by Karla M Jay
His mind rolled back to eighteen months ago when he was forced to join the war. He was trained along with other SS recruits at a facility called Hadamar, an asylum for persons with long-term afflictions or reduced mental capacity. Upon arrival, he learned the patients were long gone, euthanized in Nazi experiments. No one outside his elite group knew about the fifteen thousand harmless people the staff had gassed. The hospital became a practice facility for bigger operations planned in Poland. While there, he gathered more damning information about the Jewish extermination camps kept secret from the regular army and German citizens. But probably not all citizens. Dachau sat on the outskirts of Munich, so how blind could its residents be?
He stored the photos and notes in his postbox in Brussels until he amassed enough to send to America for safekeeping with his trusted friend, Theodore Graf. Until two weeks ago. Then, Falk was caught reading a return letter from Graf, the postmark clearly from the United States. He’d been on his way to meet fellow officers at the Rodenbach Brewery for a drink, a way not to appear isolated. Until that day, he’d managed not to shed light on his behind-the-scenes gathering of incriminating evidence as he traveled. He’d screwed up in Brussels by not watching his back. Days later, he received a summons to Berlin, a meeting from which no distrusted soldier returned. Even his father’s friend, Generaloberst Ludwig Beck, and his Action Group Zossen with its dozens of discouraged generals, could not save his life if he were tried for treason.
For the first time since he abandoned his SS officer’s uniform, Falk felt the tension melt from his shoulders. Surrounded by the musty odor of wet cloth, damp earth, and a salty sea breeze, he assessed his new situation. He’d slipped out of his SS skin and was now a regular soldier hidden among thousands. He was heading in the right direction. To the West, away from being recognized and certain death. And Ilse would have taken the boys to the Netherlands as he’d asked. He drew in a deep breath and studied the star-spattered night sky. Above all else, their safety gave him peace.
Plans, hurriedly thrown together two weeks ago as he fled Brussels, were coming together. In the end, this might be the biggest mistake, but it seemed better than continuing to do nothing.
Izaak Tauber
Amsterdam, Netherlands - December 1943
Izaak swallowed fast, and his heart pounded as he waited beside Mama inside their tiny kitchen. His stomach fluttered with excitement, but it was a scared feeling all at the same time. Fritz the Wanderer said he would be right back before he left, while he and Mama gathered their few things. Izaak put Papa’s pipe inside his shirt and buttoned his coat. He wanted to know right where it was when he saw Papa again. He wasn’t entirely sure where he and Mama were going, but he wasn’t sad to leave the apartment behind.
Mama tied and untied the scarf around her neck, pulling it through her hands as she talked to Dr. Schermerhorn. “And after we reach the border?”
“Fritz knows the other members of the group, and they’ll be ready.” The doctor smiled and dropped his hand onto her once-beautiful blue coat that now hung wrong at the bottom. “You’ll board the boat before morning.”
A boat! When Izaak asked where they were going, Mama said she’d tell him later.
“You have your papers. I gave you the cash.” Dr. Schermerhorn seemed as excited as Izaak. He walked around the room moving fast, putting a fist to his mouth and then quickly taking it away before he spoke again. “The organizers will notify me when you’ve arrived safely, and we’ll work on connecting you with Saul again, or at least letting him know where you are.”
Although they weren’t going back to their beautiful house just yet, the underground Bible people were taking them someplace the Germans couldn’t find them, but Papa could. This was what Izaak always asked God for during prayer time.
“Thank you,” Mama said to Dr. Schermerhorn. She smiled down at Izaak and squeezed his hand three times. He pressed back, returning their secret I Love You signal.
A quick knock sounded on the door. “That’s Fritz,” Dr. Schermerhorn said. “You have to hurry but be very quiet.” He gave each of them a quick hug. “Godspeed.”
Again, Mama thanked her friend for everything and headed out the door. Izaak followed, lifting his suitcase as high as he could to keep it from scraping the stones as they crossed the patio. The gravel crunched under his feet, and he worried the neighbors could hear them. They followed Mr. Fritz alongside the house to the street. He pointed to the rear of an open-back truck and helped them climb into it. “Lie down,” he whispered.
