Beleaguered and beyond heartsick, Max sat on the steps that led up to the blackened structure, mind racing with what might have happened and what his plan of action was from here. He was still sitting there when an old man happened by, trudging along the lane pulling a hand cart. At first, he had not recognized Max and had only given a nervous, furtive glance as he started to scurry on by. But something caused him to take yet another look and through the dried mud, the pinkish burn scars and hollowed eyes he recognized who was in that blueish gray uniform.
“Max! Max Grephardt! Can that really be you?” the old man had blurted out, walking hesitantly toward the sitting figure.
The Luftwaffe hauptmann looked up, somewhat startled at the sound of his name carried by a familiar voice.
“It is you!” the aged neighbor exclaimed in recognition. “Welcome home my son, welcome home! We had all thought you lost in the war, there has been so much bad news lately.”
The old man, one of those who had sat at their dinner table on so many occasions during Max’s childhood, reached out and grabbed the German officer in a heartfelt hug. Grinning widely and giddy with unexpected happiness, he held the younger man in a vise-like embrace that belied his many years and slightly stooped stature.
“Herr Bekker, it has been a long time” Max managed to say in return. “Tell me, what has happened here? Where are my parents?”
Bekker ignored the questions and reached for Max’s small, worn traveling bag. “Here, you must come home with me. So many times I shared a meal with your father and your family at their dinner table. Now is the time for me to repay that kindness.”
“But my parents…” Max insisted.
The elderly German glanced pensively to each side, as if even the charred walls and scattered debris had ears with which to listen.
“I will explain it all to you Max,” Bekker responded. “But not here, not now. These are dangerous times we live in, even at home. Come, do not tell me that you are not tired and hungry.”
Max began to protest again, but the old man waved him off. Yet it was not the wave of the hand that had stymied any further questions, but the look of fear in the man’s eyes. With each holding a handle on the decrepit cart, they started in the direction of Herr Bekker’s home together.
Later that evening, in front of a warm fire that removed a lingering chill from his bones, Max sat with his benefactor staring into the flames. Frau Bekker worked busily clearing the dishes from the table, the end result of a meal like Max had not had in some time. Contemplating their own thoughts, neither man had said a word since the finishing of the dinner. It was Herr Bekker who finally broke the silence.
“It happened several weeks ago” he began, the words slowly working their way up through obvious hesitation and angst. “Your parents had received a message that you had been shot down and no one could say what happened beyond that. For some time, your father had been speaking of the futility of the war, of the wickedness of those who were leading our nation into further ruin. After he heard about you, he became quite open in those criticisms, even while speaking from the pulpit.
“Strangers began coming around, well dressed strangers with an air of authority about them. They were asking questions about your parents, your family, and especially your father. They even attended some of your father’s services.
“We all knew they were Gestapo. We begged your father to not be so open in his beliefs, to be quiet until at least these strangers left. But your father…” he looked up at Max, tears welling in his eyes. He snorted a bit, rubbed his nose and smiled thinly.
“Well Max, what can I tell you about your own father? You know him as well as anyone. When we went to him, he told us ‘I have lost four sons to Germany, perhaps five. I have lost friends and sons of friends to this useless war. But I will not lose my own soul, also. I will speak out and I will stay true to the teachings of my faith.’
“They came in the dead of night and ransacked the church and your home. We were told they were gathering ‘evidence’ that your parents were Communist agitators, enemies of the Reich who were being taken in for interrogation. I guess it was decided to burn the church and your home for good measure.”
The old man lowered his chin into his chest, ashamed and speaking now with no more than a whisper. “And not one of us lifted a voice or a finger to stop them. May God forgive us all.”
Max studied his father’s ancient friend, slumped down in his chair and with his head hanging as tears of frustration and regret freely flowed. Some might have felt anger or betrayal, but all Max could do was feel pity and grieve with him. If there was any anger, it was an anger against a corrupt and tyrannical regime that would fall upon its own citizens like so many wolves among sheep.
“Herr Bekker” he asked gently. “Do you happen to know where they were taken?”
“No one knows,” the old man replied ruefully. “If they do, they are too frightened to say anything.” He looked at Max earnestly, his eyes reflecting in the flames. “Max, your father was a brave and wise man, and he was a true man of God. He tried to warn us all those years ago and no one would listen. Perhaps we deserve this fate, but he did not.”
Bekker stared back into the fire and murmured. “What have we become, when our own government ensnares its people like rabbits in a trap and we stand idly by and do nothing. In the name of God, what have we become?” The old man sobbed and buried his face in his hands. He was still sitting there, wrestling mightily in his mind with a world gone mad, when Max finally went to bed.
The next morning Max dressed himself and enjoyed another meal at the Bekker table. Frau Bekker had taken his dirty Luftwaffe uniform and cleaned and brushed it vigorously, to the point of almost being presentable. His worn black boots reflected a fresh polish, as did his leather belt and hat bill. As he started to leave, he and Herr Bekker stood talking near the doorway.
“Are you certain you cannot stay? Anyone can see you are still hurt and weak,” observed the elderly neighbor.
“It would not go well for you if I was found here. I have no orders, and I am the son of a man who the Gestapo considers a traitor to their Reich.”
