“We’re together now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.” He kissed her again, once on the lips, softer this time. Then his eyes grew moist again. “My mother and sister are dead.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She put her head on his chest. “Maria is gone too.”
“Ach nein,” he said, holding her tighter.
She wiped her eyes and looked up at him. “The guard who shot your father could be dead, you know. I saw some of them killed, beaten by the prisoners or shot by the Americans.”
“I know,” he said. “But I have to try. I owe it to my family to bring these monsters to justice, especially him. You still haven’t told me. Why are you here?”
She pulled away and retrieved two of her father’s letters, giving them to him with trembling hands. “The same reason you are,” she said. “And because Vater was kidnapped. Stefan put him in an SS uniform and turned him over to the Americans so they would send him here. I have to get Vater out of this place, and I have to get someone to listen to me about Stefan!”
Isaac scanned the pages, his forehead furrowed. “I don’t understand. Who is Stefan?”
“Kate’s fiancé. He was an SS guard. I saw him when we first arrived at Dachau. He’s hiding his identity and working with the Americans back home.”
“Do you have any proof he isn’t who he says he is?”
“Nein,” she said. “But Kate let it slip that he had a black uniform, complete with the silver skull and crossbones on the lapel. He warned me that if I tried to expose him my mother and brothers would be next. He said there are other SS hiding in the village.”
“The Americans are right then,” he said. “They think a lot of SS burned their party cards to blend in with the regular army. Some of them even tried to pass themselves off as inmates of Dachau by dressing in prisoner uniforms. There’s an entire regiment of Waffen-SS claiming they were recruited against their will. They’re all under forty, saying they were former inmates, thrown in Dachau as ‘political prisoners,’ ‘enemies of the state,’ or ‘former soldiers who disobeyed orders or refused to fight,’ before being forced into service.”
Suddenly, she was filled with paranoia, goose bumps rising on her skin, as if at any instant they’d discover that the SS had taken over the camp and she and Isaac were once again locked up as prisoners. She shivered and put a hand on his arm. “Bitte, Isaac. Tell me the Americans will listen to me, tell me you can help Vater.”
“All we can do is tell Colonel Hensley and see what he says,” he said. “As far as your father, I’ll do what I can, but I’m going to be honest. The Americans aren’t inclined to show much mercy to anyone who fought for Hitler, regular Wehrmacht or not. They’ve only recently released the young boys and old men from the Volkssturm. Without finding out who they are or what they did, they send thousands of POWs over to the French or the Russians, men who will probably never return home again. For now, I might be able to keep your father from getting transported to a labor camp in another country, but I’m sure he’ll have to stay here until the trials are over.”
A lump formed in Christine’s throat. “It’s all my fault.”
“But they have nothing on him, right? No eyewitnesses or paper trails to tie him in with any war crimes? And having two former inmates plead his case will help.” He gathered her into his arms again, rubbing her back with strong hands. “Don’t worry, he’s strong. I’ll talk to Colonel Hensley about having him moved out of the general population.”
She looked up at him. “Do you think he’ll do it?”
“I can’t promise anything, but it’s worth a try. The men you saw being interrogated, and the ones being kept in the fields, they’re not considered prisoners of war. Eisenhower classified them as ‘Disarmed Enemy Soldiers.’ That’s why the Americans can do whatever they want. There are a few POWs being kept in the barracks. I don’t know who they are or why they’re being treated better than the rest, but the wives, children, and girlfriends of the SS are being kept there too, in a separate area of course. And some of the former prisoners don’t have anyplace else to go. Some are staying in the regular barracks and some, like me, are staying in the guards’ barracks. They all get regular meals and medical care. I’ll try to get your father transferred over to the POW barracks.”
“Danke,” she said. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”
He kissed her again, and she felt herself being swept away, caught up in a flood of thoughts and feelings. When it was over, she touched his face, her body trembling with relief and fear.
“You still haven’t told me,” she said. “How did you survive?”
He shook his head, a sad, haunted look in his eyes. “You don’t want to hear about that.”
“I want to know. I have to know.”
