Point of No Return

by Gellhorn, Martha;

  19

  The Rhine was not nearly as big as you’d expect after all the talk. And it was certainly no trouble to get across. They drove over a pontoon bridge as if the Rhine were any old river. It looked dirty, a green scum color. But it gave Jacob Levy a strange feeling, anyhow, to be across the Rhine. The Germans were really licked now. After the Rhine, he knew it.

  “I guess we’ll be home soon, sir,” he said to Lieutenant Colonel Smithers.

  “Maybe so.”

  These were the first four days of April and in any other year or any other country, it would be spring. It was not spring but it was not winter either; the snow was finished and the mud did not have the settled here-to-stay look of all previous muds. It was capable of drying. Though the sky was too pale, it was clean and only lightly streaked with wind cloud and could be expected to brighten and warm with sun.

  For four days the Regiment rode slowly into Germany, not called upon to get out and fight. The tanks were up ahead; another Division preceded the 20th, combing the countryside behind the fast advance of the armor. This was a nice interesting way to make war. Lieutenant Colonel Smithers and Jacob Levy and Dave Penny, the radio operator, had time to look around them and take note of this incredible world. They were wedged in a solid khaki river of vehicles that seemed to wind back behind them all the way to the Atlantic. The endless transport was covered with soldiers who stared like sightseers on a conducted tour. For none of them had ever seen a country in the act of defeat.

  This country, coming apart before their eyes, spewed out people. War, as they knew it, was lonely work; the citizenry vanished somehow, the landscape always emptied where the war was in progress. But now civilians cluttered the roads and the villages. It was as if the Germans, and the millions of strangers they herded with them, had been locked inside these frontiers and a giant jail-break was taking place.

  On one side of the road a steady line of men and women walked west to the Rhine. They pushed baby carriages full of household goods, or wheelbarrows, or pulled small carts, or shoved bicycles garlanded with their possessions tied into packages. The Germans had not bothered to clothe them during their long exile, so they had recently stolen a few useful odds and ends. A man would be wearing a cloth cap and a gleaming swallow-tail coat; a woman would be stumbling along in oversize rough boots and, above a burlap skirt, a green satin blouse. They were all scrawny and fierce, hanging on to what they owned and walking to the Rhine. They made the V-sign to the American soldiers and sometimes shouted jokes and laughed, and sometimes they sang. They were mostly French and they were going home. They had waited for no help or guidance, at night they slept by the roadside curled around their belongings. They knew where home was and they were going there.

  On the same side of the road, driving west to the prisoner of war enclosures, were American army trucks loaded with German soldiers. The French, straggling along the soft shoulder of the road, never looked at these. The German soldiers stood packed in the trucks and the sharp April wind brought no color to their faces. Even their skin seemed different from that of all other men. It was grey and thick and their faces were without curiosity. They, apparently, saw no one. Their uniforms still appeared more soldierly than those of the Americans; their bodies did not wear any special pitiful sag as you might expect from the defeated. You did not notice that some were very young and some were too old to have been fighting men at all. They looked alike.

  “The bastards,” Lieutenant Colonel Smithers said. Why couldn’t they all climb into P.W. trucks and go on back to wherever prisoners went? They were whipped. Why wouldn’t they admit it and stop harassing sensible people with their stinking war?

  The convoy moved slowly on, past prosperous farms undamaged by the war. It seemed that all the chickens and geese and pigs and cows of Europe must have been collected inside Germany. In other countries, the farms had been bare and the farmers were always engaged in cherishing one bony cow or one old sore-scarred horse.

  “In Georgia,” Lieutenant Colonel Smithers said, “there’s plenty of people right now would be proud to own these farms.”

  Then the road would rise over a smooth hill and below in the hollow they would see pointed church steeples, rosy tiled roofs, narrow gabled houses with gleaming window panes, crowded together into a gingerbread village. These villages too were intact; and from every window, clean white sheets hung in token of surrender.

