by Dean Hughes
“It’s not so bad. I’ll get used to it a little more each day.”
“But we need to find more food for you, somehow, or you’ll never manage.”
“In the war, I made long, long marches, sometimes with very little food. I got through that. I can do this.”
But it was not what Peter felt. He was thinking that one more dark passage in his life had begun—symbolized by the miserable mine. He felt confined and frightened so far under the ground, and he didn’t know whether he would ever overcome those fears. The work was hard, but it was the lack of adequate food that made the labor seem impossible.
Frau Heiner—a tall woman, big-boned but thin now—spoke from across the room. “I’m just so thankful that he will do this for us.”
“Yes, yes,” Frau Schaller said. “We all are.”
“I feel lucky to get the work,” Peter said.
And that was true. Several weeks had passed since he and the Schallers had crossed the border into the British zone
and escaped the Russians. They had survived on the food they carried with them for a few days, but they knew they didn’t want to enter the refugee camps that the British military had set up. Too many people were dying from the diseases there.
They had kept going, worked their way toward the area south of Hannover, where someone had told them Peter might find work in the mines. Outside Hildesheim, however, they had started running out of food, so Frau Schaller had begun to enquire at farms whether anyone needed farm labor. She had gone to Frau Heiner’s door and asked, but Frau Heiner had laughed, sadly, and said, “This only looks like a farm. I planted a few potatoes—and I had some chickens—but when the Amis came through, they took all my chickens, even dug away at my garden. I hid what I could, but I have little left now—nothing I can plant, not even any seed potatoes.”
Frau Schaller had stood at the front door, nodding, saying that she understood, and she had been ready to leave.
But Frau Heiner had told her, “You can sleep here if you want—if you have nowhere else to go.”
“Yes. That would help us. Could we use your barn?”
“No. Come inside. If you have anything with you to eat, we could share a little of that.”
“We have almost nothing now.”
“I have some potatoes. We can make do with that.”
“But what will you do this winter?”
“I don’t know. The English, they give out some food, but it isn’t much.”
“Could we each get some and combine what we have? Would we be better off that way?”
Frau Heiner had leaned against the door frame and looked out toward Peter and Katrina and the little boys, who were standing a few paces back, off the porch. “There is some work—in a potash mine not far from here. If that young man could work, he could buy a little food and add that to the rations. We could possibly survive the winter that way.”
Peter had stepped forward. “Yes. I can do that,” he had told her.
But now, more than a month later, he had been in the mine only a week. Getting a job hadn’t been as easy as he had hoped at the time. The first time he had gone to the nearby Siegfried-Giesen mine, he had learned there were waiting lists for those seeking work. And he had no experience, no training. But Peter had gotten lucky. He had gone back to the mine every day, mostly just to keep checking, to tell himself he was making an effort. As he had stepped into the shack near the mouth of the mine one day, an elderly man had said, “Are you here for work?”
“Yes. I was here before. I filled out—”
“It doesn’t matter. I need someone now. Today.”
Peter hadn’t known why the job had opened for him until later. He had thanked the Lord for the opportunity but then had learned that a mineshaft had collapsed and two miners had been killed. The cave-in scared him, but he didn’t turn the job down, and he was struck by the strange whims of fate—as he had been in the war. Someone’s terrible misfortune had opened up a way for him to feed his friends, and himself.
But now, sitting in this little kitchen, exhausted, it was hard to feel grateful. What he said, however, was, “I’ll be paid in a few more days. Then I’ll be able to eat more. We all will.”
Peter began to eat his soup, and the two women stepped outside. The evenings were cooling off now, and the women liked to sit outside and enjoy the air. But Peter also understood something else. It was their nightly ritual, their way of giving Katrina and Peter a little time together.
Katrina waited until they had closed the door, and then she said, “Peter, I have something for you.” She walked to the cupboard, opened it, and then knelt and reached far to the back. “I bought this for you today. It’s not much, but you need it.”
