by Karla M Jay
There was only so much a humanitarian group could do. Today, they would liberate the 300 people left in the city. Large fires burned along the bastions, the cloying smoke making it hard to breathe. He suspected it wasn’t trash but piles of incriminating records.
They entered a town hall, where SS-Sturmbannführer Karl Rahm shook their hands and thanked them for coming. Every Nazi’s attitude had shifted. With the Red Army on their doorstep, officers like Himmler, and now Rahm, offered complete cooperation, acting as if they were only minor cogs in Hitler’s killing machine.
Falk prayed his information might help send every one of Hitler’s men to a hangman’s noose. For their involvement with the Jewish exterminations. These officers knew what they were doing. Their moral foundations obliterated the first time they unfairly beat a man, or harmed a child because a maniac said it was right.
Rahm led them to several large dining halls where prisoners waited. Falk and Bauer moved through the group together, reassuring the haggard men and a few women they were safe. “You’re going home,” Bauer said, but the resignation in the prisoners’ eyes said they were not convinced they were liberated.
Hours later, they’d loaded the last of the white buses. Before leaving the fortress, the vehicles circled the town square, and Falk spotted a new pavilion in the center. What sliver of optimism had the Jews been given when music filled the night breeze? They may have believed the Germans came to their senses and stopped the abuse and killings. Then, the painful realization they’d been deceived, once again, because evil never showed mercy.
Falk’s bus pulled away from the town. The solid white sky broke open, and twilight rays of orange and gold lit the Sudeten Mountains like a vision of hope. The sun set, and he and the Red Cross members worked throughout the night, assessing the health of each passenger, feeding them, and handing out blankets.
Just before dawn, he settled onto a seat next to Lt. Nilsson. Nilsson nodded when he made eye contact with a volunteer in the aisle, carrying a coffee tray. “Buy a drink for you?” he asked Falk.
“Certainly, a double.” He accepted a cup and took a cautious sip. He stared at the roof. The lights from the bus behind them flashed across the shiny surface illuminating the bus’ interior. He turned his gaze to the lieutenant who was already studying him. “How many of these rescue operations have you carried out?”
“This is just our second,” Nilsson said.
“A thousand Reichsmarks per person. The Wehrmacht is doing really well.”
“No money has yet been released. It is still in a Swiss bank.” He took a swallow of the hot drink. “Musy and the Sternbuchs have no intention of paying Himmler, but he does not know it yet. To whom will he complain? Hitler? He would be dead before he tried to blame someone else.”
“Good to hear. The Jews should not be bought like cattle.” In a fair world, Himmler and Hitler, and men like Mengele, would have the tables turned on them, and they would waste away in prison.
Falk wanted this time to speak to Nilsson alone. He pulled out a small notebook and an envelope and handed them to Nilsson.
“Take this, please. Two nights ago, when I couldn’t sleep, I listed Hitler’s most committed men. Where they were. The programs they monitored.”
Nilsson looked genuinely confused. “Why do you give it to me?”
“It should be in neutral hands. I’m sure there will be war trials. These men can have a sudden memory loss about their participation. This list should help clarify.”
Nilsson tucked the book inside a jacket pocket. He read the address on the front of the envelope. “Who is Karl van der Beck?”
“My wife’s family. Where she and my sons are. You said I couldn’t contact Ilse. But if for some reason I don’t come back, I hope she receives this. I need her to know I tried to do good in this wickedness.”
Nilsson narrowed his gaze. “Why do you think you’re not coming back?”
“This is war and the camp we’re going to is one of the worst.” Falk kept a neutral expression. His deepest wish was to return to Ilse and the boys, but what he planned to attempt in Auschwitz might set him on a different course.
Nilsson pulled out a flask and handed it to Falk who opened it. The pop of the small chained cork, the sound of life returning to normal, a shared drink with a friend, were the everyday activities he missed. Falk lifted the silver flask. “Here’s to the end of the war.”
They passed the flask back and forth until it was empty.
Falk let his head drop back against the seat, listening to the sleet hit the window like uncooked rice tossed against glass. With a pang of guilt, it occurred to him he hadn’t thought about Ilse enough today. But soon, if granted the sweet justice of killing Mengele he prayed for, he’d return to his family to rebuild a life. And although he’d always face miles of guilt, he’d learn to be content in the garden behind their home and avoid the temptation of looking over the hedges wondering, what if?
The horizon glowed with light-pink hues, but dark clouds hung above them. He ran his hand over his eyes and turned to Nilsson. “I have a favor to ask.”
Nilsson’s eyebrows rose. “I cannot let you disappear.”
“That’s not it, it’s about when we reach Auschwitz.”
Izaak Tauber
Auschwitz, Poland - January 1945
Another boy who didn’t speak Izaak’s language now handed out the strings at the platform. Izaak missed the band’s music and missed seeing Papa who must be wondering where he was. Uncle Josef let him and eleven other children live in a big dormitory room where they each had their own beds. Some of the children were twin brothers or sisters and others, although older than Izaak, were smaller as if someone shrunk them. Uncle Josef gave them real food to eat—goulash, chicken, potatoes—and not just soup, and there was an honest-to-goodness play yard. Uncle Josef always dressed up when he visited, not like a doctor at all. No white coat or hat. And he brought sweets. At first, Izaak saved half for Papa, but Papa didn’t come.
