Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  When the note was finished, the sergeant walked it back to his officer and whispered something to him. He nodded, then turned and walked swiftly away. Then another officer appeared. “Sergeant,” he said. “Frau Fuhrimann is here.”

  “Ah, ja. Gut, gut. Bring her here.”

  That whipped the missionaries’ heads around. “Oh, good,” Elder Carleton whispered to Benji. “She can clear this up.”

  But when Frau Fuhrimann appeared a moment later and fixed her eyes on the missionaries in the cell, a cruel smile broke out across her face. “Ja, ja. These are the ones. They convinced my husband to join their church. They taught him awful things about our government.”

  Elder Carleton shot to his feet. “Nein. That’s a lie!”

  The sergeant swung around, his fist a blur. He drove it into Elder Carleton’s stomach, sending him crashing back on his chair. “Keep your mouth shut until spoken to!” Then he turned back to the woman. “And which church is that?” the sergeant asked.

  “The Deutschland Church of the Holy Spirit.” She raised her voice to a shriek. “These men are evil. They took my husband away from me.”

  Elder Roberts started to open his mouth, but the other officer cuffed him too. The sergeant barked, “Corporal, if they say another word, take your truncheon to them.” Then he turned back to Frau Fuhrimann. “Thank you, Frau. You have rendered a great service to the Fatherland.”

  She smiled sweetly and nodded, then turned to Elder Carleton, her face instantly turning to flint. “May you rot in hell!”

  As the officer led her away, the sergeant stepped out of the cell and shut the door behind him.

  “Sergeant, please,” Elder Carleton exclaimed. “How long do you plan to hold us?”

  He turned, looking incredulous. “Don’t you understand? You are political prisoners. We can keep you as long as we want. Six hours. Six months. Six years.” Then he laughed.

  Even as his laughter died away, they heard footsteps approaching. Another officer appeared. He was followed by two officers in uniform. The missionaries looked up, and all blood drained from their faces. It was the two Gestapo officers they had seen earlier.

  4:38 p.m.

  Benji couldn’t miss the irony. He remembered his father telling him how when he had been a missionary here, jail time was considered as almost a rite of passage, a badge of honor. If you hadn’t spent at least one night in jail, you weren’t considered a seasoned missionary. That had impressed Benji. Would he ever get to serve a mission in Germany? Would he ever end up in jail and be a “real” missionary like his father and Jacob Reissner?

  Well now he had his answer, and it wasn’t nearly as wondrous as he had expected it to be. This was his third time in less than a year. Sacramento City Jail. Brig of the Oriental Star. Now the Gestapo Police Control Center in Saxony, Germany. But this time he was a political prisoner, a title that sent fear into the hearts of every German citizen.

  And this was 1935, not 1913. The Republic of Germany was no more. The Third Reich was now in power, and though the constitution was supposedly still in place, its powers and rights had been shredded by the Nazi regime. There were no jury trials. The so-called “People’s Courts” no longer had to prove guilt. They didn’t even have to give them a trial if they chose not to. Pass sentence and haul them off, never to be seen again.

  And that was what filled Benji with such dread. No one even knew where he was, or what had happened. The other two elders had probably waited ten or fifteen minutes for them, then assumed they had gotten delayed and gone on their way. Perhaps the members would wonder when the elders didn’t show up for church on Sunday, but they wouldn’t give it much thought either. Missionaries came and went all the time. It could be days, maybe even weeks, before someone even realized they were missing.

  When they had tried to get the Gestapo officers to let them make just one phone call, they got nothing but stony silence. They had been booked, photographed, grilled separately, then separated into cells in different parts of the prison. When Benji had tried calling out to Elder Carleton and Elder Roberts to see if they were close by, a guard had come running and pointed his pistol at him.