  “They sure got a lot of sheets,” Lieutenant Colonel Smithers said. One or two would have been enough. They didn’t all have to surrender, for God’s sake.

  Dave Penny stopped chewing gum long enough to say, “Can you beat it?” On the outskirts of another pretty village, blonde children waved little white flags, as if to surrender was a festive occasion.

  A line of Germans stood outside a high, redbrick, sharp-roofed building; they carried shot guns, hunting rifles, pistols and old army rifles. A few brought duelling swords. They were waiting to deposit their weapons in the Town Hall, as directed by the conquerors. Seeing these obedient krauts, waiting their turn to disarm, Jacob Levy said, “Look at the werewolves.”

  And there were plump girls everywhere, riding bicycles or watching from the fields or the doorways of houses. They wore stockings that shone in the sun. In England, the women’s legs got red from the cold; in Belgium they seemed more purple and were embarrassing because of the dark down on them.

  “I guess these krauts weren’t hurting for anything,” Jacob Levy remarked.

  Lieutenant Colonel Smithers looked at the gliding hills with the fields spread on them in rich various patterns and thought: what the hell did they do it for? They had all they needed. You could have understood the war better if Germany had been a lousy starving ugly country, as imagined.

  Then the perilous game of leap-frog, which was being played across Germany, caught up with them; it was their turn; the Division ahead went into reserve and they got out of the trucks and became infantry again, fighting on their feet. That four days’ tour had been too good to be true anyhow. The Battalion cleaned out roadblocks, and emptied villages of snipers; they pushed the krauts off small, strategically placed hills; they crossed bridgeless rivers and protected the banks while the engineers strung pontoons for the armor; they patrolled the woods like men collecting dirty trash in a park, driving out the scattered German Volkswehr. It was brisk, mean work and men got killed doing it. This was unnecessary death; the German army was busted up, the country eaten into on every side, there was no war left to fight. So you could only think these goddam krauts had decided dying was a good idea and meant to take as many Americans with them as possible.

  The Regiment rode into a town called Hildenwald. It was one of the towns the P-47’s had worked over. You had to hand it to those P-47 boys, when they set out to mash a place they mashed it. Riding through Hildenwald was like riding on a roller coaster; you climbed up and down over mountains of rubble. Here they learned that the tanks were held up; the routed and divided Germans had again solidified up ahead and were giving battle. The Regiment went into Division reserve and the Battalion found itself camping in the park of a great house; unsuccessfully copied from a French château by some wealthy, now absent, Hildenwalder.

  The Colonel set up his CP in the bare grandeur of the house: as always he sat behind a kitchen table and as always there appeared before him the papers that seemed to multiply by themselves in war. He wore his usual paper-work frown and talked with his usual paper-work snarl, and Jacob Levy decided the Colonel would be stuck at that table for some time. Jacob Levy found Bert Hammer, who was trying to sort out a jumble of bedrolls, and suggested they visit the town.

  “We could ask Sergeant Hancock,” Jacob Levy said. “Just a couple of hours.”

  Sergeant Hancock, who had replaced Sergeant Postalozzi, said they could go weave daisy chains for all he cared, but you never knew when the Battalion would move and if they got left behind that was their tough luck and they’d be AWOL in his books.

  “Not
a chance, Sarge,” Bert Hammer said. “You know this Battalion can’t operate without us.”

  It was the end of the afternoon; they had two or three hours of daylight. It was nice to walk around in the spring air, with nothing on your mind.

  “I wish we had time to go fishing,” Bert Hammer said. They had passed a stream before they came to this town. It flowed pleasantly between grass banks. Fishing with grenades, you couldn’t miss; though if you had a pole it was still better to fish in the old-fashioned way. They had no time for this. They decided, therefore, to go looting.

  They did not want anything; looting was only a sport. It was also curiosity, to learn how the Germans lived, what did they own, what did they keep in their houses? That was how Americans always judged people and at last you had a chance to see what the enemy was really like.

