The Enemy Above

by Michael P. Spradlin

  “Why?”

  “Because the old woman was … is … important.”

  “What? How could a woman who can barely walk be important? She is just a Jew!”

  “I do not know specifically, mein general. But think of it. What if she leads the resistance? Or perhaps she guides the Juden to safety. She could know the locations of all of their safe houses. Of course, she might be nothing more than a symbol. But whatever she is, she was too important to be captured.”

  The general steepled his fingers, his face a mask of concentration. For a moment, Von Duesen thought he had been convincing. If Steuben would just give him another chance, he would find the woman and give her what she deserved. And the boy who’d bludgeoned him, too.

  “Nein,” the general said, sitting up in his chair. “I do not see this woman as anything other than a hapless Jew hiding in cave. No one who is trying to survive would place their fates in the hands of an old woman.”

  Von Duesen’s heart sank, but he would not let his disappointment show. Somehow he would find a way to get what he wanted. Revenge.

  “You are being reassigned to prisoner transport. A truck full of prisoners waits outside. It is fueled and ready to depart. That is all, Herr Major.”

  Von Duesen came to attention and saluted. “Heil Hitler,” he said. He turned smartly on his heel and left the general’s office. Making his way through headquarters, he exhaled. His worst fears had been realized. Prisoner transport—an assignment that gave him no way to shine. As the general had promised a truck was waiting by the courthouse steps, its engine running.

  A ragged and motley group of Juden had been stuffed into the truck bed. Exhaustion lined their faces. They were mostly women, children, and old men. The driver—a sergeant—saluted Major Von Duesen as he climbed into the passenger seat of the cab.

  It would be dark soon. Karl waited patiently as the truck lurched into gear.

  He had a plan. And darkness would be the perfect time to execute it.

  When Bubbe finally woke, the sky was dark. Anton’s inventory of the house had revealed almost nothing of any use. He’d found a small container of salt, two empty jars he had filled with water from the pump, and a butter knife. They would take all of it, along with the quilt.

  They dined on raw potatoes and water. Bubbe looked better after resting, but Anton knew she would still need to move slowly as they tried to find the others. Traveling at night would slow them even more.

  “Bubbe, where is this Priest’s Grotto? Where are we to meet Uncle Dmitri?” Anton asked.

  “It is nearly five kilometers north of where we were. We have a long walk ahead of us. We may not make it before morning. If that is the case, we will have to find another place to hide.”

  Anton considered this while he chewed. He hoped they could reunite with the remaining members of their group, but he was worried about locating the rendezvous point. If he and Bubbe lost their way, they would need to follow the river … and that was how the gestapo had discovered them in the first place. He hoped it would not come to that.

  “Anton, there is something we need to discuss,” Bubbe said.

  “What is it?”

  “It is about what happened in the field with the gestapo. What you did to rescue me. You must not do such a thing again.”

  “What? Bubbe—”

  She held up her hand. When Bubbe was serious, a look came over her face that Anton recognized. It was stern, but not angry. It meant he was to obey her every word. He had seen it many times.

  “I am grateful that you saved my life, Anton. I know that you love me and you were very brave. But you must never do such a thing again. You could have …” Her voice broke off as her eyes filled with tears. “You could have been killed. You are so much like your father. Smart. Dutiful. Courageous. You remind me of him more and more every day. But I cannot lose you, too.”

  “But Bubbe, you have not lost Papa! He is in the west, fighting with the Polish army. We do not know his fate. He could return to us when the war is over!”

  “True. But war is chaos. We do not know if he is alive or dead. The militias have stolen Pavel from me. Soon, they or the Russian army will come to claim Dmitri for their ranks. And if this war lasts long enough, it will take you, too. When you are older—when you are a man—you will decide if you will fight. You and you alone. But for now, you will stay alive. And if I am captured again, you will not take foolish chances. Your priority is your life and safety, not mine. I need you to swear to me.”