Izaak stretched out next to Mama, feeling like a log in a fireplace. Except it wasn’t hot. It was snowing, and in the faint glow from a streetlamp, Mama’s legs looked extra-long and white below her coat. She shivered as she pulled him close. He ducked his head in her armpit to avoid the huge snowflakes landing on his face.
Mr. Fritz looked serious. “Stay hidden until I let you out. Even if the truck stops, don’t move.” He covered them with a big piece of canvas. Moments later, something heavy was poured on top of them. Cans and bottles rattled as the objects settled around their bodies. It smelled like they were covered in garbage. The dark space suddenly seemed to run out of air.
“Mama, I can’t breathe.” Guus must have felt this scared after his family was thrown into the truck. Izaak didn’t want to cry, but he knew tears were coming.
Mama shifted her shoulder, and the weight pressing on Izaak’s side moved enough so he was no longer smashed. He snuggled closer to her as the truck’s engine started. The vibration rumbled through the truck while it slowly moved along the street. It wasn’t long before they were going faster. He tried to follow the truck’s movements, but it seemed to make a turn on every block. Were they going in circles? He didn’t want to end up back at the stinky apartment. “Do you think Mr. Fritz is lost?”
“No. He’s making sure no one is following us, love.” She kissed the top of his head. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? It could be a few hours before we get to our next stop.”
The covering kept the snow off them, but it was still freezing. To take his mind off the cold, Izaak repeated Papa’s favorite saying over and over in his head: A man’s true wealth is the good he does in this world. Dr. Schermerhorn was doing good things, and Mr. Fritz must count himself wealthy since he helped people get away from the Germans. Izaak wanted to make Papa proud. He thought of the picture he could try to draw for Mama. Although he wasn’t that good with getting people’s faces right yet, he hoped to sketch Papa and get his smile just as he remembered it. The one he wore when he was about to do a funny thing like walking around in Mama’s heels, teetering this way and that. Maybe at their next stop he could ask for a new drawing pencil.
The truck stopped suddenly, and he and Mama slid forward, slamming into the back of the cab. The garbage shifted on top of them. Izaak reached to rub his head where he hit it, but Mama pulled his hand back down.
“Don’t move,” she said right into his ear.
From the cab, Mr. Fritz cursed, and the gears ground against each other as if he had to shift extra hard. Then the truck started going backward.
“Oh!” Mama said. Her hands fumbled for him, and she pulled him closer, wrapping her legs over his. Her scared breathing came out in little gasps against his forehead.
Above the canvas, the wind made its edges snap up and down and bounce food and trash below and onto them. But inside Izaak’s head, everything slowed down, and he couldn’t sort out what he should think. If they were found, they’d be killed. Papa might never learn what happened to them. Please, God, please, God, please, God, help us and help Fritz the Wanderer with whatever bad thing was happening on the road.
His legs shook, but this time he knew it wasn’t from the cold. And it was still nighttime. Even with his eyes extra wide, he couldn’t see Mama’s face. “Mama?”
“I know,” she whispered. “We’ll be fine. Remember, if the truck st
ops again, make no noise.”
Two loud sounds came at once—glass breaking and a gunshot. Izaak’s heart pounded in his ears when the truck spun around and around, the tires screaming under them until the vehicle rocked to another sudden stop.
Mama grabbed his hand and squeezed three times. He did the same.
Hurried footsteps slapped the ground around the truck, and men yelled in German. Izaak burrowed farther into Mama’s coat. He worried the men might hear her pounding heart because it was pretty loud in his ear. What if they looked under the garbage? No one wanted to dig through rotten food, did they? Were Mama’s legs sticking out below the covering? He didn’t know if they were, but it was too late now. What he did know was that people in hiding got killed. Another sad thought crossed his mind. He’d told Papa he’d keep Mama safe. Now tears flowed and ran into his ear. They were trapped, so how could he keep her safe? They heard the truck’s driver’s side door open and something large and soft hit the ground. It was the same sound he’d heard after the people were shot in Munt Square. Fritz the Wanderer must be dead.
