The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  Frank grunted. Someone who met him for five minutes might say he was a nice old gentleman, too, but he knew the truth that lay behind the eyes that faced him each morning in the mirror.

  “I’m fixing supper,” he replied.

  “What are you having?”

  Frank told him. Parker was silent for a moment, then spoke.

  “That sounds good to me,” he said. “I was going to have to go to the grocery store and pick up a frozen TV dinner. I’m not sure what Mr. Mueller is going to eat, but he looks hungry too.”

  “Okay, bring him,” Frank replied grumpily. “I have extra fillets and can add more okra. But I’m out of fresh tomatoes.”

  “I can bring some. The lady who lives next to the office gave me a bag of a late-season variety yesterday. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  The call ended. Frank turned down the okra and tomatoes to simmer slowly. He’d cook white rice and fry the fish after Parker and Mr. Mueller arrived.

  Frank ate his meals at a tiny table in the kitchen or sitting on the back porch, but the front of the house was a combination living room/dining room that he kept neat. The day’s mail lay unopened on the corner of the dining room table. He sorted it and put what he needed to keep in a rolltop desk. The living room contained a brown leather couch and a matching leather chair where Frank would sit and read during the few months of cold weather that blew frost across the eastern North Carolina coast. The rest of the year he preferred a well-padded lounge chair on the back porch where his time with a book, in German or English, could be serenaded by chirping crickets and evening calls from night herons or an occasional owl.

  While he straightened up the house, Frank racked his brain trying to remember Conrad Mueller. There were hundreds of faces in his mental scrapbook of his years in the army. Only a few still had names: serious, clean-cut young men, many of whom didn’t survive the war. Other faces were faded and washed out like an old picture left in a shirt pocket and run through a clothes washer.

  General Berg died in 1946 from emphysema, a fact Frank learned decades later when he researched his former commander’s name on the Internet. After that discovery, he’d not dug further into the past. As for Mueller, he was beyond the reach of natural memory or long-dormant revelation.

  Thinking about former comrades in arms troubled Frank afresh and made him mad at the unwelcome visitor for tracking him down. It could all be a mistake, of course, but even if it wasn’t, Frank had no interest in reminiscing about a period of his life during which he’d been so efficient in helping kill men whose cause he now believed more just than his own. The postwar revelation of the death camps in eastern Germany and Poland had shaken Frank deeply. Glorifying the horror of war by either the winning or the losing side was, to him, a sign of insanity.

  Returning to the kitchen, he vigorously stirred the okra and tomatoes. He heard the sound of Parker’s car crunching the seashells as he pulled into the driveway. Placing the large spoon on the counter beside the stove, Frank went to the front door and prepared to reluctantly welcome an unknown face from the past.

  CHAPTER 7

  Hauptmann Haus,” Mueller said respectfully in German after he looked Frank up and down. “Do you remember me?”

  Frank looked into the man’s blue eyes. No recognition came. Parker stood beside the sofa and watched.

  “No,” Frank responded in the same language. “And I haven’t been a hauptmann for a long time.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me and inviting me to your home,” Mueller replied.

  Parker cleared his throat. “If you’re going to speak in German, how am I going to understand what you’re talking about?”

  Frank turned to his grandson. “Do you finally regret not studying harder when you took German in high school and refused my offer to tutor you?”

  “Yes, but you can’t hold that against me now.”

  “My English is not good,” Mueller said with an apologetic look at Parker.

  “That’s okay,” Parker answered, raising his hand. “This is your rodeo. I’ll go into the kitchen and finish preparing supper.”

  “Rodeo?” Mueller asked.

  “It’s an American idiom for our having a private conversation,” Frank explained in German.

  “I recognized American,” Parker said.

  “And if you discover a new interest in learning German, we’ll explore that later,” Frank said. “The okra and tomatoes are stewing, and the fish need to be fried. The seasoned cornmeal is in the cupboard. Do you want rice too?”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of it.”

  Parker started moving toward the rear of the house.

  “And there’s a new container of oil next to the toaster,” Frank called after him. “Use that, please.”

  Frank and Mueller sat down across from each other in the side chairs.

  “Your English is excellent,” Mueller said. “And your tall grandson is a lawyer. Congratulations.”

  “He’s a good boy and busy with his new job. But I enjoy it when he has time for me.”

  “I have several grandchildren,” Mueller replied, rubbing his chin with his left hand.

  Frank noticed the missing fingers.

  “Do you remember me?” Mueller asked again.

  “No.” Frank shook his head. “I met so many men during the war, and I’ve not kept in touch with anyone from those days.”

  “It’s understandable. I was a lowly private when we met. You were an officer on General Berg’s staff.”

  As he listened, Frank suspected that Mueller didn’t know Frank had deserted. He relaxed. Mueller placed his right hand over his left one as he spoke.

  “I was born in Kiel, and after completing basic training, I was assigned to Army Group G in June 1944. One afternoon I escorted you to a meeting with General Berg at the chateau where he had his headquarters.”

  Frank took in a sharp breath. It was the day he’d deserted. Mueller paused.

  “You remember,” Mueller said.

  “Yes.”

