by Bodie Thoene
“Be careful,” his mother managed to say before she turned away, as if trying to hide the emotion. But he had already seen in her eyes that she felt everything he did not yet feel. Fury. Grief. Fear.
He buttoned his coat and slipped out the door quietly. Hanging back in the dark hallway, he listened as the bolt slid into place on the other side of the door. Satisfied, he ran down the stairs, then through the long corridor that led to the back door of the building. He reached for the knob, then froze as a gruff voice penetrated the door from the outside: “Stand here. If there are any Jews hiding in the building, they will try to sneak out the back way. Heil . . .”
Peter stared at the knob. He had almost touched it, almost betrayed himself. What could he do now? They were guarding his escape route, looking for Jews in the shadows! He had better rethink his plans.
Turning on his heel, he walked back toward the front of the building. It was more sensible to hide in plain sight. Smarter to walk through the demolished street just like the other Germans who now roamed to watch the assault against the Jews. No one would question that. If challenged, he would pick up a stone and prove that he was not a Jew. That would work. Tonight no one would dare deny a good little Nazi boy the right of tossing a stone through a plate glass window.
He drew a deep breath and stepped out into the smoke-filled street. The mob had grown. The violence became more fierce. Men and teenage boys held clubs aloft. Some carried cans of kerosene. All of them, though dressed in civilian clothes, wore the jackboots of their Storm Trooper uniforms. Screams and explosions and breaking glass filled the air of Vienna with a long, continuous roll of destruction.
***
Called to Berlin to report on Secret Police progress in Vienna, Otto Wattenbarger was on hand when the first directive was sent out from headquarters. Seldom had anyone seen this sullen Austrian smile, but tonight he smiled.
“There,” he said. “This will solve a lot of problems in Vienna.”
“In all the Reich,” agreed Heinrich Himmler, rolling his stamp of office across an official document. “This is long overdue.”
“The directive comes from the Führer, then?” Otto clasped his hands behind him and watched as the second wave of trucks rolled ominously up Albrechtstrasse.
“We have all had a hand in it,” Himmler replied icily. He disliked not getting credit for the coming raids. After all, no matter who conceived the action, it was ultimately Himmler’s elite corps who would begin it and carry it through to its violent end. “It is this sort of thing that demonstrates the strength of our race, don’t you think?”
Otto’s mouth twitched as he agreed with the head of the SS and the Gestapo. He must show no sight of wavering or disapproval for what was to happen tonight. “Ja. The Führer seals us to him with blood. It is true.”
Himmler seemed to approve of the answer. He silently considered the red-bearded Austrian before him. Questions about his loyalty had arisen over the last several months. After tonight, Himmler could reply easily one way or the other to the superiors in Vienna who had suspected the true fidelity of this sullen and solitary man.
The eyes of Heinrich Himmler narrowed as he considered the case that had been presented to him. “You are suspected, Officer Wattenbarger.”
The unsmiling face looked amused at the news. “Everyone is suspected, Reichsführer Himmler. I myself trust no one.”
“A wise policy. But what do you trust in?”
“My own loyalty to a just cause. Our party. Our people. Our Führer.”
Himmler raised his chin slightly. This was a stock answer. Memorized and repeated by rote by those who even now awaited execution. “Which cause? Which people?” Himmler queried. “I myself requested to review the case. It would be a pity to mistakenly lose even one loyal officer who is Austrian by birth—or so you seemed to be.”
“I am what I have always been.”
“We have had to replace many native Austrians with those more agreeable to our methods. And our goals.” Himmler clasped his hands on the desk and tapped his thumbs together thoughtfully. “Tonight our goals and methods are made public for all to see. No hypocrisy in the Reich. Not like Western nations. We do not want our Jews, and so we get rid of them. We are partners with the West in this enterprise. Only we are not hypocrites about the matter.”
Otto inclined his head slightly as if this discussion of well-established doctrine was not really necessary. “All of this is true.”