He squeezed his eyes to try to stop the tears. Not only was Mr. Fritz a nice man, but how would they now find their way to the safe place?
Two men spoke and it sounded like they were close by. The truck bed dropped down a few centimeters, as if they were leaning over the sides and looking in. He held his breath but couldn’t stop shaking.
Garbage shifted above them. Any second, the killers would pull the canvas back and find them. He prayed harder. Maybe he and Mama could pretend to be dead. Or say they were Catholic. But the men would want to know why Catholics would ride in a truck under trash.
More garbage was pushed around and the men spoke again. The truck bed bounced back up, and the footsteps moved farther away. An engine started and that sound slowly disappeared.
“Izaak,” Mama whispered, “we should wait just a few minutes before we move.”
He wasn’t sure he would be able to move. His body was stiff from the cold, and his legs felt like unbendable wood.
Time passed. An owl hooted close by, but no people sounds came from outside the cover. “I need you to be very brave, Izaak.” Mama laid her hand on his cheek. “I think Mr. Fritz has been killed so we need to get away from here”—she swallowed—“If the truck won’t run, we will have to walk . . . and it could be a long way. And it could be we will have to hide again.”
He didn’t want to believe this. He was tired of hiding, of waiting for the Bible people to bring food. Tired of whispering and secrets and never seeing Papa. The space under the canvas was suddenly too small, and he felt as though someone were pressing down on him. “There’s not enough air, Mama.”
She reached for the edge of the covering, pushed it up and away from them, and struggled to pull herself to her knees. Izaak followed her out of the opening until they stood knee-deep in trash, barely visible to each other, brushing off the food and garbage stuck on their clothes. Mama reached under the cover and pulled out their suitcases.
Izaak went first over the back end of the truck bed, and then Mama handed him the luggage before climbing down. “Stay back here for a minute, love.” She walked along the driver’s side of the truck and ducked down. Izaak studied the clear night sky. The snow had stopped, and the clouds were gone. Was Mr. Fritz sad right before he died about agreeing to help them? His chin quivered. He hoped Mr. Fritz didn’t have a son at home waiting for him to come back. That would be the saddest of all.
He squinted at the dark sky. There were so many stars spattered against the black, it hurt his eyes to try to focus on them. Papa explained that heaven lay just beyond the hanging wall of stars, and the bright specks were people who had died. He wondered how long it would take Fritz the Wanderer to float to heaven and get a star.
“Meet me at the front of the truck”—she called over the roof from the driver’s side door—“and don’t come over here, okay?”
He was sad about their rescuer but glad he wouldn’t see Mr. Fritz’s dead body. He grabbed both suitcases and walked along the passenger side, the weeds soaking his pants and shoes. When he reached the front bumper, the glow from a broken headlamp lens lit up the area in front of the vehicle. Mama knelt. She was in the weeds, using a stick to dig a hole. When it was a few centimeters deep, from her coat she pulled out the envelope Dr. Schermerhorn gave her and stuffed it in the hole. She stood and kicked dirt over it and then some stones.
Oh, no! Those were their important papers to get on the boat. “Mama? Won’t we need them?”
She tugged her coat, smoothing it down. “Those papers were falsified for us. And someone must have told the authorities we had them, and that Mr. Fritz was helping us. Now it’s dangerous for us to have them.” She bent over and pulled him close. Her cheek against his felt wonderful. Then she whispered as if someone might be listening. “From now on we are us again, Rachel and Izaak Tauber, and we’re Catholic. If anyone stops us, let me explain to them how we were going to visit relatives in Haarlem when our car broke down.”
“Okay.” This secret must have been what Dr. Schermerhorn and Mama had talked about while Izaak showed Mr. Fritz his drawings. He pointed to the wreck. The front of the truck was bent around a tree, the windshield in pieces, and one tire pointed the wrong way. The headlight shone past Mama into a field. “I guess we have to walk.”
