by Ellen Butler
Being in Berchtesgaden gave me something I hadn’t had in a while—time. I took to writing letters that I’d been remiss in doing.
Dear Father,
It is good to be back in Bavaria. The land is as beautiful as I remember from my childhood. The Allies have conquered Berchtesgaden and the men couldn’t be happier. A Maypole festooned with banners of swastikas stood tall in the middle of a fountain at one end of town. The banners flapped in the spring breeze when we arrived. By the following day the streamers had been stripped from the pole, hidden in pockets as souvenirs. The swastika and eagle topper were knocked down and replaced with an American flag. I have enclosed a photo for you to see. The town is rife with Tyrolean architecture and the Gasthof Neuhaus, where I am staying in a miniature room in the attic, is as quaint as a Swiss chalet, but it is nothing compared to the estates of Hitler’s high-ranking Nazis.
I’ll admit the men loot anything not nailed down. Lugers and first editions of Mein Kampf are popular with the enlisted men, whereas the officers tend to enjoy the finer things in life, and more valuable items such as silver platters, china, and flatware go into their coffers.
Little did I realize I would wind up being the recipient of some of the looted bounty. The second morning, I awoke from the best sleep I’ve had in months to find a trunk full of women’s dresses, shoes, coats, and underthings outside my door, pillaged from a variety of households. When I asked the commanding officer about it, he shrugged and suggested I not look a gift horse in the mouth. Secretly, I’m pleased to be rid of my slacks and into a fresh dress.
All my Best,
Sarah
♠♠♠♠
It was early afternoon by the time I left the regimental photographer behind in his dark room and spotted Charlie eating on the patio of a nearby hotel.
“There you are.” He wiped his mouth and pulled out a chair for me. “Where have you been? My orderly has been searching high and low for you.”
“I made friends with Staff Sergeant Gerard.” I laid a pile of photos at his elbow and flopped back against the wrought iron chair. “This reminds me of Paris.” I yawned. “Is it too early for a drink?”
“Funny you should mention that.” He flipped through the pile. “These are good. Very good.”
“Thanks. What is funny about wanting a drink?”
“The five-oh-sixth discovered Hermann Goering’s private wine cellar today.”
“I thought his estate was bombed.”
“Some of it is still intact. Including the subterranean levels.”
“Wine cellar, hm. Goering, the fat gourmand... I imagine it holds some of the best wines Europe has to offer.” The breeze had me tucking a stray tendril behind my ear.
“Hundreds of bottles of some of the finest wines and champagne from Austria, Germany, and France. Or so I’m told. But it’s not the wine cellar that I think will interest you.”
I fingered the compass at my neck as he spoke. “Do tell.”
Charlie surveyed my fidgeting as he spoke. “They’ve found secret tunnels beneath his home housing an art collection worthy of a museum.”
My interest piqued, I dropped the compass and sat forward. “It’s well known Goering fancied himself a superior art connoisseur. The Nazis have been pillaging the finest Jewish-owned artworks all over Europe ever since the Anschluss. Speer was in charge of commissioning das Führermuseum, in Linz, Austria. Colette told me, when the Germans invaded France, the Louvre crated and filled armored trucks with artworks, such as the Mona Lisa. The trucks were constantly on the move to keep them away from Goering’s greedy hands. How many paintings did they find?”
“I’m not sure. They’re moving it now. You seem to know quite a bit about it.”
“Oh, I am not an expert by any means.” I waved my hand. “But on rainy days at finishing school, Madam Frischon would have us gather in the parlor for art lectures. I can identify the significant artists of their time. Cezanne, Da Vinci, Picasso, Monet.” I listed them off on my fingers. “And the different styles, impressionism, realism, cubism.”
“Someone needs to document the find. We suspect most of the artwork is stolen.”
