“Danke.” The doctor calculated quickly. “So we’ll put fifty-two months total. It will take you two or three weeks to get your paperwork processed, so we’ll count next month.”
Fifty-two months! For some reason, putting it into months took Hans by surprise. Fifty-two! More than enough time to have completed his engineering degree at the university. Enough to now be designing diesel engines somewhere at a very comfortable salary. Even enough to have found someone to marry, perhaps even to have had a child or two. The thought was depressing. Hans’s hand subconsciously came up and rubbed at his cheek where Emilee had slapped him yesterday.
Dr. Schnebling picked up the form and re-read it all the way through one more time. Satisfied, he reached over and took a quill pen from an inkwell and signed the form at the bottom with an exaggerated flourish.
As the doctor blew on the signature to help dry it, Hans realized that this man reminded him of the major who had sent him and Franck into combat. His hair was cropped short in the military style. His face was lean, narrow in shape. The chin looked like it had been chiseled out of rock. And the eyes. The doctor’s held that same aloof, detached indifference that Hans had seen that day in the war. That was typical of the nobility. Heartless. Bloodless.
Totally oblivious to Hans’s scrutiny, the administrator laid the form on the desk, carefully folded it into thirds, and placed it in an envelope. With one quick lick he sealed it and handed it across to Hans. “All of your papers appear to be in order, Sergeant. Be sure you don’t lose that.”
“I won’t. Thank you, sir.”
Schnebling spun his chair around and retrieved a bulging file folder from the small table behind him. He turned back to face Hans as he opened the file. “We have petitioned the War Department to let us process our patients’ discharge papers, but with their usual infinite capacity for inefficiency, they have allowed us to do only a few things.” He waved a sheet of paper at Hans. “Here are directions to the railway station. This also has the times for the trains to Berlin. From here, trains go only to the Berlin East Railway Station, and not the main railway station. It’s a good walk from there to the War Ministry, but there are trolleys. It’s too complicated to write out directions, but the address of the Ministry is there. Ask at the train station for directions.”
Watching the doctor closely, Hans was changing his mind about this rather officious head of the hospital. Cool? Yes. Aloof? Yes, that too. But this was really useful information he was giving Hans, and it was clear that he was trying to be helpful.
He withdrew the next item from the folder and held it up. It was a laminated card a little larger than a playing card. “Here is your new identity card.”
“New?”
Schnebling handed it across to him. “Yes. Didn’t they tell you that they couldn’t find yours when you were brought here?”
Hans shook his head. “I have no memory of being brought here. I was either unconscious or sedated at the time.”
“It’s of no matter. This will do in its stead.”
Hans took it and then groaned when he saw the small photograph. “I think you’ve given me the wrong identity card.”
The doctor’s head came up, but his face was inscrutable. “Oh?”
Hans held it up for him to see. “This can’t be me.”
“You’re right,” came the solemn answer. “If it was, you would be too sick to be discharged.” Hans shot him a hard look. Was that a joke?
Schnebling went on in that same dispassionate voice. “Now you know why there are no mirrors in the toilets on the various wards. That was my idea. They caused too much trauma for our patients.”
Hans stifled a laugh. Of course there were mirrors in the bathrooms. It was his little joke. “Or maybe they’d think I was already dead,” he suggested.
The doctor leaned in for a closer look. “You were pretty sedated when the photographer took the picture. Thus the droopy eyes and the lack of any sign of intelligence in your face. But it takes two to three weeks to get a new card, so we didn’t dare wait for a better pose.”
Again, Hans was tempted to laugh, but then he decided to play along. “Maybe when the War Ministry sees it, they’ll authorize some death benefits for me as well.”
That won him a flicker of a smile, which was gone again almost instantly. “I think you overestimate the level of intelligence at the Ministry,” Schnebling said gravely. Then before Hans could answer, the doctor picked up the next item, a long, thin packet of paper stapled together on one end. “Here is your military food ration book, good for one month or until you are discharged.”
