“No. You are not afraid of me. You are a bully and a coward, but you are not afraid of a tired old woman. You, Herr Major, are afraid of losing.”
“Losing? Losing what? Trust me, old woman, I will not lose you. And if you try to escape I will not hesitate to shoot you down like a dog.”
Now it was the old woman’s turn to throw back her head and laugh.
“You Germans. Such zealots. So self-righteous. You are nothing more than the puppets of a madman. And you cannot see the truth, even when it is right before your eyes.”
“And what truth would that be?”
“You are losing. Your kind always loses.”
“What great failure is befalling the Reich, Jude?”
“Your fear drips off of you. You are losing the war. You know it. Your führer knows it. He sends you out to gather up the Jews. You think us weak and simple. But we know things. The Americans have joined the British, and soon they will gather their forces. In the east, the Russian army chases you back to Rhineland with your tails between your legs. And with the Americans coming from the west, where is the mighty Reich? Right in the middle, waiting to be squashed like a bug.
“And yet your mighty führer wastes his time and resources rounding up poor peasants and farmers. Does this make sense to you, Herr Major? Shouldn’t the führer be readying himself for the storm that is about to descend upon him? Would that not be a better plan?”
“Ha! I give you credit, old woman. You are not afraid to speak your mind.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should take you to the führer himself so he can listen to you tell him how to fight a war.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“The Reich will not be defeated. Do not worry, Jew. You will not live to see a free day again. The führer will smash the Americans and the British. And your mighty Russian army has been reduced to women, children, and feeble old men. They will never reach the Rhineland. When the time is right, we will crush them.”
The old woman raised her hand. “Of course. It worked so well for you in Stalingrad. The Russians are not fighting with their strongest men, and still you could not conquer them. And then there are the Americans. You think they will ever stop until you are defeated? They have millions of men to send. Millions. How many does the Reich have left? A few hundred thousand? How long before your mighty gestapo is in shambles? Do not try to lie to me, Herr Major. Your eyes give you away.”
For reasons he did not understand, this bent, beaten old woman, with her walking stick and her peasant clothes and her wrinkled face, had unnerved him. How did she know so much about the humiliation the Reich had suffered against the communist pigs in Russia? The Reich had been driven out of Africa. The Americans were on the march in Italy, gaining more and more ground. How could she know that the führer was desperately sending reinforcements to the French coast, building bunkers and gun emplacements, as he waited for the imminent invasion? Before he could answer, the half-track slowed. Sergeant Eberhardt turned on the searchlight and swept it across the road in front of them.
“What is it, Sergeant?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, mein major. Perhaps nothing. I thought I spotted something in the road ahead. Perhaps it is one of the Juden from the cave.”
“Stop the truck. Turn off the engine,” he ordered, pulling the Luger from the holster at his belt. He used a machine gun when necessary, but nothing felt as good as the weight of his trusty pistol in his hand. The beam of light danced over the road ahead and into the fields on either side.
“Perhaps this time you will catch an infant.”
“Shut up, Jude, or you will regret it.”
Unafraid of Von Duesen’s threat, the old woman staggered to her feet and shouted, “If you are out there, go to the shadows, they will not fin—” A blow to her face knocked her to the floor of the half-track. The young woman screamed and her son began to wail. Von Duesen pointed his pistol at them. “Silence. Silence now or the boy dies.”
She grabbed her son and pulled him tightly against her chest. She quietly pleaded with him to quiet. He buried his face in her coat as the old woman moaned in pain.
“Ahead, slowly,” Von Duesen ordered. The driver restarted the half-track and now it crawled along the road. The spotlight swept back and forth, searching for any sign of life. But there was nothing to see.
After a short distance, Von Duesen ordered the driver to speed up.
“Perhaps you saw an animal, Sergeant,” said Von Duesen. “Or maybe the shadows are playing tricks on your eyes.”
“Mein major, I think I saw—”
He did not get a chance to finish. Both of the front tires on the half-track exploded with a loud bang. The vehicle swerved, tossing the men about. The driver fought for control and lost as the half-track careened off the road and into the field. It skidded to a stop, and began to sink into the muddy ground.
The half-track had been a half a kilometer away when Anton had reached the edge of the road. Carefully, he’d grabbed small handfuls of nails and tossed them around the path until it was covered. The nails were darkened by rust and blended in well with the dirt road. He set the can down and retreated back into the field. Now he would watch and wait.
He watched as the half-track approached. It had two front rubber tires like a truck, but the rear was powered by metal treads like those found on a tank. The rear of the vehicle was open like a truck bed, and there was a searchlight and a machine gun mounted on the roof of the cab. Anton would not be able to destroy the treads, but if he could flatten the rubber tires, it would be impossible to steer.
Anton held his breath. It would be entirely possible for the half-track to roll right over the nails without a problem. It would require luck for one of them to pierce the tires. But this was his only plan. If the gestapo made it to the road to Borta, he would never be able to keep up. He would lose Bubbe.
Two loud popping sounds cut through the night air, and the half-track pitched to the right. It had worked! Both front tires went flat and the driver lost control of the vehicle. It bounced off the road and into the potato field, where it lurched to a stop and sank in the soft soil.
