by Susan Finlay
How or when the war would finally end he couldn’t say, but he knew for sure which side would win. Everyone had known for months now that the Germans were losing. It was only a matter of time. He just prayed it would be a very short time.
Over the weeks, several refugee columns had merged, bringing ethnic German civilians from small towns scattered over the area. When they met up, usually by accident, the guards would exchange what little they knew. The soldiers in charge would then decide whether to join up or go on separately. More often than not, they merged, and why not? There was safety in numbers. There were more mouths to feed, but having more guards and more weapons meant they could defend themselves if any German soldiers or Russians threatened them.
Petr sighed, sitting by a fire in the evening, finishing the few bites he had left from his dinner of bread and soup. At least the soup the guards got had more potatoes than the soup the prisoners got, but not much more. Tonight, the woods were quiet except for the chirping of crickets and other insects. What would tomorrow bring? No one knew, except pain and hunger. Those were a given.
The next day, the Russian and Germany armies were battling it out in a nearby town. The sound of gunfire and bombs was incessant and deafening. The bombs sent thick black smoke into the sky, warning the guards where they needed to stay away from. Twice, the guards had to hide with their column in abandoned buildings because the fighting became too close for comfort.
After the second occurrence, Ivan gave the all-clear and moved their large column out again, heading toward the next town, one that supposedly—according to Intel they’d received from the Czech militia—was free of armies.
The Intel was wrong. Two hours later gunshots rang out from amongst the trees to their right, and the guards quickly herded the prisoners towards the far side of the road. This time, though, the shots were coming straight at the guards and the prisoners.
The guards returned fire, not sure who they were fighting. And then Petr saw three men in German uniforms, coming at him. He shot and killed the first, then the second. The third soldier had gotten off several more rounds while Petr had dealt with the first two soldiers. As he turned to take on the third soldier, he saw the enemy’s gun aimed directly at him. Before he could react, the soldier went down, another guard taking the shot. Petr wiped his brow and realized his hand was shaking. That was too close. Good to know someone had his backside.
Hearing no more gunfire, he continued to scan the area, while four guards searched the woods on foot and the remaining guards kept watch on the prisoners. He wasn’t even sure at this point how many guards there were in their column.
“Help us! Please,” someone yelled from behind.
Petr turned and looked toward the voice.
One of the women in the column was kneeling on the ground, holding onto her young son. She looked up at Petr with pleading eyes. “He has been shot. Please help us.”
He’d watched that particular family, day after day, struggling along like all the others. He didn’t know their names.
One of the guards, a brusque guy who always rubbed him the wrong way, rushed over and pointed his rifle at the boy.
“No. Do not shoot him,” Petr shouted. He rushed over and moved the other guard aside. “Where is your son wounded?” he said in German.
“His leg,” the woman said.
“I am trained in first aid,” Petr stated. “I will examine the wound and see if I can help. I cannot promise anything.”
The woman nodded, her eyes pleading. Her other children gathered around, leaning down and crying. Petr recognized the oldest girl, pretty girl with long blonde braids. He’d talked to her on the first day and cautioned her to not get noticed. She looked to be around the age his sister Vera would have been if she’d lived.
He lifted the boy’s pant leg, wiped the blood away with a cloth from his pack, and studied the wound. “Looks like the bullet went straight through.” He looked around the ground and found the bloody bullet.
“What does that mean?” the woman asked.
“I am going to use alcohol on the wound to disinfect it and then I will bandage it. He is lucky. Damned lucky. He will have difficulty walking for a while, but he will live.”
The woman cried and said, “Thank you.”
“What is your name?” Petr asked the boy while he was working on his leg.
“Fritz. Fritz Nagel.”
Ilse Seidel, April-May 1945, Memmingen, Germany—
AFTER ILSE SPOKE with her aunt the night of her arrival in Biberach, she sent word to her parents via a messenger her aunt had told her about, that she was going to stay with her aunt for a while. She told them about Aunt Karolina’s husband and oldest son being killed, and her younger son being recalled to the war. Ilse also told them that she didn’t want to further crush her aunt by telling her about Vater. She would give her time to recover, first. The following week, she received a return message, saying that she should stay as long as Karolina needed her. But they also had sad news. Johann had been killed, also, in the war. She tried to cry for her brother, but tears wouldn’t come. He got what was coming to him. Was it wrong for her to feel that way? She didn’t know.
She and Aunt Karolina had stayed home for those first few weeks after her arrival, talking, getting to know each other. Ilse felt closer to Aunt Karolina now, than she did to her own mother.
After the message from her parents, Ilse felt free to take a job. She and Aunt Karolina had stumbled across a bulletin board with an advertisement that the local orphanage needed help. They’d both gone there right away and interviewed. The nun in charge told them they’d been overwhelmed with the number of orphans they were getting. Sudeten Germans were arriving every day in Germany, and especially here in Bavaria, and with them came many orphaned babies and children.