She came to the table with one of the flour sacks they had carried from the Schallers’ farm. She reached inside and pulled out bread—a quarter of a loaf, it appeared—and a small cut of wurst.
“Bought it? What do you mean?”
“On the black market.”
“How could you buy it? Where did you get the money?”
“I went to the train station. I kept watching, and I picked up cigarette butts. It took me all morning, but I got seven. That’s the same as one full cigarette to the buyers. It was enough for this.”
“I can’t eat that. Rolf and Thomas are going hungry. You all are.”
“You have to eat it, Peter, or you will drop, and then what will we do?”
“I can last a few more days. I’ll take my share of this—but nothing more. Divide it with everyone.”
“No, Peter. I didn’t tell anyone. I’m so worried about you. I see how you look each night. You’re so thin, there’s nothing left of you.”
He smiled. “No thinner than you.”
“Eat it. And tomorrow I’ll look again for cigarette butts. Then I’ll share what I can get with everyone. But tonight, you eat. You have to.”
“Katrina, I can’t. Not behind everyone’s back.”
“Peter, you saved me. Let me do this. Just this once.”
Peter understood what she meant—understood her need. He nodded. And he ate the bread and wurst, while she watched. But when almost all of it was gone, he said, “Please eat the rest of this.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not hungry. It fills me up to see the color come back to your face.”
So he ate the rest, feeling the guilt that went with it, but he told her, “Thank you, Katrina.”
“Tomorrow I’ll try to get more—for everyone. Maybe I can find cigarette butts every day.”
“Be careful. I don’t like you staying around the train station by yourself.”
“Why?” She smiled, and some of her old playfulness came into her eyes. But Katrina was much older now than she had been a few months before. She looked worse in some ways, paler, even thinner, but she was stronger, deeper. He could see that in her face.
Peter couldn’t imagine that he would ever care for anyone more than he cared for Katrina. But he didn’t tell her that. She was still too young, and there were too many uncertainties in their lives. He knew if he worked hard enough now, he might be able to find a way to locate his own family, but he didn’t have that leisure. For now, his days were going to be full of nothing but mining. He couldn’t let the Schallers and Frau Heiner down.
***
Anna Thomas had quit working for the OSS before the baby was born. Her father had received back pay for his time in Germany, however, and now he was finding more translation work, both with the OSS and the British SIS. So the family had enough to eat—but only just enough.
All England had celebrated when the war had ended, but ironically, war’s end had brought on greater shortages of some foods—especially bread. Crops had been bad all across Europe that year, partly because of the war, and partly because of the weather. But the great burden now was for the English and other Allies to try to feed all the displaced peoples on the continent, and to feed the defeated Germans. It was an act of generosity for England to sacr
ifice in order to feed a recent enemy, but political leaders in the west also saw a need to stabilize Europe. They were beginning to fear that Russia might make a power move to consume even more of the continent. If that happened, Stalin could be as great a danger to world peace as Hitler had ever been.
Anna had watched little Gene become more of a person all summer, begin to show his personality. He was anything but a sleepy baby, and strong willed. He could put up a howl when he wasn’t pleased and stay with it for a full hour. But he also knew his mother, and he did love to nestle next to her. When she nursed him in the night, sometimes she listened to his gentle little grunts, felt his pull, and marveled that this little life was hers. She found herself weary of the demands he placed upon her, but when she looked at him, saw the shape of his face, the little grimaces she took for smiles, she saw Alex, and this was the best thing she had in life right now.
In September Alex wrote to her, telling her some things she didn’t want to hear—and some things that gave her solace:
Anna, I see no chance that I can get out of the army any time soon. I know I’ve told you that before, but I’ve continued to hope that I might get a pleasant surprise. My CO is Regular Army and figures he’ll be left in Germany a long time. He doesn’t care whether I’m stuck here or not. He has trouble finding people who can speak German, so he isn’t about to let go of me. He can’t keep me forever, but I’m almost sure he will hang me up until next year some time—maybe even longer. Dad wrote and said he was going to talk to some politicians he knows and see whether he can’t do something, but he was talking about my medals and my “heroism,” and all that really bothers me. I told him not to get involved, but I’m sure he won’t listen.
