by Karla M Jay
“Danke,” Herbert said, and Jutta nodded. Bosch and Stutz seemed to take seriously the task of delivering the Müllers to their temporary home. Again, he wondered what the United States government paid to repatriate his family.
Bosch counted out coins and bills and handed them to the ticket office clerk.
The stout woman offered them two tin cups of cool water.
“Thank you. This is more than generous,” Herbert said.
They sat in a circle on the floor and passed the water. “Kind of like Duck Duck Goose,” Alfred said.
“You’re it,” Frieda said, “especially if anyone gets a whiff of your socks. They’ll be running from you.”
Alfred laughed. “Wait until tonight. I’m sleeping with my feet in your face.”
“That’s the problem”—Frieda waved a hand below her nose—“You already do!”
Herbert smiled. It was nice to hear the children teasing each other.
Jutta chuckled. “I admit, a hot bath will suit us all.”
“Soon,” Herbert said. “This train and then another spur and we’re there.” His thoughts propelled him into the near future when they would enjoy just the most basic comforts. Hot water, a change of clothes, and no sound of gunfire in the distance. His family deserved that.
Back outside on the platform, Bosch offered Herbert a cigarette. He waved it away and then watched the soldier attempt to light his smoke, flicking his Zippo lighter several times, but it wouldn’t flame. Stutz reached over with a match and saved him.
“We need to let you know,” Stutz said, “the train carries munitions, possibly bombs. Smoking on board is not allowed.” He made an explosion sound and then threw his hands apart, miming something blowing up.
Herbert raised his eyebrows. “We don’t smoke. Besides, that’s the last thing I would do.”
“Should it blow, it’s the last thing we would all do,” Bosch said, seemingly proud of his gallows humor. A soldier’s coping mechanism. “I’m out of cigarettes after this.”
Jutta and then Frieda settled onto a bench to wait, and Alfred joined Herbert next to the soldiers. Herbert lifted his head to the late morning sun, his face warmed after a brief lashing from fall’s colder breezes. The train’s whistle sounded well before the engine slipped around the distant corner and glided into the station. Soldiers carrying rifles rode on top of the front coaches. The train stopped and the up-top guards stood. Their gun barrels flashed blue in the sunlight as they watched passengers exit from the six cars directly behind the engine. Then a few dozen people boarded the same passenger cars.
Bosch pointed to the second coach from the end. “This car.” A white circle with the word “Verboten” in the center was painted near the door.
“Forbidden?” Herbert asked. “What is this about?”
“We don’t want any locals in here. This car is for the deportees we oversee.”
Alfred grabbed his mother’s sack as well as his own. “Hopefully this one won’t smell like old soup and dirty hair.”
Jutta entered the car first. “Nice and clean,” she said over her shoulder.
They sat two by two in seats facing each other. Bosch and Stutz sat across the aisle. Twelve other internees and four guards climbed aboard. Herbert replayed all that transpired since the FBI first knocked on their door eleven months earlier. Wild rumors and nationalist fears sent his family’s life spiraling in a direction he never could have predicted. He believed being an American citizen included safety and freedoms with that honor. His father said when he was in the war, the best way to find out if he could trust another man in his unit was to give him a try. Otto had been willing to give their relocation a try, and now Herbert needed to trust two young soldiers to do what they were paid to do.
He crossed his arms and settled into his seat. Graf’s envelope crinkled inside his coat pocket. He decided not to open it, believing that doing so would mean he would never see the pastor again. Would the Nazis torture a man of the cloth for the information they hoped he had? The stories Graf told of the Nazi atrocities from his officer friend revealed no one was immune from their viciousness. Sorrow lay heavy on his heart, imagining the pain Graf might be subjected to while in custody.
Bosch checked his watch as the train jolted forward and then, after several jerks and starts, rolled smoothly. “Exactly on schedule. Two o’clock.”
Herbert squeezed Jutta’s hand. “We’ll be with Elke’s family before supper. Are you excited?”
