The Bridge

by Robert Radcliffe

  And Theo Trickey, who in a way taught me more than anyone.

  In seven months together we barely exchanged a single rational conversation, yet the most significant events of my journey happened because of Theo. Saving him at the Schoonoord, performing cranial surgery on the train, Stalag XIB, meeting Inge Brandt and seeing the Belsen camp, coming to Ulm, the drop-in centre, learning to be a proper doctor, standing up to Vorst, involvement with the Rommel family and so on: he had a hand in all these. And his quiet presence, his guileless smile, his refusal to give in to his injuries, his determination to recover and then simply walk off, well, it was educative.

  Ulm. I’ll be genuinely sad to leave it. For here in this battered old city I have found my purpose – as the recruiting officer described it back in London. I’ve become a general practitioner in the truest sense of the term, living and working among a community, trying to relieve suffering and heal its sick, often in far from easy circumstances. Two-minute consultations at sick parade, balancing the 10 per cent tightrope, slogging to French prisoners in a blizzard, visiting that dying old man in his freezing flat, Ditunka and the Slav women in the fields, homeless children queuing at the drop-in. And I too have marvelled at the resilience of their spirit, found solace amid their suffering and drawn strength from their kinship. General practice at its best, and surely no finer way to ply one’s trade.

  And in Ulm, too, I found Trudi Eichel.

  We see quite a bit of each other these final days. Her job has ceased to exist, mine now allows me more freedom, and with the coming of fine weather people emerge, blinking into the sunshine like moles, to scratch among the debris, gossip over garden gates or simply wander restlessly about waiting for something to happen. We join them, going for walks together down by the river, to the university or what’s left of the botanical gardens, where we sit on benches, hold hands and lay matters to rest. Our rapport, once awkward, is now accepting and truthful, which is a relief to us both. We know what we have is of its moment – a bond forged between two people in dire circumstances. Perfectly natural, honest and supportive, but fleeting and insubstantial. Like sandcastles built between tides. Never meant to last.

  ‘Will we remain friends?’ she asks at the end of one walk.

  ‘I sincerely hope so. We may have other lives to resume, but there will always be this shared bond of experience between us.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I want to return to Ulm one day too, once it’s had time, you know, to recover.’

  She nods. Leaning on the old stone parapet, we stare out as the glassy waters of the Danube slide silently by.

  ‘So.’ She nudges me. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking of retraining as a general practitioner.’

  ‘No, not that. I mean what will you do about the town meeting. At the minster on Sunday.’

  *

  My final visit to Herrlingen takes place next evening, some twelve weeks after the first. It scarcely seems possible, so much has happened in that time, so much come to light; I feel I know Erwin Rommel personally, intimately even, given the access I’ve had to his thoughts and words. I know all his foibles, his tics and quirks, the little anecdotes he puts in his letters to Lucie, his surprising skill at sketching, his interest in photography, the detail on his maps and plans, his meticulous notes and appendices. Immersing myself in his world, I’ve become confidant, critic and curator all in one. I don’t believe every word he writes, and there are traits I dislike (blinkered vision, political naivety, hubris), but what I’m left with is an uncomplicated soul and loving family man, and a soldier of extraordinary talent, who dedicated his life to his country, only to have that loyalty betrayed.

  It’s all a far cry from that first fumbling foray into his life, when I tiptoed fearfully up to Lucie’s bedroom back in January. These days the butler greets me with a courteous nod, the maid takes my coat and beret, I stride across the flagstones, unlock Rommel’s study as though my own, lay out my notebooks and pencils and set to work with barely a thought, freely poking into the most private corners of his life. Polite faces come and go, at some point a cup of tea appears, and Gertrud generally pops in if she’s about. When I’m done I lock up and leave, nobody questions me, and no one interferes; mostly I’m left in peace to get on with my studies.

  Which is just as well because with the end looming and some ground yet to cover, the question arises as to what I’m supposed to do with it all. Before that can be settled however, I must bring matters up to the present.

