by Dean Hughes
He led the way in, and all three were in the lighted kitchen before Alex realized that the man had no gun. “Sit down here at the table,” he said. “My wife will see what she has to feed you.”
She appeared at the door in just a moment. She had pulled on a worn flannel robe over her nightgown. Her gray hair was wrapped up in a bun at the back of her head. She was barefoot. “Our dog woke us up, but we didn’t know what was going on out there,” she said. “Were you knocking at the door?”
“They were about to,” the man said.
“I didn’t hear a dog,” Otto said.
“Oh, he doesn’t bark,” the woman said. “He runs about, growls, acts nervous, but he’s scared of his own shadow. He wouldn’t run off a thief if we ever got one here.”
“We’re sorry to get you out of bed.”
“I wasn’t asleep. I read until late most nights. I’m not good at sleeping.” She laughed.
She appeared to be around fifty. Alex looked again at the farmer, who seemed a little older. There was something simple about him. He was big, and he seemed strong, but he was relaxed now, without any apparent suspicion. He was wearing a short wool coat and a baggy, worn pair of trousers, with his pajama bottoms hanging out below the cuffs.
“What do we have, Berta?”
“Bread and some cold things. Maybe they would like some rose-hip tea.”
“Yes, I would,” Otto said, “if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Alex told her. “We’re sorry to intrude.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “You must eat.” She busied herself, pulling out the food from her cupboard. She stoked the stove, added a stick of wood, and then set a kettle on to heat. “Our name is Richartz. Tell me your names.”
“Erhardt Becker,” Otto said. “And my friend is Kurt Steinmetz. We’re both from northern Germany, not far from Bremerhaven.”
“Were you separated from your company?” the woman asked.
Now Otto had to return to his story. “We’re not proud of ourselves,” Otto began. “Things have turned crazy at the front. The Allies are bombarding our positions, and our company has been devastated. What is left of it is scattered everywhere. We finally decided to save our lives. We took off.”
Otto’s story was plausible enough. Lots of fighting was now going on just west of the Rhine, and German troops were being driven back. Of course, Otto had been careful not to name a particular sector where he and Alex were supposed to have been fighting.
What Alex saw was that the woman did believe the story—and he couldn’t help but feel some guilt about their lying to her. “Things are falling apart,” she said. “I hate to think what lies ahead for all of us.”
Alex nodded. “Within a few days, you can expect Allied troops here,” he said. “You may want to move back, somewhere east.”
“I’ll wait right here and take my chances,” Herr Richartz said. “I don’t think the English or the Americans will harm us if we offer no threat to them.”
Alex wondered, but he didn’t say so.
Frau Richartz was placing bread and cheese and cold meat on the table. Alex was hungry enough to be eager, but he tried to be polite. He took a slice of bread and then used a knife and fork to take some meat and cheese.
“I was in the last war,” Herr Richartz said.
“That was a bad one too,” Otto said.
He nodded, and his wife said, “He was wounded. A bullet tore a piece of his leg away. And an explosion broke his eardrums. He has a terrible time with his ears, especially in the winter.”
Herr Richartz was sitting at the table with Otto and Alex, but he was looking away. “I was at Verdun. I saw thousands of German bodies out there in the mud, sometimes stacked on top of each other in piles. All just boys. And not one of us knew what we were fighting for. I wanted to be a patriot, to show I could be a man, but sometimes, at night, I whimpered like a boy. I was only eighteen in the beginning. I guess I was a boy.”
“I don’t know what we’re fighting for this time,” Otto said.
The room became silent. Alex saw Herr Richartz glance quickly at his wife, and then he said, “There are things better not to discuss.”
“Maybe so. But Hitler lied to us. That much you have to admit.”
Herr Richartz was sitting with his arms folded across his chest. He glanced away, then back, as though he were taking time to make up his mind, but then he only said, “I love my country. I always will. I have nothing more to say.”
“Countries are not worth loving,” Otto said. “It’s all just a piece of ground. I care about the people—the common people like us. The workers and the farmers.”
Alex had no idea why Otto wanted to talk this way. He half expected the Richartzes to order them from the house. They glanced at each other, and Alex detected a certain stiffness in them. Finally, Herr Richartz said, “Certainly, people are most important. Since I came home from the Great War I have been a farmer and have only wanted that peace. But I try to do what I can to help my neighbor. We believe in the Bible, the two of us, and we try to live by it.”
“That’s as it should be,” Alex said, and he stared hard at Otto, who seemed to get the message. He laughed and shook his head, and then he went back to his food.
Frau Richartz came to the table and sat down. “What do I hear in your voice? What is your dialect?”
“I was raised speaking mostly English,” Alex said. He wondered whether he should invent a new story, but he stayed with the one he had been using. “My mother is an American. I lived in the United States when I was growing up.”
“My, my. That must be strange for you.”
Alex found himself looking at the floor, at Frau Richartz’s bent toes, the hard edges of her feet, the calluses. They were the feet of someone who had worked hard, who had not been pampered, and what occurred to him was that he owed her his respect. He didn’t want to lie to her. He said, simply, “War is like that. Sometimes we do what we have to do.”
