The Crest

by Jerena Tobiasen

  “Take care you don’t off-balance the both of us, you burly farmer! Old ladies break easily, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon, Anna. No offence,” Otto said in response to her jest. “I was just telling Gerhard of the news from Oppeln. I strongly suggest that you and Tante Cook take the children and go on ahead. Today, if you can.”

  “Well. It could be a bit tricky, but, if one of the farmhands can drive us, I think we can be ready to leave after dinner.”

  “Make it a quick dinner,” Otto suggested, “and pack extra food for the Kinder. They never stop eating, those ones.”

  “I’ll arrange for two vehicles,” Gerhard said, planning aloud. “One of the trucks for your cases and whatever other small things you might need. You and the children can ride in the Rohr. You might have a tight fit, but it’s better than sending you off in all of the trucks and leaving the farm without a vehicle for several days.”

  “I’m going to ask my folks to go with you,” Otto added. “But. Well, you know how stubborn they can be.”

  “Give me a minute, Otto. Let me speak with Cook and Emma, and I’ll walk back to the farmhouse with you. Let’s see how persuasive the two of us can be.”

  While they waited for Anna, Gerhard and Otto exchanged last-minute transportation concerns.

  “Let’s go,” Anna said, pulling on her sweater. “Sounds like we have no time to waste.”

  Leaving the manor by the front steps, Anna said to Gerhard, “Make sure the roof of the Rohr is up. It will be too windy and cold driving at night with it down. If the weather turns too warm tomorrow, we can always put it down during one of the rest stops.”

  As the blushing sun dissolved into the ripening field, a bright blue farm truck and a cream-coloured Rohr with the blue soft-top still up pulled away from the manor, laden with grandparents, children, and luggage. Anna and the two drivers had travel instructions that would see them safely to Bayreuth.

  “As soon as everything is arranged here, Emma, Paul, and I will follow.” Gerhard told his mother.

  The vehicles rolled down the drive and onto the road. A cloud of dust chased them as they disappeared into the dusk.

  The following days took on an urgent schedule of their own. Hasty breakfasts. Cold lunches. Small dinners. In between, they packed, wrapped, organized, and sorted, until all of their goods were loaded onto farm trucks and sent on to the house in Bayreuth.

  In the meantime, the blue truck and the Rohr returned from Bayreuth, with confirmation that the old folks and children had been settled in the new house. The weather held, too: the usual rain for that time of year stood at bay against the continuing warm weather.

  While the dry weather made it easier for vehicles to travel on the highway, it also made it easier for the German air force to hit their Polish targets, and for the military to move transports and equipment on the ground. Roads were congested with a mêlée of traffic. Fortunately, the vehicles from the Lange estate were headed in the opposite direction.

  Emma, Gerhard, and Paul spent their last night in Silesia at the farmhouse with Otto and his wife, Hildegard. The meal was humble by comparison to Cook’s feasts, but delicious nonetheless, and they shared one last glass of brandy before retiring for the night. Gerhard had kept back two bottles for just that occasion.

  Early the next morning, they shared a hasty breakfast and packed the last of their personal items.

  While Emma and Paul waited in the Rohr, Gerhard took one last photograph of the manor, and hugged Otto as only two long-time friends might. “Take care, my friend, and don’t stay too long.”

  “I won’t,” Otto replied, steadying himself on the driveway so he could wave good-bye.

  “I won’t let him,” Hildegard chimed in.

  Gerhard put the Rohr in gear and let it roll to the end of the drive. He hollered one last time, “Don’t stay too long!” before turning onto the side road.

  The gears groaned as Gerhard shifted again and the car accelerated, dust swirling around the cream rims of the tires. With the promise of another warm day, the roof was down, allowing its occupants to wave good-bye. A convoy of loaded farm trucks followed.

  Otto and Hildegard waved wildly until the Rohr disappeared beyond their sight.