“I knew you would agree.” Himmler paused. The reflection of Otto’s face glinted in his glasses. “But the question has been raised whether you are hypocritical also. Do you agree with the Reich policies to save your own skin? Or . . .perhaps the skin of others who do not agree with us?”
From the beginning, Otto had felt eyes watching him. His private thoughts and motives were concealed beneath a veneer of coldness and cruelty. He did not blink or turn away from torture, even the torture of those whose hearts had been knit to his by the shared goal of the end of Hitler. He had pulled the trigger and blown the heads off his own compatriots when they could not stand Gestapo torture any longer and so became a threat to the resistance. He no longer considered his actions murder, but rather, an act of mercy and self-preservation. In this way, he had been able to remain in a position to help men of great stature escape to freedom. He had made decisions about life and death: which man must be sacrificed so another might be saved. Otto felt his own soul condemned to a hell in which his fellow Austrians hated him, even as he did what he must for Austria. He had come too far to lose it all now.
It was important that no fear show on his face. He knew what the message of fear told these men. Fear was weakness. Fear was guilt of some violation of their twisted code. “Someone is wasting your time, Reichsführer Himmler,” Otto replied coolly. “If I were the investigating officer, I would address a case like this by looking first at those who accuse me of disloyalty. What is their motive? Jealousy because I do a job without flinching? Or, perhaps, it is they who are disloyal. Eliminating me would make their job easier.” Otto raised his eyebrows with a sigh of resignation. “Me? Like I said, I suspect everyone. Everyone but myself.”
“An interesting defense.”
“A better defense is the performance of my duty. Which—” he raised his hands and then let them fall to his sides in a gesture of frustration—“I am kept from tonight.”
Himmler scratched his chin as he scanned the papers in front of him. He did not respond for a time; at last he jerked his head up as if satisfied. “Our Reich gives splendid opportunity for young men,” he remarked, as though Otto had applied for a bank. “Forgive me. I, too, trust no one. I question and reevaluate everyone. It is the job. We have considered you for promotion, you see, and so had to make certain that you are not involved with . . .hypocrisy.” The corner of Himmler’s mouth turned up in a tight-lipped smile. “You are promoted.” He scribbled his signature on a slip of paper that had been prepared ahead of time. Laying it aside, Himmler then handed the photograph of Thomas von Kleistmann to Otto, who looked at it without emotion.
“A messy job.” Otto managed to tinge the words with a hint of amusement.
“It is impossible to recognize the man, of course, but he was linked to traitorous operations in Vienna.”
“He failed miserably at his task, then.”
The humor in Otto’s voice must have satisfied Himmler.
“The Führer has asked that the photograph be circulated in Intelligence departments as an example of what happens to a hypocrite,” Himmler stated.
“A unique sort of death. Will the Führer have him bronzed and hang him in St. Stephan’s?”
Himmler laughed, a short burst of laughter. He would have to remember to tell the Führer about the comment. “Well, I am certain you can carry out this order then.” He handed the signed slip of paper to Otto, who read it as though it was a grocery list.
Here was the final test of his hardness and loyalty. It was everything he had dread
ed over the last two months. Quietly, Otto had been searching for some way to save the life of Michael Wallich, a well-respected attorney in the government of the Austrian Republic before the Anschluss. Otto had supplied information about the well-being of Wallich and encouraged that negotiations be stepped up for a ransom. Now Otto was commanded to execute Michael Wallich upon returning to Vienna next week.
Otto’s hand did not tremble as he read the order for Michael Wallich’s execution. In a gesture of unconcern, he folded the slip in half and slid it into his pocket. “Is that all?”
The murder of this good and innocent man had been first on Himmler’s mind. Now there were other matters to address. “Next week we begin meetings in Vienna to establish the final borders of Czechoslovakia. The Hungarians, who did not cook this stew, want to eat at our table. It is important that you organize unrest among the Hungarians in Vienna. We will need some demonstrations.” He waved his hand as the sound of an explosion rattled the windows of the office. “But, never mind. We will discuss details later. There is enough going on tonight.”
