The Good at Heart

by Ursula Werner

  But the war could not be fooled, he realized now. It had come to extract payment, in the form of a rifle butt that kept prodding him to move forward. He was no more ready to give up his life today than he’d been four years ago. Only one small glimmer of hope flickered amid the panic that had seized his brain: negotiation through abject apology.

  Hans could tell that Captain Rodemann was angry. He could also tell that he himself was, in some way that he didn’t understand, at fault. He decided that he must look for an opportunity to apologize to the captain for whatever it was that was irking him. Surely if Hans took responsibility for whatever this transgression was, if he was contrite and sincere and offered the captain whatever amends might be demanded, surely—possibly—everything could be straightened out.

  Hans shuffled on, willing his feet to keep moving. Why the apology had to take place on top of the highest hill in the village, in front of the church, he didn’t know. Perhaps the captain was religious.

  * * *

  The machine guns had been quiet for some time. Rosie waited with her sisters while the adults pushed their way through the reeds and looked up and down the lake path, listening for danger. After several minutes, Marina came back through the water and waved them to shore. The children stood still while their parents checked them for leeches.

  Rosie was too impatient to wait for her mother, so she lifted her pants leg herself. She was neither surprised nor upset to find a small leech attached to her calf. She plucked it off and threw it back into the reeds, then grabbed Sofia’s hand.

  “Come on, Sofia, Mutti and Oma are going to the marketplace to make sure everyone else is okay,” Rosie said, pulling her sister forward and stomping her feet to get the mud off her shoes.

  By the time they all arrived at the town center, most of the residents had come out of hiding. They emerged from linen closets and bathtubs. They threw off potato sacks in cellars. They left haylofts and chicken coops, picking bits of dried grass and feathers from their shirts. They climbed down from apple trees. And they walked over to the marketplace. The instinct to establish contact with friends and neighbors, to take stock, to shake hands, slap shoulders, and hug children, was universal. It appeared that everyone was safe.

  The only two who were unaccounted for were Hans Munter and young Max Fuchs. And just as Johann Wiessmeyer, the Protestant minister, was comforting and reassuring Max’s mother, Max himself came running back into town from the Birnau forest, where he had been hiding. “They’re going to hang the bürgermeister!” he shouted. “Come quickly, they’re going to hang him!”

  * * *

  Hans Munter kept waiting for his opportunity to clarify the situation. When Captain Rodemann stopped underneath the old yew tree on the perimeter of the graveyard, Hans tried to speak, despite the fact that he could scarcely control his bladder and that his arms were forcefully held by two burly soldiers.

  “Pardon, Herr Captain, if I could just have a—” he began.

  “Silence!” screamed Rodemann. He pointed to a soldier behind the bürgermeister. “You there, get a rope. Throw it around that tree branch.” As the lanky blond boy ran back down the hill, Rodemann sighed with irritation, then took a knife from the sheath on his hip and began cleaning his fingernails.

  “Captain, I think—” Hans tried again.

  Rodemann turned on the bürgermeister, knifepoint extended menacingly. “Did I not tell you to be quiet? Did I not ask for silence? Must I stuff a potato in your mouth?” Rodemann could not abide these interruptions. He needed to keep his anger alive. From the time he had discovered the dismantled barricade to the moment his men had located Munter, his fury had been reliably constant. He had a plan that had come to him at the height of his rage, and he required rage to carry it out. But this interminable march up the hill, and now the delay in finding a strong piece of rope—all this had deflected his anger, allowed it to subside. His anger was like a wave that had swelled and risen, promising to crest and crash, but now instead it was emptying slowly onto the shore and threatening to creep back to the ocean. Rodemann wanted his anger to crash; he needed a collision, a catharsis of some kind. He was determined not to let his anger go, not until he had completed his plan.

  By the time his soldier returned with a long section of hemp—stolen, in the end, from a pair of horses tied to an untended plow—Max’s urgent report had brought the townspeople of Blumental from the marketplace to the foot of the Birnau hill. Rodemann saw them coming and didn’t stop them. In fact, he was pleased that they’d come of their own accord. It was better to have an audience for things like this.

