton’s body tensed as he readied for rough hands to grab him and jerk him to his feet. But the man passed him by. Anton could hear him moving toward the trees. The soldier had walked right between him and Bubbe—huddled a couple meters apart—and not seen either of them.
What should they do? Would the men enter the forest? If they did, should he and Bubbe try to escape? Instinct told him to remain still.
A few moments later he heard the soldiers talking among themselves. They spoke in hushed, hurried tones. He could not hear well enough to understand. But he could tell that a decision had been reached. He glanced up quickly to see the men turning back and heading in his direction once again. Surely, he and Bubbe would be discovered.
Closer they came. But this time they were not as cautious. They hurried through the field and returned to the half-track. Anton heard the engine start and the vehicle roar away in the night.
He and Bubbe waited a few more minutes, then stood up. Bubbe groaned with the effort. She picked her way across the field slowly, taking sharp breaths as her joints crea
ked. Anton wished she could move faster, in case the Nazis returned. He took her by the arm to steady her while she walked.
“You are a good boy, kinder,” she said, patting him on the wrist.
“Thank you, Bubbe,” he said. “We must hurry.”
“They will not return tonight,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I am old and wise. But my hearing is still young.” Bubbe cackled with laughter. “And my German is better than yours.”
Anton had to smile. But as they made their way toward the shelter of the woods, Anton couldn’t help looking over his shoulder.
Von Duesen had caught so many Jews in the last twenty-four hours his commanding officer, General Steuben, did not mind that his night reconnaissance had been a bust. Von Duesen stood ramrod straight in the general’s quarters as he finished his debriefing. A large map of the area was pinned to the wall.
“Today we searched all around this area here.” Von Duesen pointed out his route. “We found many abandoned farmhouses and took a total of thirty-six prisoners into custody.”
“Excellent work, Major,” the general said. Von Duesen nodded in appreciation.
“Once the area is Judenfrei and the country is ours, we will be able to relocate many of our people here. The farming is excellent, the soil quite fertile. This may become the fuel that drives the Reich to conquer all of Europe. The land here could grow enough crops to feed thousands—maybe millions.” General Steuben grew excited at the thought. The gestapo knew the führer’s master plan. Once this area was cleared of Jews and the Russian army was defeated, Hitler would relocate German citizens here to farm and expand the empire.
“Ja,” the general went on. “Ukraine is indeed rich in resources. When the Russian army is crushed, we will control an entire continent. Our enemies will fold like tents in the wind before the might of the Reich.”
“Heil Hitler,” Von Duesen said as he performed the traditional salute. But part of him doubted the boasting general. Karl’s brother, Heinz, was serving with a German infantry battalion on the Russian front. In truth, the German army was retreating after vicious fighting in the city of Stalingrad. The Battle of Stalingrad had been a disaster. Heinrich had written him that though the Russians were outnumbered, outgunned, and without supplies, they simply refused to give up.
In the end, the Russians would not be broken. They called upon every able-bodied citizen, including children, women, and old men—anyone able to hold a rifle—and they fought like demons. They made the soldiers of the Reich pay in blood for every plot of soil they took. The German army was now regrouping in the east, while the Russians licked their wounds and prepared to go on the offensive. The führer was considering what to do. The word from London was that the Americans and British were not ready to attempt to retake Europe. They had overwhelmed the German army in North Africa and were on the move against vastly inferior Italian troops in Italy. But for now, the Reich held the bulk of Europe and had only the Russians to contend with. Millions of angry, bloodthirsty Russians who wanted revenge.
But Von Duesen was not yet ready to believe the Reich could be defeated. Their blitzkrieg tactics had earned them control over almost the entire European continent. Setbacks in Africa and Russia were nothing to worry about. Karl was a believer. He always had been. Born in Munich to a wealthy family, he had been a prominent leader in the Hitler Youth movement during his university days. When he graduated he had joined the army. Karl was smart, but more importantly he was cunning. And he had moved up quickly through the ranks. Now he was the youngest officer of his rank in the gestapo. His tall, strong body, cropped blond hair, and intense blue eyes made him a poster boy for the führer’s master race. An Aryan nation that would rule the world.
No. He shook the negative thoughts from his head. The Reich would prevail. Of this he was certain. Adolf Hitler had restored the pride of the German people after the humiliating defeat of World War I. And when they conquered their enemies this time around, a glorious new day would dawn. He was glad to do his part.
“What are my orders, mein general?” he asked.
“The same, Major,” he replied. “The same.”
Von Duesen smiled. Tomorrow he would return to the field. And he would hunt.
Soon, all of Ukraine would be Judenfrei.
“Where are we going, Bubbe?” Anton asked as they trekked through the dark woods toward Verbata. It was slow going. They picked their way carefully across the forest floor. Anton guided Bubbe over knobby roots and under low-hanging branches to make sure she did not fall.
“Your uncles have found a shelter for us,” she said. “Dmitri says it’s big enough to hide us and many other Jewish families. But he and Pavel have not told me where it is. They will find us and lead us there. If the gestapo captures us before then, we cannot reveal the location if we do not know it.”
