Hanna had faced crucial situations before, so she did not make the mistake of a long deliberation. “The marks are readily available, of course. As for the dollars, I will have to contact some friends. How can it be gotten into the country from abroad?”
“I will go to get it. Which country?”
“Switzerland.” She would use the smaller account. There was a little over one million dollars deposited in that bank.
“You will have to give me an authorization.”
She had decided not to bluff or act the innocent. “Of course. When can you guarantee the exit permits?”
He stood up. “One moment, please.” Then he left the office. In about five minutes, he returned. “I have been assured that you will obtain the permits directly upon my return. You will not, of course, mention your Swiss account in your exit questionnaire.”
“I will remember.”
He drew up an authorization for a bank that she mentioned in Switzerland to pay to the bearer the sum decided upon, to divulge the secret number, had her sign it, and then called in one of his clerks to notarize the document. “I will leave tomorrow,” he said, when all was completed. “I should return the day after.”
“Very well.” She stood up. “And thank you.”
Just before sunrise the following day, the phone rang. Hanna switched on a light, padded downstairs, and took the call. She heard a voice being deliberately muffled, but she recognized it at once as belonging to Elfriede.
“Frau Charnoff,” it said gruffly. “Get out of Germany. Right away.”
She had met Elfriede half a dozen or more times for coffee or tea since giving up her company. The German woman had retained her position as general manager for the new owners, and she often chuckled that her ample salary was a bone of contention between her husband and herself. She had also mentioned a couple of times that Hanna should consider leaving Germany.
“I will be putting in for an exit permit in a few days,” Hanna said to the caller.
“It will be too late. Orders were received a couple of hours ago to attack the Jews. Your synagogue is already on fire. They have killed your Rabbi Gluck. Get into your car and go south. Try to slip into Switzerland. Use any means.” The voice faltered. “I am sorry, but I cannot say more.”
There was a long silence, and then Hanna said, “All right. I will do as you say. Thank you, my friend.”
“Good luck…my friend.” The connection was cut off.
Hanna let the phone drop to the hook. She turned a horrified face towards Jules, who had come down during the conversation. “They have attacked the Jews. Rabbi Gluck is dead. The synagogue is on fire.”
“Oh, my God!” said Jules. “Who told you that?”
“A good friend. We must run, at once.”
“Run where?”
“We must get in the car and start driving–towards Switzerland.”
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll pack a bag.”
She stood there as he started up the stairs. Then, suddenly, from out of her memory came the evening when she was walking home, just after Natalie died. It was raining, and lightning had filled the sky. She had asked herself whether this was to be a life of thunder. The thunder never stopped. It went from Russia to Stephen and Germany to Jakob and Natalie. And now, it was here with Jules. God, oh God. Stürmische Lande, went through her mind. The lands of thunder.
She started towards the staircase. “Hanna,” she heard. She looked up.
Jules was staring intently at her, his single eye as sad as the day Natalie died.
“Yes, Jules.” The blood had frozen in her veins.
“I would like you to go alone.”
She shook her head, a tightness in her throat almost choking her. She had sensed that this was coming from the moment he spoke her name. “I will not go without you.”
He stepped forward slowly and took her into his arms, holding her close.
She felt the tears falling down his cheeks. She closed her eyes, to shut out the world, to focus in her brain only the sight of him, holding her tightly.
He moved back. “I must say this, Hanna. I have loved you with all my heart for many, many years. I wish you could have been my wife.” He leaned down and kissed her eyes, then her lips. She looked up at him with the accumulated years of happiness on her face. “I am going upstairs to get dressed now,” he said quietly. “I want to be ready when they come.” He looked at her again with infinite tenderness. “Please go, Hanna. I beg you.” She shook her head again, unable to reply. He placed an arm around her shoulders, and together they went up the steps to don their clothing.
She was in the kitchen preparing their breakfast when she heard the pounding on the front door.
“Open up, there! Gestapo!”
As she put down the food, she found her hands shaking with fright. She walked slowly into the hallway, her hand over her mouth, barely able to breathe.
“Open the door, Hanna,” came Jules’ voice. She looked up the stairs. He was descending. He was dressed in his army uniform, in gleaming boots, his medals on his chest, his saber and pistol at his side, his helmet brightly polished. He had not worn it for four years–since the twentieth anniversary of the Kriegsgefahr of his army unit. His thick eyeglasses made his black patch and remaining eye loom large.
They were pounding harder, so she unlocked the door. It flew open. In strode two heavily featured men, clad in long, black leather coats. Behind them was a squad of SS, armed with rifles and sub-machine guns.
The Gestapo agents stopped in surprise at the sight of the uniformed officer, coming down the steps. Then one, his lips twitching with disdain, stepped forward. “Are you Jules Weiner, the Jew?” he asked harshly.
Jules halted two steps from the bottom so he could look down on the intruders. “I am Herr Leutnant Jules Weiner,” he said tightly. “Of the German people.”
The Gestapo agent exploded in fury. “You bastard Jew!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “What are you doing in that uniform?” Without waiting for a reply, he pointed a finger shaking with anger at Jules. “You are under arrest, you slime-faced Yid.” He shifted his head to glare at Hanna. “Are you Hanna Charnoff, Jewess?”