“Most likely. Stolen from the Jews, Poles, Czechs, Austrians. By thirty-nine, Jewish citizens had no right to own property. The Nazis basically downgraded Jews to” —I tapped my chin trying to think of an appropriate adjective—“enemies of the state, subhumans. Everything they owned belonged to the government as far as the Reich was concerned. When the Anschluss happened, the Germans immediately began pillaging from wealthy Austrian Jews too, claiming they owed the Reich taxes and taking anything of value to pay those ‘taxes.’”
Charlie stared meditatively at me.
“What?”
“How do you know all this? Your work at the OSS?”
“Some. And I read.”
His brows rose.
“A lot of reading. Most of it was gleaned in letters from finishing and boarding school friends. Camilla remained at Mont-Choisi long after I did. At night we’d listen to the National Swiss Radio station, one of the few German-speaking stations telling the truth about what the Nazis were up to.”
“Are you up for the task?”
“The army will allow me?”
“I think I can arrange something.” He winked. “After all, you are an expert.”
“Stay right here. It’ll take but a moment to get my camera.”
Charlie laughed and seized my hand before I stepped away. “What about lunch?”
“Not hungry.” I shook free of his grasp. “How do I get to Goering’s place?”
“Go get your camera. I’ll find someone to take us.”
Stacks and stacks of paintings and statues lined the walls of underground tunnels Goering had built between his home and Reichsleiter Martin Bormann’s. The men carried out canvas after canvas. I identified at least one Botticelli, a Klimt, and a possible Renoir. Two days later, troops found locals looting a train car, hidden in a blocked-up tunnel; it held more of Goering’s stolen artworks including statues and tapestries of unimaginable value. The artwork gave me a purpose, and Marguerite, when she showed up three days later, dove into the project with gusto.
Chapter Thirty-two
Surrender
The Tuesday morning dawned bright and chilly. Cream-puff clouds played hide and seek with the Untersberg. I awoke at sunrise. Remorse over neglecting Solomon for the art find of the century plagued me. I donned a pair of slacks and a jacket to ward off the dewy cold and hiked the mile to the barn where he was stabled. We could not have asked for a better morning to ride.
Charlie had taken to breakfasting with me at Gasthof Neuhaus, and it was with surprise and a little discontent that I found Jake alone at our regular table following my ride.
His face broke into a welcoming smile as I approached.
I masked my disappointment. “All alone today?”
“Not anymore. Have a seat.”
He began to rise, but I waved him down.
“Did you go for a ride? How was it?”
“Couldn’t have been better.” I pulled off my leather gloves, tossed them on the table, and folded into the chair across from him. “Solomon is a darling. Do you ride? You should try him out.”
“Perhaps I’ll give him a run this afternoon. I never did hear how you got ahold of such a magnificent animal.”
“I suppose you could say I liberated him,” I said with a wink and grin. “I found him in a stable about a hundred meters from a house that had been decimated by bombs. The stable was in top-notch condition, like something from a well-to-do Nazi family.”
Jake’s brow rose.
“I only mention it because of the red swastika painted on the barn door. I heard the poor thing whinnying and went to investigate.” I nipped a piece of toast off Jake’s plate and took a bite. “Don’t know how long he’d been there, but his water bucket was empty and he drank the entire thing once I refilled it. The saddle and reins hung on the wall.”
<
br /> “Why Solomon?”
“There was a plaque above his stall. Three other stalls were empty. Only Solomon remained. Have I ever told you about Franziska?”
He shook his head and so I gave him the highlights of my trek through the Black Forest on Franziska’s back, making the harrowing ride and escape far more humorous than it was. Jake laughed over my makeshift reins when Charlie arrived at my elbow.
“Something funny?” He took the chair on my left.
“Your beloved,” Jake said.
I flinched at his reference and glanced at the nearby tables to see if anyone had overheard. Charlie and I hadn’t advertised our relationship, although many of the men knew we were sweet on each other. My first night in Berchtesgaden, Charlie and I had come to an agreement. Unlike our time in Paris, there would be no public displays of affection in front of the men, and we both agreed it would be in poor taste to broadcast our relationship. We slept in different buildings—stolen kisses happened rarely and always in secret.