  And so, here he was, two hours later, more forlorn than he had ever been in his life. He had gone through every possibility in his mind. His cell was small, with a single bunk, a toilet with no seat, and a stained washbasin. There was a window, but it was high on the wall, seven feet up at least. There was no glass, just open bars. If he only had a paper and pencil, he could write a note, tie it up with one of his shoelaces, and toss it out the window. Hopefully, someone would pick it up and read it and call their mission president. The only problem with that was he had no paper, no pencil, and they had taken his shoelaces.

  The cloud of despair was darker than anything he had ever experienced before. What could he do? Hammer on the door? Scream out the window for help? Bang his head against the bars?

  And in that dark moment, there suddenly came a string of simple thoughts. You are here in this land as a servant of your Heavenly Father. You were called to be here by God’s prophet. You were promised in a father’s blessing that if you were obedient and faithful, God would provide a way for you to accomplish His work. There is a way to get a message out of this place. Pray to your Heavenly Father. No one can stop you from praying.

  Shamed that it had taken him this long to come to such a simple thought, Benji rolled off his cot and dropped to his knees beside it. He bowed his head and began to pray. It was short. It was simple. But it was the most fervent prayer he had ever offered. “Heavenly Father, I am ashamed that I have not come to Thee sooner. But as Thou knowest, my companions and I are in deep trouble. If we are to continue to do Thy work among the people of Germany, we need Thy help. Please let our mission president find out where we are. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

  He knelt there for a long moment, then slowly got to his feet and sat down on his cot again. It was not even thirty seconds later that he leaped up again. He could hear footsteps coming down the hall. A prison guard appeared, carrying a ring of keys. Before Benji even had time to dare hope, the man stopped at his cell door. “Get your things,” he barked. “Come! You are being released.”

  When they entered the block where the administration of the prison was housed, Benji was shocked to see Elder Carleton standing by a desk. One of the Gestapo officers was handing him back his papers, wallet, shoelaces, and other personal belongings. There was a noise behind him. Benji turned, then rocked back. Another guard was coming down a second hallway. With him was Elder Roberts, looking very confused.

  As the two of them were also handed their things, a stunned Benji saw the note Elder Carleton had written to the other elders asking them to call the mission president. It was still sitting on the corner of the desk, undelivered.

  Five minutes later, following a single sentence of explanation—“Your stories have been confirmed; you are free to go”—they were on the street again, where their bikes were waiting in a rack and another grim-faced member of the Gestapo unlocked the rack for them.

  5:05 p.m.—Albertstadt District

  They pedaled hard and fast for about ten minutes, none of them speaking, still barely believing that they were free. Finally, Elder Carleton turned off into a small neighborhood park and dismounted. Benji and Elder Roberts followed. They moved to a nearby bench. Barely had they sat down when Elder Carleton burst out, “Brethren, sorry, but there’s something I have to share with you. Something incredible.”

  Benji stared at him. He had just been thinking the same thing. He was still dazed by what had happened and felt compelled to share it with the other two.

  “You’ll never believe what happened,” Elder Carleton rushed on. “I was there in my cell, lying on my bunk, deep in despair. I was without hope, wondering what we could ever do to get a message out to the mission president. To let someone—anyone!—know where we wer
e.”

  Elder Roberts was looking at him very strangely. “Go on.”

  “And suddenly this thought came to me. Pray for help.” He shook his head. “I know. It’s stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier? I don’t know. But it came very strongly to me. So I knelt down right there and then and poured out my soul to Heavenly Father. I asked Him to help us. And no sooner had I stood up than—”

  Elder Roberts, whose eyes were like saucers, broke in. “A guard came and opened your door and said that we were released?”

  “Yes, but—how did you—?”

  Now Benji, feeling like his whole body was on fire, blurted it out. “Because that’s what happened to me too! Exactly the same thing. Exactly the same way. And the moment I said amen—” His voice choked off, and he had to stop.

