by Donald Hunt
Anna’s legs were shaking as she stepped onto the porch. Her hands were almost uncontrollable. She put them together and tried to knock on the door. As it opened, her eyes were met by those of a woman in her 50s. The woman’s face was weathered from years of hard work and outside exposure.
“Come in, come in! We have been expecting someone.”
Anna stepped into the room, a warm space with a large hearth and blazing fire. Although it was an old structure, it was pristine. The chimney was stone, the floor wide- plank pine, and there were hand sewn curtains on every window.
“I am Greta, Greta Thiele,” the woman said with a smile. She turned and nodded toward a tall thin man standing by the fire. He wore overalls and had the same weathered look.
“This is my husband, Johann,” the woman went on. “Here, come to the fire and warm yourself. We’ll get you hot soup and tea.”
Anna sat as close to the fire as possible, her nose and ears bright red. She did not want to remove her coat, embarrassed by her prison clothes. But she realized they knew she was from Buchenwald. As Johann handed her the hot tea, Anna took a sip and let the warmth settle into her system.
“How did you know about me?” she asked.
Greta sat down in a large oversized chair covered with a handmade quilt.
“We have worked in the underground for almost three years. In 1940, our only son was killed in action in France. He was 19. We have two daughters, both in Hamburg working in armament factories. We were always against the Nazis. Johann fought in WWI, which gained us nothing as a country. This is our way of fighting back. We do not kill. We work to prevent them from killing.”
Anna looked up from her seat at Johann. He was standing by Greta. “Can you share how you knew I would come here?” she asked again.
“He is one of us.”
“Colonel Bishoff?”
“Yes. He is my oldest sister’s son. He was almost killed after becoming a Nazi when Hitler came to power. Over the next five years he became more and more disenchanted with Nazi policies. He was a good soldier, decorated for bravery. When he was wounded on the eastern front, he returned and decided to work against the Reich from within the SS. Fortunately, he did not join the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. That decision represented the third time his life was spared. He is very cautious and has involved us reluctantly. We have hidden several people over the past two years, usually for several weeks until we could get them to a safer place or out of Germany. We are hiding someone now.”
“A man?” Anna asked quickly.
“Yes.”
“In the barn?”
“Yes. We are hoping you will be the last. Allied forces are only 100 kilometers to the west, still you never know. We have gotten some strange requests. Just last month we sent milk and eggs to Buchenwald.”
“For the Colonel?”
“Yes.”
Anna smiled. She finished her soup.
“You are so tired, my dear,” said Greta. “Let me show you where you can sleep.” Greta ushered Anna to a small room with a single bed, a table and a lamp. She gave Anna a flannel nightgown.
“Tomorrow we will burn your clothes. I have some things for you to wear. Now you rest.”
Anna nodded her head and closed the door. She had not felt safe since attending a meeting at the University of Berlin when she was forced to watch a film of men being executed by hanging with piano wire. Years had passed and she still had not been able to get the images out or her mind. As she closed her eyes, a sense of calm swept over her. She thought of a time as a child when her father rocked her to sleep because she was afraid of the dark. She wondered if she could ever feel that safe again.
The morning was bright and crisp. Anna had been in a deep sleep when Greta woke her, prodding her gently.
“Anna, Anna, time to wake up.”
The sleep had been the best, most peaceful she’d had in years. When she opened her eyes, a refreshing feeling rushed through her, a feeling that had been missing for the same length of time.
Greta knew of the extreme hardships at Buchenwald and the other camps. She and Johann had nursed several men back to health. Now, to help a woman would be special for Greta. Her oldest daughter was only six years younger than Anna. She easily transferred that love to Anna. She heated water and led Anna to a room where a tub of that hot water waited. Anna was speechless.
“Take as long as you wish. Your clothes are on the chair.”
Anna smiled back at Greta and lowered herself into the largesse of warmth, unable to do anything but sit back and relax her body and mind.
