The Good at Heart

by Ursula Werner

  Erich had not been to Hamburg since he buried his parents twenty-six years ago, but he could still remember the rooms of his childhood. Small but sufficient, cluttered with relics from a different era, memorabilia of an older, slower culture and time: parchment maps of the tribes of Germany before the Franco-Prussian War, burgundy and gold volumes of Schiller and Hölderlin. His parents’ heroes had been Kaiser Wilhelm, Beethoven, and Brahms. Shaped by their quiet, classical values, the Erich Wolf who left Hamburg for the first war was not the same man who returned four years later. That man had died with his parents, with the Germany they had so loved and revered, and with the home they had created for him, burned to the ground by neighbors fearful of the influenza.

  When Oskar offered to let him come live with his family in Berlin, Erich had gratefully accepted, yet he had never thought of their house as home. And he’d never quite thought of the Eberhardts as family, though he loved them deeply. He had been too intent on searching for himself between the wars, trying to reestablish his lost identity. Oskar had been extraordinarily helpful in that search. So had Marina.

  A loud series of barks brought Erich’s attention back to the road. Up ahead, a dark-brown dachshund whose width rivaled its length trundled its way toward the horse, chased by two young boys in makeshift soldier uniforms. The dog’s white muzzle and its semiarthritic gait reassured both Erich and the mare that it was not a threat, but he nevertheless pulled his mount up short until the boys could catch up with the dog.

  The first boy to reach the dachshund was an unkempt, sinewy lad with short-cropped sandy hair that looked to have at least a week’s worth of dirt in it. He grabbed the dog by the collar, choking off another bark. “Puck! Stop it!” Thrown off balance, the hound landed on his back, where he pedaled the air once or twice before relaxing his legs and offering his belly up to the world. The boy let out an exasperated sigh. “You are such an annoying animal,” he said, crouching down to give the dog the belly rub he wanted.

  Erich laughed. “But I can see that you love him anyway.”

  “Oh yes, sir,” said the boy. “Puck is my best friend, next to Willie.” He nodded his head toward the second boy, who was now stumbling up, darker haired but about the same age. Both were just shy of adolescence, Erich guessed. Willie was panting and staring intently at Erich’s uniform.

  “You’re a general, aren’t you?” Willie asked when he caught his breath. “Max, this is the officer who rescued Bürgermeister Munter today at Birnau!”

  “Guilty as charged,” Erich said.

  “I was glad you came when you did,” Max Fuchs said, standing up again.

  “So was I,” said Willie. “Sort of . . .”

  “Sort of?” Erich asked.

  “Well, I’ve never seen a hanging. I kind of wanted to see how it goes.”

  “Ah.” These boys did not know how lucky they were, Erich thought, to be so far from the front. The wonder in their eyes—how very different from what he had seen in the young boys of Warsaw or the small towns of Poland.

  “Why is your waffenfarbe gold?” Willie asked. “Shouldn’t it be red if you’re a general?”

  Erich reflexively looked down at the gold piping outlining his shoulder patches. “Yes, but gold is for cavalry. And today I’m a cavalryman, as you can see.”

  “Horses are obsolete,” Willie stated importantly. “My father says the next war won’t use them at all. He drives a tank. His waffenfarbe is rose, for the Panzer Corps.”

  “Well.” Erich shifted in his saddle, suddenly speechless. The idea that another war might follow this one overwhelmed him with exhaustion. Of course these boys might think so. War had permeated their parents’ lives and now their own. All of a sudden, the day’s events settled heavily on Erich, urging him to rest. He felt the mare’s impatience as she lifted first one hoof, then another. She too was ready to call it a day. “I hope your father is right and horses will never again be used in war. But I hope he’s wrong that there will be another one.”

  “There has to be another one,” Willie said. “Max and I are preparing.”

  “Boys, I’m sorry,” Erich interrupted. “I have to get this lovely lady to a barn. Can one of you direct me to the Nagel farm?”

  Max pointed back down the road behind Erich. “You passed it, sir, not far back. The entrance is hidden behind hazelnut bushes, that’s probably why you missed it.”