“They made us dig a trench,” he said. “Then lined us up on the edge of it. As soon as they started shooting, a bullet grazed my arm, and I fell in the grave with the others. I was lucky because I was in the next to the last group, so I was near the top of the pile. I played dead, holding my breath, hoping they wouldn’t finish me off. Afterward, the guards hurried to cover us up. They must have been in a rush because they didn’t do a very good job. Only a few inches of dirt, and above that, piles of tree limbs and forest scrub. When they were gone, I crawled out of the grave and dug for other survivors. I found four others, barely conscious and bleeding, but their wounds weren’t fatal. We ran deep into the woods and kept going until we collapsed. After nearly freezing the first night, we built shanties out of timber stolen from the burnt-out ruins of a farm. At night we snuck out of hiding to steal apples and eggs, scouring the fields for dropped ears of dried corn or undiscovered potatoes.” Christine stared at him, speechless. He brushed her short hair away from her temple with gentle fingers. “Every night, the earth and sky seemed to merge into one dark and heavy presence, waiting for me to die, or to give up. I felt like it wanted to crush me. Only the silent moon was there to keep us company, but thoughts of you kept me going. When we saw the American flag go up over Dachau and didn’t hear any more bombs and bullets, we knew the war was finally over.”
He hugged her again, so hard she could barely breathe, but she didn’t want him to let go. Little by little, she stopped shaking. Finally, he released her, took the letters, and turned toward the exit. “Come on, let’s take these to Colonel Hensley and tell him about Stefan.”
In Colonel Hensley’s office, the colonel held up a hand, signaling Isaac to slow down.
“What is he saying?” Christine asked Isaac.
“He asked me what I thought would happen if he believed every woman who came in here claiming her father, husband, or son was innocent. He’s heard the same sob story a hundred times, and has a whole corral of SS girlfriends and wives in this camp saying the same thing. The SS was a criminal organization, and anyone associated with it is guilty one way or another. They’re holding a military tribunal in a few months. If your father is innocent, he’ll be set free then.”
“What about Stefan?”
“He doesn’t see how they can arrest him without good reason. Most of the men here were captured at the end of the war, and they’ve been here ever since. He said they wouldn’t go pulling people out of their homes based on speculation. Not without proof.”
Christine tried to remember how to breathe. “Tell him I worked for Lagerkommandant Grünstein, the commander of the camp, as a housekeeper and cook. Tell him I can help identify guards and officers, but only if he helps me first.”
After Isaac translated, Colonel Hensley stood and retrieved a yellow file from a black wall of metal cabinets. He sat back down, opened the file, read the first page out loud, then looked up, waiting.
“Lagerkommandant Grünstein is here,” Isaac told Christine. “He turned himself in and is cooperating with the investigation. He’s given them a detailed account of what happened.”
Christine gasped, making Colonel Hensley raise his eyebrows.
“The Lagerkommandant can identify Stefan!” she said. “They need to bring Stefan here!” Isaac translated, and the two men talked back and forth for a minute or two. Christine thought she would scream if Isaac didn’t tell her what was going on. “What’s he saying?”
“He thinks you should let them handle things. He’ll ask the Lagerkommandant if he remembers a Stefan Eichmann, and they’ll take it from there.”
Christine slammed a fist on the colonel’s desk. “That’s not good enough!” she said. “He threatened my family! You have to bring him in!”
Colonel Hensley scowled and leaned back, his hands clasped over his middle. Isaac pulled Christine away from the desk, placing himself between the two of them.
“Calm down,” he said. “We’re not going to get anywhere like that.”
“I’m not going to let Stefan get away with this,” she said. “If something happens to my father, or my mother . . .” She sat down in a chair opposite the colonel’s desk and looked up at Isaac, hot tears of rage burning her eyes. “I’ll kill him myself if I have to!”
Isaac shook his head and fell into the chair beside her, his strong fingers raking through his hair. “I’m sorry, I wish I could fix this for you.”
