Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  The hall went quiet. Hans saw more figures passing outside the front entrance, and he could see now they were either SS or Gestapo, for all wore billed caps and black overcoats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Berghaus called out, “please be calm. There is no reason to be alarmed. We have a situation on our campus that requires rectification. This is a security operation by government officials, carried out under the direction of law enforcement personnel from various agencies. You are in no danger, so we ask you to remain calm.”

  That created an instant buzz. “What kind of officers?” someone called out.

  “No questions, please,” he snapped. “This operation is being carried out under the direction of the Gestapo, with the SS and SA troops assisting.”

  There were soft gasps and instant fear in the eyes of some.

  “What are they looking for?” A woman’s voice.

  Berghaus frowned. “That need not concern you. We ask you to remain here in the library until the operation is completed. We are told that it will take no more than half an hour to forty-five minutes. No more questions. Please return to your seats and continue as you were. There will be guards posted at the door to make sure you are secure.”

  Hans and Alemann exchanged glances, and Hans was pretty sure they were thinking the same thing. Were the guards there to make sure people were secure, or to make sure no one left?

  The president motioned to his rector. “Rector Oppermann has a list of names here that he will read out. We need to interview certain people to help us quickly resolve the situation. If your name is read, please come forward. If not, then remain where you are.” He motioned for Oppermann to come forward.

  As the rector did so, he took out a paper from his inside pocket. It was folded in half. There was still a lot of consternation in the hall, so as he opened the paper, he glared at them. “Quiet, please!” he snapped. “If I read out your name, move quickly to the checkout desk. And please know that we will check all identity papers before you leave, so don’t think that by not answering you will be overlooked.”

  A young woman near the back called out. “But I have a trolley to catch in fifteen minutes.”

  The president glared at her. “No one leaves until we go through the names.”

  Oppermann lifted the sheet. “Hans Heydrich Bauer.” There was a low cry and a young man with a goatee stood up in the back.

  The president jerked his thumb at him. “By the checkout desk, please.”

  As Oppermann continued reading off the names, Dean Eberhardt stepped forward and spoke to the president. Both turned to look to where Hans and Alemann were standing. Hans felt a little spurt of panic. What was this about? Berghaus listened, frowned, but then nodded. Eberhardt seemed to thank him and hurried over to join them.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  Alemann answered. “I was showing Herr Eckhardt where he might find some excellent sources for his thesis.”

  “Ah,” Eberhardt said, visibly relieved.

  “We were just leaving,” Hans added.

  “What’s going on, Dean?” Alemann asked.

  He hesitated, then moved in closer and lowered his voice. “About a month ago, the head of the Gestapo here in Munich asked to meet with the president and the board of rectors. They reported that as the government has moved forward with certifying the Aryan heritage of all German citizens, as required by the Nuremberg Laws—” Out of the corner of his eye, Hans saw Alemann stiffen. Eberhardt was looking at Hans and didn’t see it. He lowered his voice even more, turning his back on the hall. “—they have found names of those within our university community who either do not qualify for citizenship or who have something questionable about their identity papers. The Gestapo wishes to question them, that’s all.”

  “This is about Jews?” Alemann asked quietly.

  “Yes. And others too, of course. Negroes. Gypsies. Slavs. But, in our case, it’s primarily a Jewish problem.”

  Hans was watching Alemann closely now. “Are you saying that we have Jews on our faculty and staff?” Alemann asked. “I thought they were fired long before the Nuremberg Laws were enacted.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” Eberhardt said darkly. “We gave the government the names of all known Jews back in ’33. We fired them even before we were asked to. But the Gestapo claims they have solid evidence that we still have some who cannot meet the criteria among our students, faculty, staff, and”—his voice went taut with horror—“even some in our administration, if their facts are correct. Fortunately, the government is not blaming us. They just want to identify those people now and root them out. They have given us about three hundred names. Most are students. I found less than a dozen staff members on the list, and they are all lower-level employees.”

  “So,” Alemann finally said, relaxing a little now, “do we have to stay through all of this?”

  “Nein. I verified that the two of you are not on the list, so the president said you may go. However, he asked if you would mind slipping out one of the doors at the back of library so others won’t think that they can leave too.”

  “Of course,” Alemann said. He turned to Hans. “Can you drop me off on your way?”

  “Certainly.”

  6:22 p.m.

  Once they were out of sight of the main reading room, Alemann broke into a swift walk.

  “Hey!” Hans called in surprise. “Wait up.”

  They rounded another stack of books and entered a little wider aisle. About fifty feet ahead of them, Hans saw a door. A sign above it read: “Please Ensure Door Locks after Exiting.”

  On seeing it, Alemann only increased his speed.

  Swearing under his breath and gritting his teeth against the discomfort in his hip, Hans hurried forward, catching up to Alemann just as he hit the bar and started to push the door open. Hans reached out, grabbed the bar, and pulled the door shut again. “Hey, cowboy,” he said, puffing a little. “Let’s take a look and see what’s out there before we go busting through, okay?”

  Alemann stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Then do it!” He stepped back.