  Once they were settled in Bayreuth, Gerhard contacted the farm manager he had engaged to operate the Neue-farm—the name they used to distinguish it from the Schmidt farm—until Otto was available.

  He assured Gerhard that the farmhouse was empty, and that Herr and Frau Schmidt could move into it whenever they chose. “I’d be happy to work with them as long as you have need of me,” he assured Gerhard. “I’ve been living in the guesthouse, and am comfortable to continue doing so.”

  In the weeks following, the farmhouse was organized for Otto’s parents. They were quick to take up residence, and found the working relationship with the farm manager quite agreeable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  GERHARD’S IMMINENT CONCERN for the relocation was petrol. He had heard about shortages near sites of conflict, and hoped that his vehicles would be able to reach Bayreuth and return to Silesia without difficulty. He hoped to return the trucks quickly, with a surplus of petrol, to see the harvest reaped.

  Otto needed the farmhands to help him manage the harvest. A bountiful harvest was expected, requiring all available help. Once the harvest was in, the families of those farmhands who chose to relocate would migrate to Bavaria.

  The new year isn’t so far away, Gerhard mused. With it will come a change from sleepy country life to busy city life and the industry of Bavaria. And, God help us all, another war. And I hope that the Polish business will be settled before Paul is required to report for duty.

  Before the threat of conflict had become a common topic, Paul and Gerhard had spent many hours discussing Paul’s career choices: he preferred that his son follow in his footsteps and study engineering at the university in Bayreuth. Paul had expressed a desire to enter the priesthood from a young age, and would not be swayed.

  As he contemplated the past and the current conditions in Germany, Gerhard’s stomach clenched with anxiety and fear.

  He had tried to speak with his former superiors about the conditions in Dachau and warn them about the risks of other camps being built, but the discussion ended in a shouting match, with him on the losing end. The superiors scoffed at his concerns and refused to believe his description of the Dachau camp. Herr Hitler would not allow such conditions, they argued.

  He felt helpless, and worried for any souls incarcerated in Hitler’s camps.

  Early in January 1940, the post brought orders for Paul to report for duty. Unlike the day Gerhard received his orders in 1914, no celebration followed. Instead, Gerhard erupted in anger when he read the paper Paul handed him.

  He looked to be certain the study door was closed, then bellowed, “Verdammte Nazis! I won’t have it!” He paced, shaking the orders wildly. “I won’t have my son put his life in jeopardy for that pissant corporal and his thugs!

  “Deutschland is bound by the Treaty of Versailles. Hitler continues to defy the terms and puts the entire country at risk. Someone needs to stand up to his government. His tyranny.”

  Gerhard slammed his fist on his desk, dropping the paper as if it was poisoned. “Goddamn Nazis!” he cursed again.

  “Papa, keep your voice down,” Paul hissed, resting a cautionary hand briefly on Gerhard’s shoulder. “I like to think that the new cook is loyal to the family, but we can never know for certain.”

  “It’s bad enough that he puts the Wehrmacht at risk with this Polish conflict,” Gerhard continued in a lower, but still angry, voice. “It won’t be long before Britain and France act against us, too. They declared war months ago. We’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He sighed deeply.

  “And what about the priesthood?” He waved the orders at Paul. “Damn them all to hell!” He pounded his fist again, rattling everything on the desk.

  “Gerhard, please,” Emma s
aid, trying to diffuse his anger. “Keep your voice down! Cursing isn’t going to solve anything. Besides, the children might hear.”

  Agitated, Gerhard grabbed the brandy decanter and poured three glasses, then thrust two toward Emma and Paul. “This is so wrong in so many ways. I’m not satisfied. Before Paul reports for duty, I’m going to the Depot myself. I want more information.”

  Paul took a sip of the brandy as he listened to his father’s rant. The apple fumes bloomed in his throat, choking him. He flushed, trying to stifle an urge to cough.

  “Son! Are you all right?” Gerhard asked, catching sight of his son’s distress.

  Paul nodded, unable to speak.