  Rommel spent three weeks in hospital. His skull was cracked in four places, he had various internal injuries and at first he was not expected to live. Obviously he knew nothing of events during this period, thus I only have the notes he added subsequently, plus supporting evidence from other sources. For instance the very next day after the attack – attributed in a newspaper cutting to Canadian pilots of 412 Squadron – the British unleashed Operation Goodwood, their biggest operation since D-Day and aimed at kick-starting the much delayed Normandy breakout by blasting Caen’s door clean off its hinges. I was with 11th Battalion at Melton Mowbray at the time so we all learned the details. Goodwood was massive, beginning it was said with the biggest aerial bombardment in history – bigger even than Great War barrages in terms of explosive mega-tonnage. And the numbers of troops and machines involved would also break records, as the Americans joined in, circling round from the west to close the net on the beleaguered Germans. This circle eventually centred on the town of Falaise, twenty miles south of Caen, and it was here, in what became known as the ‘Falaise pocket’, that Army Group B was effectively wiped from the map.

  But did the British jump the gun? It’s hard to know; the timing is very close. Also they would have received intelligence of the attack on Rommel’s car (initial reports said he was dead) in which case all ceasefire bets were off. Either way, with no word from him and the deadline expiring, it seems they had little faith he’d pull off his Case Green plan, and so went ahead with theirs. ‘Besides,’ Rommel pencils unsteadily in his notes, ‘with the odds tipping daily in their favour, warum die Mühe mit einem Waffenstillstand? Why bother with a truce?’

  Then, just two days after Goodwood began and with Rommel still unconscious, Claus von Stauffenberg planted his bomb under the conference table at Hitler’s HQ in Poland. Standing outside when it exploded, he was certain no one had survived, hurried back to Berlin and activated his plan for a military coup. Within hours, however, it was clear Hitler had survived, Stauffenberg’s plot collapsed and its principals were rounded up and shot that very same night. Then followed a lengthy, brutal and far-reaching investigation aimed at rooting out anyone with the slightest connection, tendrils from which would soon reach some of Rommel’s closest allies, and eventually, as Manfred so painfully described, Rommel himself.

  But not until later. Meanwhile, he came home to Herrlingen on 8 August, there to spend the last two months of his life in the protective bosom of his family. As both Manfred and Gertrud recounted, he was far from well: partially blinded, suffering fits and seizures, and plagued by crippling headaches. Yet he remained cheerful and active, taking short walks, listening to them read, entertaining old friends and shakily writing up his final notes. He also took close interest in the progress of the war, lamenting the destruction of German forces in France, following the rapid advance of the western Allies, their hesitation upon reaching Belgium, and of course, most interestingly for me, their failed attempt at ending matters quickly with Operation Market Garden. One related letter in particular stands out, being from Walter Harzer, commander of 9th SS Panzer Division whom Rommel had visited the day he was injured. True to his word, Harzer had managed to slip what was left of his division from the Falaise pocket and make a hurried retreat across France to safety. By September he’d reached the Netherlands where he was told to take up positions around Arnhem ‘for rest and replenishment’. Only to have 1st Airborne drop into his lap.

  ‘We were defending
the bridge which appeared to be under attack from a single battalion of Fallschirmjäger,’ he writes. ‘This I learned from sources [my italics] was the 2nd Parachute Battalion you write of. Utter insanity them coming on against a whole Panzer division, even a badly depleted one, and doomed to fail of course, but they fought with great bravery…’

  Rommel’s chief of staff Hans Speidel was arrested at around this time in connection with the Hitler bomb plot. This came as a great shock to Rommel and I find several copies of letters he wrote to senior officials in Berlin pleading Speidel’s innocence and good character. It’s not known whether these were received, or even sent, but there are no replies on file. Nor, ominously, much mention of the matter in his final diary entries, which by now are dwindling to little more than two-line comments. As if he knows what’s coming.

  Sept 30th Walk with Manfred. I am sure the grounds are under surveillance. This can only mean SS or SD. We both carry weapons.