“A little bit.” The practiced enthusiasm she often pushed into her voice was not there. “I can only hope they have a mind for taking us in.”
“They will, Mother,” Frieda said. “If it were us, wouldn’t we take in castaways?”
“Castaways,” Alfred said, “more like throwaways.” Other passengers turned at his angry words. He met their gazes with a defiant stare.
“Easy, son,” Herbert said. “We are all in this together.”
After a few moments, Alfred spoke again. “We would take in castaways. It’s who we are.” The train’s wheels clacked out a regular rhythm, and the children soon fell asleep shoulder to shoulder. Herbert wrapped Jutta in his arms and pulled her to his chest. Her breathing slowed and deepened. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. A dozen possibilities circled his mind, ranging from a warm welcome in Wiesbaden to being thrown out on the street. When the war ended, how soon before they were allowed to return home? He tried to envision who bought his property at the county auction. Someone with skills to run a gristmill? They might ruin the mechanisms without proper knowledge. It might be delusional, but he held on to a tiny seed of hope he’d save enough to buy it all back one day.
The train sounds were regular, reliable, calming. They were moving forward.
He doubted he’d shed the ill will he now harbored for his country. The empty stretch between the person he once was and the person he was today felt like a chasm he might never bridge. Once he returned home, he’d never again be the naïve man who trusted he had rights and liberties because some lessons can never be unlearned.
Wilhelm Falk
Bern, Switzerland - November 1944
Falk sat in a red leather chair in a heavily carpeted office at the International Red Cross building in Bern, Switzerland. Right then, he ached knowing how close in proximity he was to Ilse and the boys in Wiesbaden. Less than five hours by train, and he could wrap himself around them, and breathe in their essence. But, seeing them was not part of the U.S. government’s plan for him. He was released from Federal Prison for one reason only. To guide the Swiss Red Cross when they reached three German extermination camps. His knowledge of the layout of the camps and how to deal with the SS guards while speaking German made him an asset. After the Danish Jews reached safety, his usefulness would be reassessed. He’d either be sent out on another rescue mission or spend time in an American prison until the war ended.
His efforts to get the word out about the Final Solution kept him from being executed. The U.S. would not hand him over to his own army. As a final favor, he asked that he, along with Ilse and their sons, be given visas to move to the United States. Remaining in Germany meant he’d be looking over his shoulder for years, wondering if an SS comrade thought he should die for defecting and turning against Hitler. The officials refused to say whether they’d agree to his request.
Today, he was offered coffee and pepparkakor cookies, a pure luxury, while he read the headlines written by a New York Times correspondent in Geneva. A story published in September, three months ago. It was titled, “Inquiry Confirms Nazi Death Camp,” and the subtitle read, “1,715,000 Jews Said to Have Been Put to Death by the Germans.” A follow-up article on July 6 added more to the story. “Two Death Camps Liberated—Swiss Red Cross calls them Places of Horror.”
Had his letter to Bishop Charles Morerod in Geneva been the catalyst for the Swiss to investigate? He hadn�
��t held out much confidence for Sweden’s help. That country was the least likely to get involved with investigating the extermination camps because their country continued to trade with Germany, accepting gold for tungsten, wood, sardines, and iron ore.
Switzerland’s banks received German gold as well, depositing it with little interest in its source—a large portion taken from Jews. But now, the Swiss Red Cross decided to do something about the death camps after all. Wars were hell. This one was long, made up of hard, grinding days that evidently quashed man’s nobler instincts. The neutral countries may have tried to stay impartial but couldn’t pull it off in the long run. Men of integrity must have stopped questioning themselves and decided they could benefit from Germany’s actions.
Germany. His country. With all its contributions made to the arts and literature, would it ever have an honorable place on the world stage again?
Now here he was in Switzerland. He flew into Bern on a military transport, bound in handcuffs. According to the FBI, he was still under arrest. But unofficially, he was now a member of the U.S. War Refugee Board, the group working through the International Red Cross to rescue prisoners from the camps and relocate them to neutral territory. Apparently, his knowledge of the camps made him too important to leave locked up in a federal prison. The FBI accused him of not trying to stop the atrocities, and he still suffered the burn of their accusations. “You took photos, wrote letters as people were processed like cattle. You did not speak up, you did not try to stop it.” This was the truth that ate at him all along.
