“Speak, lieutenant.”
“Sir,” Springer gushed, “why don’t we just throw them out?”
“Because it’s not necessary,” Tiedemann said in a private, parental tone. “As you can see, even in war, a certain level of politeness can work wonders. While the French are a conquered people, sometimes they forget. That doesn’t mean we don’t remind them. But there are better times than when we’re dripping wet and about to collapse from fatigue.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!”
“Please continue in assisting our gracious host with his preparations by securing the rest of the manor. Politely.”
Tiedemann caught Springer’s eye to make sure he understood. Many of his men were hardened warriors, having fought through the horrors of the Russian front where neither side gave any quarter. Unless they were told otherwise, polite might simply mean a bullet in the head instead of the stomach.
“Jawohl!” Springer yelled again, and immediately began to organize groups of soldiers to search the house.
Tiedemann stood aside to let his men filter in. Their appearance was awful, covered in mud and misery. A night of sleeping indoors was well deserved. They would need it before going back into battle.
And all of it had been arranged without a struggle, using a few simple lies. Tiedemann smiled darkly. While he fancied a quality glass here and there, he had never heard of Conti wines before. If Krauss hadn’t briefed him in the car on the way over, it might have taken force to get a roof over their heads after all. Then they would not have had anyone to play servant during their stay.
2
The emergency family meeting took place in the green sitting room. Gabrielle Conti claimed her seat on the edge of the great wooden desk while everyone crowded into what had become her father’s refuge. Normally he pondered problems related to winemaking or business. Not so this time.
The entire family was here. Gabrielle watched as her father apprehensively paced back and forth, rubbing his hands together, taking a break only to chain smoke another cigarette with nervous fingers. Gabrielle’s mother sat in the padded chair in the opposite corner and held on to young Philippe as if the eight-year-old would be taken away from her. Philippe clearly was more annoyed at their mother’s grasp than afraid, and probably was thinking of ways to sneak downstairs and ask the soldiers about their guns. Girard, their old retainer who had been working for the Contis since before Gabrielle was born, was standing with his back against the closed door and appeared particularly fatalistic. There was a hard seriousness in his eyes that seemed to belay a normally jovial face. Girard was built like a soldier, even if his bad foot gave him a limp that had kept him out of the army.
Then there was Gabrielle’s grandfather, Marc. The elderly patriarch was glaring disapprovingly at her father from the window. Gabrielle could tell there was going to be another fight. They had never gotten along for as long as Gabrielle could remember. Perhaps that was what happened when a suitor took a man’s only daughter away. Gabrielle wondered if Papa would be that jealous when she herself got married.
“You should not be letting the Boches stay here,” Marc was grumbling. “I cannot believe you gave in so easily. It’s disgraceful!”
Here it comes, Gabrielle thought.
“Marc, I tell you we had no choice,” her father replied. His voice was already tired. “There is no Unoccupied Zone anymore. If we had resisted, they would have simply thrown us out into the storm and taken over the entire house!”
“They have taken over the entire house. And so what if we had to walk to town, even in this weather? At least we wouldn’t have to sleep under the same roof as that Nazi filth.”
“Keep your voice down,” Girard warned. He had his ear pressed to the door, listening.
Her father paced more random patterns across the hardwood floor. The planks were well worn with scuffmarks from many long nights. Sometimes she would join him and sit just as she was now, on the desk with her legs crossed at the ankles, and gaze at him in silent support. This was the room where he would fret about poor harvests or disease in the fields; this was the place he would think about how much money they owed or how much wine they would not sell. This was the worry room.
“We can deal with them for one night,” her father said finally. “They were caught in the storm and their trucks were washed out. Yes, that means some inconvenience for us. But it is only for one night.”
“And you will accept this?” her grandfather spat.
“Oui.”
“What if they find—”
“They’re not going to find anything.” Papa looked very strangely at her grandfather. “There’s nothing here but some old vintners in the French countryside.”