  There were sharp characters who looted with intention, who found jewelry, valuable cameras, or pictures, and saved their loot and would later sell it. These were the businessmen. Most of the soldiers picked up junk, not believing it belonged to anybody (the houses were empty), and they would carry this worthless stuff a few miles along the clogged roads and dump it out.

  Some soldiers were frightened of looting because they had heard about the booby traps. The Germans were famous for booby traps. It was alleged that you’d pull open a bureau drawer and it blew up on you. This had always happened to some other fellow, who was blind, hand-less or dead as a result. These stories had a very wide circulation; no one had time to prove or disprove them. They kept a certain number of men law-abiding.

  Jacob Levy and Bert Hammer found their house at the edge of Hildenwald. This was a suburban street and had escaped the bombers. The house was made of tan stucco, new and unscarred. You would not be surprised to find the family in the parlor, waiting for supper They broke the lock on the front door, kicked it open and jumped back down the steps. This was when they expected something to blow up. Nothing happened. They went inside and found the house as undisturbed as if no army had passed. The town was evidently so rich in pickings that the preceding soldiers had not stopped to rifle this place.

  They went into the living room. The furniture was shiny, dark, and modern; there were bookcases full of books bound in sticky leather with much gold lettering; there were small statues, a bronze head of Hitler looking noble, a Greek maiden and a stag; ornamental beer mugs; and crossed duelling swords on the wall. The leather chairs had brown velvet cushions with lace doilies pinned to them. On a small table, spread artistically, were handsome picture books showing the Führer in every public act and mood.

  Bert Hammer picked up one of these. It opened at a picture of the Führer simpering on a crowd of young women in dirndls. Bert Hammer closed the book. The picture made him sick; he didn’t know why. The look on the girls’ faces was something you felt ashamed to see, there was something dirty and sexy about it.

  Jacob Levy had opened a desk drawer, out of curiosity. The papers were neatly ranged inside. There was a pile of calling cards with “Dr. ing. Paul Schemmerkling” printed on them.

  “The guy was a doctor,” Jacob Levy said.

  They walked through the dining room, all matching pieces of heavy carved oak, and a hanging chandelier of green glass, into the white tiled kitchen.

  “It’s like home,” Jacob Levy said. They had nowhere seen such houses. Bert Hammer did not say that it was a lot better than his home.

  There was a little dust in the house but otherwise it was in perfect order. The family could move back anytime. The main bedroom upstairs was filled with another set of furniture, brown and shiny and with chromium handles and knobs wherever possible. They opened a high mirrored cupboard and saw the clothes hanging there, the man’s suits on the right, the woman’s dresses on the left. Bert Hammer pulled out a white satin wedding dress and they stared at it. There was a set of blue glass toilet articles on the dressing table.

  Next door was the nursery. The furniture was small and pale blue, trimmed with a design of white rabbits. There were two blue cribs.

  “That’s cute,” Bert Hammer said, smiling.

  The bathroom was also white-tiled and had a shower.

  You could not help respecting people who had such a fine clean house. You could not help being a little sorry for them, knowing what they had lost. You could not really believe a doctor would be a Nazi and a bad guy; he probably had to have those picture books and the statue of Hitler so he wouldn’t get in trouble. They were admiring the bathroom when they heard feet on the stairs.

  “We found it open,” Bert Hammer whispered. They had touched nothing; if it was an officer they would say they were only looking.

  “Hey!” said a voice in the hall.

  A soldier was standing there. He was not from their outfit.

  “Nice little joint,” he said. “Found anything good?”

  He walked into the bedroom and said scornfully, “What’re you waiting for?” He jerked open a drawer of the dressing table and dumped its contents on the floor. He stirred these around with his foot.

  “Junk,” he said. “Not much jewelry in houses anyhow. You mostly find it in stores. If the armored boys don’t get it first.”

  He pulled out another drawer and dumped it.

