by Jack Fernley
‘And these are your sisters?’
‘Yes. This is Rachel and Rebecca.’
He looked at the two sisters. The older around five; the younger one, Rebecca, no more than three, held a battered doll. Their clothes were old, ragged, passed down through too many generations. It was obvious that the Lebanon Trading Post was not thriving. Conze could hear their mother’s shallow breathing, almost feel her heart beating.
‘And what is this young lady called?’ Conze asked of the doll.
‘She is Martha,’ Rebecca replied.
‘The girls have named her after General Washington’s wife,’ the mother spoke up nervously.
Conze did not look at her; instead he continued to crouch down and smile at the girls. ‘Ladies, are there any British soldiers here?’
The girls looked up at their mother, nervously.
‘Tell the gentleman, girls,’ she said.
Sarah replied, ‘No, there are no soldiers here. Only our family.’
‘Very good,’ said Conze, raising himself from his haunches. Standing, he then reached down and lifted up Rebecca, putting her on his shoulders. ‘Here, young lady, you and Martha can have the best view of the morning.’ The mother was gulping air, frightened for her child, not knowing whether to protest or not.
The families were making their way out of the houses and the inn now, dazed, half-dressed in some cases. There were a dozen in total, ranging from two small boys to an elderly man who was having trouble walking, leaning heavily on a stick.
‘Here!’ barked Conze.
The group, led by Mandabach, made their way towards Conze.
At his location near the trading post, Hand looked on. He was anxious. He had seen something similar before. Images from New Brunswick crossed his mind. He called to O’Leary, ‘Pat, I’m going over. I’ve a bad feeling about this.’
‘Werner knows what he’s doing, leave him be, fella.’
Hand looked at his friend. There was a coldness in Pat’s eyes. They had witnessed the massacre at New Brunswick. Had O’Leary forgotten that, or, even worse, did he no longer care? The distance was great between them now. Without replying, he walked away and towards Conze.
‘Where are the English soldiers?’ asked Conze of the group of families.
‘I already told you, there are no British soldiers here,’ answered Mandabach.
‘Mister, I was not asking you. You,’ he pointed at one younger but bearded adult. ‘Where are the English hiding?’
The man looked puzzled. ‘My brother told you. There are no English here.’
‘We know that you trade here with the English, you support the English?’
‘We support no one, we take no sides in this war,’ Mandabach replied.
‘You take no side?’
‘We keep ourselves free of politics, of the world as others wish it to be. We are content to live our lives separate from others here. This is our colony within a colony.’
Conze looked at Mandabach with distaste. ‘That is a problem. By taking no side, you choose a side. You are either for America or for King George.’
‘We support neither side. These are not issues that concern us,’ the younger brother answered.
‘That is impossible. By not supporting one side, you reveal yourselves to be agents of the British. You are for us or against us. Let us see what you are hiding in this shitty village of yours. Is everyone out of their huts?’
The younger man replied. ‘The houses, you mean? Our homes?’ There was defiance in him; Conze recognised it. ‘Yes, but there is our elderly grandma, she is unable to leave her bed.’
‘How convenient,’ replied Conze and he flicked his hand in the air, narrowly missing the girl still sitting on his shoulders, and shouted, ‘Search these filthy huts.’
The Stormtroopers ran into the houses, followed immediately by the sound of furniture being overturned, the smash of pottery breaking, the dull thud of pots and pans thrown around. The women, bewildered, began to shriek in despair.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked the younger brother. ‘We have told you, there are no English here. There is no one but us.’
‘We will see. See what weapons you are hiding, what supplies you are keeping for Cornwallis. Tell your whores to be quiet.’
‘You are welcome to what food we have, but we have little,’ said the older brother, fear in his voice. ‘This winter has been hard for us. And we have no weapons.’
Hand appeared by Conze’s side. ‘What is the concern here, Werner?’
The German didn’t deign to answer.