Anton thought about that. It was a good plan. However, after the encounter with soldiers earlier he decided he would feel better if he knew where they were going. The forest hid them temporarily, but soon they would once again have to cross open ground.
“They were not at the crossroads,” Anton said.
“I’m sure they saw the soldiers. Do not worry, kinder. They will find us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have faith. God will provide.” The way she said it told him the subject, as far as she was concerned, was closed.
Looking up at the stars that peeked through the clouds, Anton was fairly certain they were headed north. Finally, they emerged from the forest onto a dirt path through another wheat field. The going was easier now and they made better time.
Until Anton heard the snap of a branch up ahead and stopped in his tracks.
“Shh, Bubbe. Wait,” Anton whispered. Taking her by the arm, he led her off the path and back into the wheat. Snap! Whatever was making that sound, it was getting closer. Anton spied a wagon pulled by a team of horses and driven by two men. All he could tell was that they were dressed in dark clothing. But he dared not call out. Collaborators were everywhere. Sometimes, they captured Jews and took them to the Germans, hoping for a reward. Other times they simply reported the Jews’ whereabouts. Who was to say the men in the wagon were not dangerous?
“Muter?” one of the men whispered. Mother. Anton sighed in relief, recognizing his uncle Dmitri’s voice. He and Bubbe stepped into the road as the wagon rolled to a stop.
“Uncle Dmitri!” Anton tried, and he could not keep the excitement out of his voice.
Dmitri smiled at his nephew. “We thought you might come this way when we saw the gestapo in the wheat field,” he said. “This is Sergei, a baker from Verbata. He’s lent us the use of his wagon. Come, now. We must hurry.” The two older men helped lift Bubbe into the wagon seat. Dmitri drove the team, while Anton and Sergei settled into the back of the wagon, which was loaded with supplies. They sat atop a number of burlap sacks. Anton smelled potatoes and cabbage.
Bubbe stared at Dmitri and pursed her lips. “Where is Pavel?” she demanded.
Dmitri sighed. Anton could tell his uncle did not want to answer. But Bubbe would not be denied. “He’s gone. To the militia. He knew you would not understand. But he loves you, Muter. He promises to come back to you.”
Bubbe closed her eyes and did not speak a word. What was there to say? Pavel’s fate was now in God’s hands.
“Where are we going, Uncle Dmitri?” Anton asked.
“Someplace safe,” Dmitri said.
“Is it far?” he pressed his uncle.
“It is as far as it needs to be, Anton,” Dmitri said. “Many Jews have been taken. We cannot outrun the German army. So we will run as far as we can. Then we will hide.”
Anton was about to ask another question, but his uncle interrupted him. “I understand you are nervous and afraid. But we must travel quietly. The noise of the wagon will drown out the approach of foot patrols. We must be silent and listen and watch. Pay attention to the sounds
of the night birds. Study the horizon. If you see something, say something. I promise all of your questions will be answered soon.”
Anton did as his uncle instructed. The four of them traveled along the path in silence. The ground was rough and uneven, and the wagon squeaked and groaned as the horses plodded over the bumpy terrain.
With each passing moment, Anton grew more uneasy. The encounter with the soldiers in the wheat field had completely unnerved him. Up until now, the war, the Nazis, and their Judenfrei policy had all seemed like some distant, abstract thing. Just gossip that the elders in the village square used to add drama to their stories. Newspapers used the rumors to frighten people and sell more papers.
But tonight he had seen the soldiers walk past him, close enough to touch. Soldiers with guns who would shoot him down if they spotted him. Everything he had heard was true. He was just a twelve-year-old boy and yet they hunted him. He had broken no laws, done nothing wrong. He was simply born Jewish. How could anyone want to kill him for it?
As the wagon rolled on, he could not help but imagine that there were Nazis watching him now. Perhaps they hid in the shadows, following the wagon until it arrived at their hiding spot. Once there, the gestapo would burst from their hiding places and capture Anton’s family and the others who were only looking for a safe place to hide.
Bubbe had told stories of the pogroms, tales of how the old Russian czar had sent Cossacks—his soldiers—into Jewish villages all over Ukraine. Thousands of Jews were dragged from their homes and shops. The lucky ones were only forced to watch their homes and businesses burned to the ground. The unlucky ones were murdered. His other grandmother, Ruth, had been unlucky. Those who could fled in fear. Now they were running again. And this time they were being hunted. Bubbe would often tell Anton that she hoped a day would come when he might live as a Jew without fear. That day seemed a long way off.
Anton tried to do as his uncle instructed. He strained to listen to the sounds of the night. He scanned the horizon for suspicious movement. The fact that it was a moonless night was a blessing and a curse. The lack of light kept them hidden, but it cloaked their enemies as well. The farther they traveled, the more ragged and nervous his breath grew. Sweat crawled across his forehead and trickled down his cheeks, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
The Enemy Above Page 2