  * * *

  Rosie wanted to go to Birnau with Marina and the Breckenmüllers. So did Lara. But Marina told the girls to go home with Edith, and Edith said that it was no spectacle for children, not even—she looked pointedly at Marina—for adults. Sofia had been silent.

  It took Rosie less than fifteen minutes to sneak back out of the house. Lara had stomped up to the girls’ bedroom in a huff the moment the front door shut behind them, despite Edith’s suggestion that the girls all join her in the living room for cookies and tea and a story from the illustrated Adventures of Kasperle that she kept next to the sofa. Sofia happily agreed, but Rosie said she was tired. “Hans-Jürg and I need a little quiet time,” she said, turning toward the stairs. To allay suspicion, she warned Sofia, “But don’t eat all the cookies! We’ll come down later.”

  At the top of the stairs, Rosie waited for what seemed like hours while her grandmother heated water on the cast-iron stove. When she finally heard the familiar singsong of Edith’s gentle storytelling voice, she tiptoed into Oma and Opa’s bedroom, climbed onto the big bed under the skylight, reached up to unlatch it, and pulled herself through the window onto the sloping roof. She left Hans-Jürg behind. He was afraid of heights.

  Rosie knew the route well, since she and Sofia had used it countless times to make naptime pass more quickly. Across the roof tiles, down the unused attic ladder, with a short drop onto the back porch. Then she had to keep her head down as she crept past the French doors and around the kitchen side of the house. She unlatched the iron gate to the street and let it swing back into the anemones while she ran to the hill that led to Birnau.

  Weaving her way among all the people, Rosie slowed as she approached the small group where her mother was standing next to Frau and Herr Breckenmüller. Marina and Myra were tightly grasping each other’s hands. Just below them on the hill, near the vineyard, stood a wheelbarrow piled high with grapevines. Rosie quickly ran behind it so she could see and hear everything that happened without herself being seen.

  Three soldiers were securing a thick rope to one of the lower branches of the old yew tree at the top of the hill, leaving a long loop hanging down in a makeshift noose. Rosie had seen nooses in newspaper photographs, but this one looked different. It hung crookedly and the coil did not look very tight. The soldiers exchanged curses as they tried to secure one of the rope ends. Rosie saw Karl Breckenmüller lean over to his wife. “Bad knot,” he said, in a whisper heavy with condescension and relief.

  Captain Rodemann ordered his men to bring the bürgermeister over to the tree. Hans Munter had been dutifully holding his tongue, but he had nothing more to lose.

  “Please, Herr Captain, this is unnecessary,” he pleaded. Rodemann ignored him. “It was all a mistake,” the bürgermeister continued, his voice breaking. A soldier pushed him over to a milking stool that the others had placed under the noose and motioned for him to climb up on it. “I apologize for whatever it is that has angered you. I apologize. I am so, so sorry,” Herr Munter begged while the noose was placed over his head. A trickle of liquid ran down his exposed ankle. Captain Rodemann watched it drip onto the ground and then slowly walked over to him. “Apology accepted,” he said, and kicked the stool out from under the bürgermeister’s feet.

  Hans Munter never had a moment to feel the rope tighten around his neck. The noose unraveled almost immediately upon bearing his weight,
and he fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He lay there quietly, breathing in the dirt. He did not feel like moving; he hoped that if he lay still enough, everyone might think he was dead. Sudden heart attack or stroke caused by the stress of the situation—surely that was possible. In any case, there was no need to call attention to himself.

  Captain Rodemann rediscovered his anger. “Fools!” he barked at his soldiers. “Can none of you make a proper noose?” Rodemann spat in the direction of his battalion and strode over to the townspeople, now gathered at the top of the path. He leaned into Gerhard Mainz, the butcher, and hissed, “Is there no one here who knows how to tie a knot?” Rosie saw Myra Breckenmüller tug on her husband’s arm, pulling him farther back into the crowd. “Well?” Rodemann’s eyes fastened onto the butcher’s and would not let go.

  “Th-the f-fisherman,” the butcher whispered.

  “The fisherman!” Rodemann crooned, and scanned the crowd. “Where, oh where is the fisherman?”