Christine stood and paced the room, teeth clenched, hands balled into fists. She could barely breathe, her throat and sinuses blocked and tight from trying not to cry. She thought about Vater, paying the price for a war he didn’t believe in, while Stefan went free, his blind devotion to the Third Reich so fierce he had murdered innocents to ensure Hitler’s vision. And then, all at once, the chill of inspiration raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She whirled around to face Isaac.
“If we can’t get the Americans to go to Stefan,” she said, “then we’ll get Stefan to come to the Americans.”
CHAPTER 37
Dressed in American army camouflage, with wool caps pulled over their ears and dirt smudged on their faces, Christine and Isaac crept along the alleyway, keeping close to shadows pooled next to doorways and stone walls. It was after midnight, the wee hours of night still and humid, the starless sky gunpowder black. A waning moon smoldered behind sullen gray clouds like a milky, blind eye, casting a weak, bluish glow over the streets and buildings. The windows of the houses were dark, the streets empty. A train chugged in the distance, its whistle like a banshee in the hills.
Christine followed Isaac along the passageway with her heart in her throat, feeling as if she’d gone backwards in time, back to the uncertain days during the war, back to the nights of secret meetings, when every shadow held potential danger. When they neared the end of the cobblestone alleyway, she pushed all thought from her mind, concentrating instead on the job ahead. Isaac stopped at the corner of the last building, shoulders hunched, and held up a gloved hand. Christine came to a halt behind him, her breath shallow and quick. For the hundredth time since they’d left Dachau, she felt the interior pocket of her jacket, making sure the sealed envelope was still there. She knew every word of the letter by heart, composed in unsteady but careful script by Lagerkommandant Grünstein, under the guidance of Christine, Isaac, and Colonel Hensley.
Dear Comrade,
I write from the appalling conditions inside the American war crimes enclosure in Dachau. To our good fortune, an ally on the inside has made our survival, and this correspondence, possible. He informs us that you have found a way to blend in with the common soldiers, and that there are other SS who have also escaped our fate. It is my hope that you will come to our aid at this momentous moment in history, when the brave men of the Third Reich will find the strength to rise up and take back what is rightfully ours, to carry on our beloved Führer’s vision. In Dachau, our numbers are great, our will is strong, and we believe that, with your help, we can overpower our captors and escape. Three nights from the arrival of this letter, I implore you, gather up our mutual allies and come to Dachau’s northeast gate at midnight, where our comrade will be waiting with weapons and access to the inside of the camp. God speed my loyal friend.
Heil Hitler,
Lagerkommandant Jörge Grünstein
Isaac pointed at the three-story house, kitty-corner across the street on Hallerstrasse, and looked at Christine, eyebrows raised. A faint light glowed behind the closed curtains of the window in an upstairs balcony door. Christine nodded, a flush of adrenaline warming her neck. Isaac pointed to her jacket and held out a gloved hand, waiting. Christine pulled the letter from her pocket. The envelope, like the paper inside, was dirty and wrinkled, purposely made to look smuggled from inside Dachau; yet it glowed, ghostly white, in the dark. She read the black script one more time: “Stefan Eichmann.” Isaac gestured, motioning for her to hurry up. She shook her head and tapped her chest.
“I’ll do it,” she mouthed.
Before Isaac could protest, she darted across the street toward Stefan’s house, scampered up the stone steps, pushed the letter through the low mail slot in the front door, and bolted back to the alley, her pulse like marching jackboots in her ears. When she reached Isaac she kept running, glancing back once to make sure he was behind her. Together they raced out of the long passageway, hurried down a winding cobblestone street, then turned left onto a shadowy side road, where an American army truck and driver sat waiting.
Christine and Isaac clambered into the covered bed of the vehicle and tied the canvas to the tailgate. When the truck lurched forward, she lost her balance, and Isaac caught her before she fell, his strong hands on her waist. While the transport bumped along the narrow streets, they huddled together on a pile of wool blankets, their backs against the truck’s cab, trying to catch their breath. Christine wanted to ask Isaac if he thought their plan would work. But what could he say? It was done. If it didn’t put Stefan away, they’d have to come up with something else.
