“Well stay here a month or possibly more,” Brodsky said. “By that time you can put on your camp uniform, the striped shirt and cap, and walk across any zone without any pass at all. You’ll see. Besides,” he added quietly, “most of the men are in no condition to travel, as yet. You, for example.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. Once I get to Switzerland—”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Wolf said, “except if you want to walk, you have to take off your shoes. They’re too heavy for you.” He shrugged. “I see you now, shuffling across the border, one mile an hour, with the border guards in hot pursuit. Sitting on turtles. That’s how fine you are.”
Grossman didn’t argue. Brodsky nodded.
“We’re also going to have to organize some warm clothes—”
“In July or August?”
“We’ll leave here in July or August, that’s true. But we won’t be taking the Rome Express, first-class, with meals,” Brodsky said dryly. “Sometimes well have to walk, sometimes maybe we can hitch a ride, or the Mossad can arrange transportation, but we can’t depend on it. Once we cross into Austria without proper papers we may have to hide out a lot, travel by night, hide by day. And once we cross the Italian border it will be worse. The British practically control Italy now, especially the north, and they don’t intend to let any Jews leave for Palestine if they can help it. So we don’t know when we’ll get to a port, or when a ship will be ready.” He pointed to the shirt he had stolen from supplies. “So we’ll need clothes, warm clothes.”
Grossman leaned back on his bed and thought about it. It was true he was still far from his full strength, but he was sure he was strong enough to cross a border. He didn’t intend to fight his way across; he meant to use his brain. Still, it was also true that at the moment he was sure Colonel Manley-Jones would do his best to see there would be no travel pass for him to any zone adjacent to the Swiss border; but in a month or so, it was highly possible that Manley-Jones would be out of here. The interrogation process was already nearing an end, with the war-crimes trials already announced by the Russians to begin in Berlin, and the trials in Nuremberg would follow soon after. Max was probably right that in a month or so passes would be a mere formality, and anyone in a camp-striped shirt would be able to go where he wanted without any problem.
He looked up.
“From here you plan to go directly to Italy? Or try?”
“No; from here we’ll be going to Munich, to an Allied refugee camp there in Felsdorf.”
“And how long will you stay there?”
Brodsky shrugged. “Until the Mossad tells us to leave.”
Grossman thought that over. It was true that there would be no harm in going as far as Felsdorf with Brodsky and the others. It was also true that it might be helpful to travel in the company of others. There was safety in numbers; some of the ex-prisoners who had left the camp and returned for a visit had said the world outside was a jungle. Gangs of discharged soldiers, ragged and hungry, often attacked anyone who looked as if he had anything worth taking. Besides, he actually was in no great hurry; since the camp’s liberation and his recovery from typhus, he had gone back to considering his old plan as being fully operational. He was no longer a suspected war criminal, and he would soon be in Switzerland; and that had been the original idea, hadn’t it? The time lost at Bergen-Belsen had been an unfortunate hiatus, a distressful detour, but now he was back on the track. He looked at Brodsky.
“How do you plan to get to Felsdorf?”
“Hike into Celle and get rides on trucks from there. Hitchhiking.”
“And from Felsdorf, how do you plan to go? Where do you intend to cross the Austrian border? Anywhere near Switzerland?”
Brodsky was busy folding the shirt into his knapsack. He slid the knapsack into the small locker beside his cot, locked the locker, and put away the key.
“That’s up to the Mossad,” he said. “They may take us down to Lindau on the Bodensee, then through Austria to the Italian border, then down to some port on the west coast, like La Spezia or Livorno. Or from Munich they may go down through Innsbruck and then over to some port on the Adriatic, like Chioggia.”
“Ask the British where they won’t have gunboats to follow us and sink us,” Wolf said dryly. “That’s probably where the Mossad will take us.”
Brodsky suddenly looked at Grossman, sensing that the question meant a surrender of sorts on the part of his friend.
“You mean you’ll go with us?”