Jake continued, oblivious of my reaction, “She has a way with the horses.”
“I have news,” Charlie said, his face serious, his voice low.
Our smiles disappeared and I stiffened, bracing for bad news.
“Germany surrendered.”
Nobody moved.
“Are you pulling my leg?” Jake asked.
Charlie’s lips curled and his face lit up. He held two fingers in a V. “Victory in Europe. Hitler’s dead. The war is over.”
“Hallelujah.” Jake whooped and jumped out of his chair, knocking it to the ground. The dozen or so men in the dining room turned to stare. “Germany surrendered, boys!” He pulled me up and danced us around the room in a wild polka. “Victory is ours.”
I laughingly twirled with him only to be passed into the joyful arms of one soldier after another until I finally found myself in the arms of the one man who mattered most.
“Major, can we spread the news?” someone asked.
“Shout it from the rooftops.” Charlie swooped me into a waltz, propelling me around tables and chairs. The room emptied as the men scattered to spread the word. Our dance slowed, Charlie’s face split in a smile so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners, and his face shone with delight. He’d never looked as blindingly handsome to me as he did at that moment.
“Is it really over?”
“Yes, my love, it’s finally over.” His face softened. “Lillian—”
Hearing the words “finally over” produced an explosion of emotions. Relief, joy, sorrow, and guilt flooded my body at once, and to my dismay, they boiled over in the form of tears that soon turned into racking sobs. Poor Charlie. His consternation mirrored my own, but he pulled me close while I babbled incoherently into his shoulder about Magda, Friederich, Feinberg, Lars, and I even threw in Masselin’s grandmother, finally culminating with the atrocities I’d witnessed at Buchenwald. All the pain I’d buried deep and ignored, or held inside, seemed to burst forth like a broken dam. Charlie, bless him, simply stroked my back as the cries shook my frame. Finally, the river came to an end and I dried off with Charlie’s handkerchief. My mind and soul, purged of their surplus of baggage, were left behind with a feeling of wrung-out serenity, a catharsis of sorts.
I wiped away the final remnants of the tears and cleared my throat. “I apologize. I am not usually a watering pot. Honestly, I don’t know where that came from. Perhaps I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
He stared at me, his blue gaze solemn. “You’ve witnessed a lot during this war.”
I glanced away in embarrassment. “Haven’t we all?”
He tilted my chin with his finger, and I searched his face for disgust. “Some of us have seen more than others. Perhaps you more than most.” His jaw flexed and he drew in a breath. “Lillian Saint James, will you marry me?”
My heart fluttered and I produced a watery smile. “You mean that pitiful display hasn’t frightened you off?”
“Oh, my darling, one word that could never describe you is pitiful. You carry a strength so deep it constantly amazes me.” He kissed the back of my hand. “So, what do you say? Are you willing to hitch your wagon to this broken-down soldier?”
“A broken-down soldier and an emotionally impulsive spy? Sounds to me like a match made in heaven. Where do I sign up?”
He lowered his head and his lips descended into a kiss that made me ache for more.
“I love you,” I whispered when we came up for air.
He tilted his forehead against mine, “You’ll be Lillian McNair.”
I couldn’t help the bright smile that spread across my face. Just one more moniker to add to the list. Only, this one would be of my own choosing.
Chapter Thirty-three
Honors
The ruby ring glittered in the morning sunlight, and once again, I took a moment to admire its beauty on my finger. Charlie presented the ring to me, on bended knee, a few days after VE Day. Its presence still filled me with delight.
The men stood at parade rest, in lines of formation in the middle of a grassy field across the street from the café where I sat. They looked smart in their uniforms, each man’s boots polished and pant crease crisp. The camera at my elbow was already filled with a dozen shots of the troops as they waited patiently for General Eisenhower to arrive. Charlie’s battalion received word yesterday that the great general was making his rounds of the regiments. The 502nd was on his list and rumors abounded the regiment would be receiving a unit citation.