  “Brandy is for sipping, son. I forgot it’s your first time.” Gerhard rubbed Paul’s back, trying to soothe him. “Take another sip and hold it for a moment, then swallow slowly. That should settle your throat.” Paul did as instructed, and his convulsing throat calmed.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, Papa,” he squeaked. His throat continued to spasm, and he coughed again. “Papa, I agree with you. I don’t like Hitler’s reasoning. I think he’s using us to do his dirty work and feed his greed. Plus, he’s playing the people. They think he’s wonderful because he’s promising employment for everyone, yet I’ve seen no evidence of jobs for the masses.”

  Paul jabbed his fingers through his cropped hair, creating ebony spikes. “Have you ever noticed his eyes? They seem shifty to me, as if he has no soul.”

  Paul sighed audibly. “Besides, military enlistment goes against all of my principles. Do you think I can convince the recruiting office that I’m better suited to be a military chaplain?” he asked. “May I go with you to Depot to put my own ideas forward?”

  “Of course. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  Changing subjects, Gerhard added, “While we’re at it, we’ll have your boots made. I can’t tell you how important good boots are. My father knew. He had a pair made for me and my schoolmates. We can have a look at other items you’ll need in your kit, too. Herr Hitler doesn’t provide much, I can tell you that! And nothing is of any quality.”

  Sotto-voice, he added, “The worthless Arschloch!”

  “Gerhard!” Emma snapped. “It’s counter-productive to be calling the leader of our beloved country an asshole, even if he is a toxic influence.”

  “Pardon me, my dear,” he said, having the good sense to show his remorse.

  “I should have known, Emma,” Gerhard sighed the following evening. “It was a waste of time. Just as my pleas about the detention camps were.”

  He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, and described the meeting with the Depot officers. “If we were in Silesia, my seniority might have had some influence. They have little knowledge of me at the Würzburg Depot, only my records from Dresden. The military is different now. There’s no respect for status or experience. Those young pups are power-hungry, just like their Chancellor.”

  “Papa tried to explain the family’s military history,” Paul interrupted, “and my preference to be a chaplain. They would have none of it. They told me that, if I refused to follow orders and fight for Hitler’s principles, my entire family would be sent to a camp, and all of our assets would be seized to help fund his cause. I’m sorry, Mama, I had no choice …”

  Gerhard placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You tried, Paul. And we are all grateful for your decision.”

  “Grateful for his decision!” Emma exclaimed. “How can you suggest that our assets are worth our son’s life?”

  Emma paced across the kitchen. “No! I won’t have it! Neither of you will go! Let them take everything. I don’t care! I want my family safe, and if that means spending time in a work camp, so be it. At least we’ll all be together.”

  “Emma, my dear,” Gerhard said, racing to her side and taking her in his arms. “We wouldn’t be together. Men and women are separated, and the conditions in those camps—remember, I’ve seen Dachau—are very poor: food is paltry, and disease is rampant. Think of the old ladies and the children. You don’t want them to suffer.”

  “Papa is right, Mama. This is something I need to do. For my family,” Paul insisted.

  “But … what is to happen to Paul?” Emma wailed. She pushed away from Gerhard and stood alone, twisting her hands.

  “Paul is to report for duty as ordered,” Gerhard explained. “He will start as a junior officer. At least they acknowledged his training and our family’s long service to this country so far as enlistment is concerned. The priesthood will have to wait. All we can do now is prepare Paul for whatever he might encounter. Psychologically, that is. He has been well-trained for combat and command; it is hard to prepare for the horror. No matter how much training, reality still takes a soldier by surprise.”

  “We also arranged for my kit and ordered my boots,” Paul added. “They’ll be ready before I report.”

  “The only good news we have in all of this is that the Wehrmacht won’t take the Rohr,” Gerhard said, making a repugnant face. “They’ve determined it to be useless for military purposes because its wheel base is too long!”

  “Well, that is good news,” Emma lamented. “The old ones can continue to use it to get around. So long as we have fuel, that is.”