4
Auf Wiedersehen
Once the place had been called Sisters of Mercy Hospital for the Infirmed. But sisters no longer glided through the antiseptic halls; mercy had long since vanished. Only wards of patients, now called inmates, remained. Soon even they would be gone. In the interests of the State, they would be eliminated to make room for yet another fine hospital for the citizens of the Reich.
The smell of antiseptic did not completely mask the strong smell of urine in the boys’ ward for the hopelessly defective. Twenty beds lined each side of the room. In those beds lay boys from ten years old to fourteen, many of whom had come here as tiny children to be cared for by the sisters. Cerebral palsy robbed some bright children of their ability to speak or care for themselves. Polio or accidents had paralyzed others, but left their minds quick and active. Others, like Alfie Halder, were judged to be mentally incompetent.
Alfie lay awake on his bed. A strange bright light came through the barred window and flickered on the empty beds. Some of the boys had gone away today and were not coming back: the boys who could not walk or speak. The orderlies had taken them out one at a time this afternoon and this evening. Werner, Alfie’s friend, had cried tonight. Werner was ten. He had contracted polio last year; Alfie, fourteen and very big for his age, carried him places. Alfie liked it when Werner talked about the American president who had polio and yet was still president. Werner wanted desperately to go to America and told Alfie all about it. “The Promised Land,” Werner called it.
But tonight the orderlies had come to take Werner away, and Werner had cried and looked at Alfie with sad eyes.
“Where are you taking him?” Alfie asked the orderlies.
“To the Promised Land,” the ugly-mouthed orderly said, and then he had opened his big lips and laughed as Werner cried and cried. Werner did not seem happy about going away, even though he had always wanted to go to America.
Others had gone, too—Michael and Heinrich and Fredrich. But they did not know they were leaving, and so they did not cry like Werner.
Alfie thought about Werner’s dream of America and felt sure his friends would be happy there. But Alfie felt lonely tonight without them. The orange light from outside the window made moving shadows on their made-up beds. Something inside Alfie felt bad, and he did not like it. He felt like he used to when they first made him come here. He missed Werner already, just like he missed Mama.
Now that Werner had left, who would call Alfie by his real name? The orderlies called him Dummkopf. They did not know his real name. Only Werner knew that Mama used to call him Alfie before she died and they put her in the stone shed at the New Church graveyard. After that, Pastor had come to visit sometimes. He knew Alfie’s name and promised that soon he would be out of this place. Then there were no more visitors for anybody. Verboten, Werner had told him. Now, nobody was left to call him Alfie.
He sat up and hugged his knees and closed his eyes to say his prayers. “Ich bin klein . . . I am small, my heart is pure, nobody lives in it but Jesus alone.”
The door banged open, and a light caught him sitting up. It was forbidden to sit up after the lights were out.
“What are you doing, Dummkopf?” shouted Ugly-mouth.
Alfie lay down and did not answer. Sometimes they beat him, but maybe tonight they had other things to do.
“Leave the poor idiot alone,” said Skinny-man as they wheeled the gurney in and to the side of Dieter’s bed. Dieter had been hurt in a car accident. He could not speak. They lifted him onto the gurney.
“Let the Dummkopf sit up if he wants. Poor monster. By tomorrow he’ll be dead, and where’s the harm?”
Dead. Alfie knew the word well.
He lay very still, wishing they had not noticed him. He felt the nearness of the empty beds. Soon his bed also would be empty. He remembered Mama, beautiful in her best dress as she lay unmoving in the coffin. He wanted her to open her eyes and speak to him, but they closed the lid, and that was death. When someone was dead it did not matter if they closed the lid and never opened it again.
“Hey, Dummkopf!” said Ugly-mouth as they wheeled Dieter past. “Sit up and say Auf Wiedersehen!”
Alfie did not sit up. He held his breath until they closed the door behind them. Then he let his breath out in a slow groan. He bit his lip and dug his fingers into his palms. All his friends! He got up and tiptoed quickly to the window. Through the bars he could see a great fire in Berlin. The clouds were lit up. Smoke poured out of a building. This also meant death.