But now he was here, ready to do whatever he could to help correct his failures. He would use this undercover role to save as many as he could, even if it meant deviating from the Red Cross’s plan if he had the chance. The Red Cross was not political, did not choose sides. But he had.
A senior official in the Swiss Red Cross, Swiss commander, Lt. Marc Nilsson, explained to Falk who they were working with on the German side. Only Nilsson was aware of his identity as a former SS officer and the reason he was included on these rescues. That the Red Cross was working with Himmler couldn’t be more of a shock than if Nilsson had said Hitler surrendered. Once again, men in Hitler’s circle were making deals to stop the dictator. Colonel Walter Schellenberg was Hitler’s foreign intelligence chief, a high-ranking SS officer and Himmler’s most trusted aide. Somehow, he convinced Himmler to negotiate with the Allies to collaborate in Jewish rescue operations in exchange for being spared execution at the war’s end. Falk was eager to learn why Himmler was cooperating. Last he knew, Himmler was dangerous, erratic, and certainly not trustworthy.
The door opened and Jean-Marie Musy, a former president of Switzerland, entered. He was nearly bald with a graying mustache, but it was his eyes that commanded attention. Their intensity conveyed an unwavering confidence. Falk was told Musy now served on the Federal Council of Switzerland and was affiliated with the Christian Democratic People’s Party of Switzerland.
“You are here to guide us,” Musy said as he shook Falk’s hand.
“I am.” Falk paused. It was dangerous to be too transparent, but he needed to know what the Swiss knew about him. “You heard my story?”
Musy nodded and motioned they should sit. “You were ahead of your time. Many SS officers are now trying to reach agreements before the war ends.”
He restrained an urge to lash out. Not once did he think about how his actions would lessen his side-line participation after the war. He wanted to get the word out and return to his family or die trying.
“I’m just here to save people . . . in any way I can.”
Musy offered the smile of a hardened skeptic. “How well do you know Himmler?”
“I met him twice, both times at big SS meetings.”
“Would he recognize you?”
“He could. But it’s been almost two years.”
Musy stroked his mustache. “We’ll keep you hidden if he’s around, but it’s unlikely we’ll see him.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Certainly. We need to trust each other.”
“How do you know Himmler?” Falk asked.
“General Walter Schellenberg, his assistant. Himmler is very afraid of the arrival of the Red Army and wants to find favor with the allies.” He smiled. “Of course, we didn’t talk to Eisenhower about any such deal, but Schellenberg and Himmler don’t know that.”
Falk was relieved to hear these two were not getting away with their crimes. Himmler developed the SS from a mere 290 men to a million strong, changing their initial duties as Hitler’s personal bodyguards to a well-oiled killing machine. Being duped by the Allies was a fitting end to Himmler and Schellenberg’s long reigns of terror.
“These men are the highest-ranking SS officers, only one level under Hitler. Why do you believe they can be trusted?”
Musy crossed his legs and straightened the crease in his pants. “Himmler has been swaying for over a year with the idea of killing Hitler or following him to the end. Schellenberg convinced him that his flirtation with these insidious ideas would leave him dangerously close to the discovery of his betrayal by his very own police and intelligence services. He is now committed to this resistance, even if it is to win favor to save his life.”
“Himmler was the brain behind the creation and organization of the ‘final solution’ camps.” Falk rubbed his forehead. He’d never liked Himmler. The man was the opposite of the Aryan image Himmler himself advocated. He was neither tall, nor strong. Blond or blue-eyed, and although married, he visited Lebensborn clinics in Norway as often as possible, planting his “pure” seed in Viking girls paid to bear children with uncontaminated bloodlines.