  Rosie held her breath, hoping no one would identify her friend. But, though some of the Blumentalers managed to look down at their feet in response to the question, many of them instinctively turned their heads in Herr Breckenmüller’s direction. Rosie watched with fear and horror as he pried his wife’s fingers from his arm, kissed her on the cheek, and quietly pushed his way through the crowd. No, don’t go! Rosie screamed in her head. She saw her mother put her arms around Myra Breckenmüller’s shoulders. “Nothing will happen to him,” her mother said. “He will be fine.”

  Myra shook her head. “If he has to tie the noose that hangs and kills Hans Munter, he will not be fine.”

  Rosie watched as Karl Breckenmüller slowly made his way up the hill to the old yew tree. He picked up the loose end of the swinging rope, made a large loop, and began winding it tightly around itself. By the time he finished tying the knots that would hold the loop in place, the entire thing looked to Rosie like a coiled snake with a wide-open mouth. The bürgermeister was huddled underneath it. He did not look happy. He did not even look to Rosie as if he was fully awake. He swayed from side to side, his hands tied behind his back. Two soldiers kept prodding him to stay upright. Another was yelling at them and at the bürgermeister. Then, just as the mouth of the snake-coil rope was being positioned over the bürgermeister’s head, she saw the approaching horse.

  It came from the opposite side of the church plaza, its hooves clacking across the cobblestones. There was a tall soldier sitting on it. A general, Rosie knew, because he wore a uniform just like the kind her opa had hanging in his closet. The horse had been galloping, but the general slowed it to a walk as he neared the yew tree. His gaze was fixed on Captain Rodemann. As he came closer, Rosie saw that the general had dark hair, and as he came closer still, she recognized his dark eyes and thick eyebrows, those wonderful fuzzy brows that she loved to stroke.

  * * *

  General Erich Wolf rode his horse right up to Captain Rodemann and did not dismount. He was grateful now that he was still wearing the uniform he’d had on for his meeting with the Führer in Fürchtesgaden that morning. Erich did not like wearing his uniform any more than he absolutely had to, but he had been in a hurry, so he had not taken the time to change. Sitting comfortably up on the horse, he appreciated the poetic justice of being able literally to look down on a captain who thought so highly of himself. He was pleased when he saw Rodemann flinch.

  Captain Rodemann was already acquainted with General Wolf. He did not like to remember the brief time he had spent working in the general’s office in Berlin, before he was assigned to field duty. The general had had an extremely attractive secretary, a woman who rejected Rodemann’s advances (unthinkable; she was probably a Sapphist) and tried thereafter to tarnish his good reputation with the general by blaming Rodemann for oversights that were undoubtedly her own responsibility. Despite all subsequent efforts by Rodemann to ingratiate himself with the general, he was fairly certain that the man had a poor opinion of him.

  Raising a hand, Captain Rodemann gestured to one of his men to suspend the hanging for the moment. Freed from the restraining hold of the soldiers, Hans Munter slumped to the ground again. General Wolf glanced briefly at the bürgermeister, then positioned his horse broadside between the captain and his subordinates, so that, should the man dare to give another command, they would not be able to see him.

  “Captain Rodemann,” General Wolf barked. “What exactly is going on here?”

  The captain looked stricken, and for a brief moment was speechless. Then, inhaling deeply, he squared his shoulders and shouted out, in as imperious a voice as he could manage, “Insurrection, sir! I have discovered, singlehandedly, that the town of Blumental is a hotbed of resistance and—”

  “Stop!” The general cut Rodemann off. He moved his horse one step closer and leaned down to stare the captain in the eye. “Do you wonder why the Third Reich is struggling to win this war when commanders such as yourself disobey direct orders? When they stray from their duties and try to lighten their boredom by mixing themselves in the affairs of the very people they should be trying to protect?” He held the captain’s gaze for a long moment, then slowly straightened back up. “I am not concerned with this town or its people. Nor is it clear to me why you should be, given that you have strict orders from the Führer to intercept the French army, which is approaching this town as we speak!”