“As far as Felsdorf,” Grossman said. He made it sound a concession.
Brodsky smiled inwardly. Long before Munich or Felsdorf he would have converted Benjamin Grossman to Zionism. Palestine needed people like Grossman: an engineer, a good friend. A survivor.
Switzerland, indeed!
Chapter 8
Karl Neuenrade was not only the only waiter at the Gemustert-Essen-Keller in Celle, he was also the proprietor; his wife was the cook, and his daughter sat at the cash register, her rotting teeth and straggly mustache protection against the most salacious or sex-starved customer.
Life had been good to Karl Neuenrade. Early in his restaurant career he had established excellent relations with the farmers in the Celle area, so that the rationing that had been austere during the war, and which became even more draconian following the war, did not greatly affect him or his fancy food. There was, however, one cloud on Karl Neuenrade’s horizon, and it was one that grew in size each day that passed following the liberation of Bergen-Belsen. It was the fact that during the war, while his wife and daughter had run the restaurant and run it quite profitably, Karl had served as the SS sergeant in charge of the prisoner food program at the Belsenlager, and as such was known to many of the prisoners, especially those who had worked in the cookhouses. As soon as the camp had been liberated and turned over to the British by Joseph Kramer, the commandant, Karl Neuenrade had hurried home and removed the sign pointing down the steps to his restaurant, informing all customers that it was out being repainted. Nor did the sign go back up again in a hurry, and while its absence undoubtedly caused the loss of some customers, it was better than having the place inundated with ex-prisoners. The ploy seemed to have been successful; while every other restaurant in Celle had been forced to serve God knows how many free meals to the men in the striped blouses as they made their way through Celle on their way home, the Gemustert-Essen-Keller saw none.
June passed, and July and August, and in September, when apparently all the prisoners at Bergen-Belsen had either left the camp or had settled into the former German Army quarters for a long, long stay, Karl Neuenrade congratulated himself on his foresight as far as the sign was concerned, and mounted it once more on the wrought-iron frame that swung over the cellar steps.
He moved a mere few minutes too quickly, for no sooner had he come back downstairs from hanging the sign, dusting his fingers and feeling pleased with himself, than a group of shadows on the steps indicated a clutch of customers, and three men descended. Karl came forward with a smile to greet them—they were early for lunch, but the Gemustert-Essen-Keller was always prepared—and then saw to his consternation they all wore striped shirts and the striped caps he had feared.
They seated themselves at a table in the middle of the room, and smiled at him. Karl stared at them resentfully. He worked hard for his money, while these—these—these loafers still expected to sponge meals simply because they had the hard luck of being in a concentration camp. The war was over! It was time to forget the war and the camps and get back to normalcy! Still, when Karl considered the very size of the huge one of the trio, sitting there with the patience of a hungry bear, not to mention the icy look in the slate-blue eyes of the second one—familiar, those eyes; from one of the cookhouses, Karl thought—plus the ugly sneer on the face of the one-eyed one, he realized a free meal would not only be charitable but could be the lesser of two evils. If the three decided to tear his place apart, could he expect any relief from the po
lice? Not a hope! Most of the police were too afraid of being denounced as former SS themselves to take any action against the men in the striped shirts and caps.
Wolf seemed to resent the look in Karl’s eye; the delay also did not sit well with him. He tipped up the patch over his eye socket in the manner of a person politely tipping his hat.
“May we order now?” Karl Neuenrade moved hastily back from the revolting sight, and covered his confusion by bringing up his order pad and wetting his pencil with his tongue. “Good!” Wolf said approvingly, and studied the blackboard on the wall. “I’ll start with some schnapps—something drinkable—then beer with lunch, which will be the schnitzel with potatoes. And some salad, of course …”
Karl Neuenrade’s face burned as he filled the orders and watched his good food being devoured, his best liquors consumed. They should have all been killed, these people, these Jew animals; and decent folks like himself would not have to suffer, now!