  Anton wanted to protest, but he knew Bubbe would insist. They could argue for hours and her position would not change. He would do his best to stay alive and prevent her from being captured again. And he would give her the words she wanted. He just did not know whether he could stand by them.

  “I swear, Bubbe,” he said. “I will not take such a foolish chance again.”

  Bubbe patted him on the hand. “You are a good boy, Anton. Your mother and your father would be so proud.”

  She stood up and stretched. “We should get moving. We have far to go, and we do not know when another gestapo patrol might pass by without warning. We will be safer once we reach the forest.

  Anton was not sure he agreed, but he gathered up their supplies. He packed the water jars carefully in the blanket pack. He hooked it over his shoulder, then he and Bubbe ventured into the darkness.

  The only way they could find the Priest’s Grotto was to backtrack until they recognized a landmark well enough to know which direction they should head next. Soon, the farmhouse was behind them. They crossed the rough terrain of the field and eventually were enveloped in the hardwood forest. With very little light, it was slow going. They had to navigate the forest floor while watching out for tree roots and low-hanging branches.

  After about an hour, they stopped to rest. Bubbe was breathing hard, so Anton gave her a sip of water. But they could not dally for long. Bubbe insisted that they plow ahead.

  A bit farther on they came to the river and Anton finally recognized where they were. In fact, they were close to their original hiding place. He’d known they needed to find a familiar place to orient themselves, but walking along the river was exactly the thing he had been hoping to avoid.

  Anton stopped and listened.

  “What is it?” Bubbe whispered.

  “This is the river where Uncle Dmitri and the other men gathered our water. I believe the gestapo used it to track us to the cave.”

  “So you think they may have planted men nearby to catch us returning to our hiding spot?”

  “Yes, Bubbe,” he said. “To be safe, we should cross to the other side of the river. We must travel as quietly as possible. If they were smart, they would hide on this side of the river, closest to the cave entrance. But in truth, it is impossible to know what is in their heads.”

  “But crossing the river is not safe,” Bubbe said.

  “It will be if we find the right spot,” Anton replied. “Lend me your walking stick.”

  Anton took the offered staff and found a flat spot on the bank. He poked ahead of him with the walking stick, feeling along the bottom of river. Soon, he stood in the water up to his knees. The bottom of the river was rocky, not muddy, which would make it easier to cross. He kept creeping forward until the water reached his waist. But with a few more steps he had crossed to the other side.

  He retraced his steps and took Bubbe by the arm. As they entered the water, she winced at how cold it was. But Anton held her tightly, using the staff to keep them upright. The current was not strong and they slowly worked their way to the other side. Anton removed his coat and shirt and wrung them out. Bubbe bunched up her skirt, twisting it in her hands to do the same.

  “We must be quiet, Bubbe,” he said. “If the gestapo is here, they will be watching the river. We will go around to the west and then circle back.”

  Before he could say another word, someone grabbed him from behind and a hand closed over his mouth.

  Sergeant Weiger
t, who drove the truck, was an unrelenting talker. Despite Von Duesen’s gruff one-word answers, Weigert droned on and on. Even when Karl did not answer him at all, he was not deterred. Within a few kilometers, Karl swore he knew the man’s entire life history. How Weigert was born in Dresden, but grew up in Düsseldorf. His father was an engineer and his mother had died when he was sixteen. He dropped out of college to join the army and on and on and on.

  Von Duesen had no interest in any of his yammering. He was looking for the right spot to implement his plan. So far nothing had proved suitable. But he knew the territory well from rounding up Juden. Soon, they would arrive at a place that would work perfectly. This truck would be better used for hunting than transporting, he thought to himself.

  Though he appeared calm and collected on the outside, inside he still seethed at the treatment he’d received from General Steuben. Yes, he had lost his prisoners. His men had gunned down the woman and child. But it was a single unfortunate mistake. He and his squad had captured more Jews than any other in the entire regiment. He was a genius at sniffing out their hiding places and imprisoning them. But all that had been undone by one single error.

