Children of the Promise

by Dean Hughes

  “Why don’t you try thinking next time, soldier? If you’ve got a brain.” Alex stopped himself, took a breath. “I’m going across. There’s a deuce-and-a-half coming right behind me, full of MPs. Send them over. The guy with the scar is probably trying to get to Luxembourg City. Tell them to head that way. How long ago did you say he went through here?”

  “Well, let’s see . . .”

  Alex had no time for this. He ran back to his jeep and jumped in. Then he shot across the bridge. The road on the other side continued straight to a tiny village—Vianden—but Alex had no idea what Kellerman might do from there. He might have headed off into the woods, but the going would be difficult in the dense forest, and Kellerman had no reason to think that anyone was after him. He was more likely to stay on the road and head south. Luxembourg City was within a day’s walk, and once he got there, the city was big enough for him to disappear into for a while.

  So Alex sped on to Vianden and then turned left down the little road toward Luxembourg City. But this was a gamble. If he had guessed wrong, and Kellerman had chosen any other route, or had headed off through the countryside, the man could be free and clear. Alex kept watching the road ahead as he flew over the tops of hills. The road was paved but chewed up pretty badly by the tanks and trucks that had passed over it in recent years.

  As Alex crested a hill, he saw a man ahead in the valley, walking along the road. He seemed big enough to be Kellerman, even had that arrogant style, his arms swinging like a soldier in a parade. Alex kept pushing hard, scared that the man would turn out to be some local fellow, out for an afternoon stroll. But the man looked back, saw the jeep, and suddenly bolted off the road into a wooded area along a stream. And Alex had seen for sure: it was him.

  Alex braked hard and skidded when he came to the spot where Kellerman had turned off. He jumped out of his jeep, pulled his pistol from his holster, and shouted, in German, “Stop now. You can’t get away from me. I’ll shoot you.” He fired his pistol into the air, almost without knowing he was going to do it, and then he charged into the trees. Kellerman could be armed, but it didn’t seem to matter at the moment. Alex sloshed through the stream and then ran up a little hill, breaking his way through underbrush, wondering whether Kellerman would keep running or try to find a place to hide.

  Alex knew that he was doing this wrong, following his passion, not his head. He should get back to his men, bring them in to surround this area. Beyond these woods was nothing but open fields, and Kellerman would have no way to cross them without being spotted. All Alex needed to do was contain him, get help, and then flush him out. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted to take the man himself, let him see who had captured him.

  He reached the top of the hill and then stopped, listened. He could hear someone thrashing through the bracken ahead of him, on down the hill. But no man that big could outdistance Alex. Kellerman was a fool.

  Alex hurried toward the sound, followed the broken branches and trampled grass. He made up the distance quickly and then yelled again. “Kellerman, stop. You can’t get away. Don’t make me shoot you.”

  But now all sound had stopped. Kellerman had finally decided to duck somewhere, go into hiding. This was no time to walk blindly into a trap. Still, Alex couldn’t stop himself. He kept moving ahead slowly, listening. And then he heard the man drawing breath, in spite of himself.

  “All right. I know where you are. I can hear you. Come out now or I’ll shoot.”

  “No, no. I’ll come out.”

  “Right now.”

  Kellerman stood up and stepped from the ferns and underbrush he had found to hide under. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” he said. He was heavier than he had once been, and his big cheeks were flushed from his run. The scar was healed and old but still obscene, angling across his cheek and splitting his lip.

  “Take off your coat. Throw it over here. Then empty your pockets.”

  Kellerman complied, slowly, and he continued to mumble, “Don’t shoot. I’ll do what you want.”

  It was clear by then that he had no weapon, and Alex felt something close to disappointment. He wanted a fight, had wanted the man to give him an excuse. But Kellerman dropped everything he had in the grass, then stood with his hands raised. “I have no idea why you’ve stopped me,” he had decided to say. “I was just walking down this road. My papers are in order. I can show you who I am.”