  Easing the door open, Hans peeked through the crack. Seeing nothing, he opened it enough to stick his head out. In the light of the lamps in the quad, he saw a couple of students walking past, but that was all. He pushed the door open, stepped through it, and held it open. “We don’t want to be bumping into a squad of SS men who think we’re trying to get away.”

  Alemann nodded grimly, then turned and started away.

  “Hey, the car is parked over this way,” Hans called, gesturing in the other direction.

  “You go,” Alemann said, not stopping. “I’m not going home.”

  Totally taken aback by that, Hans hurried and caught up with him. “Where are you going?”

  “To find out what’s happening.”

  Hans grabbed his arm. “Are you mad? Alemann, we don’t want to be anywhere near what is going on. If they see us and think we’re part of it, they’ll—”

  Alemann jerked free and started off again. “You go home. I’ll walk.”

  Genuinely alarmed, Hans broke into a lumbering half-run and went past Alemann, then planted himself squarely in front of him. When Alemann tried to step around him, Hans blocked him both times. “Alemann! Think! The place is crawling with soldiers, every one of them heavily armed. They’re going to stop anyone who looks suspicious and probably take them in for questioning.”

  “I have to get to the student residence halls. I have students there. I need to warn them.”

  “Students?” Then it hit him. “You mean Jewish students?”

  “Yes. I’m the graduate advisor to two of them. I have to warn them. Get them out of there.” Alemann stepped forward, shouldering Hans aside. “Go. This is not your problem.”

  Hans stared at his friend, stunned at his ferv
or. Then he grunted. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you. But let me take the lead. You have no combat experience, and we’re in a combat zone right now. I’ll take the lead.”

  “No. You can’t get involved. You can’t.”

  “I am not leaving you, Alemann. So either you come with me, or I go with you.”

  He started to protest again but then clamped his mouth shut and nodded grimly. “Danke, Hans. But hurry. We may already be too late.”

  The snow was still falling, and there was almost two inches on the ground now, but Hans immediately left the sidewalk and cut across the lawn, staying as close to the buildings as possible or in shrubbery and trees. He stopped frequently to reconnoiter before moving across open spaces. Twice they ducked into cover as they heard shouts or the approach of running feet.

  One squad of ten or twelve SA Brown Shirts passed within a few yards of them, double-timing across the quad. Several times they had to detour quickly as they saw soldiers questioning people at gunpoint. The more Hans saw, the more his anxiety rose. This was not some spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment raid. There were soldiers everywhere, and they seemed to know exactly where they were going and what to do when they got there. Which made it all the more dangerous, though he didn’t say that to Alemann.

  Five minutes later, they were moving surreptitiously along Theresienstrasse, approaching an intersection with a narrow street. Alemann was by his side now, directing Hans where to turn. Hans often drove through this area, but not on any of the back streets. When they reached it, he stopped in the deep shadow of one of the buildings at the corner. “How much farther?”

  Alemann pointed. “This way. In another block we turn right, then it’s half a block. The dorm is Ludwighaus. But there are dozens of private residence halls here.”

  Hans was peering through the falling snow, which was thickening rapidly. Both of their heads were covered now. “Let’s get off the street and make our way through that park over there. Less likely to be seen.”

  Alemann’s head bobbed, and Hans was relieved that he was letting him take the lead.

  They waited for a single car to pass and then hurried across the street and entered the park. Hans’s mind was awhirl. This was crazy. If they did bump into some of the troops and were stopped and questioned, what would they say? That they were out for a stroll? In a snowstorm? Walking home? Equally lame. They both lived several miles away. And that made him all the more cautious and all the more anxious.

  He pushed that all aside as they moved in behind the scattered spruce trees that went along this side of the park. Suddenly he felt Alemann’s grip on his shoulder. “Stop!” he hissed. Chills shot through Hans as Alemann dropped to one knee and pulled him down beside him. “Look!” he said, leaning in close. He was pointing through the trees to the center of the park, which was a wide, open space. What Hans saw made his blood go cold. He brushed the melting snow from his eyes. There were twenty or thirty people there, maybe more. But they were in a tight circle, not spread out.

  Then he felt his gut wrench as a figure came out from behind the group. In the light from the streetlamps, he saw another figure moving around the edge of the group. In silhouette he could see that both men wore helmets and carried rifles.

  “Gestapo?” Alemann whispered.

  “Yeah. And they’re not alone,” he added as a third figure appeared, then a fourth. They were obviously circling the group. Then Hans swore to himself as he realized that Alemann was no longer right beside him. He was down on his hands and knees, crawling forward between two of the spruce trees.

  “Alemann, no!” It was an urgent plea.

  Alemann stopped, but he didn’t turn and come back. Hans quickly joined him, dropping down beside him. “In the snow, our dark clothes make it easy for someone to spot us. We can’t go any closer.”

  “We have to. I have to see if my students are there.”

  “And if they are? Then what?” Hans snapped. “Hold tight until we can see what’s going on.”

