by Matthew Nuth
* * *
Vacated, quiet, eerily quiet. The three men were the only living beings on the crest. From the American side of the crest, the rise was an uninterrupted white blanket for a hundred yards, except for the three parallel lines marking their ascent up the hill. Beyond a hundred yards, artillery shell craters appeared as black dots across the hillside; freckles on pale white skin. The blood stains of fallen soldiers shown as black brush strokes on a virgin canvas. On the German side of the crest, the signs of huge activity from the earlier day were visible everywhere. The snow had been completely worn away. The clean white blanket of snow replaced by the mud trenches carved by tires and tracks. Spent brass littered the ground, the piles betraying where the murderous gunners had taken up positions.
Paul set off northward along the ridge, in search of the sniper he had taken out during the night. Samuels and Baker trudged after him, each scouring the ground to avoid tripping or slipping in the hazardous, frozen mud. After progressing past two vacated gunner positions, Paul stopped dead; Samuels and Baker quickened their pace to catch up. Face up at Paul’s feet, lay the mousey-looking, Hauptmann Rieker, his eyes staring lifelessly skywards. A small, red spot marked the point Paul’s shot entered his face just below his right eye. Paul knew the exit point was not so neat. The back of Rieker’s head lay in a frozen pool of blood. In one hand, Rieker hand held the broken set of binoculars he had been using to spy down the hill in search of American soldiers . . . to accept his surrender. In the other, a couple sheets of paper were crumpled in a tightly clinched fist.
Paul could not divine what had been Rieker’s intensions; however, it was clear he was no sniper. He had no rifle. His only companions were two dead gunners draped over a silent machine gun. Beside the Hauptmann lay what appeared to be a journal and a couple sheets of paper that appeared to be an uncompleted letter.
* * *
I gently unfolded the heavily creased and yellowed sheets of seven-decade-old hand written pages. The first two pages written in German in a faint deliberate pencil, the second two pages in ink, written in English. Flipping to the English pages, it was clear these had been translated for Dad.
Dearest Hilke:
I miss you continuously. My heart has become incapable of feeling except for when I think of you. Today my only comfort flows from knowing we are almost done with this terrible war and the devastation it had poured upon our lives. Each night I fear that this night will be my last. Although dying might blot the pain of killing from my memories, I know that in the afterlife I would always regret never again having the caress of your body against mine, feeling your breath upon my brow, or hearing your voice calling me in from the cold. I need to live to tomorrow.
Your safety is always on my mind. Our Fuhrer is not our friend, not yours, not mine, not our country’s. As long as he lives, he represents a threat to all of us. I fear we are too far gone to recover even if saner minds prevailed tomorrow. We have made too many enemies, killed too many friends, left too few options; the world is overwhelmed with a need to punish us . . . and we deserve no mercy.
I hope this letter finds you well in Geneva. I have no idea when I will be able to join you, but trust that even with our separation, I am with you with every breath you take. If I am gone from this earth when this letter comes to you, close your eyes and remember me as we had been when we married. I will visit you in your dreams and protect you from my new afterlife. I now know God will take care of us as we need to be cared for.
If I sound more faithful than you remember, I am. Our Fuhrer has made me a Christian, a real Christian. Until I experienced his terror, his destruction, his evil, I was happy being a Sunday Protestant, quietly adopting the practices and dogma of my parents without understanding why or believing. My faith had been lost, replaced by a Nietzsche-esk personal philosophy based in myself . . . that people are real gods. I could not even acknowledge an all-powerful God could exist. To me, God had become a child’s concept that I had outgrown during adolescence.
I WAS WRONG! I think now, Hitler is the personification of evil, beyond any personal capability. He is a product of the Devil; the tool of Satan. I cannot comprehend the existence of pure evil without that of pure good - God. I have come to grips with my failings and now have taken strength in my new faith and belief in good; to do what we all should have done years ago. I no longer fear for myself, but do fear for you.
