Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  The following morning, hollow-eyed from grief and lack of sleep, Roland went to the post office and closed out his account of racing winnings. In the afternoon he attended the funeral services for his family at the local Catholic church, strengthened by the attempts of aunts and uncles from his mother’s side to console him. As the priest searched for comforting words, Roland caught himself wondering if anyone would ever tell his father’s family what had happened. As he followed the caskets to the cemetery he experienced a wistfulness that his father’s family would probably never know; then he felt resentment, a deep, burning hatred growing inside him. They should never know. They didn’t deserve to know, not after the way they had treated his father.

  Roland watched as the coffins were lowered into the ground, the priest’s final words breaking the silence. He took a spade and shoveled earth onto the coffins containing his mother, brother and sister. By his father’s coffin he stopped, reached into his pocket and dropped the good luck charm into the grave, following it quickly with earth. When he straightened up and looked around, he saw that no one had noticed his surreptitious act.

  *

  Later that day, after having evaded his relatives’ well-intentioned questions about his plans, Roland traveled by train to London. He spent the night on the platform of an underground station where hundreds of Londoners sought refuge from the Blitz. No sound of the battle penetrated into the bowels of the earth where Roland lay on a cold, stone platform, but anger kept his own vengeful visions alive. While those around him sang Vera Lynn songs to buoy their spirits, Roland imagined German bombers trapped in searchlight beams, unable to escape the piercing columns of white light. In his mind he saw bursts of anti-aircraft fire, followed by the planes plunging to earth in a trail of blazing debris, their crews trapped inside to suffer the same fiery death his own family had known.

  At five in the morning, on the dawn of his sixteenth birthday, Roland emerged from the underground station. While his companions of the night returned to their homes, Roland wandered around the heart of the city. It occurred to him that he should return to Margate . . . his family’s affairs needed to be put in order, and his mother’s family would be anxious to know his whereabouts. But something even more pressing urged him to ignore these responsibilities – above all he wanted revenge; everything else could wait.

  At nine o’clock he entered a menswear shop and bought a brown, Prince of Wales checked sportcoat to replace his school blazer, which he rolled into a bundle and dropped into a garbage can. Next he walked into an army recruiting office to volunteer. He lied about his age by adding two years and hoped that his above-average height would convince the recruiting officer that he was eligible. The officer looked over the boy who stood in front of him and asked for a birth certificate. When Roland replied that he didn’t have one, the officer asked for a letter from his parents to verify his age. Roland countered by saying his parents had died two days earlier in an air raid. The officer asked about schooling. Roland, in keeping with his claim that he was eighteen, replied that he had just passed his A-levels and was about to begin accountancy articles. When the officer asked if he wanted to join the Pay Corps, Roland shook his head fiercely. He wanted to join the infantry.

  The recruiting officer regarded Roland thoughtfully. Despite the boy’s obvious fatigue, his eyes reflected a steely determination. Perhaps he was telling the truth, perhaps not. But if he was rejected here he would continue trying until he found a recruiting office that would accept him. Here was a boy who refused to let the grass grow under his feet. His family was barely cold in the grave and he was ready to wipe out the entire German nation in revenge.

  Two weeks, the recruiting officer decided as he began to write down the necessary information. Two weeks in action and this Roland Eagles would become either a hero to King and country, or another fatality . . .

  *

  ‘No, I never gave a second thought to what my old man was until I came to this damned place,’ Roland said to Sergeant Goldstein, aware that he was repeating himself. He paused to light a cigarette, using the time to collect his thoughts, uncertain now why he had even broached the subject. Of course, to show that he was just as concerned as Goldstein about the survivors in the camp. ‘My father changed his name when he converted to Catholicism and married my mother. At least, I assume he converted. I buried him with the rest of my family in a Catholic cemetery, after a German bomb hit our house. No one seemed to object. He never had much time for religion, though – I guess I picked that up from him – but just to be on the safe side I dropped one of those good luck pieces into his grave.’ He closed his eyes for a few seconds as the dismal scene came to mind. He quickly shook the memory and saw that Goldstein was staring at him. ‘You know what I mean, sergeant – what do you call them, the things Jews nail on doorframes?’

  ‘A mezzuzah, sir?’

  ‘That’s the word. My father gave it to me years earlier and I’d hidden it away for luck. It’s odd, but the night before my family was killed, I’d dug it out and carried it around with me the next day. Not only did I live while they died, but earlier that same day I’d won twelve pounds ten from a local bookie on a five-shilling win double. Biggest single win I’d ever had.’ Roland paused, reflecting on how fate – if you could call it that – had spared him.

  ‘Why did your father change his name, sir?’

  ‘A symbolic gesture.’ As he answered, Roland again felt the same mixture of wistfulness and resentment about his father’s family, just as he had on the day of the funerals. ‘He cut himself off from his family after he married my mother – they acted like he didn’t exist. I never knew any of them – this all happened long before I was born – but my father told me about it when he thought I was old enough to understand. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but it broke his heart, what they did to him. I don’t think they even know he’s dead, or that I exist. They never cared enough to find out anything once he’d decided to marry my mother, and I believe that’s the way he wanted it to the end.’