She nodded, the ice still in her veins; her lungs clamped shut with terror.
“You are also under arrest! Both of you, outside! Get into the truck.”
“One moment!” snapped Jules. He was not going to allow himself to be intimidated by this arrogant animal. “By what authority are you here?”
“Authority!” screamed the agent, amazed that anyone, especially a Jew, would challenge his order. It was unheard of. Raging, he leaped forward and drove his fist viciously into Jules’ midriff.
Jules let out a gasp of pain and bent forward in agony. He slipped off the steps and fell in a heap on the floor. Hanna bit off a cry of fear and went to his side. She knelt to help him.
“Outside, Jews,” shouted the agent again. “Or I’ll have the soldiers use their rifle butts.”
Jules climbed painfully to his feet; his face white with pain and mounting fury. “Get out of my house!” he shouted in return. “You have no right here. Get out!”
He pulled open the holster of the pistol at his side. Hanna opened her mouth to cry for him to stop.
“Watch out!” yelled the agent.
His companion acted immediately. He whipped out a pistol he had been holding in his pocket and fired.
Hanna’s scream broke forth as she saw Jules struck squarely in the chest.
He staggered back; his face contorted with shock, and then his own pistol was free. Holding tightly to the rail to steady himself, he fired. A small, dark hole appeared like magic in the forehead of the agent who shot him. He stumbled back into the path of the SS soldiers coming through the door.
The first agent now had his pistol out. He fired twice, in quick succession!
Jules’ nose shattered and his throat was torn open. He fell to his knees, gagging; his gun falling to the floor.
In front of Hanna’s horrified eyes, blood gushed from his mouth. The agent stepped closer and fired twice again. Jules’ helmet flew off, and his head cracked open.
Hanna froze with shock, and then she spun towards the Gestapo agent. “Cossack!” she screamed. “Cossack!” She dropped to her knees on the floor and grabbed up Jules’ pistol. As she turned, a spear of white hot metal bored through her side, slamming her back against Jules’ body. The agent’s finger tightened for a second shot. With pain flooding throughout her, she pulled the trigger in desperation. The Gestapo agent grunted loudly as a bullet struck him in the shoulder. He quivered from the blow, and then he fired again.
A bolt of lightning struck her at the side of her head, whirling her into black oblivion!
CHAPTER 47
1945
Lieutenant Colonel Paul Weiner steered his jeep into the gas depot, alongside the Autobahn. A soldier came out of a tent and saluted.
“I would like some gas, please,” said Paul.
The soldier eyed the British officer’s uniform with perplexity. “Do you have a trip ticket, sir?”
“Yes.” He handed one over.
As the vehicle was being fueled, a lieutenant walked out of the tent and saluted. He studied the tall, grim-faced officer with two rows of ribbons on his jacket. “It’s good to have the war over, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “It is good. How is the road to Stuttgart?”
“A few holes. I would go slowly. The town, though…” He threw up his hands pointedly.
In just a few minutes, Paul was back on the Autobahn. It was the beginning of June, the dust had settled over the shattered Third Reich, and the lands it had ruled so viciously. Two weeks earlier, Paul had arranged with the commanding officer of the British field hospital in Belgium, to which he was assigned, to obtain official leave to seek out his father and Hanna. The commander, knowing that Paul had not heard from his family since 1938, was more than eager to cooperate, especially after having seen one of the Nazi concentration camps in the British sector. To allow him freedom of action, the commander had issued orders, assigning Paul to inspect camps for medical considerations. Paul had spent two weeks going through those in north Germany, and it had taken all his medical experience to keep from rushing away in horror.
He had already paid his price for the war. In 1942, Gabrielle and their daughter, Natalie, had been smashed to pieces by a German bomb, falling on their flat in London. Paul had asked for service with a front line division, and he was posted for over a year in the North African theater, using his skills for chest surgery to save the battle wounded. At the invasion of Europe, he was transferred there, continuing to vent his despair and anger by operating day and night until ready to drop.
Searching for Jules and Hanna had become his obsession. Like everyone in the world, he had heard of the Night of the Broken Glass, when the Nazis had gone on the rampage over the killing of a diplomat in Paris and had torn their Jews to ribbons. Since then, he had heard nothing about them, although he had used every resource to find out.
He drove through the littered streets of Stuttgart, sad at the sight of the devastation, and passed by the block that once held the house where he was born and contained so many memories. All that was left was a gaping hole. He asked his way to the French Military Headquarters. There he found the military police commander, a captain, to whom he offered his identification.
“Captain, I am looking for information about my father and…” He could not say ‘Tante Hanna’. It did not fit what she had become to him. “…my mother. They are Jews, and the last I heard of them was in nineteen thirty-eight.”
The officer shook his head. “I don’t have the least notion where to start to help.”
“Do you have any of the Stuttgart police in custody? Perhaps they may know.”
“I will check that. Give me their names.”