But Anna, I’m so relieved about Wally being safe that it’s hard to begrudge anything right now. I figure this time will pass, and then we’ll take Gene to Salt Lake, and life can go on. And I feel like maybe I’m being kept here for a reason. Maybe God is answering your prayers, and your parents prayers, by keeping me where I can look for Peter. I can do that better than anyone else, and I’m pursuing leads that could get me somewhere before long. If I’m right—and I’ll admit, I don’t know for sure that I am—and God wants me to be here, maybe that means Peter is alive, and I’m supposed to locate him. At least that’s what I like to think. I certainly won’t give up until I’ve tried everything I can to find him.
Anna, I know you remember how I was when I was in England. I’m not going to lie to you and say that I’m fine now and not having any problems. But I am doing a little better, and I promise that I’ll keep working to get myself back to where I ought to be. Maybe that’s another reason that it’s good I’m here. Maybe I need to keep working some things out before my son knows me. It’s also good for me to be involved with the Saints here. The branch brings back so many of the best moments I’ve known in my life. There are times when I feel a return of my old self, and it’s the happiest sensation I know. So don’t worry too much about me. I’m going to be all right, eventually.
So be strong, as you always are, and I’ll try to be worthy of that strength. Kiss my little son for me and tell him about his daddy. Tell him I’m a fine guy, and by the time I get back, maybe I can live up to that.
I love you,
Alex
Anna loved the letter, and she read it every day, even when some others had come. It said to her, over and over, that everything was going to be all right in time—both for Alex and for Peter. She feared that Peter might be in Russia by now and might not be released for a long time. But when she read the letter, she found more hope that God was involved and would bring about a better end. Mostly, she loved the last lines about Alex’s love for her and Gene. And certainly she followed his advice. When she nursed little Gene, or held him on her lap, she told him all about his daddy. She would tell him in English, and then in German, and then start over. It was all a joke to her, and when she did it in front of her parents, they laughed, but she actually believed that Gene’s little spirit could comprehend at least the essence of what she told him—in both languages.
***
Alex was alone. He was supposed to be tracking Nazis, but he was more a researcher than a policeman. He spent much of his time processing papers. All the same, he was finding the names of Nazi leaders throughout the zone. More often than not, tips came from neighbors or local policemen, and then Alex called in military police to make arrests. He had a lead now on Agent Kellerman, and that was one piece of business he actually did want to finish if he could—although he never mentioned that to Anna. If he were given the chance to go home rather than stay and take care of that loose end, he would definitely choose to leave, but he did want to see Kellerman behind bars.
But justice was unclear to Alex right now. He often worked with military police, and he was seeing a side of life that was disillusioning. With so many Allied troops roaming about now, many of them drinking too much, acts of looting, of violence, of rape, were occurring. It wasn’t easy to take the high ground, and seek out wrongdoers, when he saw American boys taking out their own brand of vengeance on the German people.