One of the Stormtroopers dragged an elderly, confused woman in a nightgown out of one of the houses. ‘Mama,’ screamed Caryn Mandabach, running towards her as a soldier pushed the old woman to the ground – the children following their mother to their great-grandmother.
‘What is this?’ shouted the younger brother at Conze. ‘What harm was she doing? What harm are any of us doing? Have your men no respect?’
Conze gave him a cruel, withering look. ‘Respect? You Jews expect “respect”? “What harm are we doing?” The cry of the Jew down the ages! What harm do you do? What harm do you not do? Filthy, stinking subhumans. Look around you, look how you live, in shit. And you’d have us all live like you.’ The abuse poured out of him, shocking in its vehemence.
Hand stood next to him. He felt slightly nauseous, sweating despite the chill air, unsure what to do.
‘Obergruppenführer, weapons.’
One of the younger Stormtroopers came out of the grandmother’s house, an old blunderbuss in his hands. It was rusted and clearly had not been used for many years.
‘What is this?’ screamed Conze. ‘You said you had no weapons and we find this?’
Mandabach was surprised, ‘I had no idea. I, I, that, that was in our grandparents’ house.’ He pointed towards the old man now leaning on another. ‘He, he, his mind has gone. He has no idea where he is or what is happening.’
Conze walked over to the crowd, staring intently at the old man. His eyes gave nothing back to him, just the blankness of senility. The ancient man muttered something in Yiddish.
‘What’s he saying? What is this gibberish?’ asked Conze of Mandabach.
‘I, I don’t know, nothing, nonsense. He has the mind of a child. It means nothing. Nothing.’
Conze looked at the group. Seventeen of them, huddling together, shivering in the coldness of the morning. They were a pathetic and sad-looking group. Hand touched him on the elbow.
‘Werner, there are no British here. This is just a poor trading post. They can barely keep themselves alive, let alone supply the British army. The men are hungry. Let’s return to Heidlebergtown and have a good breakfast. We have more important things to attend to.’ He was tense, sweat prickling his neck despite the cold.
Conze was still holding the youngest girl on his shoulders. He looked up at her. ‘What do you say, Rebecca? Shall we leave you all?’
‘You’re scaring me.’
‘There’s no need to be scared. I’m a good man. I’m here to protect the good people. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Then you have no reason to be scared, no reason at all.’ He looked around him. ‘Very well. I can see there are no British here. But take this as a warning. If I ever hear of you trading with the British again, we will return and we will destroy this post.’
‘We will not, thank you,’ said Mandabach, relief in his voice.
‘Men, fall back in line. We will follow Colonel Hand’s suggestion and return to Heidlebergtown for a good breakfast. Onwards.’
Hand relaxed, threw an apologetic smile towards Mandabach and turned back towards his men.
Conze strode off, with Rebecca still on his shoulders.
Now there was new consternation, the mother shrieking, the sisters crying, the father screaming: ‘My daughter! Give me back my daughter.’
Hand turned round to see Conze bounding towards
him, the girl crying as she sat on his shoulders. ‘Werner, what are you doing? The child, give them back the child.’
Conze increased his pace and walked past Hand. ‘No, the child comes with us.’
‘What? Why? Why on earth are you bringing the child?’
‘As an act of good faith. It’s the only way I can be sure these Jews will do as I say. Otherwise, they will be laughing behind our backs and reporting back to Cornwallis. That is their nature. They cannot help themselves.’
‘Give back the child!’
Behind them the screaming was louder, the whole group was convulsed, the younger brother started scuffling with a pair of Stormtroopers.
‘I want my mama!’ Rebecca was crying.
‘For pity’s sake, Conze, return the child to her mother!’ demanded Hand.
The child’s screams grew louder, her mother ran towards her, but a trooper caught her around the waist and threw her to the ground. ‘Mama!’ screamed Rebecca.
Hand scrambled to stand in front of Conze, stopping his march. ‘Conze, I am telling you to give the child back to her family.’
Conze stopped and stared at Hand. ‘You are weak. You have no backbone. You like always to take the easy road. I prefer the harder road, cruel it may be, but necessary.’ He looked up at Rebecca. ‘You want to return to your mother? Go.’