  “Snot rags,” he said. “I can use some of them.” He picked up four handkerchiefs and put them in his pocket.

  “Listen, Mac,” Bert Hammer said, “this here is our house. First come, first served. I didn’t notice anybody invite you in.”

  “So,” said the soldier.

  “Right,” Bert Hammer said.

  The soldier looked them over; the little guy who gave orders would be easy but the other was a big man. And there were two of them. Anyhow there were plenty of houses.

  “Have it your own way, pal.” He stopped to take a silver trimmed comb from the dressing table.

  “So long pals,” he said.

  They followed him downstairs to make sure he left, without disturbing the living room.

  “Son of a bitch,” said Bert Hammer.

  They looked with regret at the once orderly bedroom. Jacob Levy felt they ought to pick the stuff up and put it back in the drawers but that was foolish. It was funny how much you knew about people, seeing what they kept in their house. It was sort of wrong too; it wasn’t right to snoop on people when they couldn’t help themselves.

  He went over to the bedside table where he had seen a picture in a fancy silver frame. It was turned sideways towards the bed. Maybe this was the man or the lady who lived here. The little blue room for the kids made you think they must be good friendly people.

  The photograph showed a man of about thirty-four, glaring pop-eyed at the camera. He was grinding his teeth together in an expression of martial ardor, so that his jaw muscles were ridged. He wore the black uniform of the S.S., complete with cap and skull and crossbones insignia. At the bottom of the picture, in ornate script, was written: Für meinen geliebte Lotte, herzliche küssen, Paul.

  The man looked to him like a blown-up, full-sized bastard, and mean.

  “Take a look at our doctor,” he said.

  Bert Hammer studied the picture. “You mean to say this doctor was in the S.S.?”

  “Seems so.”

  “You mean to say this guy had this fine house and the two kids and was a doctor and went and joined the S.S.?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well screw him, is what I say. Screw his house, too.”

  Bert Hammer went to the dressing table and pulled out the remaining drawers, as they had seen the other soldier do.

  “Want anything?” he said, kicking at a collection of gloves, scarves, stockings, socks, handkerchiefs, hairpins, and cufflinks.

  “No.”

  Casually Bert Hammer brushed the blue glass toilet articles off the dressing table; they broke on the floor.

  “I want to steal me something big out of this place,” he said, “something that son of a bitching S.S. doctor will really miss.”

&nb
sp; They could find nothing and contented themselves with tearing the house apart as much as possible. They felt they had been made fools of, believing he was a nice guy and looking after his home for him, the way they had. Jacob Levy threw the bronze bust of Hitler through the living room window, and they left whistling. They hadn’t gotten any loot but it had been a useful afternoon anyhow. This would show those crooked krauts whether they could get away with being S.S. on the sly or not.

  They met the new cook, Leroy Backley, on what was almost a street. A bulldozer had pushed the towering rubble off the street and down a bare slope so there were cobbles to walk on and bits of curbstone to show where the borders of the street had been. On the right a row of housefronts stood, with nothing behind them but rubble-grey, churned-up holes. The housefronts were old, pretty and fantastic, pale candy colors, coated with plaster ornament and decorated with crossed timbers and fragile balconies. They would collapse any day. They were a reminder that once Hildenwald had been noted in the guide books for its medieval charm.

  Below the climbing street lay a flat semi-circle of land: this was what the airforce called marshalling yards. The airforce was attracted to marshalling yards everywhere, and the open expanse showed how thoroughly the airforce worked. Tracks rose in the air like weird flower stalks; the ground was pitted with bomb craters; locomotives and freight cars had been blown about in every position, on their sides, upended, piled together like kindling; the railway station was crushed through in three places; no switch tower remained upright.

  “I guess they’ll have to do without trains here for quite a while,” Jacob Levy said.

  In the midst of this perfect destruction, one long line of freight cars stood as solid as new. It had the appearance of a miracle.