  For what seemed like a long time, they stared at each other in wonder. Then, very gravely, Elder Carleton nodded. “Brethren, we have had a miracle. I propose that we kneel together and thank God, not only for freeing us, but for doing it in such a marvelous way as to bear witness of His love for us.”

  As one, they knelt and bowed their heads. After a moment, Elder Carleton began to pray.

  Chapter Notes

  Though the events depicted in this chapter happened three years later than shown here, and though the names have been changed and some details have been added or enhanced to make the flow of the narrative smoother, this account is based on the true story of a remarkable experience that happened to three missionaries in Germany (see Wallace D. Montague, “I Was a Political Prisoner of Hitler,” Instructor, March 1963, 90–91).

  June 17, 1935, 8:15 a.m.—Hitler Youth Camp,

  Bavarian Alps

  Ah,” Lisa cried. “There you are.”

  Hans Otto looked up in surprise as his sister stepped into view. “Lisa!” He dropped his bag and threw himself into her arms.

  “Hello, little brother,” she said, giving him a peck on his cheek.

  He recoiled. “No, Lisa!” He jerked around, checking to see if anyone was watching. Then he vigorously wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Don’t do that. They’ll laugh at me.”

  Lisa took a step backward, holding up both hands. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  He moved in closer. “It’s all right,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “As long as no one else is around.”

  She bent down and hugged him tightly. “How’s your first week at camp been?”

  “Great!” he crowed.

  “And the food?”

  “Great!”

  “And have you made any special friends yet?”

  His nose wrinkled as he considered that. “Um . . . Fritz. And Johann. And . . . um . . . Wolfie. And Hans Wilhelm.”

  Lisa tried to keep a straight face. “And that’s all?”

  “Oh, and Rolph. But he’s a year older than me.”

  She wanted to hug him until he gasped for breath, but she resisted. This was their Hans Otto. Blond hair. Dancing blue eyes. An impish smile that melted anyone who saw it. An inquisitive mind that explored and questioned everything. A heart that was brash and impulsive and yet so tender that tears came quickly if he felt he had been wronged. Though he often drove her to distraction, Lisa loved him with a depth that sometimes surprised her.

  Suddenly Hans Otto thought of something. “Oh, they gave us something really neat, Lisa.” He reached around to his left side, where there was a scabbard on his belt. He unbuckled the flap and withdrew a dagger with a six-inch blade of polished steel. Lisa recognized it instantly, for it was given to every boy when he entered the Hitler Youth. But she still felt a jolt of fear and disgust. Stamped into the handle were three words: “Blood and Honor.” The same words were on the belt buckles of the army’s dress uniforms.

  Balancing the dagger in his hand, Hans Otto looked up at her. “My tent leader said they’re going to teach us how to throw it and hit a target. Isn’t that neat? But if it gets a speck of rust, I have to clean the latrines for a week.”

  Lisa shook her head ruefully. Even that seemed to excite him. “So, is there anything you don’t like about camp?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment, then grinned. “Nope.”

  “Lisa!”

  She turned. Coming at a trot down the path toward them was Evaline, one of the girls in her group. Lisa raised a hand and waved.

  “You have a visitor. Somebody important. Come right away.”

  Lisa waved again. “Be right there.” She turned back to her brother. “Gotta go. I’ll try to come see you tonight. Maybe we could take a walk down to the lake. Feed the ducks.”

  His nose wrinkled again, an indication of when he was thinking hard. “I’m okay. Really.”

  She felt a little stab. “Oh. All right. I’ll see you one of these days. But remember—”

  “Ja, ja. Bye, Lisa.” He picked up his bag, waved once, and shot past her.

  She watched him go with a touch of sadness. She had looked forward to “being there” for him. She should have known better. And with that, she turned and followed after Evaline to the administration building. When she stepped inside the director’s office, she stopped short, then squealed. “Miki!”

  Miki rose from her chair and rushed over to Lisa. They embraced, touching cheeks for a moment. When they pulled back, Lisa said, “I thought you were up in Heidelberg.”