* * *
Hans Ulrich had made a snap decision to join the escape committee at Buchenwald. He had been relatively safe as a kapo, the principle ‘elder’ of block-12, having served two years of an eight-year sentence for embezzlement from a bank in Munich. He had always been a gambler and knew he might be stuck in the post-war prison system of a defeated Germany with no advocate or way out. Court records would likely be destroyed or lost. He had skills as an accountant and could make a fresh start. He thought he had made the right decision. Now he was not so sure.
Hans was not an outdoorsman. Fortunately, his two French companions had learned much about living off of the land working in the French resistance. In a week they had made their way northwest toward Hanover a city due west of Berlin. Unknown to them, the allied forces had reached Hanover and were in a race with the Russian Army approaching from the east to get to Berlin.
The three men were staying deep in the forest. They had matches and on two occasions had built fires, once to cook a rabbit and once to cook a large bass they literally had trapped in a pond. This had been the extent of their food. The cold and exhaustion were taking a toll. They stayed completely off the roads to avoid German troops in defensive positions trying to slow Allied advances. About half a million Wehrmacht troops were deployed along a line from Lubek in the north, down east of Hamburg and Hanover, then to Nuremberg in the south. Eventually they would fall back to form a perimeter defense of Berlin.
On the evening of April 1st, the three escapees felt they could not go on. Pierre Oberaud was the strongest and thought he could make it to Allied lines, possibly in another two days. They could hear Allied artillery far in the distance. They had even seen British aircraft flying sorties supporting troop movements, but they had no idea where the Germans were, nor the Allies. Exhausted, they had to gamble. They had purposefully avoided contact with anyone. Now that must change. They decided to ask for help at the next farmhouse or cabin. The opportunity presented itself that evening.
Kurt and Fran Heirholzer had prospered during the war. Their 100-acre sheep farm had provided wool for uniforms and they had made more money in four years than in the previous 15. The economic boon had turned Kurt into a staunch Nazi. The Reich had become his religion. The war was making him rich. Any doubts he had experienced at the invasion of Poland had been washed away in a cornucopia of Reich marks. It was Kurt and Fran Heirholzer’s sheep farm the trio of Buchenwald fugitives were approaching.
Hans Ulrich stepped onto the farmhouse porch and knocked. He knew late evening visitors would be unusual and possibly unwelcome. They had decided to take this chance because many in the rural areas were in fact anti-Nazi. Even so, under no circumstances would they divulge their fugitive status. They would present themselves as working in the resistance. The door opened slightly and Hans began to speak.
“Good evening, sir. We are very sorry to bother you but as you can see we are very cold and in need of help.”
When Kurt saw the condition of the men he opened the door wider. Hans and Roland were shivering and pale. Pierre looked somewhat better. Fran Heirholzer was standing behind her husband. A roaring fire was in the hearth. Nazi or not, she wasn’t about to turn sick men away.
“Have them come in,” she said.
As the men entered th
e lighted, warm room, she was startled to see their condition and also puzzled by it. She sat them down on a bench in front of the fire and gave each a cup of hot tea. She looked at her husband who remained silent.
“Where are you from?” she asked. “And why are you here?”
Hans took a long drink of tea. “We work in the underground. A week ago, we became separated from a larger group that was doing reconnaissance for the Allies. We have been trying to get back to Allied lines.”
Kurt was at once skeptical, but said nothing. Their clothing was thin, not what anyone would wear in winter, even the underground. They obviously had no weapons. But he didn’t want to confront them. Then he had an idea.
“My wife has a pot of lamb stew on the stove. You can stay in the barn tonight and get a fresh start in the morning. I have several old coats I can lend you.”
“You are very kind,” Hans replied. “A hot meal and a night’s sleep will restore us. We’ll be on our way early in the morning.”