“Danke.”
Schnebling picked up one last item, a stiff piece of paper about the size of a playing card. He examined it for a moment. “We are authorized to issue you a chit for the train ride to Berlin,” he mused, “but I see that you are from Bavaria.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It would seem only reasonable that they would also authorize train travel to your home, but again. . . .” He shrugged in disgust. Without looking at it, he was turning the card in his hand over and over, absently, as if he were still trying to decide what to do with it. Finally, he turned businesslike again. “So, considering that you are about four hundred miles from home, that you have very limited financial resources, and that you won the Iron Cross and have given fifty-two months of your young life for your country, I have taken it upon myself to provide slightly different arrangements.” He laid the card on the desk, face down, and pushed it across to Hans.
Puzzled, Hans picked it up and sat back. The first thing he saw was that at the top of the card, there were two large capital letters written with fancy scrolling: DR. Printed directly below this were two words: Deutsche Reichsbahn. Hans instantly knew what this was. It was a card issued by the German State Railroad. Directly below those words were three lines with his name, rank, and serial number neatly typed on them. In the lower left corner the card had been stamped with the image of the imperial German eagle, indicating that this was officially authorized by the government.
But it was the lower right corner that caught his attention and rocked him back as he realized what he was looking at. The first line was labeled “Valid for” and the second, “Authorized by.” “Valid for” was followed by, “No restrictions. Expires 01 APR 1919.” “Authorized by” was followed by a bold but indecipherable scrawl of a signature.
Hans peered at it for several seconds and then slowly looked up. “Is this . . . ?”
Schnebling nodded curtly. “It is a railway pass good for four months of unrestricted, unlimited travel anywhere in Germany. I’m told it would also be accepted in Austria, but I cannot guarantee that. So, if I were you, I would not risk having my card confiscated.”
“But. . . .” Hans still wasn’t sure he was hearing this right.
“I would appreciate it if you did not show that around, except at railway ticket offices. And it would be better for me if you did not tell anyone how it came into your possession.”
“So is this your signature?”
A faint but clearly ironic smile softened the doctor’s mouth. “No, it is not my signature.”
Meaning, you signed it so that no one could recognize it. Hans was struck with wonder. He had badly misjudged this kind and decent man. If he was a military doctor, which Hans guessed he was, he could be court-martialed for this.
Hans slipped the card in his inside pocket beside the envelope. “I understand, sir.”
Dr. Schnebling removed his glasses and began to polish them with the corner of his white doctor’s coat. “Be aware that train travel is not without its problems right now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“One of the Allied Forces’ conditions for the cessation of hostilities was that in addition to turning over our weapons of war—tanks, cannon, vehicles, etc.—we are also required to give up nearly one-fifth of our railway rolling stock. One-fifth! Can you believe that?”
Hans’s jaw dropped. “Why wo
uld we agree to do that?”
“We agreed to do that,” Schnebling replied bitterly, “because otherwise, the Allies threatened to invade Germany and turn us into an occupied country. Instead, they have demanded five thousand of our locomotives and one hundred and fifty thousand freight cars.”
Hans was aghast. The figures were so astounding that he could scarcely take them in. Hans began to massage his temples. “But we have millions of men to bring back home.”
“That’s just the half of it,” Schnebling exploded. “Do you think this might have anything to do with the fact that food shortages are becoming worse, even though the war is over? There’s food out there, but there are no trains to transport it from the farms to the cities. And fuel. Our people are freezing to death here while mountains of coal in the Ruhr Valley wait for trains to transport it.”
Dr. Schnebling sighed, shaking his head. “I apologize, Sergeant. I get so angry. How can we as a country ignore such gross injustice?”