  “I am. Or, that is, I was. I’m taking the summer off, working on a research project for the university. I’ll get some credit toward my senior project next year and also earn some money.”

  “Oh? And how is Gerhardt? Do you hear from him often?”

  “Not really. He loves the army, of course. He’s in a paratroop regiment up near the French border. They’ve already made him a corporal.”

  “Yes, that’s what Mama told me.” She glanced at Miki’s left hand and her eyebrows raised slightly. “No ring? I heard you were engaged again.”

  To Lisa’s surprise, Miki actually blushed, which she rarely did because very few things embarrassed her. “We broke off our engagement a few months ago now.”

  “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Turns out that he was a swine.” She laughed, but it seemed a little forced. “So, Lisa. I didn’t come this far to catch up on the family news. I have come to whisk you away from Hitler Youth.” She laughed airily. “At least for a couple of days.”

  “What? But I am an aide now. And we’re taking the twelve-year-olds on their first overnight hike tonight. I really can’t—”

  “I’ve spoken to Frau Holstein about the research project.” She lowered her voice. “It’s for the SS, but you didn’t hear that from me. Anyway, she says she can spare you for two days. What do you say? It is a beautiful summer day. The forecast is for more of the same. I have a picnic basket in the trunk with a bottle of rosé for me and a bottle of mineral water for our little Mormon girl.”

  Lisa managed a smile. It had taken her years to get her father to stop putting the word “little” before everything related to the Church. But with Miki, it wasn’t just about Mormons. She was quite disdainful of anything to do with God or organized religion. So Lisa changed the subject. “And where are we going?”

  “We’ll be going north, to a little village called Steinhöring, in the Ebersberg District of Bavaria. Do you know of it?”

  As Lisa shook her head, a chair scraped in the office to their left. A door opened, and Frau Holstein, the new head of the girls’ camp, stuck her head out. “It is no problem, Lisa. This project of Miki’s sounds very official and quite important. We will cover for you.”

  Lisa turned to Miki. “All right, then. Wunderbar! A picnic in the Alps sounds divine, and letting someone else babysit forty twelve-year-olds overnight also sounds heavenly.”

  “Gut. Go pack an overnight bag. I have a phone cal
l to make. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  11:22 a.m.—Southern Bavarian Alps

  Watching Miki pour herself another glass of wine, Lisa almost said something. She could tell the wine was mellowing her out. Which was fine when you were having a picnic, but not so smart when you were driving the narrow, curving roads of the Alps. But knowing that it would win her another “little Mormon girl” comment, she decided that she would just stay very alert as they drove the rest of the way to their destination.

  So she took another tack. “What is your major at the university that gets you tied into a research project with the Secret Police?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Oh? You mean like Sigmund Freud and all that stuff? Psychoanalysis? The subconscious?” Lisa sniggered. “Or is it the unconscious and self-conscious? I can never remember.”

  Miki glared at her, not at all amused.

  “What?” Lisa blurted. “What did I say?”

  “Don’t you know that Sigmund Freud is Jewish? His Jewish theories are now widely debunked. No one who is anyone in the field pays any attention to his work now. His works were some that they threw on the fires a couple of years ago.”

  “Yes, I remember now,” Lisa said softly. “Actually, I was there.”

  “In Berlin?” Miki asked in surprise.

  “No, in Konigsbergplatz. In Munich.”

  “Oh? I was up in Heidelberg in my first year at university. I was one of those who went through the library on campus and gathered up the books to be burned. It was an incredible night, don’t you think?” Not waiting for Lisa’s answer, Miki rushed on. “Besides, my emphasis is not on the clinical side of psychology but the research and statistical side.”

  “Oh. And is that what this project is about?”

  “Ja, ja. I am very excited about it. Not that I am part of the actual program, but our department has been commissioned to study it as it is rolled out. Then we will provide evaluation and input to the society that is sponsoring it.”