The men were led to the ‘mud room’ to wash up. As Fran Heirholzer was getting soap for the men, she noticed the tattoo on Roland’s forearm through a hole in his shirt sleeve. Keeping it to herself, she moved back into the kitchen to dish the stew. Each man had a large bowl, then another. Little was said. Kurt would not feel safe until they were in the barn and locked in at that. True to his word he found three old woolen work coats for them, then led them out to the barn which was a relatively new and sturdy structure used to store winter hay and his two plow mules.
“You men have a restful night,” he said, an unctuous tone to his voice. “We’ll have breakfast for you then you can be on your way.”
As he closed the door he locked it with a large padlock and took a deep breath. Now they were trapped.
“I have locked them in the barn,” he told his wife as he re-entered the house. “They can’t get out, no way. Early in the morning I’ll go for the Gestapo.”
“I felt something was not right about them,” she said. “Then I got a glimpse of a number tattooed on the forearm of one of them. I don’t think he knew I saw it.”
“It doesn’t matter now, they’re locked in.”
The fugitives were warm, dry and well fed. They were also aware of the locked door. That wasn’t so unusual given the fact they were total strangers in a time of war. But they also had no intension of remaining locked in the barn. Pierre began to search for possibilities for a break out. The first thing he noticed was the timber used for the walls. It was 4 inches thick, as was the door. There were no hay loft windows or any other doors. The perimeter footings were concrete. After his inspection he sat down.
“I’m not sure we can get out. This place is a fortress.”
“Are there any tools, a shovel or a hand ax?” Hans asked.
“I found an old shovel, but the handle is split. Besides, we would have to dig under the perimeter concrete footings. We would have to tunnel our way out. That might take a day or so.”
The men fell silent.
“I have a solution,” Hans said suddenly. “We can blow our way out.”
Pierre was perturbed by the attempt at comedy.
“Yes, that’s right, Hans. We’ll huff and we’ll puff. Look, this is no time for joking. We’re locked in and he may be going for the Gestapo as we speak. Save your wisecracks…and your breath.”
Hans looked at both men but he was not smiling.
“I don’t plan on using my breath,” he said dryly. “I have a grenade.” “What! Where did you get a grenade?”
Finally Hans felt as if he was contributing.
“The elder in charge of block-24, the block responsible for stealing the grenades, was one of us. The case of grenades did not have the usual dozen. Instead, there were 13. He gave me the extra. I have kept it pinned to my belt, covered by my jacket.
Pierre stared back at him. “Well I’ll be damned…an accountant turned soldier. I will give you a battlefield promotion.”
“I’ll take it,” Hans said with a grin. “How about you call me General Ulrich?” The men were now convinced of two things. One, they had no way to escape the barn. Secondly, Heirholzer intended to turn them in. Their only option was to use the grenade and blow a hole in the barn wall. It was a significant risk. Any Nazi troops nearby might come. But it was their only chance.
None of the men knew the terrain. They needed light and they also needed sleep. Their zero-hour had to be around 5:00 a.m.
“Agreed,” said Hans.
Pierre glanced over at Roland who was staring at the ground. “Roland? What is it?”
“I was just thinking of the locksmith, Lazar. We’re here because of him. Okay, so 5:00 a.m. it is. We can all get five hours of sleep. I’ll take the first shift.”
No one had a wristwatch so the zero hour would be a guess.
Pierre took the last shift. After the meal and sleep he was refreshed and ready to get out of the barn. He decided to wake the others when he could see any sign of daylight through a crack in the barn door. As it happened, the time was 5:30 a.m.
The men decided to blow out the wall at the far end of the barn, away from the mules. They would stack bales of hay between the grenade and the interior, then each would barricade himself behind a bale at the opposite end of the barn.
Kurt Heirholzer was ready to take hay to his stock. There was less to do in the winter although today would be an exception. He gathered eggs from the laying hens but didn’t enter the barn. Instead, he had a second cup of coffee. By this time Fran was up and making biscuits. They would have breakfast and then drive the 35 minutes to the police office in the nearest town. It was a small two-man office. The sergeant would likely have to call for help in arresting the escaped prisoners. It seemed straight forward. Heirholzer had walked around the barn slowly and saw nothing disturbed. He knew they could not escape the barn. He had built it himself.