  Not only did Mueller escort him to the chateau, but he was also the young soldier on duty when Frank slipped out the window and deserted. Frank shifted nervously in his chair.

  “Before we parted at the chateau, you spoke kindly to me, not as an officer to a new recruit, but man-to-man,” Mueller continued.

  “I don’t remember a conversation,” Frank replied, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “Understandable. A captain and a private lived in different worlds. Anyway, you told me not to seek a transfer for duty in the north, closer to my home. At that time, my uncle was an oberst who could have arranged an assignment to a regiment that was doing guard duty for the shipyards. However, within a few months his regiment was rolled into a division sent to Estonia, where it was trapped in the Courland Peninsula. Over 150,000 men in the northern army group died there, with the remainder surrendering to the Russians. Many of those who surrendered, including my uncle, never returned.”

  Casualty numbers that large were always too much for Frank to absorb. His burden was the faces of individual men he’d known who lay broken and twisted on a battlefield.

  “Hauptmann Haus, please listen to me.”

  Frank hadn’t realized his daydream had played out on his face. He blinked his eyes.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I never transferred to the north. Today I have three children and six grandchildren.” Mueller leaned forward. “For many years I thought you knew something about the central command’s overall military strategy because of your relationship with General Berg and you gave me an inside tip. That alone deserved my thanks. But then I read a blog on the Internet about an officer on General Berg’s staff who knew where the enemy would be and how to defeat them without conducting reconnaissance. The blogger didn’t know the officer’s name, but he said the general called him the ‘Aryan Eagle.’ When I heard that, I immediately thought about you. Were you the Aryan Eagle?”

  Although relieved Mueller ha
dn’t brought up their interaction at the dormitory, Frank flinched at the mention of the moniker General Berg had hung around his reluctant neck.

  “Opa!” Parker called, sticking his head through the opening to the kitchen. “I can’t find the cornmeal.”

  “I need to help prepare the dinner,” Frank said, standing up. “Please, wait here.”

  Frank retreated to the kitchen. He’d put the box of seasoned cornmeal in the cabinet next to the peanut butter. He took it out and placed it on the counter.

  “What’s going on?” Parker asked, peering past Frank toward the opening to the living area. “I could tell Mr. Mueller was telling you a story. Were you able to figure out where your paths crossed?”

  “I’ll batter the fish,” Frank replied. “How long has the rice been cooking?”

  “Less than a minute. Are you going to answer me or am I going to have to use my lawyer skills to dig it out of you?”

  Frank lifted a large skillet from a hook above the stove and grabbed the jug of cooking oil.

  “We served for a short time in the same unit,” he said.

  “How did you save his life?”

  “I gave him some advice,” Frank replied as he turned up the heat for the oil. “He thinks it was important.”

  “It must have been very good advice,” Parker replied. “Especially if it convinced him to come all the way to America to thank you.”

  “Maybe it was, but he’s also bringing up things I don’t want to talk about.”

  “Did he tell you how he lost his fingers? Was that a wartime injury? He has a bad limp too.”

  “No, and I didn’t ask him.”

  “Does he know you deserted and fled to Switzerland?” Parker asked, lowering his voice.

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t think so, but he saw me the day I left.”

  “Wow,” Parker replied. “Did you tell him to desert too?”

  “No!” Frank answered sharply. “And I don’t want to be cross-examined by you or anyone else! When we sit down at the table, I’m going to change the subject. And as soon as we’ve finished eating, you’re going to take Mr. Mueller back to town. Is my English clear?”

  “Okay, okay.” Parker took a step back.

  Frank turned away, dragged a croaker fillet through the batter, and dropped it in the oil where it sizzled. Three others quickly joined it. The delicate fish needed to cook only long enough for the coating to turn a crispy brown. Frank placed a few sheets of paper towel on a plate and scooped the fish from the oil. He added four more fillets to the skillet. Parker stirred the okra and tomatoes that were melding together.

  “Our law firm won a case in court today,” he said. “And it was my suggestion about a member of the jury that made a huge difference.”

  Frank looked up from the skillet. “What do you mean?”

  Parker told him about lobbying for the young photographer.

  “Was it because she was a pretty girl?” Frank asked, glad for a change in subject.

  “No,” Parker said, pointing to his chest. “Something in here told me that getting the photographer on the jury was critically important if we wanted to win the battle.”

  Frank was about to turn over a fillet in the hot oil. His hand froze. “Did you say ‘win the battle’?”

  “Yeah, I guess I have war on the brain. Anyway, a trial is a form of civilized warfare. Strategy at all points of the case is crucial because it will influence who wins and who loses. Selecting the right jury is a huge part of it.”

  Frank grunted and refocused his attention on the fish.

  “What else do you know about this woman photographer?” he asked after a few moments passed. “Did you have any other thoughts about her?”

  “No, but she took extensive notes during the testimony that convinced everyone else to go along with what she thought the verdict should be.”

  Frank stared unseeing at the fish in the skillet.

  “Opa!” Parker said. “Aren’t those fillets done?”

  Frank shook his head and then quickly scooped out the remaining pieces of fish and put them on the paper towels. Parker took the rice off the burner and poured the okra and tomatoes into a glass serving dish.