The old man grumbled before apparently shifting his argument. “Just them being here is the problem. Robert, you should have lied. You could have said the cellars were flooded from the rain. You could have talked about filth floating up the stairs, about Claudette having some disease, anything to dissuade them from staying here for the night. Now they are billeting their troops here. Next time it will be for more than just one night, it will be for a month. Then two months. And then we will be thrown out altogether. You’re letting thugs and criminals take away our home, our security, or our dignity.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Marc, our entire country has had those things taken away.”
On and on went their debate. Papa faulted the previous French government as being completely ineffectual, so in many ways the Vichy rule was a much needed change from the machinery that had allowed their country to be overrun with humiliating speed. Even though things were not ideal, it didn’t mean they should fight. Active resistance meant that the Germans would tighten down ruthlessly. The only path back to normalcy for a French citizen was to settle in, even if begrudgingly, to life under German influence. That was the way of the pragmatist. Tolerate the occupation. Do as they were told.
Her grandfather felt differently.
“The reason we no longer have freedom, Robert, is because the Vichy government has done precisely what you are doing here. We have let the enemy into our house too freely. An honorable Frenchman would never bow down before an occupying army. It sends the wrong message. You’re acting like a filthy collaborator.”
“Is that so?” replied her father. “Letting in some men from the rain? That’s going to undermine our country? Hardly!”
“That’s how it starts. Next, you give some other small concession. Then again, and again, until finally you’ve become nothing but a lapdog with no sense of patriotism, no sense of pride, no sense of self!”
Gabrielle drew a sharp breath. She tried to hold her tongue, but sometimes it had a mind of its own.
“Grandpere—how can you say that to him?”
“Eh?”
“You’re always condemning Papa. Always! Aren’t family members supposed to stick together? These Germans barge in waving guns in the air, and you declare that we should have argued with them. That’s asinine!”
“Gabrielle, show some respect for your elders!” her mother scolded.
“When it’s due, I will. I’m defending my father—your husband. Why aren’t you standing up for him?”
“Gabrielle!”
She switched her attention back to her grandfather.
“This whole argument about letting the soldiers in is ludicrous anyway. It’s been storming for days. All that drainage has to go somewhere. It’s just fate that all the runoff got channeled onto the road the Germans were using. It’s not Papa’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. The Germans were going to find us regardless of anything we might do.”
“We still have a choice as to how we react.”
“Indeed,” Gabrielle snarled. “All you do is complain. You say how the wine wasn’t bottled right, or how Papa isn’t good enough for my mother, or that the grapes were harvested too early. When’s the last time you actually did anything, Grandpere?”
Grandpere was standing s
tiffly, an odd expression darkening his eyes. “I’ve done more than you know, girl.”
She dismissed his vagueness as if she was swatting away an insect. “Right now we should be talking about how to get through tonight. From what I saw, those soldiers are pretty much keeping to themselves. I bet they’re exhausted. What we really should do is feed them. Fill their bellies with a good, hot meal and put them to sleep. We have vegetables from the garden and some bread from yesterday. Don’t give them any provocation so they leave us alone, and that will be the end of it.”
Her grandfather scrunched his face up. “Then what about tomorrow morning, when their fatigue is gone and they wake up? If it rains all night, the roads will be just as bad. We’ll have a house full of Nazis with nothing to do but cause us trouble and have us cater to their every whim.”
“Grandpere—”
“And did you see their collars, girl? Did you even look? The skull and crossbones insignia, the Nordic runes in silver and black? These are no Wehrmacht soldiers.” The old man lowered his voice to a grave, conspiratorial tone. “These are SS—brutal monsters. They cannot be allowed to stay. We are in great danger with them here. I would not be surprised if they want to kill us all before they leave.”
Gabrielle’s mother started to cry. She grasped Philippe even tighter and he squirmed uncomfortably.