  Oct 7th Letter from Keitel ‘inviting’ me to report to Berlin for discussions about ‘future employment’. This without doubt a trap and I’d never reach Berlin alive. Sent polite response enclosing report from neurologist saying ‘too sick to travel’.

  Oct 11th Dinner at home with Otto Streicher whom I haven’t seen for many years. We talked over the old days as students together at the military academy. How much simpler life was then!

  Then the final entry of all:

  Oct 13th Pleasant sunshine, walking with Manfred and Gertrud. Upon return was given telephone message. Generals Burgdof and Maisel travelling to see me tomorrow at noon.

  And what of Theo? Apart from the letter from the pastor at Livarot, his name crops up twice during this final part of the archive. After Arnhem, Rommel asks for and is sent a copy of the Allied casualty list from Apeldoorn hospital. I remember it well; it was the first time the injured were together under one roof and thus the first time we could record their numbers and details properly. It took all day to complete the audit. Colonel Graeme Warrack supervised; then various copies were made and distributed. One went to the Red Cross to be sent back to England, one went to the German military, another to their medical directorate, Warrack kept one for the records and so on. Every casualty’s name, rank and service number was recorded. Rommel’s copy, presumably a duplicate of the one sent to the medical directorate, runs to several pages; many names are on it that I recognize, including Theo’s. And beside his entry Rommel has pencilled an asterisk.

  The second document is the movement order Lucie brought to prison. The one transferring Theo and me to Ulm from Möglich’s clutches at Stalag XIB. This is the pivotal one, the one that confirms Rommel intervened personally to get Theo here. At least that’s what I assume.

  ‘Why was he so keen for this?’ I ask Gertrud when she pops in.

  ‘It was Frau Rommel,’ she replies. ‘Private Trickey had saved her husband’s life. Hearing he too was severely injured she wanted to do everything to repay the debt.’

  ‘But your father had already died by the time the order came though.’

  ‘This changed nothing. It was their wish. We followed it through.’ She glances round at the stacks of files and boxes. ‘And now you are finished?’

  ‘Ha! I doubt I’ll ever be finished. His letters alone would take a year’s work.’

  ‘Then…’

  ‘But I’ve done about all I can for the moment.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I can’t take this archive with me, it’d fill two trunks, and anyway it’s too precious, it belongs here with you and Frau Rommel and Manfred. Have you heard from him, by the way?’

  ‘His unit’s still in Riedlingen, thirty miles west of here. He makes contact when he can. We tell him to be careful and take no risks.’

  ‘Good. My advice is pack all this up and lock it out of sight, in a cellar or attic or something, so it’s hidden and safe and can’t fall into the wrong hands.’

  ‘And your notes?’

  ‘I’ll take them home.’ I tap my papers, now filling some half-dozen exercise books. ‘When I get to England I’ll make some enquiries – you know, publishers, historians and so on, show them what I’ve got and see what they propose.’

  ‘Do you think there will be, you know, sufficient interest?’

  ‘Having seen what I have? I’m sure of it. But I’m no writer and certainly no biographer. What’s needed now is professional help.’

  The door squeaks open and Lucie enters, tray in hand. She too has changed immeasurably since first I saw her. Still quiet, still slight and frail and sombrely dressed, she’s nevertheless a different creature from the bed-bound husk I first encountered.

  ‘I gather this might be your final visit, Herr Doctor.’

  ‘It’s hard to know. But I have reached a pause in the research.’

  ‘Then you will take a glass of Mosel with us. Erwin’s favourite.’

  She pours, we toast and I taste delicious fruity tartness, also noting a wrapped package is sitting on the tray.

  ‘And now I want you to have something. Of his. To remember him by.’

  ‘That’s not necessary, madam, really, I—’

  ‘We noticed you both used it. Sitting here. To see things more clearly.’

  She hands me the package and the penny drops. I unwrap tissue paper to reveal an elegant magnifying glass of the sort used for reading, in a silver frame with bone handle. It was on his desk among his letter openers and inkwells, and it’s true I had often used it, to decipher tiny print, or examine a photo.