But the corruption wasn’t all on the side of the victors. Prostitution was a major source of income for destitute women, and black-market trading, theft—abuse of power of almost every kind—all these were part of the world he lived in. He wanted to believe in goodness, to be honorable, to forget what the war had required of him—and he had promised Anna that he would do just that—but it was not easy to feel much of the Lord’s Spirit when his life was so full of ugliness. He had promised Anna, President Meis, Brother Stoltz, his parents—and especially himself—that he would be himself again soon, and he wrote optimistic letters that put the best face on his situation. But the fact was, he was struggling. He couldn’t go back to being the person he had once been; he had to find a way to move forward. But his head was still full of images more powerful than thoughts. He tried to keep his mind occupied, always, but without warning the pictures would push their way into his consciousness. And every picture reminded him of what he had done, who he had been, for the past year. People kept telling him that he was a hero, that he had helped save the world from evil, and he understood what they meant. But he kept seeing the faces of the boys he had killed, kept remembering the hatred he had felt. He had fought like an animal, had fought to stay alive, the same as every soldier, and his heart told him he was anything but a hero. But he could make it through the days, tell himself the right things, push the thoughts away; it was at night that everything came back on its own: the noises and the chaos and the panic—and the blood. He never went to bed without dreading what would come.
Church services were good for Alex, in some ways, but difficult, too. He felt glimmerings of himself when he was with the German members, but that reminded him all the more of the spiritual self that was missing most of the time. One Sunday a sister named Ursula Knapp sat near him at one of the Gasthaus tables. She had married during the war, and now she had a baby, a boy only a month or so younger than Alex’s little son, Gene. Her husband was not a Church member and didn’t come to the meetings, but she brought her baby every week, sometimes sitting away from the others to nurse him. But on this day he had been sleeping soundly, and Alex couldn’t stop watching him.
When Sister Knapp leaned toward Alex and whispered, “Would you like to hold him,” he was taken by surprise. The idea frightened him a little. He wasn’t sure what he would feel. But he nodded all the same, and he took the baby, wrapped in a faded little blanket. The baby jerked a little during the jostling, then made a little sucking motion with his mouth before he settled down again. Alex smiled.
But it was the smell, the baby smell, that suddenly brought everything back. He thought of baby Gene—his brother Gene—the day he had come home from the hospital. Alex had been nine years old, and he had waited impatiently those five days that his mother had been in the hospital. He had wanted to see his new little brother, but children weren’t allowed to visi
t. Mom had come into the house, walking slowly, looking tired, and holding the baby in a blanket. “Do you want to hold him?” she had asked, and Alex had sat down on the big couch in the living room. Then his mother had placed the baby, mostly blanket it seemed, into his arms. Alex had smelled that sweet baby smell, the milk or powder or whatever it was, and he had wondered at a person so little, with fingers so tiny.
Alex could remember it all so clearly. “Gene,” he whispered, meaning both. But he liked the pain he felt. He hadn’t felt this pure in a long time.
***
Wally was kept in the repatriation camp in the Philippines for three days. He was able, during that time, to see Manila—but it was a painful sight. The city had been turned into a battlefield, and not much was left of it. When Wally got a chance to ship out, he actually felt strange about doing it. He had come to the Philippines all those years ago and had been treated so well here; now he felt as though he owed something to the people. Maybe he ought to stay for a time and help rebuild. But he couldn’t do that. The military wasn’t about to let him, and he knew he needed to get home. But as the old freighter sailed from Manila bay and past Corregidor and the beaches at the tip of the Bataan Peninsula, where he had started his ordeal, he felt a strange sense that he had left things unfinished here and would never get the chance to do anything about it.
The passage was not an easy one. Compared to the hell ship that had taken him to Japan, it was a luxury liner, but conditions were not pleasant. The ship was extremely hot. He was lucky enough to have found a top bunk with an air vent over it, so he didn’t sweat in his bunk as much as most of the men did, but it was still not comfortable. Food lines were long, with two thousand men aboard—but there was always plenty of food. Showers were supplied by salt water, which wasn’t all that pleasant—but there was plenty of water and soap, too. All in all, the men were jovial, and no one complained. How could they?
When the ship reached Pearl Harbor, all the men wanted to get off and see the sights in Honolulu, but the captain knew better than to let such a mob of men loose on the city. How would anyone ever round them up again? So the ship took on supplies and fuel, and then it went on its way. Wally had still not had any letters from his family. He didn’t know where anyone was or what had happened to everyone during the war—other than Gene.