The notion Himmler offered his assistance to return Jewish prisoners to Denmark stung like thistles lodged in his throat. The man needed to be executed, not rewarded.
The door opened and Musy’s son, Benoit, entered. Benoit was a member of the Swiss Air Force and a younger version of his father.
Benoit knew the financiers of this operation, Recha Sternbuch and her husband, Yitzchak. Falk learned the Sternbuchs were Orthodox Jews who accepted a devil’s bargain of 1,000 Reichsmarks, payable to Hitler, to release one Jewish prisoner. Thus far, the Sternbuchs raised enough money to bring 1,200 prisoners to safety. A small drop in the wide ocean of death, but an enormous amount of money and a place to start.
“We are ready,” Benoit said.
The Red Cross would travel to Czechoslovakia and Poland in twelve white hospital buses with the large Red Cross emblem on the side. The staff consisted of medics, drivers, and volunteers, of which Falk was one. The convoy needed to pack their own supplies and not rely on purchasing goods or petrol in hostile countries. Himmler signed the release documents at Hohenlychen, his office outside Berlin. The papers secured the freedom of the Jews, but after handing the papers over to the Red Cross, he demanded that his name not be associated with the rescue in any way. Neither in foreign announcements nor in the Swedish or Swiss newspapers. And Schellenberg needed to be similarly careful. His position as Hitler’s foreign intelligence officer couldn’t save him if rumors of treason reached the Führer.
Part of Falk’s role was to help choose the three camps to rescue. The Red Cross picked Terezín in Czechoslovakia because of the sheer number of women and children they saw there on an earlier visit. Falk suggested Gross-Rosen, a large sub camp in Poland. Also, in Poland, he wanted Auschwitz. When they reached Auschwitz, he planned to do more than rescue prisoners. Not everyone received a second chance to do something good in life.
Izaak Tauber
Terezín, Czechoslovakia - November 1944
They didn’t get to move into a house that day, or any day after Izaak and Papa returned to Terezín. The nice houses in town sat empty, and the new stores, cafes, and library were closed. All the hard work the people put in to build a pretty place didn’t seem to matter now.
&nbs
p; They slept in giant wooden tray beds in a room with holes in the walls. Cold fingers of winter crept in at night and sent shivers up and down Izaak’s back. When Papa woke him this morning, there was an ice dagger hanging from one of the holes. Even the heat of fifty men stuffed into one long room couldn’t keep it warm. The guards were nervous and angry, yelling at the workers but also at each other. This city was more terrible than when he and Mama first arrived.
Papa helped him put on his layers of clothes to prepare for another day of work. Each day without Mama felt as if dark shadows followed him around. Papa didn’t speak much but neither did the other men. Mama and the rest of the women left for Auschwitz on the early trains the morning he and Papa arrived. He hoped Mama lived in the same camp with his art teacher and the other children in his class.
He and Papa tried to cheer up each other with invented games. They used stones for checkers, or caught a ball made from a tobacco pouch filled with sand. When Papa started looking sad, Izaak always said, “Bet I can throw the ball farther than you this time.”
Every day, in the moat around the fortress, the Germans burned piles and piles of papers. Big trucks kept arriving with more papers and the fires burned into the night, creating flickering orange monsters that rose high above the moat. Papa said they were burning something called archives and records, documents they didn’t want anyone to see.
The prisoners shuffled to the cafeteria and claimed their bowl of warm broth and piece of bread. Papa said a prayer that the food would keep them strong and that they would see Mama soon.
On the way to work, Izaak studied the pencil lead-colored sky above their heads just before the white prickles of hard snow stung his face. He knew snow came in many types. There was soft snow and quiet snow. Those were pretty flakes as big as butterflies. But this snow was the uncaring kind, and he assumed the Germans had a hand in the hateful weather since they controlled everything. He huddled next to Papa and the other workers, their backs bent as the group walked to the Columbarium where the boxes of ashes were stored. Once they were in the long tunnel and underground, they stood tall and shook the icy flakes off their clothing and swept their hands over their hair really fast as if trying to get spiders out.