The other children never saw their parents either. He would gladly go back to his days as a hungry shoestring boy if Papa were nearby. Something was wrong about being chosen as a special child by Uncle Josef. Maybe the candy was meant to trick him and the other children, but he couldn’t figure out what the trick was.
Uncle Josef watched him sketch each day. The doctor had weird ideas about the right way to draw, though. He made him shut his eyes and sketch a wooden box from memory. Then he had him draw with his left hand, and one time he even drew while reciting the Dutch alphabet over and over. The doctor always took the drawings but never hung them up. This made him suspect the doctor was somehow lying about wanting to learn how he drew.
Earlier today, the doctor came into their room and took away two brothers, who looked exactly alike, to do “something special.” When the boys arrived at Uncle Josef’s a few days ago, they were dressed in striped rags like the rest of the people in camp. Then he found matching shirts and pants for them. He told the boys, “You’ll get to see your mama and papa after.” So he decided to try harder to be the doctor’s favorite and be chosen for something special.
When the doctor wasn’t around, the children had to stay in their room. Izaak practiced drawing the house his family lived in before the war, taking extra time with details. The deep windowsill where he liked to sketch that overlooked the canal. The praying hands knocker on the front door and Papa’s office desk. Sketching was the only pastime that kept his stomach from feeling sick. He threw his worries into the drawings, using more black and grey hues than ever before. His pictures looked more realistic with fear thrown in. His art teacher in Amsterdam would be proud.
Carefully, he unfolded the worn-out drawing of Papa he made over a year ago. Papa was so fuzzy, and all the details of his face were blurred. He barely recognized him, so he needed to draw another one that showed a skinnier Papa.
He worried a lot about Papa since he hadn’t seen him. They’d slept snuggled together ever since they arrived, and now that it was snowing, what was Papa doing? And Mama? Thousands of women lived on the other side of camp, all with shaved heads, all in baggy, striped dresses, many with mismatched shoes. Through the fence, the women looked like ragged ghosts. He would have to hear Mama’s voice to tell her apart from the others, but the guards shot people who approached the wire, so that wasn’t an option.
He didn’t know what to do. The longer he lived in Uncle Josef’s dormitory, the more his insides shook. Although he should be honored that an important officer enjoyed his art, he wanted to find his parents more than he cared about showing off for the too-nice man. But as soon as the doctor returned, he planned to ask him if he could go back to his shoestring job, or be chosen for an outing so he could see his mama and papa. Until then, he drew and drew.
Herbert Müller
Pfungstadt, German - January 1945
Herbert woke his family just as the first wisps of dawn paraded outside. A good night’s sleep reflected in his family’s behavior. Jutta fed them another serving of porridge and then hummed as she cleaned the kitchen, leaving it as they found it, minus the food. The scowl melted from Alfred’s brow, and he and Frieda were joking back and forth as they headed to the washroom.
They left the maid’s quarters just as the horizon turned pink. When they passed Dr. Seidel’s house, the baby’s cry came from inside. “He’s still with us,” Jutta said.
As traumatic as yesterday’s events were, Herbert’s family shared the delight in knowing they’d saved a baby’s life. How often could a person brag about that? One day his children would tell their children about all they’d survived.
He set his worries aside and focused on the straightest path out of town. The streets were hushed. A sense of reverence hung in the air, fused with the pungent scent of old wood smoke. The sound of their footsteps, slapping the cobblestone, echoed off the stone buildings as they reached the outskirts of town.
A field beside the road was pockmarked with deep holes. Charred metal, twisted and cooled into violent shapes, was strewn along the edge of the road. The spill of iridescent oil on the road shimmered with dawn’s yellow and lavender tints. A splash of color set against the dullness of everything else around them.
“Train station’s this way.” He pointed to the signpost.
“Wiesbaden, here we come”—Jutta wrapped her arm around Frieda—“No more walking.”
“Goodbye, blisters!” Alfred slapped his palms back and forth as if wiping away something unwanted.
At the station, two women and a teenage girl stood against the wall bundled in baggy brown coats, their one piece of luggage at their feet tied shut with a rope, their eyes wary.
The ticket window sign said closed, and the inside of the building was dark.
“Do you speak in German?” Herbert asked in that language, although their dark features negated the typical blonde-haired blue-eyed stereotype.
They looked to each other and squeezed closer together. The older-looking woman, with a blue scarf tied around her curly hair, shook her head.
Alfred cupped his hands at the window. “There’s a man in there.”
“The sign says it opens in thirty.” Frieda tapped the words on the sign. “I can read that much in German.”
A German military vehicle raced around the corner and stopped next to them. Exhaust billowed from the tailpipe as two soldiers stepped out with guns drawn. “Your identification,” one demanded.
Herbert recognized their uniforms—the Gestapo, Germany’s secret police. An icy chill raced up his back. His family moved closer to his side as he handed over their travel papers.