Paul waited at the headquarters for the remainder of the day, and directly after supper, the Frenchman called him into his office. “We have spoken to some of the former police. Most of them have been jailed,” he said with satisfaction. “A couple of them said that all the Jews of Stuttgart were sent away at intervals. One of them thinks that he heard the names Dachau and Passau mentioned as labor camps that received them. I am sorry, Colonel, but I think this is a bad place to look. I suggest that you check in Munich. The Jews have set up a location service there.”
Paul nodded in understanding. Coming to Stuttgart was more wishful thinking than good sense. “I will check Dachau on my way,” he said, and then shook hands with the Frenchman and left.
He stayed at Dachau two days. There were still three or four thousand inmates remaining there, those too ill to travel, and those with no place to go. He went from building to building, his stomach turning over at the carnage which had taken place in this most notorious Nazi concentration camp, peering into the faces of people whose bodies were wafer thin, whose eyes were vacant, whose hands gnarled and crusted, and asked from one end to the other, “Have you heard of Jules Weiner? Of Hanna Charnoff?”
One of the inmates asked, “When were they taken?”
“I am not certain. I think in thirty-eight.”
The men laughed, hard, cynical, snorts of laughter at an answer so stupid. “Go home,” they said. “That was a lifetime ago. Go away. Just remember us.”
He spoke to camp guards and local officials, many of them sharing a barrack with those arrested by the American troops. Nothing.
“Try München,” reiterated a few of the inmates, so, strangled by the odor of the living death that lingered in his nose and lungs, he rode away. He drove as one possessed, fleeing from what he had found there.
Munich was a pile of ashes and broken bricks and twisted steel. He made his way to the Displaced Persons Identification Center. People were standing in lines in front of some buildings still usable. His uniform got him to the head of a line without trouble, and after a short wait, he walked into a room where thirty or more volunteers were seated at desks, filling out cards to register those who had survived.
“You are seeking people from Stuttgart?” asked a gray-haired woman, her eyes dark from what she had been hearing here. “Go to the brown building on the left. Ask there.” As he walked inside the building designated, he saw signs pointing out various rooms–German, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Austrian, Dutch, and on and on. He worked his way through the lines to one of the clerks seated behind a long table. “Hanna Charnoff? I have the C’s.” He turned to a row of card indexes and started through one. “Sorry, Colonel. No card on a Hanna Charnoff.”
“How about Jules Weiner?” The man walked over to other card files, thumbed through them, and then returned. “Still no luck.” At the disappointed look on Paul’s face, he repeated again, as he had done time after time, “We are getting in hundreds of new cards each day. Why don’t you check back with us again in a few days.”
Paul nodded, and then walked dumbly by the hopeful ones pressing towards the clerks.
For day after day, he forced himself to visit other camps, leafing through grisly files, disbelieving what his eyes saw and read, speaking to other surviving inmates, imprisoned guards, terrified city officials, until driving to the next camp was an agony, a repulsion which dragged at his feet and undermined his faith in God.
After two weeks of heart-break, he halted alongside the road and gazed out sadly across the fertile German countryside. Where to go? Where to go? To search any further was like looking into a sea of agony and trying to pick out a single moan. He started the jeep, and then he remembered the name Passau. It was in the Russian sector. There was one more place to try. He turned the vehicle and started north.
The following morning, two American soldiers halted him on the Autobahn. One saluted.
“This is the limit of our sector, sir. The Russians are occupying the area north of here.”
“I know.”
The guard let out a shout as Paul drove by. A
mile further along, he came upon a roadblock manned by Russian troops. Parking the jeep, he stood in front of the barbed wire until a lieutenant arrived who spoke German. The Russian did not salute.
“I would like to speak to your commanding officer,” said Paul.
“What do you want?” queried the Russian.
“I would like to visit a labor camp at Passau.”
“Do you have a pass from the Soviet authorities?”
“No. That is why I would like to speak with your commanding officer.”
“You cannot enter without a pass,” snapped the lieutenant.
Paul swelled in anger. “Lieutenant, my mother and father were taken by the Nazis many years ago. The chances of their being alive is not good, but I must continue searching.”
A flicker of sympathy crossed the Russian’s eyes. He stood there thinking of the consequences of allowing in an unauthorized person. Then he realized that the Englishman had also seen combat, like himself. Sometimes one must fly with the eagles. “Come with me,” he said firmly.
They entered a jeep, a guard sitting in the rear with Paul, the lieutenant and driver up front. After about five miles, the jeep pulled up at a farmhouse, enclosed by a barbed wire fence with a machine gun emplacement at each corner. Inside, watched suspiciously by the guard, he waited twenty minutes while the lieutenant reported to his commander. The officer finally returned and ordered him to follow.
His colonel was a short, trim, brown-faced man, narrowed eyes peering out from a stern countenance.
“The Comrade Colonel,” said the lieutenant, “wants to know exactly why you wish to visit Passau.”
“My parents were taken prisoner by the Nazis. A man in Stuttgart told me that some of the Germans were sent to Passau.”
The colonel gazed at the ribbons on Paul’s uniform and spoke to his interpreter.
“The Comrade Colonel wishes to know if you are German?”
“I was.”
“A Jew?”
Enemy of the Tzar Page 46