  Erich tipped his head in thanks and turned the horse around. The boys ran off in the opposite direction, shouts mixing with Puck’s barks. Erich neared the dense hedge of hazelnuts Max had indicated and became aware of a rhythmic metallic banging that intensified as he approached the Nagel farm. He guided the horse through the shrubbery and emerged in a large barnyard scattered with farm equipment. In its center, bent over the open hood of an enormous truck, a large gray-haired man clad in overalls was wielding a hammer, trying to secure a flat sheet of some sort of metal inside the bay.

  “Hallo!” Erich called out. Startled, the man dropped the sheet of metal and the hammer. Erich guided the horse through a haphazard collection of wheelbarrows, tractors, and carts, as the old man straightened up slowly, one hand on his back. When he turned around, the clearly outlined muscles in his arms and the broad fullness of his chest told Erich that this old man was far from infirm. Noticing Erich’s uniform, the man glanced quickly around the barnyard, taking stock of everything that might be lying about.

  “Are you Fritz Nagel?” Erich dismounted so he would appear less threatening.

  “Yes, yes I am.” The man moved in front of the open engine bay. He planted his feet wide apart, taking up the stance of a gladiator. “How can I help you, General . . . ?”

  “Wolf. Erich Wolf. I am here to return this fine mare. She belongs to a cousin of yours. I believe his name is Bernard?”

  “Ah, Frieda!” The moment he recognized the horse, the old man’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and a chuckle escaped him. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep, thoughtful drag. “I thought that was Frieda at Birnau today. But it didn’t seem possible, so I told myself my eyes must be starting to fail. But here she is after all.” Another pocket yielded a cube of sugar that Fritz now offered to the mare. She ate it quickly, then nudged him insistently with her muzzle. Eventually he gave in and patted her with obvious affection. “You old girl. Very impressive performance. Bernie will be so proud.”

  “Indeed, she is a fine animal. In fact, I would very much like to compensate you and your cousin for allowing me to use her today.” Erich opened his shoulder bag for his wallet. “I’m afraid I was in too much of a hurry to properly reward Bernard earlier.”

  The old man stepped forward and restrained Erich’s arm with a grip that defied challenge. “Oh no, certainly not. She did service for the Reich, didn’t she? It’s our honor that she was chosen.” The statement closed the discussion as far as Fritz Nagel was concerned. He took the reins from Erich and led the horse into a somewhat decrepit structure that Erich assumed was the barn. It could use some shoring up, he thought, watching the man carefully swing open a door on its one remaining hinge. Fritz propped the door open with a large rock and disappeared with the horse.

  Left alone, Erich approached the truck the old man had been working on. It was a long-nose Volvo, significantly bigger than the ones Erich had seen while in the army, but basically similar in design: a large, flat bed in the back for transporting goods and materials, a smaller cab for the driver and one or two passengers, and a large engine out front, beneath a substantial bifurcated hood. Having spent time doing maintenance on trucks during the first war, Erich preferred these to their snub-nosed cousins. The long-nose sported an engine hood that opened outward from the center, like a bird spreading its wings, and this design made access to its twin engine bays child’s play. Here, Fritz Nagel had opened only the left side of the hood, but when Erich peered inside, expecting to see some machinery or part of the engine, he was confronted with open space. Yet there were no spare piec
es of machinery lying about the barnyard to suggest that Herr Nagel was disassembling the truck. Perhaps he had already stored the engine someplace else. A loose sheet of some metal—the material that the man had been working on when Erich interrupted him—was lying on the ground in front of the empty engine bay. Was it asbestos? Erich put his hand on the edge of the bay and crouched down to get a better look.

  Suddenly, the truck hood slammed shut. Only Erich’s lightning-quick reflexes kept his fingers from getting crushed. Erich looked up to see Fritz Nagel standing before him. His left hand was clamped firmly on the hood cover, and from the tendons straining against the skin of the man’s forearm, Erich knew that Herr Nagel intended the hood to remain closed. His half-finished cigarette lay smoldering in the dirt.

  “Wonderful old truck,” Erich said, patting the hood in appreciation. He did not want to exacerbate whatever anxiety the old man was feeling, even though he couldn’t imagine what had prompted it. “One doesn’t see these big ones very often.”