And he lifted her up with both hands and threw the three-year-old towards her mother, with such hatred and force, that she landed not in the arms of her mama, but head first on the cold, firm rocky path that served as a road, her head cracking open on a small boulder that lay at the edge.
There was silence. Then the most terrible, heart-wrenching screams, as the families saw the blood streaming from the head of the dead child.
Hand ran to the child. Her head was shattered, scarlet blood and grey brains smearing the ground. He was shocked to his core by the brutality of what he had witnessed, incapable of comprehending what had just happened. Something snapped in him. He left the child and ran towards Conze, who was marching off as though nothing had happened.
Catching up with the German, he pulled at his jacket, stopping him again. ‘You’ve killed that little girl, an innocent child. You’re nothing but a brute.’
‘She was a Jew. She wasn’t innocent. They are never innocent from the moment they are born. They are a threat. And you have to understand that.’
‘No, you’re the threat,’ and, without thinking, Hand threw a punch that floored the German.
Now there was chaos. The Mandabach brothers made to charge up the road towards Conze, but a group of Stormtroopers held them back amid punches and kicks. Hand attempted to fly at Conze again, but two Stormtroopers moved in on him, pulling him away and pinning back his arms. The sounds of wailing around the dead child were terrible, and from nowhere a wind suddenly whipped up and the sky became a grey, miserable blanket.
‘You seem to make a habit of striking fellow officers, Colonel Hand,’ said Conze, wiping his mouth as he raised himself to his feet.
‘Only with good cause. You disfigure our cause by your actions, you animal,’ spat Hand.
‘Do I? Do I really? Or do I make it a greater cause than you can imagine?’
‘You’re insane, truly you are.’
‘Take him away for now,’ Conze said to the Stormtroopers holding Hand back. ‘Let us resolve this.’
He strode towards the Mandabach brothers, struggling still against a small group of Stormtroopers, until he was face to face with the Mandabachs. ‘An accident,’ he said calmly. ‘War is full of them. Now you must ensure no more accidents befall your family. So, no more trading with the British.’
The older brother was weeping, but the younger one was full of rage and spat at Conze, throwing insults in Yiddish at him.
‘You make this so difficult for yourself. Would you like another lesson, mister?’
The younger Mandabach, bruised and bloodied, made again to break free, to attack Conze, but had no chance against the Stormtroopers.
‘Tiresome,’ said Conze. ‘You people will never learn.’ And he pulled out a dagger from his belt and slit the young brother’s throat. As the blood poured out, Conze looked at his men and said calmly, ‘Burn the village, burn it all. And these Jews with it.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Hand stumbled back to his men, dazed by the events, and humiliated. All O’Leary said to him was, ‘I told you not to mess with him, Ed.’ And with that he walked away, leaving Hand standing alone.
Hand watched his friend go back to the Pennsylvanians, and cried out in a weak voice, ‘Riflemen, fall in line.’
From their position, they had not had a clear view of the events. Some of the older fellows asked him, ‘What’s happening, Ed?’ He did not acknowledge their questions, just walked past and barked to start the return to Heidlebergtown. As they moved off, the screams from the women grew louder. ‘Eyes straight ahead,’ he said to the men. ‘We’re returning to Heidlebergtown. There’ll be breakfast for you all.’ And then he heard the crackle of fire and he knew the Lebanon Trading Post was going up in flames.
They breakfasted with Schaeffer fussing over them, on cornbread, porridge, cold meats, beer and coffee. Hand sat alone, caught up in his own thoughts, unaware of the whisperings of the men around him. Half an hour into the feast, the Stormtroopers arrived. They smelled of smoke and fire. They were animated, excited, eager to celebrate. They had friends among the Riflemen and told them what had occurred: the villagers were British sympathisers, they had turned on them, the Stormtroopers had been attacked, they had no option. After that no one talked to Hand. Then or the next day.