  She tapped her fingernail on her teeth, thinking. “What more can we do for you, Paul?” Emma asked. “Shall we have a family party on the eve of your departure? The children would like that.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mama,” Paul responded. “I don’t need a party to celebrate something I find repugnant.”

  “Emma, my dear.” Gerhard took her hands in his and kissed them. “I know you’re worried. And for good cause. It’s not usual, but if it will distract you to organize a party, go ahead. Perhaps the children can help too, hmm?”

  He took Emma in his arms and held her, trying to absorb some of her anxiety. But how can anyone absorb a mother’s worry? he wondered.

  “Damn them all to hell!” Gerhard yelled the words as he read the orders.

  “What is it, Gerhard? Did I hear the bell?” Emma flew down the oak staircase in response to her husband’s words.

  “Yes,” he barked, waving the paper to express his outrage. “Not one, but two! I can’t believe the audacity!”

  “Please. Gerhard. Calm yourself and come into the study, where we can talk privately.”

  She took his arm and led him across the hall, closing the door behind them. “Now. What is it?”

  His anger blinded him to the deep grains of the oak that panelled the study, the worn leather of the chairs and settee, and the stained glass in the windows. He focussed on the old Spanish painting—his favourite, first hung in the manor in Silesia by his great-grandfather in 1870—before he continued. “It seems that Hitler is not satisfied with one Lange. He wants us both!”

  “Oh, nein.” Emma’s knees buckled, and she sank into the edge of the settee. “This is a dream. A bad dream. What can we do? Gerhard, you can’t go,” she pleaded. “You mustn’t!”

  “I must. And you know it, my dear.”

  “But what about your nightmares? You worked so hard to overcome them. In fact, you haven’t had them for years,” she said, expressing her worry. “Lately … they’re coming back, aren’t they? You’ve called out in your sleep several times in the past few nights. Your sleep is restless. And you’re irritable.”

  “Emma, I am so sorry to put you through all of that again. I’ve tried to protect you from it.” He stopped pacing and stood before her. “I haven’t done a good job of it, have I?”

  Emma had been holding her head in her hands. She looked up at him. “Will you see battle, do you think?” Her question was quiet with concern.

  “No. I’ll start with the rank of Major. As I was when I retired in ’24,” he said. “I am to oversee recruitment and training. I’ve also offered to organize post-battle care for returning troops.”

  She stood again, wrapping her arms around his
waist, resting her head on his chest. “Das ist gut,” she murmured into his shirt. “If anything can be good about this nonsense.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  GERHARD REPORTED FOR duty several weeks later.

  “Paul,” Gerhard had told Emma, “has been sent to Norway. We may not see him before the end of summer.”

  At the end of June, however, Paul arrived home. His brother and sister danced around him, cheering as his mother gave him a hearty embrace. She felt him stiffen and wince.

  “You’ve changed,” she said, brushing a shock of blue-black hair from his forehead, watching a cloud of pain pass through his charcoal eyes. ‘Charcoal eyes, just like your father’s,’ she had told him as soon as the newborn-blue had faded, and many times since.

  “You must have grown! Look at you!” She walked around him, assessing the changes. “A fine soldier you are. Your father will be so proud.”

  Uncomfortable with Emma’s fussing, Paul acknowledged his siblings, giving a hug to his sister, Gerda, and exercising a little rough play with his brother, Arthur.

  “How’s the boxing going, Arthur?” Then he fired a second question over his shoulder at his mother. “When do you expect Papa home?”

  Arthur answered first, in a spiky voice that betrayed his puberty. “I won the championship this year!”

  Paul threw a few false punches in Arthur’s direction, air-boxing with him.

  “Papa’s away for a few days. But, he’ll be home to see you before you leave again.” Emma stood with hands on her hips, observing his playfulness. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s wrong with your arm, Paul?” she asked in her mother-voice.

  Arthur and Gerda stilled, looking first to their mother, then to their brother.