  ‘That’s rough, sir, but it’s happened a lot of times. And both ways.’

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.’ More painful memories surfaced which Roland forced himself to fight back. ‘I would appreciate it, sergeant, if what I just told you goes no further than this room.’

  ‘You have my word, sir.’ Goldstein said and thought he knew why. It was one thing for the captain to confide in him to demonstrate his concerns. It was another matter entirely if he’d given any thought to making the military his career; then his background could be a hindrance.

  ‘Thank you. Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to put a bullet between this SS bastard’s eyes,’ Roland said, remembering the prisoner outside. ‘But what if he is telling the truth?’

  ‘What? That he joined the SS to protect his own family and work against the Nazis?’ Goldstein’s cynical chuckle revealed exactly what he thought of Roland’s question.

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’ Still, why should he even think of giving a German the benefit of the doubt? Roland asked himself. All he had to do was recall that September day in 1940 to remember how generous the Germans could be . . . or to think of what he’d witnessed at Bergen-Belsen itself. Yet there was a quality about Heinrich Kassler which set him apart; something which Roland couldn’t quite name. The man had been unafraid to talk about his membership in the SS and his reason for joining. The acts of mercy he claimed to have performed within the camp could be easily checked . . .

  ‘Let’s confront Kassler with some of the camp inmates, sergeant. If they don’t rip him to pieces then we’ll know he might be telling the truth.’

  ‘I’ll fetch a few, sir.’ Goldstein saluted and left.

  Roland called for Kassler to be brought back in. The German officer stood at attention for five minutes until Goldstein returned with two young men whose frail bodies and wizened faces made them look three times their age. All of the camp uniforms
had been burned, and the two inmates wore British uniforms without rank or insignia. Roland thought they looked like a ghastly parody of a recruiting poster.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ he asked through Goldstein.

  Both men nodded as they stared at Kassler; the German returned their gaze calmly.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Kapitan Kassler.’

  ‘He was a member of the SS assigned to this camp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he ever mistreat you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever witness him mistreat anyone?’

  ‘No. Kapitan Kassler was a decent man. Whenever possible he treated us well.’

  ‘In what manner?’

  ‘When he was in charge of work details it would be his responsibility to report any prisoner who was too ill to work.’

  ‘What would happen then?’

  ‘The prisoner would be . . .’ The inmate stopped in mid-sentence; the words were unnecessary.

  ‘What did Captain Kassler do that was so fair?’

  ‘He devised methods to let sick men rest. He falsified the Appel so that men missing because they were ill would be accounted for. Sometimes he managed to arrange for extra food rations by diverting food from the guards. He saved many of our lives at risk to his own.’

  Roland leaned back in his chair and thought about the war, from that moment when his family had died to this very instant, apparently confronted by a German officer who had managed to perpetrate a little good amidst the unconscionable filth. He looked at Kassler, still at attention, flanked by the two British soldiers in their tin hats. Was it possible? His gaze fell on the two inmates, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for such human tragedies. And Sergeant Goldstein, who stood by the desk awaiting orders . . . what did he think of the German officer now? Did he still want to borrow the Webley? ‘Sergeant, see if there are any inmates who are willing to sign affidavits about Captain Kassler’s behavior. When you’ve done that, arrange for him to be escorted to headquarters. Intelligence will be interested in his story; we’ll see if he can be of any help to them.’

  As the escort about-faced, Kassler saluted; not the Nazi straight arm but a military salute, right hand brought up crisply to the forehead. Roland returned the salute and was surprised to see Kassler offer his hand. ‘I hope that we might meet again, Captain’ – Kassler glanced quickly at the makeshift nameplate on the desk – ‘Eagles. I am sure that in years to come we will both treasure this moment as an instant of sanity in a world gone mad.’

  Roland stared at the outstretched hand, hesitated. Finally, wearily, he grasped Kassler’s hand. His hatred had brought him here, but now it was slowly burning itself out. Here, in Bergen-Belsen, it was time to think about putting his rage to rest. Time to consider how to pick up the pieces of his life, if it were possible . . .

  When the European war finished, Roland’s unit was still at Bergen-Belsen, its role changed from one of combat to administration. While other soldiers complained about the duty, wanting to be home with their families, Roland made the camp his home. Off-duty, he took it upon himself to work with the Red Cross on behalf of survivors searching for relatives who had been at Auschwitz and the other camps. He wrote letters for those who had relatives in the United States, and for others he tried to get the paperwork started for entry visas. While on duty, he deliberately turned his back when groups of young inmates, mostly Russian, wandered from the camp to plunder nearby German villages. As far as Roland was concerned, they were entitled to anything they could take from the country which had been their barbaric host.