The soldier walked it to a man seated in the vehicle, and the men conferred. A massive man in a crisp uniform stepped from the truck. He had a determined but aging face. “Why would Americans be in Germany?” Then he slapped the jacket of papers against his palm.
“We return to live with relatives.” A vein in Herbert’s neck throbbed. “We take the train from here to Wiesbaden.” He hoped to play on their empathy if the police had any. “We’ve been walking for days since the Frankfurt Express was blown up.”
The large man nodded and spoke rapidly to the other policemen. He seemed to be seeking confirmation that what Herbert said about the train was true. “Get your tickets and be on your way.”
“Danke.” A warm wash of relief flowed through him. He’d come to associate trust as if being left holding a piece of crumpled paper. Even when smoothed out again, the creases remained permanent as was his new distrust of authority. “As soon as the station opens.” He spread his arms and herded his family to a bench next to the ticket window.
The soldiers turned their attention to the huddle of women who kept their eyes downcast. They pointed their drawn guns and demanded identification, but the women didn’t understand and made no move to comply. The large man reached for the youngest girl and began pulling her away from the two.
The older woman complained in a keening voice. The rapid words sounded Slavic.
Another soldier pushed her, and she stumbled to her knees. She raised her arm pleading to the man, her voice cracking with emotion.
Before Herbert could stop him, Alfred crossed to the woman, pulled her up, and then put himself between the women and the police, his arms stretched outward in a protective manner. The ladies’ eyes were huge and shifting in all directions, trying to understand what was going on. “They’ve done nothing wrong,” he said in English.
Herbert quickly translated and slowly approached Alfred. He had never been prouder or more scared at the same time. “Son. Let me talk to them.”
Alfred didn’t move from his protective stance as Herbert turned to the police.
“These women do not seem to be a threat. And they don’t speak German.” He raised his hands. Surely, they had real criminals to apprehend. How about whoever murdered the baby’s relatives? “Shouting louder won’t help them understand.”
A cruel smile grew on the lips of the lead Gestapo. “Your American arrogance. You claim to know who threatens our country?” His chuckle was throaty and hoarse. “You and your son have to come with us.”
They stepped forward and jabbed the guns into Herbert’s and Alfred’s sides, separating them from the women.
Alfred reached to push the gun away. Then time slowed down even though the events happened in an instant.
“Pleased don’t!” Herbert yelled as one policeman raised his rifle.
The Gestapo officer clubbed Alfred in the head with the butt of his weapon. A spray of blood misted the air.
Jutta screamed and Frieda fell to her knees, her face buried in her hands.
Alfred made no sound as he crumpled as if he were a puppet cut loose from its strings. He lay sprawled on the ground in an unnatural position, legs and arms going in opposite directions.
Jutta rushed to Alfred but another policeman slung his rifle outward, blocking her.
“You will still come with us,” the large policeman said.
Herbert’s mind spun. Lights flashed in front of his eyes. His worst fear was coming true. He failed to keep his family safe and the painful realization made his whole body tremble.
The police seemed intent on taking him and Alfred with them. How could he leave Jutta and Frieda to travel alone? And now Alfred was seriously injured. His stomach roiled and he fought the urge to vomit.
The big officer nudged Herbert, keeping the gun leveled his way. “Move!”
He slowly took off his coat and handed it to Jutta.
“It’s very important that you take this and keep it with you,” he said firmly, his eyes drilling into hers. Pastor Graf’s envelope, that Jutta knew nothing about, was tucked in the inside pocket.
She accepted the coat, all the while shaking her head ba
ck and forth as if trying to will away what was happening.
The two soldiers reached for Alfred’s arms and legs. Herbert stepped in to help lift his son into the back of the military truck. Jutta’s cries of “no, no, no” turned into a wailing sound as he climbed in to kneel next to Alfred.
“Take the train and get to Elke’s.” He tried to sound confident but deep down he knew he’d been wrong to trust again, to think the Gestapo would ever be on their side.
The foreign women scurried around the building, but the police no longer seemed interested in them. That should have given him a measure of satisfaction. His son had saved the frightened women from who knows what. But the cost to his family was too high. They would be separated and with Alfred seriously injured, he was stripped bare of any hope.
“I know you can do this. I love you both.” The horror on Jutta’s face nearly ripped him in half as she reached for Frieda, sobs wracking them both.
He turned his attention to Alfred who lay on his side, unmoving but breathing. Thank God. When the vehicle lurched ahead, it knocked him onto his sore hip, and he silently cursed. His last glimpse of his wife and daughter left him more terrified than ever. Jutta and Frieda huddled together, stranded in hostile territory. They needed to stay safe for only a short while longer, but fear gnawed at his gut. Back at the abandoned train car, he’d witnessed what could happen to defenseless travelers. And as he watched them shrink from view, it was hard to breathe. Terror that he’d never see them again overtook him. Turning his face away from the police, he let the tears flow.
They were to be transported to Laufen Castle, an internment camp for British soldiers captured off the Channel Islands. He was informed he’d feel right at home with the 120 American citizens also held there. It flashed through his mind that this prison might be where Pastor Graf was held. He could use a friend.