“Yes. A young man in your situation, you’re not asked to choose a side. The choice is forced upon you.”
“I do love Germany,” Alex said, and of course, he meant it. “I love both countries, the people in both lands. I never wanted to choose between them.”
“Do many of our boys have these feelings, this confusion about the war?” Herr Richartz asked.
“No. I think not,” Alex said. “Our men fight valiantly. They are patriots, just as you were. You can be proud of them.”
“Was it bad in the Ardennes?”
“Terrible. But your soldiers fought like lions. They died by the thousands. I respected those men. They knew that their beloved fatherland could soon be occupied by foreign troops, so they sacrificed themselves. They never stopped until they were overwhelmed. Every meter was paid for by bitter fighting. In the end, the Americans and British had too many troops, more weapons, and they had air support. But Germany can always be proud of those young men. I will always honor them.”
Alex had gone too far and he knew it. But he wanted to say these things.
There was a long silence in the room, and then Herr Richartz asked, “Who are you men, really?”
“We’ll eat, and then we’ll go,” Alex said.
“Yes. It’s better that way. I’ll ask nothing else.”
“Herr Richartz, there are people all over the world who believe in the Bible. Once this is over, maybe we can all try to do as you say—try to live by it.”
“Yes. This is our hope.”
Alex ate again, and he looked across the room. He saw a picture of the Richartzes when they were younger, and seated with them three children—two boys and a girl. “You have three children, I see,” he said.
“We have a son in a hospital in Vienna. He’s lost both his legs. Twenty-six years old, and now a very hard life ahead of him.”
“Our daughter is married,” Frau Richartz said. “But her husband hasn’t written for many months. We hear nothing from the military, so
we have no idea whether he’s lost in action, dead, or perhaps imprisoned. Our daughter is almost crazy with worry.”
“Was her husband on the eastern front?” Otto asked.
“Yes.”
“Things are insane there. No one knows where anyone is, or who is dead or alive.”
“This we know,” Herr Richartz said. “At least we have the hope that he is a prisoner, and maybe the Russians will release him when the war is over. One never knows with those people.”
“What about your other son?” Alex asked.
“He’s a soldier too,” Frau Richartz said. “But he couldn’t possibly be a good one. He left us when he was sixteen, and he cried like a baby all the way to the train. So far he’s been lucky. He’s with the troops in Denmark, and he’s never faced a day of battle. We pray every day that he will never have to fight.”
It hurt Alex to think of it all: this boy without legs, a frantic daughter, a frightened young boy. It had been so long since Alex had seen the face of his “enemy.” During the battles he had been through he had tried not to think of who the German soldiers were, but now he was glad to be reminded. When the war was over, he wanted to feel like a brother to them again.
Otto and Alex ate quickly. When Alex had eaten only half of what he wanted, but enough, he stood. Otto took a last drink of his tea, and then he stood too.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Alex said. “When the Allies come, there will be bombing first. You will hear it. You won’t have much time after that. If the troops march down this road, past your farm, it’s possible they will force you out and take over your home.”
“We’ve talked of this,” Herr Richartz said. “We won’t resist. We’ll let them sleep in our beds—and hope they pass quickly on through.”
“It may not be that easy. Let me warn you not to leave anything of value in your house. Take out your best furniture. If you have money or jewelry—anything of value that can be carried away—take it outside and bury it. Most of the men would never harm you, but war does strange things to people. You can’t assume that you are safe. If soldiers want your house, turn it over and leave. Don’t argue with them.”
“Thank you for this advice,” Herr Richartz said.
“I wish we could stay, so we could be certain that you’re protected.”
“You would be welcome to stay.”
“Actually, that could put you in danger of another kind.”
The Richartzes clearly understood. They both nodded. “Will you do one thing for us?” Herr Richartz asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
“If you are picked up, will you say that you forced your way in here and took our food?”
“It’s not exactly a lie,” Alex said. “I’m sorry. But I do want to give you some money for the food—and for everything.”
“No, no. We want nothing.”
Alex hesitated, his hand already in his pocket, but then he said, “Danke schön.” He shook both their hands. “Where will you sleep?” Frau Richartz asked.
“Out in the open. We’ll find a place.” Alex knew better than to be specific. It was better that the Richartzes know nothing they would have to deny, if it came to that.
“You can sleep in our barn.”
“No. That would put you in danger. We’ll clear out and let you have your peace for now.”
“I have some old blankets. Take them. I don’t need them.”
“They could be traced back to you.”
“I don’t know how. And it doesn’t matter anyway. I can give a blanket if I want. If that’s a crime, then I’m a criminal.”
She disappeared and went upstairs, and when she came back, she had two tattered quilts. She also set about putting the remains of the loaf of bread and the cheese and meat in a flour sack the two could carry.
“Thank you so much,” Alex told her. “We came to take away your coat, and you have offered us your cloak as well.”
“You do know the scriptures.”