You will hear that I have done horrible things tonight, but never forget what I have done is ONLY for good. I need to stop our country’s murder. I can no longer stand by and participate in the Reich’s reign of evil and terror. I have decided to fight for good. Today I took my first, unsteady steps in saving American soldiers lives. I pray for forgiveness in taking German lives. I did not give them a chance to ask their God for forgiveness. Tonight, I will deliver myself into the hands of the Americans and pray for mercy. They owe me nothing, but I will be safe.
When you get this, I will be in a prisoner of war camp. As an officer, I expect to be fine. I hope to help the Americans stop the Reich.
Hilke, I know you understand how I can turn on the Reich to protect Germany; I am just sorry I and others did not act in time to save your parents. Please forgive me.
I have some
At this point the letter abruptly stopped, but included a couple notes in Dad’s younger hand.
Translated by John Samuels, December 28, 1944. Letter from Hauptmann Matthias Rieker of Dresden, Germany to his wife Hilke. Hilke died February 13, 1945 in Dresden bombings. I will beg for forgiveness in Heaven.
Chapter 6
A hand on my shoulder gently shook me awake. Looking up I stared into the lively eyes of Uncle Bill. His gentle smile belied the pain he felt for his brother and sister-in-law. “Sam told me you have been here all day, Randall. You want to take a break and head out to grab a quick dinner? I plan to stay the night to give you both some needed rest.”
I loved Uncle Bill. He had had a pretty “colorful” past and had driven Dad batty with his lack of reliability more than once, but to me, he was always just Uncle Bill, full of fun and life. It was doubtful that Uncle Bill would be of much use helping out here at the house with Dad. That said, he had been like a big brother to me during some tough times and his company would be welcome.
Mom now had a full-time nurse staying at the house; there was no way she could physically handle Dad by herself. He outweighed her by at least 100 pounds and needed to be turned and cleaned a number of times a day. The nurse stayed in bedroom next door to Dad. Mom had moved to the back bedroom next to the kitchen. I had been relegated to a fourth bedroom that had doubled as an office. I guess for tonight, Uncle Bill would take my room and I’d stay on the sofa in the living room. Although, it would wreak havoc with my back, it gave me an excuse to stay close to Dad, perhaps making up for, in some small way, my lack of visiting over the past decade. My personal life, challenges, and desires had overwhelmed what was really important, family.
It was good the Mom and Dad now lived in a single-story home. At least I would not have to worry about keeping Uncle Bill sober enough to walk up a flight flights of steps after dinner.
“Sure, Uncle Bill. Where you want to go?”
“My call? Excellent. Then its downtown to the Linden Street. There are a couple places I want to show you that I think you’ll get a kick out of. By the way, you want to drive? Then I might grab a beer, too. Plus, I think I am getting too damn old to drive at night. My eyes just aren’t what they used to be.” He chuckled and winked at me at this last comment, suggesting the real issue for not wanting to drive had a lot more to do with the beer he wanted and a lot less with his eyes.
I rolled my eyes and smiled, knowing all too well if dinner ended up with Uncle drinking beer, just as I feared, he would not be much good in helping out that night. Oh well, he was good hearted, if not reliable.
We walked wordlessly to the rental I had parked
behind the house. I was disappointed in myself now with my choice in cars. When offered my upgrade at the airport Avis counter, I chose a flashy, fun Ford Mustang without giving a second thought as to the difficulty the low seats might be for my Mom or Uncle . . . let alone if I actually had to move Dad. Pretty thoughtless, not mean, but thoughtless just the same.
Uncle Bill took a look at the car and chuckled. “Randall, very cool car, but not much of a chance in me getting my butt down onto that seat without your help. Hell, if I do get into it, you’re never getting me out. It might have a serious impact on the rent appeal for this beauty in the future . . . you know fast and sleek and comes with a geriatric map reader in the passenger seat. Let’s take my truck instead. You drive.” I could see tears welling up in his eyes as he turned to me. “You know I could use a little fun. It’s been a pretty shitty couple of months.”