They finished their meal, belched politely to indicate their appreciation of the cuisine, and marched up the steps in file without—as Karl had so bitterly known—making the slightest effort to dig into their pockets. Still, digging into their pockets would have been pointless; all they would have encountered would have been their fingers.
“Bastard,” Wolf said genially. “Did you see the look on his face? We’re lucky he didn’t try to poison us.”
“He tried for the past year at Belsen,” Grossman said sourly. “He was in charge of the prisoner food there.”
“And he didn’t do badly,” Brodsky conceded, and led the way toward the edge of town and the autobahn leading south.
For some reason difficult for them to understand, that day all traffic seemed destined for Bremen or Hamburg to the north. All that came along in their direction was an occasional mule-drawn cart, or an even more occasional official-looking limousine passing at high speed, with the British officers inside looking glum and paying no attention to the three waving their arms at the side of the road. Afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen and they were still less than fifteen miles from the camp. They looked at each other.
“Well?” Wolf said. “Do we go back? That ought to be easy; everything seems to be heading that way. Start out tomorrow again, earlier? Or stop in Celle and take lessons in hitching a ride?”
“We don’t go back,” Brodsky said with finality, and started hiking down the road. The others hurried to catch up. The afternoon sun burned; it was hot and the packs with their spare clothing and a few tins of food seemed to gain weight with every step. Still, they were finally out of the camp and moving, and that was the important thing. They had walked for over an hour when Brodsky suddenly called out, “Sing!” and Grossman unconsciously started singing. His steps matched the rhythm, his weary mind back in his earliest days in a uniform, marching along, singing as he swung in step with the others:
“Deutschland, Deutschland, Über Alles—”
He suddenly realized that nobody else was singing and looked up from the road to find both Wolf and Brodsky staring at him curiously. He forced a smile and began again:
“Deutschland, Deutschland, Alles Über—”
Brodsky laughed. The three swung down the road, singing, but Grossman inwardly was cringing. And what if he had unconsciously started to sing the “Horst Wessel” song instead?
The farmhouse was set far back from the road, as if ashamed to have its disrepair noted by passers-by, a low sprawling building almost of another age, badly in need of paint. Behind it and a short distance away was a sagging barn with roof shingles missing, and which seemed to be held together mainly by the fading posters that had been plastered on its sides many years before. At first glance the house seemed deserted, but then they noticed the thin wisp of smoke that was curling from the chimney. The three men looked at one another.
“I think we’ve walked as far as can be expected of hitchhikers for one day,” Wolf said.
“I’m hungry,” Grossman said. “Do you suppose there’s any food inside?”
“We can only hope and pray,” Wolf said piously.
“And we could all use a good night’s rest,” Brodsky added, making the vote unanimous.
They walked down the weed-choked lane leading to the house, aware of the good smell of burning wood as they approached. Brodsky stepped up to the side door of the house and rapped upon it authoritatively. There was no immediate response, and Brodsky raised his large fist to repeat the knock when the door suddenly opened and a woman stood there, a shotgun in her hands. Brodsky brought his hand down and in the same motion simply picked the gun from the woman’s hand. He broke it open, removed the shells, and tucked the gun under his arm. The woman was staring at them in momentary shock at having lost her weapon; her eyes were wide with fear. She was a middle-aged woman with straggling hair already touched with gray, wearing tom slippers over bare feet, with a man’s shirt that was too small for her ample bust, and a wrinkled skirt that was strained by her wide hips. She started to back away, to try to close the door, but Brodsky’s hand prevented it.
“We’re not here to hurt you or rob you,” he said with as much assurance as he could get into his harsh voice. “We only want something to eat.”
“And a place to sleep,” Grossman added.
“Which can be in the barn,” Wolf added. He tapped his striped shirt. “Fortunately, we’ve been well trained not to be fussy.”
The woman hesitated.