  On they drove, the sergeant yammering away. Von Duesen was not sure whether Weigert even realized that his passenger had stopped participating in the conversation. Karl occupied himself by looking out the windshield at the passing countryside, waiting for the right spot to appear.

  Finally, after several more kilometers, he saw it. The road bisected two large wheat fields and was lined by irrigation ditches on either side. There were no houses or villages around for kilometers.

  “Halten,” he ordered.

  “Mein major?”

  “Halten Sie,” Von Duesen repeated.

  “Mein major, our orders—”

  “I was given new orders before we left,” he said. He pulled several sheets of folded paper from inside the coat pocket of his uniform. In reality, they were not official documents of any kind—but the sergeant did not know that.

  “Ja, mein major,” he said. With a shrug he applied the brakes and the large truck came to a lumbering stop in the middle of the road.

  “Now what, mein major?”

  “Go to the rear of the truck, open the tailgate, and order the Juden out. Have them line up in front of the ditch.”

  “Major?” Weigert was clearly confused by his request.

  “Do it. Schnell, schnell.”

  Sensing something in his superior’s voice, Weigert hurriedly opened the door and scrambled out. A few seconds later, Von Duesen heard the sergeant bark an order in Ukrainian. Even though it was a large truck, he felt it bounce as the Jews climbed out. He took a deep breath. Now was the time. Sergeant Weigert’s machine gun lay on the seat next to him. He grabbed it, along with two extra clips of ammunition, and exited the vehicle.

  In the darkness he could see the silhouettes of the prisoners milling about in the middle of the road. Weigert was trying to herd them in front of the irrigation canal, but they ignored him.

  “All of you, line up in front of the ditch,” Von Duesen commanded in his loudest, most serious tone. He did not speak Ukrainian, and had to repeat himself twice, but eventually they quietly did as he ordered.

  These Jews had no fight left in them. For months they had been hunted, beaten, tortured, starved, and imprisoned. Now they were resigned to their fates. Von Duesen stalked to the middle of the line.

  “Turn and face the field,” he shouted. What could they do, but comply?

  A few of the prisoners began to pray. When all of them had turned, Von Duesen racked the slide on the machine gun and pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands as bullets leapt from the barrel. The noise was deafening.

  Lead ripped into the bodies before him. The children went down first, tumbling into the ditch. A few of the younger women tried to run, but they did not get far. When one of the old men tried to turn as if to fight, the bullets knocked him backward, and he fell screaming into the trench.

  Von Duesen walked to the edge and peered in at the bodies. A few of them still moved. He inserted a fresh clip into the gun and fired at the bodies again. When the clip emptied and the bullets were gone and the night was silent again, finally it was done. He had not relished the task, but he needed the truck to find that old woman and save his career. This was the only way.

  He turned to find Sergeant Weigert staring at him in disbelief.

  “Mein Gott, Herr Major,” he said. “Was haben Sie getan?” What have you done?

  Von Duesen looked directly into the sergeant’s eyes. He wanted to make sure the man understood him.

  “I have done, Sergeant, what needed to be done.” He turned toward the truck. “Come,” he said. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

  The hand covering Anton’s mouth smelled like dirt. It was all he could think of. Bubbe let out a gasp as another hand snaked out of the darkness and enveloped her mouth as well. Anton had been so careful. How had the gestapo found them?

  He fumbled at the blanket pack around his shoulder. The small hatchet he carried was secreted there. If he could get it out, they might stand a chance of getting away. It had worked once before, after all. He thrashed and squirmed, trying desperately to free himself. Close by, he saw his grandmother doing the same. She whacked at her assailant with her walking stick and he could hear her muffled cries as she fought.

  “Hold still,” the voice behind him said. “Anton, hold still.”

  It took him a moment to realize that whoever held him knew his name. And then a moment longer to notice that the voice was speaking in Yiddish. How could this be? A gestapo soldier would speak German or maybe Ukrainian. It must be a trick, he thought as he struggled harder to free himself.