The drive to Linden Street was less than a mile and only took a couple of minutes, but it was nice to have the diversion of traffic. I could see that Uncle Bill was taking this harder than I had expected. He wanted to talk, but not at the house . . . and apparently not in the truck, either; he sat perfectly silent until I parked. September nights in Fort Collins were beautiful. The outside mall was packed with college-aged kids and young families. The street was hopping. We had to park almost two blocks away. Before I could even ask Uncle Bill where we were eating, he hopped out. “This way, Randall. You’ll like this.”
It’s funny how returning to a place you loved as a kid could make you forget your troubles, letting you return to an earlier time when you had no cares, when Mom and Dad were there to pick you up if you got into trouble. I felt like kid again. Even Uncle Bill looked younger. Not that his grey hair looked more blond, or that his wrinkles were less visible, or that his paunch less pronounced, but he did seem to have a little bounce return to his step. Yes, he felt it, too.
Uncle Bill passed by one of the trendy bar grills that greeted us at the entrance of the mall, choosing instead to hop into the intimate bistro next door that appeared much too nice for two guys looking to escape reality for just a brief time by grabbing a reasonably priced beer and dinner. At the door, I was surprised when the 30-something year-old host greeted Uncle Bill as “Mister Simmons.”
“Hi, Mark. It’s been a while. Everything going all right?”
“Pretty good, Mister Simmons.” Turning to me, Mark reached out his hand and greeted me “Hello, you must be Randall.” I nodded in acknowledgement. “Tim and I have a lot to be thankful for your Dad and Uncle. I have set up a special table for you upstairs, follow-me.”
Uncle Bill as “Mister Simmons?” Maybe William, but Mister Simmons? It was a formality I had never attributed to Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill followed Mark up the well-worn oak steps with me trailing behind.
Our table was set up in large, eclectically decorated room, better suited to handling special dinners for the upper crust in town or small group celebrations rather than catering to a dinner for an uncle and his nephew. Save for the large crown molding, the entire ceiling was covered with the ornate tin tiles from an earlier, simpler time. The table had been set up against a wall of huge casement windows facing the street and providing an unimpeded view of the entire length of the outdoor mall’s three blocks. Uncle Bill look at me and startled me by saying, “Your Dad did this,” pointing out to the street. “You should be proud. I am”
At this Uncle Bill jumped into why we were really here.
* * *
Paul felt happy, sad, confident, scared as hell . . . confused. He was coming home for the first time in three years. The last three years had been spent soldiering during the war and policing afterwards. He had joined the Army an 18-year-old private, was leaving the Army a 21-year-old corporal that was old beyond his years.
He had left home without saying a real goodbye. Leaving as a high school letterman, famous in his little town for a fancy jump shot and was returning a . . . he could not answer this. He was a blank slate. He wanted to believe that he was a work in progress, but he did not believe this to be true. To be a work in progress implied there was a known result he was working towards. He had no such belief. He was no longer a soldier. High school was a distant memory. College frightened him. He had no job. He had nothing other than the hope his family was there for him.
Air breaks hissed as the bus pulled over to the curb and stopped. The door pushed awkwardly outward and people began to lazily pull themselves from their seats to file off. Paul delayed getting up. It was so disconcerting. He had faced death countless times, had had close friends die in his arms. He had killed, first awkwardly, then with a disconnected professionalism. He had made an intimate act impersonal. He was afraid he has lost his humanity. He had killed bad people for sure. He had saved lives. He had also killed innocent people and that haunted him. He had begun to keep track of things he needed to rectify; things for which he wanted, no needed, forgiveness. They were in his journal. The journal had meaning and importance to him. But now he was just another person stepping off a nondescript bus in “small-town, USA.”
As he stepped into the bus doorway, any concerns and reservations melted away. Dad, Mom, William, Lyle, and Virginia were all there. He had not seen them from his seat; they had pushed themselves so close to bus door, they were blocked from view until Paul stepped into the opening. Dad was crying. Paul had never seen Dad cry. Everything was good.