“Was ist passiert?” the major shouted. What happened? He issued another command and the four soldiers exited the vehicle and took up positions around the half-track, their guns at the ready. Anton thought the Germans looked as if they were about to be attacked by one of the militias or Ukrainian partisans. If they only knew they’d been felled by a twelve-year-old boy!
“Ausbreiten! Ausbreiten!” the major shouted. Each man chose a direction and crept cautiously forward.
Anton knew he was lucky. Now that the men had stopped, they were nervous and could not risk turning on the searchlight for fear of making themselves a target. He watched as the soldiers spread out, carefully moving away from the half-track. One of them was headed right toward Anton. He could see the man silhouetted against the night sky. And the Nazi was not deviating from his course.
What could Anton do? He dared not move. He had no weapon, no way to defend himself. In another thirty meters, the soldier would run right into him.
Anton curled inward, pulling his arms and legs close to himself. He offered up a silent prayer and buried his face. Whatever happened now was out of his hands. As he waited, he could hear the soldier’s footsteps drawing closer. He would not lift his head to see how close the man was. If he looked he might be spotted, and if he was spotted he would surely be gunned down.
Sweat soaked his clothes. It took all his concentration to control his breathing. His nose itched and he longed to scratch it, but any movement now could spell death. Dry weeds and twigs crunched beneath the soldier’s feet. Each step sounded like a cannon shot. Anton guessed the man was no farther than ten meters away now. Every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for discovery. He braced for the gunshot that would surely come. I’m sorry, Bubbe, he thought to himself. I tried. I did not know what else to do. Please forgive me.
“Halten,” he heard the maj
or shout. “Kommen Sie.” The major was ordering the men to return to the half-track. Slowly and cautiously, Anton raised his head and saw the back of the soldier who had been about to trip over him only moments earlier. The major stood next to the vehicle, with Bubbe, Rina, and David clustered nearby.
Quietly, Anton rose to his hands and knees and crept toward the group. He needed to hear what the major would do next. Most likely, he would radio to Borta for another truck to come pick them up. But he did not think the major was stupid. In fact, he was counting on it. A smart man would start walking toward Borta and have the truck meet them on the road. Waiting here, they were exposed.
The major and his men discussed what to do. Bubbe, Rina, and David huddled off to the side. The men spoke loudly, and Anton used the noise of their voices to cover his approach. He was close enough to hear them clearly now. They were speaking quickly, but he managed to understand that they had radioed for someone to pick them up, but there were no available vehicles at the moment.
Anton thought about what he should do now. He had been focused on stopping the half-track, but now that he had done that, he didn’t know what to do next. He would need to think of another way to distract them, something to make them forget about Bubbe long enough to spirit her away. Morning was coming soon. He needed to work quickly.
The major barked out an order, and the group started marching. In single file, he took the lead. Two of his men followed behind him, Bubbe, Rina, and David after that, then the other two men brought up the rear. They marched along the road, and Anton’s heart leapt at the sight of Bubbe’s shadow. Her body bent at the waist and her ever-present walking stick tapped the ground with every shuffling step. He knew she was old, but he also realized that Bubbe would do anything to slow them down, delay them, or otherwise cause trouble. But that came with consequences. And it was why Anton ached to get her away from the gestapo before more of them showed up and his options dwindled.
When they had traveled a safe distance, Anton rose and began to follow them. But he stayed in the field—if one of the soldiers suddenly looked behind them, Anton didn’t want to be seen.
A few minutes later, the group reached the road toward Borta and turned, with Anton at their heels. As he walked, he tried desperately to come up with a plan to free his grandmother.
He was running out of time.
Major Von Duesen was angry beyond belief. He was also on high alert. Someone had sabotaged his vehicle. He suspected that a partisan patrol had seen the half-track and used the opportunity to take it out. Now they were lurking in the darkness.
He had radioed to command in Borta. They would send another truck as soon as one was available. But in the meantime, he and his team were exposed. He had argued with his sergeant about what to do next. Eberhardt hadn’t wanted to leave the cover of the half-track, with its machine gun and searchlight. But Von Duesen worried about snipers. The half-track made them a target. It was better to head to Borta and let another unit recover the vehicle later.
Still, he would not let the sabotage of the half-track interfere with the joy he felt at all he had accomplished this evening. He had rooted out an entire encampment of Jews and taken three prisoners. He was sure his men would round up the others. Yet as he replayed in his mind the conversation he’d had with the old woman, he could not help but let a little doubt creep in. The news of the Reich’s humiliation in Russia, especially at Stalingrad, was now spreading. This was not good. As the führer always said, they must not allow the enemy, especially Juden, to have hope.
Though the German army had done great damage to the Russian war machine, they had not been able to defeat the Russian people. Even the Luftwaffe, the great German air force, had been unable to bring them to heel. He had not lied when he said that the Russians had used women, children, and old men to fight. His brother Heinz’s letters had said that some of the most fearsome snipers in Stalingrad were women. He said the soldiers moved through the city by fighting in one house, then the next house. Heinz would joke that today they had “taken the parlor and the dining room, but the Russians still held the kitchen.”