As the truck made its way out of the village toward Dachau, Christine reached for Isaac’s hand. He put his arm around her and she leaned against his shoulder, trying to picture Mutti, her face relieved when she read the letter Christine had shoved under her door earlier. But the only image that came to mind was Stefan, strolling down the carpeted stairs inside his house the next morning, his hand on the banister, his face registering surprise when he saw the sealed envelope on the foyer floor. She pictured him bending down to pick it up, his back straight, the belt of his robe tied tightly at his waist. A man certain he had nothing to fear. Would he burn the letter in the woodstove right away, or would he hurry to his study to make a list of all the SS he knew? To think he might dismiss the letter’s contents made Christine nauseous. She closed her eyes, praying for sleep. It didn’t come.
Four days later, in Dachau’s main prison, Christine stood on her tiptoes, a hand over her churning stomach, peering through the narrow opening of a steel door. After a moment, she looked at Isaac and Colonel Hensley, shaking her head. They moved along the mottled cement corridor, and she looked through the slot in the next door.
“Nein,” she said, shaking her head again.
When she peered through the fifth door, her heart skipped a beat. She nodded. Colonel Hensley said something to Isaac and put the oversized key in the lock. Isaac took Christine’s trembling hand.
“He wants to know if you’re sure,” he said to her.
Christine nodded again. “Ja,” she said. “I’m positive.”
Another door screeched open at the end of the long corridor and an American soldier entered, gripping Lagerkommandant Grünstein by the arm. Hands and feet shackled, the Lagerkommandant kept his eyes on the concrete floor, gray hair falling across his sweaty brow, gnarled hands shaking. Each time he slowed, the soldier pulled him forward. The Lagerkommandant had deteriorated since they’d seen him just days earlier. What if the old man couldn’t do what Christine needed him to do?
Colonel Hensley heaved open the steel door of the interrogation room, motioning for the soldier to lead the Lagerkommandant inside. Christine and Isaac watched from the hallway as the prisoner tied t
o the chair raised his head to look at his captors, scowling as he fought the restraints around his wrists and ankles. His forehead was bruised, his blond hair matted with dirt and blood, his hands scraped and bleeding.
“Traitor!” the prisoner yelled when he saw the Lagerkommandant, spittle flying from his lips.
Colonel Hensley signaled Christine and Isaac to come in, then asked the Lagerkommandant a question. The soldier translated. “Do you know this man?”
Christine entered the room with Isaac, eyes locked on the Lagerkommandant, unable to breathe until he answered.
The Lagerkommandant nodded. “Ja,” he said.
“You set us up!” the prisoner yelled. “How dare you!”
Colonel Hensley motioned toward the soldier, who wrapped a gag around the prisoner’s mouth. When the man in the chair saw Christine, he stopped struggling, his brows raised in surprise. But his initial shock was quickly replaced by anger, and he glared at her with cold, savage eyes. Fire rose in Christine’s cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly Isaac flew past her and threw himself on top of the prisoner, knocking over the chair and pummeling the man’s face with his fists. The soldier and Colonel Hensley pulled Isaac up, pushed him against the concrete wall, and held him there, their faces red with exertion.
“It’s him!” Isaac yelled, rage knotting the lines around his nose and mouth, giving the illusion he had gone insane. “He’s the guard who shot my father!”
Christine’s heart cramped against her ribcage as if squeezed by a powerful fist. Her eyes burned. The prisoner was still on the floor, gasping and straining to get free. She fought the urge to go over to him, to put her feet on his neck and stand there, her full weight crushing his windpipe, until he lay still, purple veins bulging beneath the red skin of his forehead and throat. Finally, Isaac calmed down, and the Americans released him. He slid down the wall and squatted there, furious eyes locked on the man on the floor. Colonel Hensley and the soldier pulled prisoner and chair upright, then stood in front of him. They asked the Lagerkommandant more questions. Blood gushed from the prisoner’s split brow and broken nose, gurgling like a stopped-up drain every time he took a breath. The soldier translated for the Lagerkommandant and the colonel, but the Lagerkommandant’s answers were all Christine needed.
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