“Then where will you go, Max?” questioned Bekker.
The hauptmann considered Herr Becker’s concern for a moment. “West, I think. Towards Fulda. The war cannot last much longer and I will not be captured by the Bolsheviks again.”
The old man nodded and asked anxiously. “Do you think they will actually get this far west before the Americans arrive?”
“Not if the Wehrmacht has anything to do about it. From what I can tell, they are throwing everything they have left to blunt the Soviet advance. But they cannot last for long without air cover and the Luftwaffe is done, finished. We have no planes, no parts, and no fuel.”
Max looked off to the west. “If I can make it into the Fulda area, I can surrender to the first Americans I come across. It is said they and the British treat captured Luftwaffe officers more than fairly. When I can, I will get word back to you.”
“So, it is almost finished again?” asked Herr Bekker.
“Yes,” replied the young officer. “This part of our long nightmare is almost over and the Third Reich will be gone. I only hope that Germany will not be totally obliterated along with it.”
“Good luck, Max, and may God bless you.” The old man extended his hand in a firm grip. “Remember we always have room for you under our roof.”
“Thank you, Herr Bekker. If my parents come back, please tell them that I am alive. Tell my father I shall return and help rebuild his church.”
“I will Max, I certainly will. And we will all help him rebuild that church, if he can still consider us worthy of doing so.”
“He will,” assured the younger man. “I know this, Herr Becker, because I know my father. I just never realized how rare of a man he really was until now. Someday, I am going to be able to tell him so.”
Max began walking down the road and away from the Bekker home. Jus
t before he went out of sight, he turned and waved. The elderly couple waved back.
It would not be until many years later that Max would learn of his parents’ fate. The answer was found within the walls of a grim appearing stone building in the Westend-Nord of Frankfurt, which housed some of the Gestapo’s records that survived the war.
Neatly noted were his parents’ full names, ages, occupations and home of record. The entries went on to say they had been arrested as suspected spies and enemies of the Reich. There was a final notation, inscribed in bold letters, stating they had been “shot while trying to escape.”
When Max read those last few words, he at first did not know whether to cry or to laugh. In the end, he did both.
CHAPTER TEN
Two days later Max Grephardt was still making his way along the road to Fulda, along with many others. A rumor had started that the Soviets were initiating a major offensive into the central part of Germany and were already west of Dresden. Whether the rumor was true or not did not really matter, no German desired to be under Bolshevik occupation. The stories of wholesale rape, plunder and outright murder of civilians by the Soviets were all real enough, and only grew in number and savagery as these accounts were repeated. Those who could move did, fleeing as quickly as they could in the direction of Patton’s rapidly advancing Third Army.
On that second day, Max had crossed a small vehicular bridge choked with an endless flow of refugees heading toward Fulda. Tired and foot sore from the journey, he found a rickety chair under the overhang of a boarded-up café to sit upon. Resting there for a minute, he surveyed the heart wrenching spectacle of scared, lost and broken people.
While doing so Max also noted a small contingent of German soldiers arriving on the scene, led by an obersturmführer of the Schutzstaffel, or SS. The obersturmführer was dressed in his dreaded black livery, replete with the polished skull and crossbones insignia centered squarely above the brim of his hat.
He was a sallow faced man with a vicious, weasel-like appearance and matching demeanor, and yelled continually in a loud, high pitched voice at both the soldiers as well as the refugees. To accentuate his present authority, he waved about with a Luger Parabellum pistol tightly clinched in his right hand.
The men under his command were dressed in the common gray uniform of the Wehrmacht Heer. But once Max looked past those uniforms, he saw that they were nothing much more than young boys and old men. They carried their weapons in an unfamiliar, haphazard fashion, and the fear and uncertainty in their eyes was just as evident as in those of the refugees around them.
However, there was one, an unterfeldwebel or senior sergeant, who caught Max’s attention while standing in front of the others. He had a seasoned, competent look to him, and carried both himself and his bolt action Mauser in an experienced, confident manner. The Luftwaffe hauptmann sized up the unterfeldwebel almost immediately as a professional fighting man.
Unnoticed by the newly arrived group, Max turned his attention to his aching feet and the growing holes in the bottom of both of his boot soles. He had placed some sheets from a newspaper inside his boots earlier in an attempt to protect them, but they were already worn through again. He looked around, trying to find some sort of material more resilient than mere paper. Tar shingles, perhaps? he thought to himself, his eyes searching along the edges of the overhang.
Suddenly, pandemonium broke out on the western approach to the bridge as the soldiers shut down passage across it. Those already on the span were being physically forced back against the following stream of other refugees behind them. As the civilians closest to the soldiers attempted to do so, some were knocked down and frantically scrambled about to regain their feet. In the increasing confusion, one man was pushed completely off the structure and into the freezing water below. The action taken by the soldiers had been unexpected, and a sense of growing panic swept through the unwieldy mass of tired, anxious people.