  ‘Well, madam, I still feel it’s unnecessary but thank you…’

  ‘Good luck, Doctor.’ A small hand takes mine; her gaze is locked and steady. ‘We thank you for all you have done, and wish you a healthful and prosperous peacetime.’

  *

  Sunday comes, and with it another rumour. The Russians are in Berlin. As usual there’s no way to verify this but since the news comes over state radio it bears the sobering hallmark of truth. And it throws the poor people of Ulm, whose nerves are already in tatters, into even greater paroxysms of anxiety. Berlin may be four hundred miles away, but it’s still the nation’s capital. If the Russians have it, won’t the whole country come under their rule? Won’t they be free to occupy our towns and villages, appropriate our farms and businesses, ship our menfolk to labour camps, abuse and rape our women?

  God knows, but as eleven o’clock nears and Erik and I head towards the minster for what’s billed as a ‘town meeting with service of thanksgiving’, an added and unwelcome frisson of tension fills the air.

  The service is fine, however, a welcome breath of calm and tradition amid all the heat and uncertainty. The old church is packed, every available pew filled with townsfolk young and old, with many more standing in the aisles. Under their somewhat unnerving gaze we’re shown to the front and seated alongside all the elders and dignitaries, which doesn’t seem right. There, surrounded by cassocks and gowns, I spot the Rommel family off to one side, also the acting Bürgermeister, Adenauer, the old police sergeant in his best uniform, and various professors from the university in cloaks and floppy hats. Then, to a clatter of pigeon wings, the organ thunders to life, everyone stands and the clergy process up the nave, led by a choirboy bearing a cross.

  The service is Lutheran, thus brisk and upbeat with plenty of music and singing. Erik, having never mentioned religion once during our time together, seems well at home and joins in with gusto, while I content myself gazing up at the minster’s vaulted roof and ruminating on all that’s passed. There’s a sermon on the suitable themes of hope and reconciliation, and then the faithful are invited to partake of the holy sacrament. I sit this out, Erik goes up, and it’s while he’s gone and I’m idly watching the queues file past that, to my astonishment, I spot Wilhelm Vorst.

  The shock is considerable. His bare head is bowed, his hands devoutly clasped, he’s wearing a nondescript suit with spotted tie, and clutching a trilby hat. He looks shorter and more rotund than
normal and for a moment I think I’m mistaken, but then he inclines his head to allow someone to pass and I know it’s him. Following the other communicants, he processes solemnly up, receives his share, and heads off back across the church. Dumbfounded, I watch him go. Quite apart from the gall of it, and the barefaced hypocrisy, the shock of seeing him is enough to turn the stomach.

  ‘Vorst!’ I hiss furiously at Erik when he returns.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s here! Didn’t you see?’

  ‘No.’ He cranes his neck. ‘Where? Are you sure?’

  There’s nothing to be done for the moment, as other matters are pressing. Soon the service concludes with a final rousing hymn, the clergy process out and there’s a pause while furniture movements happen. Then the minister returns and announces that the meeting will begin shortly, once the formalities are completed.

  Erik and I exchange glances. ‘Formalities?’

  These, it transpires, are the surrender of the city. To us.

  Earlier in the week we had been asked to come to the meeting and say a few words of reassurance, and maybe answer some questions. That’s all, nothing more, and so we’d politely agreed. Now, in front of the entire congregation, we find ourselves parading before a delegation of the good and great bent on giving us the city. Adenauer is among them, wearing his chain of office, and the dean of the university, the Lutheran minister, the police sergeant, a clutch of Girl Guides, and finally the garrison elder, an ancient Great War veteran in spiked helmet and spurs, clanking with medals and hefting a lethal-looking sabre. And before we know it, various items are being solemnly presented to us, including the town seal and scroll, a folded flag, a large and heavy register, a rusty iron key, and finally the sword, which the old man draws with a flourish and lays at our feet with a damp-eyed salute.