He wished he had asked Werner what to do. He did not want anyone closing the lid on him. He turned to look at the ward. Half the beds were empty. Only Wilhelm and Daniel were next before his bed. What would Werner do?
Alfie closed his eyes tight, hoping the answer would come. Then he saw it. He knew what Werner would do. Werner had told him about the pillows and sneaking out the window.
Alfie took Werner’s pillow and stuffed it under the sheets of his bed. He stepped back and looked. Yes. It looked as though someone were sleeping in Alfie’s bed. The orderlies would think he was still there.
Out the window would be harder. There was a storage room two doors down the hall that had a window with no bars. But the window was very high. Above the shelves. Alfie could climb up, maybe even crawl out, but it was a long way to jump.
The Promised Land. Death!
Alfie glanced back at those who remained sleeping in the ward. He could not take them with him. He stared at the barred window and the fire beyond. With a shudder, he went to the door and opened it a crack. The hall was empty. Lights reflected in the green tile floor. He could see the door to the storeroom.
“Hurry, Alfie,” he said aloud to himself. “They will come!”
He nodded in agreement and slipped out, running to the storeroom and jumping into it. He closed the door behind him and looked to where the same orange light shone close to the high ceiling. He grasped the shelves and climbed up easily, just as he had climbed the trees at home.
A flimsy chain lock held the transom window. Alfie broke it easily and pulled down the frame. A blast of cold air hit his face as he lay along the top shelf. He laughed. The air smelled clean, not like the ward. It smelled like the Promised Land!
He did not care that it was a long way down to the ground or that it was cold and he was still in his pajamas. Alfie looked toward the row of trees that bordered the high wall of the hospital. He could climb those, too!
With that, he swung his legs around and eased himself through the window. He hung there for a moment, then smiled and let himself drop.
The ground of the flower bed was soft and muddy. He was not even hurt. For an instant he stared up at the brick wall to the little window. Then he let his gaze drift to the window of his ward. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he said, then ran toward the linden trees and the wall.
***
He did not feel frightened, yet the hand
s of Berlin’s Pastor Karl Ibsen trembled as he fumbled to insert the long key into the lock of the churchyard gate.
“Hurry, Karl,” his wife Helen urged as she looked over her shoulder. “Tor auf! Open the gate!” Fear filled her voice, a fear echoed in the hearts of the dozen Jewish members of the congregation who had come to Berlin’s New Church for sanctuary.
Karl fixed his eyes on the leaping flames of the great synagogue that burned only a block away. By the light of the fire, he found the keyhole. The latch clicked, and the gate swung back on its hinges, moaning in chorus with the groaning timbers of the synagogue.
The inferno illuminated marble headstones in an unearthly dance of shadow and light. Karl stepped aside as the trembling members of his flock filed hurriedly into the cemetery. Their huddled forms reflected the shimmering colors of the fires. Faces grim with terror looked up to watch the Star of David twist in the blaze that consumed the cupola. Molten metal shrieked and folded inward, collapsing to the cheers of a thousand Germans who watched in the street beyond.
“The church key, Papa.” Lori, Karl’s sixteen-year-old daughter, tugged the iron key loop from his hand and rushed ahead to open the rear door of the church building. Karl slammed the gate and bolted it securely from the inside. For an instant Karl stood transfixed as Nazi cheers rose in volume and the fires soared to singe the belly of a cloud of billowing smoke.
A small hand tapped urgently on his arm. “Papa, please!” Karl looked down to see the pleading eyes of ten-year-old James. His blond hair fell over his forehead and moved slightly in the unnatural wind that swirled from the fire. The air filled with a terrible roar as the entire dome collapsed. More cheers. The triumphant cry of Aryan voices almost drowned out the rumble of destruction.
“Papa!” James pulled his father’s arm hard, straining to move toward the safety of the open church door, where Lori waited for them. She raised her hand to beckon as a shower of ash rained down, momentarily obscuring the light.