  “Anton, Anton, stop,” the voice said. “It is me! Your uncle Dmitri.”

  Uncle Dmitri? Here? How?

  Anton could not believe it. Somehow, the Germans had captured his friends and neighbors and tortured them into revealing the group’s secrets. Anton twisted his head back and forth until he worked his mouth free, then bit down hard on the hand covering him.

  “Ow!” The voice behind him muttered, trying desperately to keep quiet. “Anton, it is me. Stop it!” The man released him, and when Anton turned around, to his shock, he found his uncle Dmitri standing in front of him, his face lit by moonlight. Another man he recognized from the cave, Herman, released his grandmother. Dmitri shook his bitten hand, trying to make the pain go away.

  “When did you learn to bite like a mule?” he asked.

  “Uncle Dmitri,” Anton said. “What are you doing here?” Before he could get an answer, his grandmother crossed the distance between them and threw her arms around her son.

  “Dmitri! Oh, my precious son. I thought I would never see you again.” She cried tears of joy, her small, bony shoulders shaking as Dmitri held her. He stroked her head.

  “Muter. Muter,” he said softly. Mother. Mother.

  “How did you find us?” Anton asked.

  “We’ve been keeping watch,” Herman said. “The gestapo has been through the area almost every night looking for stragglers. We have been waiting until the Germans are not watching, and gathering up those who do not know the way to the Priest’s Grotto.”

  “Yes,” Dmitri said. “Sixteen of our original group is already there, plus three other families that we found running from the gestapo. The rest … well, we have no way of knowing what has become of them.”

  Bubbe told Dmitri what had happened to them. When she told him the fate of Rina and David, Dmitri grabbed her hand and together they bowed their heads in prayer. When they finished, Dmitri placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

  “You did well, Anton,” he said. “I owe you thanks for saving my mother. But she is right—you cannot take such a foolish chance in the future. You are brave, but bravery alone will not keep you alive. I think God smiles on you, for you were also lucky. The gestapo is cunning. Word will get out about what you have done. The
y will not be so careless the next time.”

  “I understand, Uncle. It’s just … I couldn’t let them take Bubbe away without doing something. It felt as if the hand of God was guiding me. With Papa gone …” His words trailed off.

  “I know, lad. I know.” Dmitri squeezed his shoulder. “We have had much taken from us. Yet here we are, alive. And it is God’s wish that we stay that way. You must remember that always.”

  “I will, Uncle. I promise.”

  “Is everyone healthy? Safe?” Bubbe asked.

  “Yes, Mother,” Dmitri said. “And there is someone waiting for you who you will very much want to see. Pavel is with us. He got separated from his partisan militia when we found him. His short time with them was most productive. He has become very resourceful. But there will be time to discuss all of that later. Now we must make haste.”

  They started off through the woods, following the riverbank. The night was cool, but sweat soon flowed down Anton’s back and forehead as they took up a quick pace. Behind him, he could hear Bubbe breathing hard.

  “Uncle,” he said. “Bubbe needs help. She cannot keep up.”

  From behind, Bubbe whacked him on the hip with her walking stick. “Grandsons should learn to tend their own pasture. I am fine,” she said.

  “No, Muter. Anton is right. Herman and I will find a way to carry you. Now you must rest.” He removed a canteen from his belt. “Stay here and drink. We will return shortly.” Anton took the canteen, and then Dmitri and Herman disappeared into the darkness.

  “Dmitri! Where are you going?” Bubbe whispered. She received no answer. Anton could hear the men moving off into the darkness. Anton led Bubbe to a fallen tree that she could sit on. He gave her the canteen and she drank from it greedily.

  Sometimes, Anton marveled at how strong she was. Bubbe had raised her three boys, then taken over raising Anton when his mother had died. She worked the fields, tended the garden, helped with harvest, cooked their meals, and kept the house. When Papa had left to join the Polish army, she had taken on his share of the chores as well. And all of that had taken its toll. Though she would be loath to admit it, Bubbe was growing old. But still she had the heart of a warrior.