The long stream of human destitution wavered, and then was pressed forward again by those still pushing in from the rear. The SS officer screamed out an order and leveled his Luger at the crowd. Reluctantly, those under his command raised their rifles, pointing in the general direction of the hapless civilians. The sergeant Max had noticed earlier cast a questioning side glance at the SS officer, and kept the barrel of his weapon pointed into the air.
A deep, frothing hole formed fast in Max’s gut and he knew he had to do something quickly. Bringing himself back to his feet, he knocked the dust from his uniform and the once polished black leather boots. Reaching into his pocket, he carefully pulled out a handkerchief and removed his Knight’s Cross from within its folds. Max draped the medal and attending ribbon around his neck, checked its position by feel and stepped smartly from under the café overhang.
Meanwhile, the situation on the bridge was deteriorating rapidly. The SS obersturmführer was not only losing control of what was happening around him, but of himself. He screeched out another order and the soldiers slowly, reluctantly worked the bolts on their Mauser 98Ks. With the unmistakable metallic sound of rounds being chambered, an eerie hush fell over most of the crowd. Somewhere in their midst was the rising wail of a hungry infant.
Max squared his shoulders and picked up the pace. Mustering all of the military bearing that he had ever possessed, he marched toward the armed knot of men standing at the opening to the bridge.
In a powerful voice that carried above everything else Max addressed the SS man. “Obersturmführer, what is the meaning of this?” His words were in the structure of a question, but spoken as an obvious order requiring an immediate response.
The authority in Max’s tone startled the SS officer, who spun on his heels to face the rapidly approaching Luftwaffe hauptmann. Instinctively, the black clad obersturmführer snapped to attention and gave a well-rehearsed Nazi Party arm gesture. Max responded with the older hand salute of the pre-Nazi German military, while simultaneously speaking to the soldiers.
“You men, put down those rifles!” Max commanded them. Instantly the soldiers did so, relief oozing from their every pore. Max redirected his attention to the obersturmführer, who had opened his mouth to argue with the interloping hauptmann’s order. But the Luftwaffe ace was quicker in speaking again.
“Well, Obersturmführer, I am waiting. Who are you and why are you pointing German weapons at citizens of the Fatherland?” He stood before the SS man, hands clasped behind him and leaning ever so slightly forward, scowling. Max was working hard to keep the psychological advantage. Unarmed and alone, it was all he had going for him.
“Hauptmann, I have orders to secure this bridge and prevent anyone from fleeing the area,” the SS man replied. The obersturmführer was obviously taken aback by this gaunt, burned apparition of a Luftwaffe officer who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. His eyes were locked in near hypnotic manner on the highly esteemed Knight’s Cross around Max’s neck.
“You still have not identified yourself, Obersturmführer” retorted Max impatiently. “We will get to your orders in a moment.”
“I am Obersturmführer Johannes Strieber, of the Schutzstaffel Reichssicherheitshauptamt for this sector, Hauptmann” stammered the SS officer.
“Ah, the security police that seeks out traitors and other enemies to the Reich,” responded Max. “And just how many enemies of the Reich do we have here today?” he gestured with his left hand for emphasis to the pensive crowd of refugees silently observing the two protagonists.
“The Fuhrer has ordered that all Germans stand and fight, Hauptmann” replied the obersturmführer. “Anyone who does not do so, anyone who flees from the sound of battle, is to be shot.”
Max looked hard at the SS man for a moment. “Just what are you planning to do, Obersturmführer?” he demanded. “Assist the Bolsheviks in exterminating more of our fellow Germans? My God, man, take a look at them. They are not traitors and they are not enemies of Germany. They are nothing more than helpless women, children and tired old men. Th
ey are our countrymen, or what is left of them.”
The SS officer looked about, unsure and seemingly a bit confused. Max continued to talk to him in a lower, softer tone in an attempt to reach something human inside the black regalia.
“Strieber, the Americans and the British are to the west and approaching rapidly. The Soviets are doing the same from the east. We have lost this war, these people and those like them are all that is left of Germany. You shoot them down and you will be assisting in murdering what little hope remains of a future for our Fatherland.”
“I have my orders, Hauptmann” warned the obersturmführer warily.
“Yes, you have your orders. We have all had our orders and as good Germans, we followed them without hesitation. But that time is past, the Third Reich is finished.”
Max continued to quietly reason with Strieber, who still held tightly to the P08 Luger. “We have to do something to save what is left. Let these people go wherever they choose in peace; the Americans and the British can probably care for them far better than we can. It is over, Obersturmführer.”
The sallow faced SS officer stood indecisively for a moment, the pistol dangling along his right side from a relaxing hand. He turned abruptly away from Max and took several steps toward the watching crowd, as if he was taking a closer look at them. Stopping, he turned back around, his mind now made up. Strieber stared back at Max and his features twisted into a half-crazed expression of a resounding, institutionalized hate.
He said only one word, which was spewed through clenched teeth. “Traitor.”
The Luger came up smoothly as the obersturmführer worked its toggle action with his free hand, chambering a round. He calmly pointed it at the Luftwaffe hauptmann, who stood too far away to do much of anything about it. Of all of the ways there was to die in this war, Max found himself thinking this would have been the least likely he could have ever imagined. A short, final prayer began forming in his mind.
The Uvalde Raider Page 9