Before Hans could answer, the doctor waved a hand. “Sorry. I just felt that I needed to warn you. When you plan to travel by train, allow plenty of extra time.” He reached in the pocket of his coat and withdrew a small ring of keys. “One last thing,” he went on, “and then we’re done.” Selecting one key, he inserted it into the top drawer of his desk and opened it. Reaching in, he withdrew a black billfold that was about six inches long and three wide. Hans’s eyes were fixed on it as he shut and re-locked the drawer. To Hans’s surprise, Dr. Schnebling’s cool and detached manner was gone. There was genuine sorrow in his eyes now.
“As you know, when you are discharged from the army, you will be given a sum of money to compensate you for your service.”
Hans didn’t know that. He perked up. “How much? Do you know?”
“It varies, depending on years of service, rank achieved, months of combat duty, and also on whether or not you received any medals or citations.” His eyes flashed with anger. “It will not be anywhere near what you deserve.”
Hans laughed bitterly. “It’s the army. That says it all.”
“It’s grossly unfair.” Schnebling’s voice dropped sharply in volume. “No, actually it’s criminal. After all you boys have gone through, they toss you out on the streets with a pittance.” He opened the wallet and drew out a thin sheaf of Deutsche marks. When he spoke again, he raised his voice and spoke loudly and clearly. “The amount I am allowed to give you is set by the government. And it is just enough to get you through until you are officially discharged.”
“How much do they allow?”
“Fifty marks.”
“Fifty?” Hans exploded. “Fifty marks? That’s it?”
“I’m sorry.” He put it back in the wallet, and slid it across to Hans. “Count it, please. I need you to sign for it.”
Hans counted quickly and then jerked up. “Sir, there’s been a—”
Dr. Schnebling leaned forward quickly. “Keep your voice down!” he hissed.
“But, sir,” Hans whispered. “There are one hundred marks here.”
The doctor sat back. “Are you saying that I made a mistake?” he asked loudly.
“I. . . .” Hans was reeling. This was twice what he was allowed.
“I don’t make mistakes, soldier,” he exclaimed. “Count it again.”
Hans didn’t. He got it now. He waited a moment and then said in an equally loud voice, “Sorry, sir. You are right. Exactly fifty marks.”
Pushing a book across at him, Schnebling said, “Just sign for it, Sergeant. Then we’re done here.”
Hans scribbled his signature and stood up. “I won’t forget this, sir,” he said very quietly.
The doctor stood up and extended his hand across the desk. “Yes, you will,” he said gravely. “The minute you step out that door, you will forget it.” He squeezed Hans’s hand hard. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir. What about my uniform and other things?”
“When you leave my office, turn left. All the way down on the right you will find the hospital quartermaster’s office. He has your uniform, which has been cleaned and pressed. Your other personal belongings are in your rucksack, and he has that as well. The hospital has also provided you with some basic toilet items—a shaving kit, toothbrush, tooth powder, two changes of underwear and socks.” He shrugged. “Well, you get the point.”
Dr. Schnebling came around the desk and opened the door. Hans snapped to a sharp salute. “Thank you, sir!”
The doctor returned the salute and then extended his hand. “Viel Glück,” he said softly as they shook hands.
“Danke schön,” Hans replied. “But I fear I need more than good luck. I’m looking for a whole new life.”
A droll smile played around the doctor’s green eyes. “You’re going to the War Ministry,” he drawled. “You are going to need a very large dose of good luck.”
10:10 a.m.
Half an hour later, Hans came out of the quartermaster’s offices dressed in his uniform and carrying his rucksack and went straight back to the reception desk. A rather large and matronly looking nurse was entering information into what looked like a ledger of some kind. A second, younger nurse was at a file cabinet, putting files away. The first looked up as Hans came up to the counter. “May I help you?”
“Actually, yes. Do you happen to know a nurse by the name of Emilee Fromme?”
“Yes. Not really well, but yes, I know her.”
“Have you seen her here this morning?”
“No. I think she works the night shift on the trauma ward.”
“Yes, she does. But she said she might stop by this morning.”
“If she works night shift, she will have left at seven.”