Last night he had reread the most recent note he had received from Heinz.
Karl,
I realize it has been some time since I have written and though I am exhausted from the fighting, I owe you a letter. Where to begin? I hope the censors will not read this, but what can I do to stop them? We are near defeat. The Russians will not give up. We are running out of ammo, food, and clothing. The winter freezes us to our bones, yet we fight on in the name of the führer. But not even the mighty Luftwaffe has been able to break the Russian spirit.
We have heard that Russian infantry officers are shooting anyone who attempts to retreat on the spot. How can such a people be defeated? Yesterday we fought in a house in Stalingrad against a Russian squad with nothing more than bayonets. The fighting was brutal, exhausting. The Russians cursed us as we retreated.
This was a mistake, Karl. We should never have come here. We have lost so many men and now there is talk that we must surrender. Our tanks are out of fuel, our planes will not fly in the cold. I am afraid it is too late for us. And what will happen when the Americans land in the west? We cannot be everywhere at once, Karl.
Remember that and be careful, wherever your duty may take you.
Your brother,
Heinz
That was the last he had heard from Heinz in months. Another gestapo officer had told Karl that he’d heard Heinz’s squadron were all prisoners in a camp somewhere in frozen Siberia. Karl wondered whether he would ever see his brother again.
But he could not dwell on such personal matters. One man’s life was nothing if it meant success for the führer and for Germany. But Karl could see no success on the eastern front. The defeat in Russia had weakened the Reich. So many men captured! And now that horrible news had spread through the countryside. Karl could not imagine how it had happened. Most of these peasants could not afford radios, and yet the old woman knew so much.
It must have been the work of the partisan militias that patrolled the countryside and aligned themselves with the Russian army. But in the end, how the old woman knew did not really matter. Only that her information was correct. And it worried him.
He had heard rumblings from the top commanders. Many had questioned the führer’s decision to invade Russia. He wanted their oil fields, their resources. But Russia had so many more men than the Reich, and the German forces were already spread thin. The Americans had taken southern Italy and were pushing northward. The cowardly Italians had already surrendered. To invade Russia—with its rugged terrain, horrible winters, and stubborn refusal to be beaten—called the führer’s judgment into question.
Von Duesen heard Eberhardt shout at the old woman. He turned in time to see the man roughly shove her forward. She stumbled and fell to the ground.
“Was passiert ist, Sergeant?” he asked. What is going on here?
“This biddy cannot keep up. She is too old and too slow. We should just shoot her,” Eberhardt said as he raised his gun and pointed it at her.
Even now, she shows no fear, Von Duesen marveled. She may have been Juden, but a small part of him admired her defiance.
“Get up,” he said.
“No. My bones ache. I cannot walk any further.”
“You will get up and you will walk or you will be shot,” Von Duesen said. He removed the Luger pistol from his holster and pointed it at her forehead. “Now get up. Do not think I do not know what you are up to, you old crone. You are doing everything in your power to delay us to give the other Juden time to escape. Your tactics are useless. We will catch them. They will suffer. Just as you are going to suffer. Now get up.”
“No,” the old woman said.
Von Duesen cocked the hammer on the Luger.
“Get up!”
“No.”
“I swear, old woman—”
To his amazement she laughed at him. “Do you think I fear death, Herr
Major? I have made my peace with God. You will not shoot me. Not yet. Not when you think you can torture me into revealing where my friends and family are. You are not done with me yet, Herr Major. You will not pull the trigger.”
Von Duesen considered her words.
“You are right, Madam. I do expect you to tell me everything about the Juden in this area. So I will not shoot you.” Von Duesen smiled and shifted his arm until the Luger was pointed at the boy.
“But the boy,” he said. “He knows nothing. I can shoot him. The Reich has no use for him. And he slows us down as much as you do. So what do you say now, old woman? Where is your bravery and indignation when the gun is pointed at the child?”
The boy’s mother—he had heard the old woman call her Rina—sobbed, and clutched her son to her side. She sobbed, “No, Herr Major, sie bitte,” she pleaded. “Please … please …”
“What will you do now, Madam?”
Anton was close enough now to hear and see what was happening. He nearly cried out when the sergeant roughly pushed his bubbe to the ground. He listened to the exchange carefully, but only really understood Bubbe, and her words frightened him. She was daring the major to execute her!
He watched in horror as the major answered her by pointing his pistol at David. Rina cried out, a horrible, aching sob, and begged for her son’s life. Anton had to do something. If only he had a gun. Think, Anton. You must get the soldiers away from Rina and Bubbe. But how?
He shrugged his blanket bag off his shoulder. Inside he found the small hatchet Uncle Dmitri had given him to make tinder for the fires in the cave. That was the only weapon he had. One small hatchet against five armed men. It wouldn’t do. He slammed his hand to the ground. Ugh! He’d hit something. That was just what he needed. To let another stone cause him pain.
But actually, that gave him an idea. He felt around on the ground until he had a handful of good-size stones.
The Enemy Above Page 7