Shooting an angry look at Marc, her father strode quickly over to her mother and squatted down next to the chair. He took Mama’s hands in his, releasing the death grip on their son, and with gentle strokes began to knead her fingers to ease her sobbing. Philippe looked relieved at being free, but their grandfather’s words had clearly made him afraid.
“Hush now, my dear, it will be all right,” Papa was saying. “Don’t listen to him. He’s old and bitter and doesn’t think before opening his mouth.”
“I’m sorry I let them in the door. I didn’t realize who they were. I didn’t know any better,” Mama sobbed. Her graying blonde hair hung in front of her face.
“Shush, sweetheart, it will be all right. It wasn’t your fault.”
Grandpere wouldn’t let up. “How can you say that to her, Robert? Right now, I don’t see you doing anything that will make it ‘all right’.”
It struck Gabrielle as utterly ironic that her family was in this position. They were in the middle of the countryside. Nobody ever bothered to come out here. Even the Vichy government left them alone except when it came time to meet the wine quotas, and those mainly affected the larger growers and producers in Burgundy. The Contis held such a small estate that their entire yield would never make a dent in the number of bottles to be sent back to Berlin, and thus the family had managed to often escape notice.
Her grandfather was now trying to enlist Girard for support. The leading questions he asked pushed Gabrielle to her limit. She was only eighteen years old, but she had always been treated by her father as the eldest child, and it was clear he intended for her to one day run the family estate just as he had done. She was as tough and stubborn as anyone else in the room.
“Grandpere, you are not helping with your snide mumbling. Stop sitting there and telling us what trouble we’re in. What’s done is done. Instead of finding fault, why don’t you start being constructive in dealing with it?”
He arched his eyebrows at the challenge. “Well, it may come to that, my little one, since I seem to be the only one with some common sense around here.”
“It would be nice to see you actually use it then. Help solve the problem, instead of complaining like one of my boy-chasing girlfriends with stars in her eyes.”
Her grandfather’s cheeks flushed and he sat back against the window with a stunned expression.
Philippe leaned forward and offered a hopeful suggestion. “Could we ask Stefan for some help with the Germans?”
“Hush! Do not make any reference to that man, Philippe!” Robert hissed.
The delivery was so harsh that even Gabrielle flinched, and for a moment she thought that her brother might cry.
A twinge of regret passed over Papa’s face. After a deep breath, he clasped his son’s shoulder and spoke in a softer tone. “Philippe, you are forbidden to say anything about Stefan. This is very important to all of us. Under no circumstances, ever, are you to refer to or talk about him.”
The boy’s bright eyes looked at each person in the room before dropping to the floor. “I was just trying to help.”
“I know, Philippe. You’re a good boy. But in this case, we must be extremely strict. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good.” Papa patted him on the back and gave a savage glare at the old man. Gabrielle could sympathize with her father. It was her grandfather’s fault that Stefan was even an issue.
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the splatter of raindrops as they hit the windowpane from the blackness beyond. The tiny hearth was faring poorly against the cold air.
Papa pulled his hand back from Philippe and stroked his thinning hair. They were still no closer to solving their dilemma.
“Robert,” Grandpere said. His voice was calmer, more careful.
“Oui?”
“You know I only speak the way I do because I care for our family, yes? The Nazis in our house are an extreme danger to all of us. If we’re not careful, we’re dead. That’s why I’m upset. That’s why I’m so angry we’re in this predicament.”
Robert nodded in acknowledgement. “I know, Marc. I know.” He sighed deeply. “You know I don’t share your views about the Germans. But given the most recent events, it’s clear we need to do something. I have to think of something.”
“You’d better, Robert. For all of our sakes, you’d better.
3
The master bedroom was tiny.
Tiedemann had hoped for better. A large bed was wedged between a single wardrobe and a limestone fireplace, and there was even less space now that four cots reeking of mothballs had been crammed around the edges. The tall ceiling greedily sucked away any heat that might have made the air tolerable.