Hans took a quick breath, biting back a sharp retort. “Actually, yesterday was her day off, but she said she might come in to say good-bye. I’m being discharged.”
“Sorry. I haven’t seen her.”
Though he wasn’t surprised, the disappointment was sharper than he had imagined. Then came another idea. “Would you happen to have a sheet of paper and an envelope? I’m leaving for Berlin in a couple of hours and would like to leave her a message.”
She looked him up and down, her eyes warming a little. “I think I could manage that, Sergeant.” Opening a drawer, she drew out a sheet of hospital stationery, an envelope with the hospital’s logo and return address, and a pencil.
“Uh . . . would it be possible to get a couple of extra sheets?”
She smiled and gave him several more.
“Danke.” Hans looked around, not wanting to do this right in front of her.
“There’s a table over there,” she suggested, pointing. He nodded and gave her a warm smile. “You make a very good receptionist,” he said.
Her cheeks colored as he moved away.
After Hans walked away, the younger nurse turned to her companion. “So Emilee asked you not to give him her address or phone number?”
“She did,” the older nurse replied. “She made that very clear. But she didn’t say that I couldn’t give him some paper and a pencil.”
Over at the table, Hans sat down and spread the paper out before him. He thought for a few moments and then started.
Dear Emilee,
I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
I desperately hoped to see you this morning so I could apologize, but I fully understand why you are not here. Which makes me regret all the more what happened yesterday—
He stopped, frowning at the paper. Don’t grovel. Hans crumpled that sheet and dropped it in the small waste bin beside the table.
Emilee,
Hello from the hospital’s newest “non-patient.” Wish you were here to walk me out the door as promised. But I fully understand why you are not. My fault entirely and—
He stopped again. He was back in the solarium, reliving those last horrible moments. Why had he gone after her like that? It was as if she had flipped some switch inside him and unleashed four
years of frustration and resentment. But with that memory came a flash of anger, too. It wasn’t her affair. What goes on between me and my mother is my business.
Absently, he reached up and rubbed his fingers across his cheek where she had slapped him. He still marveled at the swiftness and the violence of her reaction. Now he realized that slapping his face had shocked her almost as much as it had shocked him. Why was that? Was there something more going on with her besides her anger at him for not writing his parents? She had responded so positively when he had suggested that they go to dinner and that he meet her family. Was that part of her anger? And what had she meant when she had started to say that she had hopes they somehow could—? Could what? Get together? Take their relationship to new heights? Get married?
Then the irritation was back. Who did she think she was? No one in my entire life has ever spoken to me like that. Not Mama, even as sharp as she has been with me occasionally. Certainly not Papa. Hans gave a low hoot. Well, maybe his drill instructor back in basic training. Sergeant . . . Ah, what was his name? Sergeant . . . Jessel! Yeah, old Sergeant Jessel. The personification of hell itself. That’s who Emilee had been like yesterday. Sergeant Jessel.
Another burst of disgust exploded softly from his mouth. Just what I need. Another Sergeant Jessel in my life. Hans snatched up the sheet and crumpled it as well and started a third time.
Emilee—
Am now discharged from the hospital. Leaving for Berlin shortly. Wish me luck as I do battle with the Ministry of War.
Will send contact information to you in care of the hospital when I get settled. Would enjoy hearing from you. I deeply regret my actions in the solarium. Would like to make amends.
Many thanks for pushing the nightmares out of my head.
Hans Otto
(Also known as der Trottel)
He laid the pencil down and slowly re-read what he had written. He had nearly signed it as der Dummkopf, but der Trottel carried so many more nuances of meaning—the clod, the blockhead, the dope, moron, sap, jerk, idiot, nincompoop. He hoped she would understand that it was his way of apologizing to her.
For a moment, he considered adding a postscript promising her that he would write his mother once he got to Berlin, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. The last thing he needed was his mother coming up and getting lost in the city. So he folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope.
Fire and Steel, Volume 2 Page 5