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  Kellerman looked more closely, but Alex saw no sign of realization. What he saw was fear.

  “You once demanded that I make the Nazi salute. I was a missionary then.”

  And then Alex saw the change, the panic. “Oh, yes. But, sir, I was only a functionary. I was told that I had to enforce such things. I denounce Hitler now for all he did. We were all taken in by him back then.”

  “You still don’t understand. You don’t know the whole thing. I married Anna Stoltz. She is my wife now. I believe you remember that name, don’t you?”

  Alex saw Kellerman take a long, deep breath, saw the color leave his face. “What are you going to do?” he whispered. “Please don’t—”

  “Shoot you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “And why not? Do you remember what you did to my wife? To her family? And now I have you here alone. You’ve even made a run for it. I can shoot you, file a report, and that’s the end of it. One more Nazi punished. There’s not a man in this world who wouldn’t tell me that you got what you deserved.”

  “Please. Don’t shoot me. I beg you.”

  Alex thought of aiming to one side and firing his pistol, just enough to send terror through this coward, but he didn’t let himself do that. Instead, he picked up Kellerman’s coat, and he said, “Put your things back in your pockets. Then walk ahead of me, back over this hill.”

  “You’re a decent man. A Christian,” Kellerman said. “Tell me your name again.”

  “Thomas.”

  “Oh, yes. Now I know it. And I remember the other one. A big fellow. Mormons, aren’t you?”

  But Alex would not allow this. He wouldn’t shoot him, wouldn’t torture or beat him, but he didn’t have to treat him as though he were a decent human being. “Be quiet,” Alex said. “You’ll be tried as a war criminal. And I will be a witness against you.”

  “But you understand, Thomas. I was only—”

  “You tried to rape my wife, Kellerman. Now shut your mouth before I do what I’ve longed to do all these years.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll say nothing.”

  ***

  On the following Sunday Alex was back in Frankfurt. It had not been a good week. He was experiencing a troubling uneasiness that he didn’t really understand. One of his goals, to see Kellerman apprehended, had finally been achieved, but Kellerman’s behavior had fired a disgust, a hatred in Alex that had left him ambivalent about what he had done. In a way, he wished he had let go a little more, had at least denounced Kellerman more profusely. Or perhaps, rather than let the confusing court system take over, he should have pulled the trigger and let justice be done. He wasn’t at all sure that wouldn’t have been the fitting end to all this. Kellerman would probably sit in jail for a time, but he would never be sufficiently punished, nor would he ever gain the slightest insight. The man was a coward, willing to beg, but he was anything but repentant. He clearly had no conscience.

  At the same time, Alex was uncomfortable with the memory of his rage. He had been working so long to put the war behind him, to remember the goodness of the German people. Now, just when he thought he had been making some spiritual headway, he had felt a viciousness in himself that he had hoped was gone forever. That, too, he wanted to blame on Kellerman, but he didn’t think the confrontation was adequate to excuse what he had felt.

  Something else was also plaguing Alex. He could let the Stoltzes know that he had apprehended their old enemy, and they would take a certain satisfaction in that, but it was nothing to them compared to finding Peter, an
d Alex had had no luck with that. Almost every week he visited camps or checked Red Cross records, did something to try to locate him, but camps were being emptied, and nowhere could Alex find any record of Peter’s existence. If he had been captured by the Russians it might be impossible to learn anything, and Alex wondered whether the boy would ever get back. The fact was, Alex was beginning to believe that Peter was dead.

  At church that Sunday Alex listened to President Meis speak about the basic principles of the gospel: faith, repentance, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost. So many of the members had lost touch with the Church during the war, and President Meis taught them now almost as though they were investigators. Actually, some were. Many Germans had lost their faith during the war, but others were searching for an answer, and they came along to church with their Latter-day Saint friends.