Ilse loved working with the kids, as did her aunt. They played with the children, read to them, and sometimes sang songs with them. As an added benefit for Ilse, they also interviewed prospective parents to find homes for the orphan children. Her decision about whether to keep her baby or find a home for the baby or them both loomed over her like a dark thundercloud. The time for that decision was quickly approaching.
In mid-May, an entire company of Americans soldiers thundered in and took over the town of Biberach. From Christa’s vantage point at a window inside the orphanage, it was not a hostile takeover, but seemed a joyous event. She, and the other employees, the nuns, and the older children ran outside to watch as the parade of vehicles approached. People lined the streets, cheering and waving at the American soldiers. The war was finally over.
On that momentous day, Ilse felt a flood of emotions. She no longer had to fear repercussions for having helped an American airman—at least not from the Americans in control of their town. She might not even need to worry anymore about the danger to a half-Jewish baby. But she wasn’t going to let her guard down. Not yet. She’d learned, quite well, that you couldn’t count on anyone or anything. She wanted to say ‘except for family’, but her brother had made even that statement impossible.
A couple weeks later into the occupation, someone knocked on the front door in the early evening, while dinner was cooking on the stove and music was playing on the record player.
Ilse wiped her hands on a dish towel and went to the door. When she saw her mother standing there, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Her mother’s gaze went down to Ilse’s bulging stomach, and Ilse wanted to turn and run away, but stood frozen in place.
“So this is why you did not come home,” she spat. “You did not want to tell us you were carrying a bastard.”
“I . . . I am sorry, Mutter. I wanted to spare you the shame.”
“You will put that bastard up for adoption. I do not ever want to see it. Your grandparents will never know about it. Do I make myself clear?”
Ilse nodded, not knowing what else to do.
Mutter pushed her way into the house. In the foyer, she stood gazing at the living room, taking in th
e fireplace, the music, and the quietness. “You are living an easy life here, I see. Another reason you did not come home.”
“Not easy,” Karolina said, standing up and turning to face her sister-in-law. “Ilse and I both have jobs. We work hard and help other people. Shame on you for judging us.”
Mutter’s mouth gaped open. Then she chided, “She has not sent any money back to the family.”
Ilse walked over to the kitchen table and returned with an envelope addressed to her mother. “I was going to mail this tomorrow.”
Mutter opened the envelope and pulled out a letter and cash. As she read the letter, tears began streaming down her cheeks.
Ilse wrapped her arms around her mother. “I am sorry, Mutter. I wanted to tell you in person about the baby, but I was scared.”
Mutter patted her arm. “I am sorry, too, sorry I snapped at you. Everything has been so miserable, and I . . . I should be happy the war has ended, but nothing has changed for us. We still have nothing. Not enough food. No income, no husband.”
“I know. That is why I am trying to help out any way that I can. I give a small portion to Aunt Karolina for allowing me to stay here. I keep a small portion. The rest goes to you and the family.”
Mutter smiled meekly. “Thank you, dear.”
Karolina said, “How did you get here, Maria? You did not ride a bicycle, did you?”
“The trains are running again. Even so, I will not be able to visit often, because we have little money for train fares. But it had been too long since I saw Ilse and I had to make sure she was safe.”
The image of Mutter riding a bicycle made Ilse smile.
“When do you go back? Will you stay a few days? You can stay here. We have room. We are getting ready to eat dinner.”
“Oh, well, I need to get back home tomorrow, to the children, but it would be lovely to stay here overnight and visit.”
Ilse said, “Let me hang up your coat. Sit in the parlor and rest. We will have dinner ready in a few minutes.”
After a dinner of roasted chicken—the first chicken they’d eaten in two years—with potatoes and carrots, they sat in the living room, feeling stuffed, and talked, really talked. Ilse told her mother about Ron, about his airplane getting shot down, and about his injury and pneumonia. She even told her about Ron getting shot by the Nazis, though she didn’t say Johann was involved. Her mother had suffered enough. The only other thing she left out was that Ron was Jewish. She didn’t know why she held it back, precisely—after all, she’d told Karolina—but maybe it had something to do with Johann’s betrayal, she thought.
The next day, Saturday, both had the day off from work, and they were getting along so well, Mutter decided to stay one more night. They walked around town, stopped at a café and each ordered coffee and a piece of cake. The first cake any of them had eaten in years. It seemed that with the Americans’ arrival came food and businesses.
By the time Mutter left Biberach on Sunday afternoon, Ilse was sad to see her go. They’d talked more in the past day than they had in years, it seemed. Why did it have to take so long to get to really understand each other?
Over the week that followed, the town grew livelier and the people happier. It wasn’t that everything suddenly changed with the war over. It didn’t. The streets were still congested with military vehicles and soldiers, but with American vehicles and American soldiers. They didn’t threaten, didn’t rob, didn’t rape or beat anyone down.
The rest, having slightly more food and business, helped, too.