It had been two weeks since my crying jag. The emotional purge seemed to have provided a catharsis, for I slept well—no longer lying in bed with my mind racing and guilt-ridden or plagued with bad dreams. However, VE Day and the initial excitement had dissipated among the men. Japan had yet to surrender, and fighting in the Pacific raged on. The military issued a point system based on time served, combat awards, and if they had dependent children at home. Enlisted men needed eighty-five points to be discharged. Even some D-Day veterans didn’t have enough points, and the officers returned to a training regimen that dampened the initial exultation of the German surrender.
I took another sip of coffee and returned to the half-written letter I’d been penning to Colette, letting her know that I would be returning to Paris, on my way back home to Washington, D.C.
America. A place I was finally ready to return. The surrender and my engagement to Charlie seemed to have lifted my desperation to remain in Europe. A few days after VE Day, I finally admitted to myself that my incessant need to find a purpose to remain in Germany had to do with my shameless pursuit of Charlie and persistent concern for his safety. Luckily, Charlie had enough points to be discharged and we hoped he would be home by fall.
Three days ago, I received a letter from Father assuring me that I was forgiven for my thoughtless words and would always be welcome in his home. After I finished the letter to Colette, I planned to write Father, informing him of my engagement, and to ask if we could hold the wedding at his home in Georgetown. Fall was a beautiful time in Washington. If I couldn’t convince Colette to come to the States for my wedding, I’d ask either Evelyn or Jane to be my maid of honor. There was enough space to house Charlie’s family, and my father could walk me down the aisle. Even though Mother would not be there, I would wear her dress, and she would be with me in spirit. With her grand plans, my marriage to Charlie wouldn’t be what she envisioned, but I think, in the end, she would have wanted to see me happy above all else.
A covered army jeep zipped up the road, pulling my thoughts away from wedding plans. The great man finally arrived. His jeep parked to the side of the field, and I strained to catch a glimpse from my vantage point. Lieutenant Glassman must have been hailed by someone in the jeep because he left his position in front of his platoon, and he, too, disappeared from my sight line, but it wasn’t long before he returned to speak briefly with Whiskey.
This is it. I rose and positioned my camera so I could catch the perfect shot of Eisenhower
as he came around the wall of men. To my surprise, Whiskey broke ranks to jog across the green space in my direction. It occurred to me perhaps there were rules against photographing the general, and I lowered my camera as Whiskey came even with me.
“Ma’am.”
“Hello, Whiskey,” I whispered. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, ma’am. Lieutenant Glassman requested that you come closer for a better view of the proceedings.”
“Am I allowed to take photos?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Regimental and some battalion officers, including Charlie, were seated on a recently erected platform in front of the troops, and I followed Whiskey over to the viewing area. Expecting to be allowed to stand to the side of the stage, it surprised me when Whiskey indicated I mount the stairs.
“There’s a chair for you next to Lieutenant Colonel Kincaid.”
A thrill of excitement zipped down my spine at the honor I was being afforded. I wondered if Charlie had arranged it for my benefit. He winked when I glanced up at him as I made my way to the empty seat at the end of the front row.
The men were called to attention. As one, their heels snapped together, and those of us in the reviewing stand rose. I positioned the camera and waited with excitement. The general approached the stage and my shutter clicked.
It wasn’t Eisenhower.
The face seemed vaguely familiar to me. He mounted the steps, followed by his driver, shaking hands with the top brass in the front row, then turned to the microphone.
“At ease, gentlemen.”
Those of us in the viewing stand took our seats and the men in the field relaxed into parade rest.
“As you can tell, I am not General Eisenhower. I regret to inform you, his plans unexpectedly changed, and he will not be joining us today. My name is General Magruder. General Eisenhower asked me to share these words with you.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, adjusted his glasses, and commenced to read Eisenhower’s speech.