“We do.” She rubbed his back.
He sniffed and swiped at his runny nose with his coat sleeve. Out in the darkness, past the lighted pasture, he pictured wild animals watching them. He shivered. If the Germans came back, he and Mama would have to hide, but with flat land around them, their only choice would be to run into the frightening black trees in the forest. “Where are we?”
Mama squinted into the darkness. “I’m thinking in the north since we were headed that way.” She pulled her coat tighter. Her head turned to the left and then to the right, looking up and down the road. “I don’t see any houses so we’re away from any city.” She checked her watch in the headlight. “Curfew will be over in a few hours, but we shouldn’t get caught breaking it.”
So much was going wrong, and he was tired and afraid. As he touched the pipe under his shirt, the promise he’d made to Papa to watch over Mama ran through his head. “I’m ready,” he said, trying to sound brave. Then he reached for his suitcase and stumbled forward, his feet feeling like nothing more than blocks of ice as he lifted them one at a time. “I’m going to count how many steps it takes us to get to a town.”
Mama swiped away invisible hair from her forehead. She picked up her luggage and drew in a long breath. “That sounds like a great plan.”
When they were out of range of the truck’s headlights, they entered a new world. The dark dome overhead reaching to the ground in every direction, sprinkled with stars filling the empty spaces. His insides soon stopped jittering.
Lucky for them, no cars were out, probably because of the curfew, or no one had extra petrol. He and Mama might as well be the only people alive, walking hand in hand as the leather soles of their shoes slapped the road surface. The odor of wet dirt carried by a sharp, cold breeze drifted off late fall fields. And ground fog hovered like sleeping ghosts in the bogs and ditches. It was like traveling inside the water globe Papa had on his desk. He felt safe for the first time in a long while.
Herbert Müller
Tulpehocken, Pennsylvania - December 1943
Herbert slept poorly, the pain in his ribs making every position in bed uncomfortable. Finally, he climbed out long before the sun urged the night upward and away. He found his father at the kitchen table. The weak light from a streetlamp through the front curtains accentuated the age lines on his father’s face.
“You okay, Pop?”
“Fine, son.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hm. Trying to think . . . who we, schould talk to, about last night.”
“Me, too.” He carefully p
ulled out his chair, not wanting to wake the rest of the house. “I thought about Pastor Huber and then remembered he’s away for a week. How about Andel Smith?” The eighty-year-old came to mind as Herbert tossed and turned. Andel and his wife lived thirty minutes away and were active members in the Lancaster Liederkranz. A German Heritage Center that gathered local Germans together to enjoy traditional folk music and dancing.
Outside, the sun crept upward, pushing away the edges of night, and the room lightened to gray. What he saw in his father’s face worried him. Otto did well to keep pace with Herbert each day in the mill. But the sag in his father’s cheeks. The drooping upper eyelids, along with the deep creases above his brow. All signs Herbert once viewed as an honorable roadmap of his father’s life. Now, seen through the heavy veil of worry in Herbert’s mind, these were stark reminders of his father’s advanced age. He swallowed hard, suppressing the emotion. He’d lose his father in the coming years, that was inevitable, but the idea was too much to think about right now.
“Andel . . . a good choice,” Otto said, “especially since, we just saw him.”
Herbert nodded, thinking back ten days to the Stiftungsfest fundraiser near Lancaster. He recalled the surprise on the children’s faces when he and Jutta, after much cajoling, took to the dance floor with the other couples and showed off their Slap Dance, the Schuhplattler, skills. The next day, Herbert paid the price for the vigorous moves, his hip radiating with pain, but it was worth it. All the way home, the children talked about the food. The frankfurters, smoked and covered with mustard and horseradish, made the original Frankfurt, Germany, way. Potato pancakes, pickled beets, and Black Forest cake. The children might’ve been American-born, but it was nice to see them enjoying their heritage.