By 6:00 a.m. the couple was sitting down for hot biscuits and scrambled eggs. In an instant the still of the country morning was shattered. The explosion rocked the silence, rattled the windows of their home, blowing out the rear window in the back of the house. The sound of the percussion brought the farmer to his feet.
“What the hell!”He ran quickly to get his old shotgun perched on the wall over the fireplace, his mind racing to think what could have exploded.
The grenade ripped a huge hole in the wall of the barn and immediately the three were out and racing to the wooded area about 100 yards across a meadow. Heirholzer, shotgun in hand, saw them running but knew they were too far away for him to get off a shot. As he turned back to the barn he was gripped by a horrible sight. The explosion had ignited a portion of dry hay and smoke was pouring out of the hole in the barn wall. He ran to the house to get the padlock key.
“The barn’s on fire….get some buckets,” he yelled.
He ran out to the barn, hand shaking, and had trouble getting the key in the lock. Finally the lock was disengaged. As he swung the door open the two terrified mules ran out of the burning structure. Now the entire end of the barn was engulfed in flames. The nearest neighbor was four miles away. He and his wife stood hopelessly watching as the fire consumed the entire structure. What had taken him three and a half months to build was gone in less than an hour.
Within the hour the fugitive trio was deep in the woods and three miles away. They stopped for a breather, enjoying their wool coats courtesy of one Kurt Heirholzer. Roland was the first to speak.
“From certain capture, to hearty meal, to a good sleep and warm coats,” he said, raising his hand as though giving a toast. “We’ve had a good 24 hours.”
They were still concerned about the possibility of being caught and could not have known that Kurt Heirholzer never made it to town. But they did soon learn they were only 10 kilometers from Allied lines. Pierre Oberaud was wearing a dirty white shirt which they used as a truce
signal to get safely into Allied hands by that afternoon.
* * *
Anna soaked in the tub for almost an hour. The water was no longer warm and her freshly washed hair contributed to the cold. She dried off and donned the cotton dress and sweater. She was embarrassed to have no undergarments. Hers had long since rotted. It had been months since she had been able to adequately deal with her feminine issues. Greta was a great help in that area. As she entered the main living area of the farmhouse, she was greeted by Johann.
“Feel better?” He asked.
“Much, thank you. We had weekly showers but no soap. Soap is wonderful. I have a new appreciation for it now.”
Anna was still trying to grasp what had happened to her in the past 24 hours. She had been a prisoner at Buchenwald, singled out for execution, left on a deserted road in a perfidious murder scam, then wound up in a farmhouse and a bathtub filled with hot water. Was she dreaming?
“We saved you some breakfast,” Greta said, breaking Anna’s thoughts. “Would you have a cup of tea?”
“Yes, for the tea and breakfast.”
Anna enjoyed the tea and home baked bread as much as the bath. She was anxious to know more about Greta and Johann. Greta took Anna back through the story of their lives, how they met, their children, their simple life-style and finally, their work in the underground. Anna could imagine there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of good German people like the Thieles who were risking their lives every day. Greta did not want to inquire of Anna, but Anna did briefly share about her parents, her life in Berlin and her work at the University. She did not mention that she had saved the life of Ernst Bishoff, but she was curious to know of the man in the barn
“What can you tell me about him…if anything,” she asked. “Will he be coming into the house?”
“I can tell you what I know which is not much. His name is Josef. He was brought to us in mid-January and apparently had escaped a death march from Auschwitz, a camp in Poland. When he was brought here, he weighed about 90 pounds…just skin and bones. In two months he has gained 30 pounds. He stays in the barn and sleeps in a small storage room. We placed a wood burning stove there for him and vented it. He refused to sleep in the house. But he takes breakfast and dinner with us and sometimes takes walks. He’s very distant and speaks very little. We haven’t asked about his experiences.”