“Before I was a soldier I was a missionary.”
“God bless you, young man,” she said. She shook his hand again, and then she patted his cheek with her big, rough hand.
Outside, Otto said what Alex already knew. “You said more than you should have. You might have put us in danger.”
Alex laughed. “Oh, yes, it would be terrible to be in danger. We’ve been so safe up until now.”
Otto laughed too, but he said, “If someone stops by here, asking questions, trying to trace us, what will they say?”
“Nothing. And someday, if I can come back here after the war, I want to sit down with them and make friends.”
“You like Germans, don’t you?”
“I like people. And I understand Germans. I was close to lots of people when I was here.”
“But not many American soldiers care about Germans. They know nothing about us, and yet they talk of us as though we were dogs or pigs.”
The two were retracing their steps. They climbed the fence and angled off across the field toward the woods where they had slept the night before. Alex was holding the blanket over his arm, and the smell of it was the smell of the Richartz’s good house. “It’s easier to kill if you don’t know the enemy—if you think of reasons to hate the people you fight.”
“So how do you kill?”
“I try to act, not think,” Alex said.
“Can you do it—keep from thinking?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s a harder war for you than it is for most,” Otto said. “You’re braver than most men.”
“Braver?”
“Sure. You fight your enemy, and you also fight yourself.”
“You’re the brave one, Otto. You don’t fight for anything. I couldn’t stand to be here if I didn’t think I was fighting for what’s right.”
“I don’t fight for words, Alex. I want a full stomach when the war is over. I want a job in America, and a pretty little American girl for a wife.”
“That’s fair enough. I took the prettiest girl in all of Germany for myself.”
“See. That’s all I ask of your country.”
“America doesn’t want to import communists. You might have to forget about all that.”
“Consider it forgotten. I’ll become a capitalist if the girl is pretty enough.”
Alex had to laugh. He couldn’t think of anyone more different from himself than Otto. But in a way, he liked him.
Chapter 14
Heinrich Stoltz was shaking with cold and fright. He and his contact—a man who used the code-name Albert—were waiting in the damp woods not more than fifty meters from the train tracks. In the distance, the bombardment continued. For two days bombs and artillery had been pounding the area near the Rhine. By now the German military would be rushing ammunition, tanks, and artillery to the front, west of the town of Wesel. The timing had to be right. If the resistance knocked out the rail lines too soon, there were expert crews in the area who could repair the tracks in just a few hours. The important thing was to cause at least that much delay at the right time, and to get the airborne troops on the ground before German forces could amass more firepower. Way too many additional guns had already been brought in, but to have begun sabotage efforts too early would only have alerted the German military that the forward thrust was about to begin.
So Brother Stoltz and Albert waited for their signal. If a supply train passed the train station in Dorsten, men were waiting to hurry out of town and flash a blinking light. The signal would be sent quickly up the line and would reach Albert in just a matter of seconds—and then the charge, already set, would be ignited. Brother Stoltz had traveled with Albert a considerable distance, from Karlsruhe northward into the Ruhr valley to be part of this operation. But it was worth the effort. There were few resisters in Germany, and no Allied effort needed resistance support so much as the crossing of the Rhine. Word had spread among the Socialist Workers organization that Patton had gotten some troops across
the river near Mainz, and American troops were also streaming across a bridge that Germans had failed to destroy at Remagen. But this operation, called “Varsity,” was the largest planned crossing and would be the beginning of the end for Hitler. If Allies could take the Ruhr region—and all its factories—the capacity to wage war would be almost ended for Germany. Brother Stoltz had hidden in a delivery truck, driven by Albert, and Albert had had no difficulty getting past roadblocks since he made a trip to Düsseldorf once a week in this same truck. From Düsseldorf, they had been transported in another truck, driven by another resister, also part of the union. In Dorsten, and other towns near Wesel, the men fanned out to do their work, mostly on back roads, riding motorcycles. What Brother Stoltz knew was that if he were stopped, his compromised papers might not hold up—and he was very frightened—but he felt this was something he absolutely had to do.
Nothing was happening for the moment, no signal. Albert had warned Heinrich that crews constantly moved up and down the tracks and checked for damage. “I find this waiting very difficult,” Brother Stoltz whispered.
“It’s always this way,” Albert said. “It’s like waiting for your personal firing squad to arrive. I never get used to it.”
“Why did you start doing such a thing?”
“Revenge, mostly.”
“Revenge for what?”
“The Gestapo killed my brother. For no reason. They heard rumors about him, and they didn’t care whether the information was true or not. They wanted to make a show of strength in our town.”
“Did they beat him to death?”
“No. At least it was quick. They shot him.”
“The Gestapo beat me up—broke my bones.”
“Did they give a reason?”
“One of them insulted my daughter. I ordered him out of my house.”
“Yes. That’s all it takes.” Albert looked off to the east, as he did every few seconds. He seemed to be a man of about forty, but Brother Stoltz knew very little about him. His hands were rough and stained, probably from grease or oil, but he had the face of a scholar, even the eyeglasses.