  But Alex was left empty by the sermon. It was fine to talk of repentance, but someone like Kellerman could mouth the words of regret and mean nothing. There was something sick at the very soul of these Nazi party leaders Alex had been searching for all summer. Americans talked about the “denazification” of Germany, but how was that really possible? There were people with Nazi hearts all over the world. Every country needed to be ridded of such attitudes, and no country ever would.

  After the meeting, President Meis came over to Alex. “Don’t leave until I have a chance to talk to you,” he said.

  Alex didn’t mind that at all. He hated going back to his quarters on Sundays. The rest of the day always seemed so long. It was the one day of the week when he had time to think, to wish he were in London with Anna and little Gene. What he had hoped at first was that staying in Germany would give him time to adjust, to get the war out of his system before he returned to his family. Now, he was beginning to feel that he needed to stop thinking and simply move on with life.

  The Gasthaus where the branch held church always cleared slowly after services. People stayed around to chat, to enjoy the company. Alex knew that the members often felt lonely and hopeless these days. Germany was trying to clean up, but mostly that meant clearing away debris; it didn’t mean rebuilding. There were no finances for that, no plan. And with winter not too far off, many of the shelters that people were living in were not going to be adequate. The ration of food the military supplied to Germans was minimal—not really enough to sustain life, and certainly not enough to create much energy. Most people scrounged for additional food—selling off possessions on the black market or bargaining with farmers—and all too many German women had turned to prostitution as their way of getting at some of the cash the foreign soldiers possessed. At least Mormons could turn to each other for help, and they did that as much as possible, but no one had enough to supply all those in need. There was a lot of talk of the Church shipping food and clothing, but no shipments had been allowed into the country yet. What members could give each other now, more than anything, was friendship, and there was plenty of that in the branches.

  Alex chatted with some of the members until President Meis finally said, “Come over here, Bruder Thomas. I can speak with you now.”

  President Meis walked to a table near the windows at the front. He sat down and Alex joined him.

  Sister Meis said, from across the room, “Ernst, we’ll start walking. Catch up, if you can, or meet us at home.”

  “Yes, yes. I won’t be long,” President Meis told her. And then he looked toward Alex, hesitating for a moment, checking him over. “How are things going for you now?” he asked.

  “Fairly well.”

  President Meis nodded but seemed a little concerned, obviously picking up on Alex’s lack of enthusiasm. “Bruder Thomas, the Church is trying to get organized and fully operating once again. We’re using the same leaders who were holding positions before the war, as much as possible, but we’re trying to fill in where so many are missing.”

  “That’s good. You certainly need some help in this branch.”

  “I do. I need you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You’re the most experienced priesthood holder in the branch. I’m wondering whether you wouldn’t be willing to serve in the branch presidency. This is not an official call I’m making, but I want to turn your name in to President Huck for approval, and I thought I’d talk to you about it before I do that.”

  “I may not be here more than a few more months, President Meis.”

  “I know that. But I could use you for that time.”

  Alex looked at the table, the worn edge. He didn’t want this. “President Meis, I’m not ready yet.”

  “Bruder Thomas, you tell me you need to feel the Spirit again. That won’t happen if you run from the Church. You’ve got to take part. That will help you more than anything.”

  Alex looked out the window. It was a hazy morning, clouds still strewn about after a hard rain the night before. “We finally tracked down Kellerman, President. I caught him myself. He’s in jail.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I went after him like a police dog. I smelled his blood, and I wanted, more than anything, to spill some of it.”

  “No one can blame you for feelings like that. But did you hurt him?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. We all have desires like that at times. But when the Spirit speaks to us, we know better than to give in.”

  “I didn’t feel any Spirit. That was the last thing that I felt.”

  “I don’t believe that. You knew right from wrong, and you chose the right.”

  Alex thought about that. He looked at President Meis’s shirt, gray and frayed around the collar and too big around his thin neck. How did the man keep going—and keep everyone else going? Alex knew he needed to help, and yet he knew what he had been feeling all week. “I’ve been wishing I’d killed him, President. The idea keeps going through my mind.”