“We’ll cut some firewood for you,” Brodsky said, as if that settled the matter, and walked into the house, bringing the gun with him. He leaned it against the wall and looked around. The room was furnished in typical German farmland style, with a massive sofa and heavy chairs upholstered in worn, faded velour. Old-fashioned photographs studied the intruders from the papered walls, interspersed with crocheted mottos in cheap frames; there was a foot-pedal-operated organ against one wall. “Pretty,” he said approvingly, and walked through to the kitchen, where he nodded in satisfaction. There was a wood fire in the firebox of the oven, bread on the table, several thick sausages hung from the roof beams, and an open tin of some sort of meat lay on the counter. There was also an ax in one corner. He picked up the ax and went out through the back kitchen door to the rear of the house. The sound of wood being chopped came to them.
“If you want, I can cook,” Wolf said, and smiled. The woman shrank back before the horrible grimace. “I used to be a professional cook, once,” he said to Grossman. “You didn’t know that, did you? Now I just scare people …”
But the woman was already in the kitchen, hurriedly putting three plates on the table.
Moonlight slotted the darkness of the bam, angling through the missing shingles, playing across Brodsky’s strong face, touching the permanent sneer on Wolf’s lips and softening it. Grossman turned restlessly, unable to sleep, and then came slowly and silently to his feet. He looked down at the other two and then stepped softly over them and walked quietly out of the barn and toward the house.
There was a light in the kitchen. He stood at a window, peering in. The woman, her side to him, was standing at an ironing board, ironing clothes. Her thick arms moved back and forth, pausing only to move the blouse she was working on, or to exchange one iron for another, placing the cool one on a gas ring, touching her wetted finger against the fresh one to test its heat. She had partially unbuttoned her restraining shirt and her heavy breasts swung slightly with the rhythm of her ironing stroke.
God! Grossman thought, feeling the stirring in his loins. A woman like this, old, fat, barefoot, plain! And to be reduced to rape! But it had been over a year since he had had a woman, and for the first time since he had entered Belsen he was feeling the insistent necessity for sex. He wet his lips and moved stealthily to the door, turning the handle as quietly as he could. The door opened with a creak of unoiled hinges; the woman swung around instantly, the hot iron coming up protectively before her full bosom. She stared at him.
“What do you want
?”
“A—a drink of water, if you please …”
She tilted her head abruptly toward the pump handle at one end of the sink; he walked past her slowly, wanting desperately to brush one arm suggestively against her heavy breasts but fearing to have the hot iron thrust into his face. A failure, even with this monster, he thought bitterly, and found himself at the sink, actually pumping water, bringing up the dipper and drinking deeply, his hand trembling.
The woman was standing still, watching him, a strange look on her face. The iron had been set on the gas ring. “What’s your name?” she asked softly.
“Gross—” He had to stop and clear his throat; it had tightened up on him. “Grossman. Benjamin Grossman. What’s yours?”
“Ilsa. Ilsa Pohl.”
She stood staring at him, her face revealing nothing. Slowly he put down the dipper and came to face her. She looked into his eyes steadily for several moments, and then reached for his hand, bringing it up, placing it inside her shirt. He felt the soft fullness of her breast, the turgid hardness of the nipple, slightly damp with perspiration; and then she was leading him urgently to the next room. She closed the door to the kitchen and in the darkness pulled him down to the sofa, raising her skirt, fumbling at his belt, breathing harshly. He felt her callused hand on him, caressing him fiercely. They coupled savagely, with the woman whispering “Bitte, bitte, bitte, bitte, bitte” endlessly as they pounded at each other, until he climaxed with a sweetness and a fulfillment he could not recall before, forgiving her the drabness of her appearance, forgiving her everything. Beneath him the woman lay, panting quietly, pulsing internally against his slowly reducing organ. He started to raise himself but she drew him to her, holding him tightly. “Later,” she whispered. “Don’t go out, yet. Don’t go out. It’s been such a long time …”
And when at last he had shrunk so as to withdraw involuntarily, she still held him to her, rubbing her large breasts against him, until at last she realized it was over. She swung her feet to the floor and started to button her shirt. Her voice was low.
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