  In August, when the war in the Far East ended, Roland’s company was transferred to Berlin as part of the British garrison. He spent his twenty-first birthday the following month walking around the allied sector, inspecting the bombed-out hulks of the once proud city. Although his hatred for Germany had dimmed since he’d met Heinrich Kassler five months earlier, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratification, pleased that he had been responsible in some small way for the destruction. It was then that he realized how deep his emotional scars were. He wanted to harbor none of the self-destructive hatred that had consumed his father, but if he could find some degree of satisfaction in the wreckage of a country – no matter what the country had done to the world, to him personally – then he was suffering from a sickness that might take years to cure.

  He thought about his father’s family as well, the resentment he had felt toward them. Now, he didn’t feel resentment as much as curiosity, because he realized at last that his father was to blame in part for the split. Not by marrying his mother – good Lord, no! – but because he had never made the slightest attempt to heal the rift. He had adopted a belligerently unforgiving attitude that made a reconciliation impossible. He’d never given them the opportunity to change their minds, nor did he try to win them over. No, by damn . . . he had resolved to be just as bigoted and full of hatred as they were.

  Now that his father had been dead for five years. Roland wondered whether he could introduce himself to his father’s family and finally mend the split? He wanted to. He was curious about them, about the kind of people they were. He was no longer content to see them through his father’s twisted perspective; he needed to see them for himself.

  Although he knew their names, knew where they lived, he didn’t intend to simply knock on their doors and explain who he was – that would be like an outcast begging for admittance. Roland resolved that he would meet them one day – but he would do it with style.

  He wanted, one day, to meet them as equals.

  Chapter Two

  Roland remained in the army for another two years. He was eventually transferred from Berlin to Aldershot Barracks in the south of England, where he commanded training companies of young inductees doing national service. For the benefit of his superiors he announced his intention to make the military his career, but he was honest enough with himself to know that the uniform provided an easy, if temporary escape from responsibility. He knew that one day he would have to make a decision about his life, but he didn’t yet feel pressured by time . . . too much had happened to him during the war and he felt entitled to the rest. A commission in the peacetime army was a comfortable way of life, and after years of frontline service, Roland was learning to enjoy comfort.

  In the early autumn of 1947, at a regimental dinner in the officers’ mess, Roland’s complacency was jolted sharply enough to force him into a decision. After the dinner, he stood to propose the loyal toast to King George the Sixth, an honor bestowed upon him by Colonel Milburn, the regimental commander. Following the toast, permission was given to smoke. After pipes and cigarettes were lit, Colonel Milburn – a trim, wiry-haired Scot with a pencil-thin moustache – rapped on the table for attention.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have news which you will be delighted to hear, I know you’re all fed up to the teeth with training duties, that you all would like to get back to the real work of the military. Well . . .’ he paused, knowing he had their full attention, ‘. . . when the current training cycles are over, that’s what we’ll be doing. The entire regiment is being posted to Palestine. They’ve found out they can’t do without us over there, and we’re going to show them how to keep the peace.’

  The men greeted Milburn’s announcement with an enthusiastic round of applause, except for Roland, who clapped politely. He had always known he might be transferred to Palestine, but as time had passed the odds of it happening had grown longer. He’d gradually allowed himself to believe that the British would be out of Palestine before he could be sent there . . .

  ‘Something wrong, Eagles?’ a major sitting on his right asked. ‘You look like you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence.’

  ‘I’m all right. Just a bit stuffy in here.’ He looked back to Colonel Milburn, who was speaking again.

  ‘Gentlemen, I give you the toast – the finest regiment in the finest army in the world. That’s why we’ve been ch
osen for Palestine.’

  Roland waited for the excitement to abate before excusing himself and going over to where Colonel Milburn sat. ‘Sir, could I have a word with you please?’

  ‘Now? Is it so important?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ The colonel rose from the table and followed Roland outside. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wish to resign my commission, sir.’

  ‘You wish to what?’ The colonel was so shocked that he never even wondered why Roland had chosen to break such news at a regimental dinner. Roland was the finest junior officer they had. His efficiency reports were impeccable, his companies always had the highest training scores. Most of the other junior officers were young, inexperienced, doing their national service the same as the men they commanded. Roland had served brilliantly, he was a hero, for God’s sake. Why would he even consider resigning? ‘You’ve been in the army seven years, Eagles. Outstanding service. Doesn’t that mean a thing to you?’

  ‘Sir, they were seven of the proudest years of my life.’

  ‘Then what brings this on?’

  ‘Your announcement inside, sir. Going to Palestine. I consider reprehensible the idea of going over there and continuing under a Union Jack what the Germans tried to do under a swastika.’

  The colonel glared at his subordinate. ‘You’re acting like a sentimental fool, Eagles. Damned disloyal, too. Do yourself a favor by forgetting this ridiculous idea. Go over there, keep the Arabs and the Jews from tearing out each other’s throats until we’re out of that infernal place and you’ll be well on your way to your majority. You’re a young man, you’ve got a wonderful career to look forward to in the army. I wouldn’t even be surprised if you’ve got a brigadier’s baton tucked away in your knapsack. Don’t turn your back on all of it.’