  “The only thing you’re telling me is that you’re human. Many men would have taken revenge. Just be pleased with yourself that you turned him over to let justice take its course.”

  But Alex knew there was more to it than that. “I just don’t know whether I’m any better than Kellerman. Maybe there’s not that much difference.”

  “Bruder Thomas, we all want to think that the world is divided into two great armies—good on one side and evil on the other. But good and evil are in all of us—and sometimes the evil is only held back by a thin thread. Still, it’s that thread that makes all the difference.”

  Alex continued to stare out the window. He knew everything that President Meis could say, but he didn’t feel the change of heart he wanted. It wasn’t the killing he had done during the war that bothered him the most; it was the loss of himself. It was the corruption he felt inside.

  “Bruder Thomas, we have both done things we didn’t want to do. Let’s put that behind us now and serve the Church. Serve our brothers and sisters. That’s the best way to let God back inside. We need to forget ourselves and think about others.”

  “I’ll try. I’ll accept the calling.”

  “Good.”

  And Alex did feel he had made the right decision. What he didn’t feel was confident that he could forget about the things he had seen and done. He still woke up almost every night, his head full of clashing, wild scenes. And now he had something new to remember: Kellerman pretending to repent, when in fact he cared about nothing but himself. Maybe that was the real heart of the human, of every human, when all the pretense was stripped away.

  Chapter 3

  Bobbi Thomas’s ship, the Charity, was docked in Tokyo Bay. For several days it had been filling up with American prisoners of war, who were arriving by the truckload. The men were dressed in new fatigues, but their bodies were filthy underneath, full of lice and disease. Some of them walked like zombies, and some couldn’t walk at all but had to be carried. Those who had been eating for a time, having received supply drops into their camps, looked much better, but their hair was often splotchy, their skin
covered with scaly filth, their teeth rotten. And there were still many who couldn’t hold down much food. They were sick, suffering with diarrhea, and many seemed empty, as though devoid of emotion.

  Most of the men responded quickly to better food, to cleanliness, to medicines that killed their parasites or healed their open sores. But some died hours or days after coming on board, and each time Bobbi heard that, she felt the pain. Many of these men had survived the death march in the Bataan Peninsula, had been held in miserable camps for over three years, and had suffered through backbreaking work, with little food. It seemed unfair for them to come this far only to die now. And, of course, each death made her wonder about her brother Wally. She knew he was “alive and well,” from his own report. But she hadn’t seen him yet, or talked to him. She wondered how much damage had actually been done to him. What she saw in the eyes of the POWs was that most were fighting to recover, to be themselves again, to feel human, but some were very far gone. It was hard to imagine, at least in the worst cases, that these men could return to their hometowns and pick up with their lives. She wondered whether she would ever really get her brother back, the one she remembered.

  Bobbi also went on shore one day and rode in a jeep through “Tokyo.” But there was no Tokyo. The city was a wasteland, charred and almost flat. No atomic bomb had been dropped there; fire bombs and explosives had done the damage. The city was much larger than Hiroshima or Nagasaki, but it was equally devastated. Bobbi wondered how many civilians had died in the bombing raids: children and old people, babies and expectant mothers. She wondered how humans could sink this low. How could the Japanese treat the American POWs with such viciousness, but also, how could Americans deliver death on such a grand scale?

  Bobbi came back to the ship that night, knelt by her bunk and prayed for a long time. When she had watched the prisoners come on board, she had felt resentment and disgust with “the enemy,” but after seeing Tokyo her disgust had turned toward the war itself. She wasn’t thinking about politics, not even of right and wrong; she was simply alarmed that humans were capable of such things. She knew all the arguments for the bombing, even believed them, but it didn’t change how she felt. So she told God she was sorry. She didn’t know whether she had the right, but she apologized for all God’s children, for everything they had done, and she wished that everyone in the world would feel the same way. Sorrow seemed the only answer—and repentance—and yet it didn’t seem the likely result of this war.