Those days were miserable for Colonel Hand. He was isolated and shunned by his own men as they marched from Heidlebergtown and on to Hummelstown. On the second day, the temperatures dropped again, the frosted ground became icy, and five miles outside of Hummelstown, snow began to fall, heavily and fast, so that the trek became even more difficult and hazardous. The abrupt return of winter was all too symbolic to Hand.
He went about his boys, cajoling, encouraging. He had done this many times before, often in worse conditions, and he was used to the grumbling and moaning, but it was different now. There was no love any more, respect had gone, the grumbling replaced by indifference or even outright hostility towards him. As they trudged past him in the swirling maelstrom, he thought he heard one of them hiss ‘Jew Lover’. He could not be sure, the words were lost in the seething white wind, but he saw only too well the burning hatred in the coal-dark eyes of the icy white figures that passed him. But when Werner Conze walked down the line and made similar noises of encouragement, he received cheers and shouts of approval. The Riflemen were no longer Hand’s.
They lodged overnight in Hummelstown, another town established by German immigrants, husband and wife, Frederick and Rosina Hummel, just over a decade ago, and the welcome was as warm as Heidlebergtown. The men patted down the snow and laid their tents out on the town’s green, and then most of them accepted another evening of beer, sauerkraut and sausages.
Normally, Hand would have tented with Pat O’Leary, but the Irishman had made an excuse the previous night and showed no intention of returning this evening. Hand went looking for him. The sergeant was cleaning muskets with a group of Riflemen. ‘Pat, we have to talk.’
‘What about, fella? You wanna lecture me again? You wanna warn me off the Stormtroopers again? Going to talk to me like you did with Sarah? That went well, didn’t it?’
‘What’s happened to us? We’ve been like brothers for years.’
‘What’s happened is that I’ve woken up. Yes, we were close, like brothers as you say, but you were always the big brother and me the kid and that was all right, mostly. But I don’t wanna be the kid any more, Ed. I looked up to you. Perhaps you weren’t like a brother, perhaps you were like a father. And I believed in what you told me, but now I see things differently.’
‘Because of Werner Conze?’
O’Leary continued t
o strip the musket. The other men sat silent, cleaning their muskets, exchanging silent glances with each other. None of them wanted to be there at this moment.
‘Not just Werner, all the German lads, they’re a great bunch. We were just a bunch of pissheads playing at it like, these lads have taught us how to do it properly. And the crack is great wi’ ’em. Ain’t it, lads?’ There was a mumble of agreement from the Riflemen. ‘Like I said before, you don’t like it because you were the top dog and now Werner is.’
‘We’re joint commanders of the unit.’
‘Ach, no one believes that, fella. Werner’s in charge, he’s the one everyone listens to. No disrespect an’ all that, but nobody’s listening to you any more, Ed.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? You gotta ask me why not? Christ alive. Ain’t it obvious?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘After New Brunswick you went around telling anyone who would listen what the Stormtroopers did to those British.’
‘And that was wrong, was it?’
‘Hell, yes, it was. You never heard of loyalty to your own boys?’
‘What they did wasn’t acceptable. You saw that. You stood there with me, watching it. They shot them all, they were unarmed, those women were raped.’
‘Those women weren’t raped. You didn’t see it.’
‘What, they went off with them because they wanted to?’
‘They were taking them away to protect them after they shot the soldiers.’
‘What about the children?’
‘What children?’
‘There were children killed in New Brunswick.’
‘I didn’t see any children.’
Hand was incredulous. ‘You didn’t see those little kids lying there, in their own blood? You were standing right by me.’
‘No, you imagined that. There were only soldiers killed. Talk to the lads who did it, they’ll tell you. What were they supposed to do? Free those British soldiers so they could join up with Cornwallis an’ his gang and come back after us? This is war, Ed, for sure it is. It’s them or us and I’m happy in my heart we’re wi’ the Stormtroopers. Happy in my heart, we’re going to win and not have the British rubbing our faces in it. You think the British would have done any differently if they’d caught us?’