  “I’m glad you went to Switzerland,” Parker said. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

  When they sat down at the table, Parker prepared to be excluded from an ongoing conversation in German between the two older men.

  “Please, let’s be polite to my grandson and speak English while we eat,” Frank said to Mueller.

  “This meal is his rodeo,” Mueller said with a smile.

  Parker laughed. As they ate, Mr. Mueller asked simple questions about Frank’s life. None of the information was new to Parker. His grandfather had arrived in the United States in 1946, and after living in Norfolk, Virginia, for six months moved to New Bern where he got a job working in a lumberyard. He married Parker’s grandmother, the daughter of a local butcher who’d emigrated from Germany in the 1920s. They had two children, a daughter first and then, eight years later, Parker’s father. Parker’s aunt lived near Orlando. He braced for his grandfather to reveal the death of Parker’s parents in the car wreck, but he didn’t. Instead, he used family pictures lined up in a row on a cupboard next to the dining room table to illustrate the story of his children and grandchildren. Mueller brought out photos of his family from an envelope in his pocket. When he did, the two men lapsed into German for several minutes until Mueller looked up at Parker.

  “I apologize,” he said. “It is easier to tell about my family in German.”

  “Of course,” Parker said. “That’s fine.”

  “Do you want more fish, Herr Mueller?” Frank asked.

  “Yes. It is very good. And I like the other dish. What do you call it?”

  “Okra and tomatoes. I’ll bring that too.”

  Frank left the table and went into the kitchen.

  “At first I thought the okra was . . . ,” Mueller began to say to Parker but paused.

  “Slimy,” Parker suggested.

  “What is slimy?”

  “The okra sticks together as if held by tiny strings that feel slippery inside your mouth.”

  “But if you bite down it is good with the taste of tomatoes.”

  “That’s why the two are often married together,” Parker said.

  Mueller gave him a puzzled look.

  “They are cooked in the same pot,” Parker explained. “Like peas and carrots.”

  “I will tell my wife about this and show her pictures on the Internet.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time on the computer?” Parker asked, putting a piece of fish in his mouth.

  “Some. That’s where I found out about your grandfather. To be so young, he was a high-ranking officer who often talked to a general.”

  “A general?”

  Frank returned with more fillets and the pot of okra and tomatoes and said something to Mueller in German. Parker didn’t ask any follow-up questions about the general while they ate a second round.

  “You stay here, and I’ll clean the dishes,” Parker said when they finished the meal.

  “You know how I like to put the dishes in the washer—” Frank began.

  “Yes, Opa,” Parker responded. He then looked at Mueller. “Does everyone in Germany load the dishwasher the same way?”

  Mueller gave him a puzzled look for a moment and then smiled. “Yes, it must be done perfectly. Ubung macht den Meister.”

  “What does that mean?” Parker asked his grandfather.

  “It’s a German proverb: ‘Practice is what makes a master.’ ”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Parker gathered up the dirty plates and eating utensils and carried them into the kitchen. The two older men began talking softly in German. Hearing them, Parker wondered if his grandfather ever longed for fellowship with people from his native land. If so, he never mentioned it.

  As he rinsed the plates, Parker began to da
ydream about taking a trip to Germany with Opa as soon as Parker had enough vacation time accumulated at the law firm to do so. It would be fascinating to view the country and people through his grandfather’s eyes.

  Parker thoroughly rinsed the dirty dishes and carefully lined them up in the dishwasher. Using a steel wool pad, he scrubbed the pots used for the okra and tomatoes and the rice before placing them in the top rack. He separated the forks, knives, and serving spoons into their own sections, placing the fork tines and knives up so they would receive maximum spray. The remaining area in the upper rack would hold the glasses. Sometimes when opening his grandfather’s dishwasher it was hard to tell if the dishes were dirty or clean. Finally, Parker wiped off the stove, removing all splatter from the oil in the skillet.

  “All done,” he said, sticking his head through the opening. “Sorry, but there’s no strudel for dessert.”

  Frank looked at him and rubbed his eyes. If he thought it possible, Parker would have suspected his grandfather had been crying.

  Parker watched as Mueller and his grandfather solemnly shook hands at the bottom of the steps leading into the house. It was late dusk, when evening hovers at the edge of the rapidly fading light. The night insects were already in full-throated song.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Mueller said in English.

  Frank spoke several sentences in German. Mueller looked at Parker and nodded his head. Frank turned away and walked up the steps without looking back. Parker and Mueller got in the car.

  “What did he say to you there at the end?” Parker asked as he started the car.

  “He asked me not to tell you,” Mueller replied, staring straight ahead.

  Parker left the driveway and turned onto the paved road. It was half a mile to a four-way stop. Parker slowed and stopped to wait for a truck to pass through.

  “Why was my grandfather crying after supper?” he asked. “Can you tell me that?”

  “Seeing me made him think about the war. It was a hard time. He lost many friends.”

  “He never talks about it.”

  Mueller turned slightly in the passenger seat. “It is not a story to tell. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” Parker replied. “Words can bring back bad memories.”