  It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on. Armed men in uniforms were bringing in individuals or small groups of people from every direction, herding them into the crowd. Now they could count half a dozen Gestapo or SS men guarding them. Occasionally they heard the sharp bark of orders. “Stay where you are.” “Keep your hands where we can see them.” “Don’t talk.” “Shut your mouth, Juden.”

  In five minutes, the number of prisoners had at least doubled, maybe even tripled. There were thirty or forty of them now. Suddenly Alemann gasped and leaped to his feet. “No!”

  Still in a crouch, Hans kicked out, his leg horizontal. It caught Alemann directly behind his knees, and he dropped with a heavy thud. “Stay down!” he hissed. “They’ll see you.”

  “It’s them, Hans.” Alemann was pointing, his face twisted with anguish.

  Wiping at his eyes, Hans peered around the tree. From a side street, four male silhouettes had appeared and were crossing the street. Directly behind them were two men with rifles.

  “It’s them,” Alemann said, almost sobbing. “It’s my students.”

  Hans wiped the moisture from his eyes again, leaning forward, looking through the falling snow. There was no question about it being four male prisoners. They had their hands on their heads and half ran, half walked as the guards kept yelling at them.

  “I can’t just sit here, Hans,” Alemann cried. “I have to do something.”

  “What?” Hans hissed. “Go out and negotiate with the officer in charge? Tell him that he’s made a mistake? You’ll be lucky if they don’t shoot you the minute you stand up. That’s not going to save your students.”

  It didn’t take long to figure out what came next. A few more prisoners were straggling in, but once the soldiers had herded them into the group, they didn’t go back looking for others. They either joined the other guards who were watching the prisoners or went off to one side to join others, smoking and talking and laughing.

  A couple of minutes later, from behind them came the grinding of gears and the growl of a heavy-duty engine. They both turned, ducking in closer to the tree as the sweep of a truck’s headlights passed over them. It rumbled past them, then slowed and pulled over to the curb. As it stopped, a man jumped out of the passenger side, ran around to the back, and lowered a gate.

  “There’s their transport,” Hans whispered. “They’re going to take them in for interrogation.”

  “What can we do?” Alemann wailed.

  “Nothing now. Tomorrow, we’ll find out where they took them. See if we can get an attorney or. . . .” He shrugged, knowing how lame that sounded. But Alemann could see the hopelessness of the situation and nodded.

  Once the back gate of the truck was down, the guards started yelling for the prisoners to load up. The group started moving toward the street, hands still on their heads as the guards threatened and cursed at them. Suddenly a woman’s scream pierced the night air. Everyone turned. Then a male voice bellowed out. “Leave her alone!”

  Alemann went up on his knees to look. Hans nearly yanked him back down again, but no one was looking their way now, so he rose up too. All movement of the crowd had stopped, and in the light of the streetlamp he saw why. There were about ten people in the back of the truck now, but a guard was there struggling to hold a young woman from twisting away from him. The guard’s arm was around her neck and she was violently struggling to get free of him.

  Just behind the truck, another guard was wrestling with a young man who was struggling to climb up on the truck. The girl suddenly kicked back with one foot, catching her captor on the shin. With a howl of pain, he let go of her. Instantly another guard stepped in and struck her a swift blow across the face. Her head jerked back and her body slumped to the ground.

  The guard wrestling with the young man whipped around to see what had just happened. In that instant, the prisoner broke free. As the guard started t
o bring his rifle up, the boy grabbed the barrel and yanked it from him. A second later, the muzzle was about an inch away from the soldier’s nose. “Get back!” the young man screamed at the other soldiers. “Stay back or I’ll shoot.”

  “Yakov!” Alemann gasped, leaping up. “No!”

  Hans barely heard him, for now everyone in the truck was screaming and scrambling to get out of the way. He dove for Alemann, knocking him down again, then threw his body across him so that he couldn’t get up.

  As they turned to look again, most of the screaming had stopped. All around, prisoners and guards were gaping at the boy with the rifle. In the truck, the first guard had recovered enough that he went after the girl, ducking under her blows, then pinning her arms down. On the street, other guards were edging in around their captive brother as the boy pressed the muzzle hard against the soldier’s cheek. “I’ll shoot!” he kept yelling over and over. “Let the girl go, or I’ll shoot.”

  “Is that his sister?” Hans whispered to Alemann.

  He shook his head. “He’s an only child. And he has no girlfriend.”

  “PUT THE RIFLE DOWN!”

  The deep voice brought every head around. A Gestapo officer—a major, Hans guessed—had his Luger drawn and was slowly approaching Yakov and his captive. Quick as a cat, Yakov jerked his prisoner around and used him a shield, placing the muzzle of the rifle against the back of the man’s neck. A great hush fell over the crowd and people tried to get out of the line of fire.

  “No, Yakov,” Alemann sobbed. “Don’t shoot. Don’t do it.”

  The officer stopped about ten feet away from Yakov, then slowly holstered his pistol and raised his hands into the air. When he spoke, it was like he was speaking to a young child. “Put the gun down, son.”

  “No! Tell him to let the girl go.” It was a strangled cry.

  The major looked up. “Let her go,” he barked. “Get away from her.” The guard instantly obeyed, backing away from the young woman.