On the drive home, William monopolized the conversation in the car by firing a litany of questions: “What was it like to be soldier?” “How many Germans did you kill?” “What are the girls like in Paris?” “Are you happy to be home?”
Paul ducked the questions with the adeptness of a professional boxer until the last question. For the first question, he described the barracks and how he lived within rules, rules, and more rules. You did what you were ordered to do and hoped you would be a survivor. For the second, he merely mumbled “I don’t know.” The third gave him relief from the serious issues that he had faced in war. Being able to talk of pretty girls was the only topic that made sense for a 21-year old. Dealing with life and death daily had robbed him of his youth. The last question had left him silent. He was not sure. The lack of the answer was not lost on Dad as he listened to his two sons speaking in the back seat.
* * *
Paul was thankful that his upstairs attic room was still his, and his alone. It represented a sanctuary for him to get his head together and figure out how best to plug back into his family. He politely excused himself upon pulling his duffle from the car trunk, feigned being gassed from the bus trip and desiring to head up to his room for a quick nap. Although he had no need or desire to nap, laying on his bed staring out the window helped him debate with himself as to what was next for his future. He was not the kid that had left this home three years ago, yet his room was exactly the same; as if time had stood still. As only he could know, it had not. Time to move. Paul swung his legs off the edge of the bed, stood up, spied his room, visualizing how it was time to change.
Calling down the steps, “William, come on up here.”
“Oh, come on, Paul, I haven’t touched anything in your room. Mom wouldn’t let me”
“I know. I just wanted to talk to you about something.”
Paul could hear Bill bounding up the steps, two at a time. His head appeared to pop out of the floor as he finished climbing the steps. “Paul, what’s up? You want to head out and grab something to eat? Maybe we could get meet some of your old friends at the A&W? I have Dad’s keys to the truck.”
“Not now. I just wanted to know what your plans were . . . now that you are graduated?” asked Paul. “I was thinking we should both go to college.”
“Are you kidding? I just started working at the shop. You know we’re expanding what we do, Paul. I can make some real money now and you want me to punt this away to stay in college. Heck, what would we study?”
Paul look
ed perplexed. “Expanding, into what? How? Has Dad finally decided to give Lyle and Virginia the boot and bring in some real go getters? If he has, they sure didn’t seem to upset when they came to the bus station today.”
“No, Paul, that’s not it at all. Besides, you are being way too rough on Lyle and Virginia. They’re like family and, heck, it was their idea to expand.” William looked out the window. “For someone so smart, you really don’t know much about them. Paul, they held the shop together these last two years. Dad, pretty much stayed at home, read the newspapers, and then would just sit in his office.”
“Seriously? Shit, why didn’t you say something?”
“When? Paul, you just got here and high-tailed it upstairs. I couldn’t say anything in the car, but ask Mom. She’ll tell you how sad he has been.
“But, that’s behind us now. Dad had already gone over to Lyle and Virginia’s place. I think he wants to talk to them about you joining the company.”
Paul smiled, “So what are we expanding into?”
William jumped into explaining how Lyle had shared that he thought our growth potential with awnings was pretty limited. In fact, the business had actually begun to decline. Plus, if they were going to add two smart, up-n-comin’ studs like he and Paul, they had to be more daring with the business plans. Lyle had pulled out a set of green ledger papers that he and Virginia had pulled together to pitch an expanded new business, home general contracting, to Dad. They had not a clue at how to begin, but they thought their connections with suppliers, knowledge of the town, and good name with the people of Fort Collins, made expansion a real possibility. With the returning GIs and the country’s renewed economic optimism, it seemed like a perfect time to jump into construction.
Lyle had thought the shop could serve as a store front for the expanded business of “John Simmons & Sons, General Contractors.” He had even set up an appointment for Dad with bank manager to see what they needed to do to prepare a formal business plan and to line up the necessary credit to get the business on its feet. The meeting was to be the following afternoon.