  At this, General Wolf reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. He slapped it open with a quick snap of his wrist and waved it before Rodemann’s stunned face. “This is a telegram from Berlin, containing an order that was reiterated to me by the Führer in Fürchtesgaden this morning. Do you know what it says?” Rodemann opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The general did not wait for him. “It instructs you and your men to repel the French incursion. Not that I understand either Berlin’s or the Führer’s confidence in your ability to accomplish this. Nothing I have seen in you, either today or in the past, suggests that you possess an iota of competence.” He refolded the telegram. “Nevertheless, it is not my place to second-guess the Führer, who has given you a direct order. And I daresay—no, I am certain—that he would not approve of this . . .” He leaned down again, to within a handbreadth of the captain, as if his snarling teeth might take a bite out of him. “This digression.”

  Captain Rodemann was shocked. It was true, he had completely forgotten about the French. How could he have let that happen? The French army was his instrument of triumph, his weapon of glory, his catalyst to fame, and he had lost sight of his grand objective because of some petty little villagers? He called himself to attention. Looking to the soldiers who were still standing next to Munter’s now-prostrate and apparently unconscious body, he swept his hand through the air and announced, “Yes, sir, General! We will engage the enemy immediately!” Then, in a tempest of loud commands and clattering boots, Captain Rodemann and his regiment were gone, marching west toward the enemy.

  * * *

  Rosie ran over to Erich Wolf’s horse. “Erich! Erich! Will you let me sit up there with you?”

  “Rosie!” Though surprised to see her, Erich Wolf dismounted and picked her up, kissing her mop of brown curls as he placed her on top of the horse. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  “No, but she’s here somewhere, and now she’ll see that I’m with you. Oooh! I’m so tall up here! I can see everything!” Rosie looked over to the yew tree, where Dr. Schufeldt was bent over Hans Munter, checking his breathing and heart rate. Frau Breckenmüller was helping him, cradling the bürgermeister’s head in her lap and murmuring reassuring words. Rosie was not certain, but she thought she heard Frau Breckenmüller naming various kinds of sausages and meats. Turning her head downhill to where the crowd was gathered, Rosie saw Marina striding toward them. Fortunately, she did not look angry.

  “Erich, how wonderful that you’re here!” Her mother seemed not to notice Rosie at all. She looked at Erich as if she hadn’t seen him in many, many years, when act
ually they had seen each other in Meerfeld just last summer. Rosie knew because she had been there too, with Sofia, and they’d fed bread crusts to the swans. Lara had stayed home with Oma, who said she wasn’t ready to see Erich. Rosie did not understand that. What would Oma need to do to be ready to see him?

  Back when they lived in Berlin, Erich used to come to the playground near Lara’s school to push Rosie in the swings. He was there every weekday, standing next to the swing set in his ribboned uniform, waiting for Marina and Sofia and Rosie after they dropped Lara off. Marina referred to him as “Onkel Erich,” but she said that he wasn’t really an uncle because he wasn’t Oma and Opa’s son. He had just lived in their house, before her mother got married. All of that was too confusing for Rosie, so she simply referred to him as Erich. And he was a great swing pusher. He pushed her as hard as she asked him to, so Rosie could swing higher and higher. After swinging, Marina usually let Rosie and Sofia play in the sandbox while she and Erich sat on a bench nearby.

  Now Rosie looked down from the horse at her mother and Erich. They were facing each other, Erich with his hands on Marina’s arms.

  “I was heading this way anyway,” he was saying. “Though I had no idea when I left Fürchtesgaden this morning that Rodemann was marching about. As I got closer, I heard rumors about a German attack on one of the towns on the lake. So I stepped up my pace.” He smiled. “My car broke down back in Schwanfeld. But I was able to borrow a horse. My preferred means of transportation, as you know.”

  “Well, it’s a miracle, really. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t intervened,” Marina said. “You must have galloped over here at full speed. It’s a good thing you’re in shape, or you’d be in a hospital bed right next to Hans Munter, recovering from a heart attack or exhaustion.”

  “Yes, if nothing else, the Third Reich keeps me fit.” Erich patted the horse on its side. “This mare did her best, poor thing. I imagine she hasn’t had such a workout in a long time.”