On Friday, after work, Ilse and Karolina walked home together, as usual, taking the same route and around the same time. Today, however, Ilse spotted a tall dark-haired man in an American military uniform. He was standing on a corner watching them as they crossed the street, coming his way. For a second, she thought he was Ron and her heart quickened. Oh, if only it had been him. She would have run into his arms and not cared what anyone thought.
He smiled and removed his hat when they walked past.
When they arrived at the house, Karolina said, “What is this?”
Ilse watched as she pulled off an envelope taped to the front door. She ripped it open, reading the notice inside, and sighed.
“What is it? Is it bad news again?”
“Hmm. Not sure. The government has assigned two families to live here with us. Sudeten Germans. The letter says that all houses with extra living space will be required to share their homes temporarily, until the Sudeten Germans can be assimilated into Bavaria.”
“Does the government know I am staying here with you?” Ilse asked.
“Ja. The letter mentions you. But it does not matter. It is a four bedroom house, plenty of room for more people. It says two additional families are coming, taking one bedroom per family.”
“That is all right with you?”
Karolina shrugged. “I guess we will not get lonely.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lucas Landry, September 2017, Sacramento, California—
LUCAS SLIPPED HIS boarding pass into his carry-on bag and made his way to the security gate of the airport, stepping to the end of the line. His heart raced with excitement as he perused the crowded airport. People were rushing in all directions, pulling suitcases on wheels, holding hands of their small children, and kissing loved ones goodbye. A voice over the loud speaker called for someone—a Reginald Baker—to meet his party at gate G4. The line was slowly inching close to the security gate, where people frantically emptied pockets, removed belts and shoes, and placed their carry-ons onto the x-ray scanner belt.
It was really happening. In fifteen hours, give or take, he would be landing at the Munich airport, where someone name Milo Jaroslav would meet him. From there, they would take a train south to Biberach. Lucas recognized the name Jaroslav from some of the diaries, but no one had told him yet how the Jaroslav family was connected with the Landry family. Guess I’ll find out. He took a deep breath and stepped forward as the line moved again.
“Boarding pass and identification,” a security officer finally said, holding his hand out.
“Oh, yeah, got it here,” Lucas said. Crap, why did I stick it in my carry-on bag? He fumbled with compartments for a moment and finally unzipped the side pocket, pulled out the boarding pass, and handed it to the officer.
“Identification and passport.”
“Uh . . . .” He waved his hands, sighed, and opened the zippered compartment again to retrieve his passport. Then he reached into his pant pocket and pulled out his wallet, slipped out his driver’s license, and handed both items to the officer, who looked bored out of his mind.
The guy checked everything over and handed it back, motioning for him to move forward. A uniformed woman instructed him to take his laptop out its bag, place both items, along with his carry-on bag onto the conveyor, then remove his shoes, wallet, keys, etc. and place them into a plastic bin. As the person in front of him exited the metal detector, the same woman motioned him to walk into the metal detector, told him to lift his arms and stand on a particular location. A moment later security motioned him to move forward, patted him down, and ran a hand held device over his person, then directed him to move forward, where he retrieved his things. Quickly refilling his pockets and grabbing his things to keep the line moving, Lucas spotted a bench, sat down, fastened his belt, and put on shoes. Note to self: next time weare slip-on shoes. Did I forget anything?
He followed directions, and when he reached the assigned gate, he checked the nearby departures and arrivals board. So far, it showed his flight was on schedule, which meant he had at least an extra hour to eat lunch.
He browsed around, stopping briefly to look at books and magazines at a gift shop and purchased one novel. Several restaurants had their menus posted outside. Wowzer. Which leg do they want? Finally he found a little pizza joint that had ‘affordable’ prices, meaning they were only priced about four dollars higher than anywhere outside of the airport. He ordered a personal pan and drink
, waited about ten minutes, then picked up his pizza and looked for a table. The tables available were either four-person table or two-person tables. He sighed, sitting down at the smaller variety, which was still too big for one person. He sighed again. He was excited about the trip, but thought of leaving Tawny and Bianca at home weighed on him. How was he was going to get through two whole weeks without them?
As he munched on overcooked, underachieving pizza, he tried to picture the cool places he would see and the photographs he would take and post on his Facebook page. Tawny had been excited for him, insisting he take lots and lots of photos and post them as soon as he could. “That way,” she’d said, “it will feel like we aren’t far apart.”
After a lunch only memorable through indigestion, he headed back to his assigned gate and sat reading for half an hour. Several people who’d been sitting around him got up and left. What was going on? He grabbed his bags, pulling the carry-on on its wheels and slinging the laptop bag strap over his shoulder, and went to the electric board. “Good grief!” he said out loud. The airline had moved his flight to a different gate, due to a flight delay at this particular gate and hadn’t bothered to announce it.
Some other passengers noticed his reaction, got up and flocked over, looking at the board as he left. He looked back and noticed them all rushing down the corridor behind him, looking for the correct gate.
When his plane finally arrived and boarding began, Lucas felt like a young boy waiting to go to Disneyland. Theme parks had been exciting and fun when he was younger, but now, an overseas flight—well, he couldn’t imagine anything more enticing.