As tired as he was, though, and with the early start he hoped for tomorrow, Tiedemann was uninterested in expending energy to pursue improvements in their accommodations. Anything beat sleeping in the field.
Springer didn’t seem to agree. “Look at this place. There’s dust everywhere. The Conti’s sleep here?”
“It beats sleeping in the woods,” Krauss said.
“Hardly.” The Hitler Youth brushed the blond hair from his eyes. “It’s colder than it is outside. Where’s the Frenchman? We need him to bring us some blankets.”
Krauss still attempted to play the optimist, perhaps because he had gotten them into this situation in the first place. “At least it’s dry. That’s all that counts in my book.”
“Shut up, Krauss,” Springer said.
“What if we had some firewood?”
Tiedemann agreed from where he sat heavily on the bed. “Yes. We need a fire.” A quick scan didn’t reveal any nearby. “Herr Springer, break up one of the cots for kindling. Perhaps that will dispel some of the cold.”
The sound of fat raindrops still shattered loudly just on the other side of the ceiling. It took several minutes for the two subordinate officers to dismantle the portable bed and build a small pyramid in the fireplace. Krauss unsuccessfully fumbled with the matchsticks until Springer snatched them away and took over, leaving the smaller man to stand back against the doorway in indignation.
There was a bunch of tromping in the hallway and two more wet Germans entered the room. Johannes Hoffman, another lieutenant, pushed Krauss out of the way as he entered. He was followed by SS-Sturmscharführer Gohler, their master sergeant and senior non-com.
Hoffman wrinkled his forehead. “This is all we’ve been given? There are only four beds!”
“There used to be five,” Springer said. He didn’t take his eyes off lighting the fire.
Hoffman stood by the doorway, momentarily stunned. His eye
s scanned the room for the odd man out. “Well, Krauss, you’ll have to sleep downstairs on the main floor.”
“Why should I sleep there? Why don’t you?”
“Because Gohler will need a bitch to keep him warm while he’s down there.”
Krauss turned red, bristling. Tiedemann had to turn his head to suppress a smile. General Staff, he reminded himself. Very different than Hoffman and Gohler. The latter two were cut from the same cloth: rough, hard, and determined. Plus, they were a matching set. They had both fought in the same unit in Russia against overwhelming odds and unbearable conditions. They had both managed to persevere. Together they formed what Tiedemann hoped he could use as the foundation of his new command structure while they rebuilt their Kompanie. The rest of the officers—Krauss, Springer, and lieutenant Wilhelm Eppler—would round out the remainder of his platoon leaders.
He needed every experienced man he could get. Totenkopf as a division had been decimated in southern Russia. His own company had fought a ruthless withdrawal from a surrounded position in the Valdai Hills. Many of those men were no longer among the living.
Tiedemann flopped heavily on the Contis’ mattress. He tried not to think about how much they would be off schedule if the rain continued. Instead, he let his mind wander to Elise. A mere week ago he had been enjoying her flashing smile and blond curls as they took advantage of his furlough in Berlin. Now, he missed her terribly. They had gone to the opera together, eaten at the best restaurants—the ones unaffected as yet by rationing, thanks to Tiedemann’s SS network—and had long talks about what they would do together after all the fighting was over. He had dared to think about the end of the war. And Tiedemann had been able to sleep in a real bed with Elise snuggled across his chest, the warmth of her body radiating through his bare skin in the cold October night.
When he received the invitation to visit Dieter’s school, Tiedemann had looked forward to it with the anticipation of any father wanting to see part of his son’s life. The room of awestruck nine-year-olds swarmed around the hero from the front lines. Tiedemann did his best to paint them a picture of the heroic SS soldiers fighting bravely in the snow, the vanquished Soviet villains retreating cowardly at the German advance. He watched his son’s eyes beam with pride in front of his classmates. Tiedemann was a real life hero to those young boys and girls being indoctrinated into the Nazi way.
The Hazards of War Page 2