  “They’re quite common on farms down here,” Fritz countered quickly. “Too big and slow for the army, thankfully for us. I’ve had this one for years. Pinocchio.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Pinocchio. The long nose. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Ah.” Erich wondered whether all farmers named their trucks. “Are you having engine trouble?”

  Fritz stiffened. “No, no trouble. Not really. Just . . .” He seemed to be searching his mind for the right phrase. “Just trying to maximize engine efficiency.”

  “Really? With asbestos?”

  “It’s an experiment. Still a work in progress.” He picked the sheet of metal up from the ground and grabbed a wrench that was lying nearby. “But I’m done for the day and must be going in. I thank you again on behalf of Bernard for returning the horse.”

  “Of course,” Erich said. Fritz Nagel nodded toward the farm entrance, indicating that it was time for Erich to leave. Erich made his way back through the hazelnuts, then turned south on the road, toward the Gasthof zum Löwen, the inn where he would be staying. Instead of wondering about the farmer and his truck, he decided to focus on the luxury awaiting him: a feather bed. The Führer did not believe in feathers for soldiers. But Erich felt he could benefit from a little softness tonight.

  – Eight –

  The choir break never lasted more than ten minutes. Marina told Gisela Mecklen that she would be leaving early to help her mother prepare for Oskar’s visit the next day. Gisela raised her eyebrows, but Marina ignored her. She had no love for the Mecklens after their takeover of the Rosenberg bakery.

  In case anyone was watching, Marina headed down the hill toward town, then looped around the front of the church. Following the dirt path, she stopped at a door just beneath the stained-glass window that depicted the fourth Station of the Cross. It was locked. She knocked twice, paused, then knocked again three times. Someone approached from inside, fumbled with the lock, and opened the door. “I’m so glad you were able to join us,” Johann said. “When you told Gisela you had to leave, I wasn’t certain whether that was for our benefit or your family’s.”

  “I’m always happy to give Gisela Mecklen something new to ponder,” Marina said.

  She followed Johann into the children’s reading alcove, where the other two members of the group were already sitting somewhat precariously in the too-small chairs: Ludmilla Schenk, the postmistress; and Ernst Rausch, the young owner of the print shop in Meerfeld, who had been spared military service because he was blind in one eye. Marina knew Ludmilla well. Other than Oskar, the postmistress was her primary source of information about Franz, since all letters and telegrams from the front passed through Ludmilla’s fingers.

  Ludmilla had lost both of her sons and her husband to the war. Marina could not bear to imagine the growing horror and disbelief the postmistress must have felt, sitting in front of the telegraph machine, watching it print out word by word the news of her sons’ deaths, one year after it had printed out the same words about her husband. Those tragedies had brought Ludmilla to the group. With her own family beyond salvation, she had nothing to lose, she said, and she couldn’t just sit idly by and watch other families be destroyed as hers had been. Johann had offered her an active solution.

  Ernst Rausch was a pacifist. Marina knew little more than that fact about him, but she knew his printing expertise was vast. Ernst spoke very little. It was one of the things that Johann valued about him.

  Johann took his place next to a small easel, on which a child’s abstract pointillist version of the Honigschlecker statue had wrinkled. He looked more tired than usual, Marina thought. His thinning blond hair and darkly shadowed eyes under small wire-rimmed glasses made him look much older than his thirty-two years, a stark contrast to the baby roundness of his face.

  He stood quietly, waiting. The muted chatter outside was finally interrupted by Gisela Mecklen’s muffled but distinctive voice. The choir began its warm-up, and as the scales and arpeggios began to seep through the walls of the children’s room, Johann spoke, taking care to talk only while the singing continued.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice. This won’t take long. I was informed two days ago that we might be getting a delivery very soon, and though nothing is certain, as it never is, I thought we should try to find a storage location.”

  “Do you know how many?” Ludmilla asked.

  “It is a family,” Johann said. “Two adults—” He paused as the choir abruptly stopped, and they again heard a muted Gisela through the stone. After a few minutes, the choir launched into “Nun ruhen alle Wälder.”

  “Two young children and a baby,” Johann continued. “Now, do not even attempt to offer, Ludmilla, because your new apartment is just too small, I’m afraid. And I am a bit fearful of sending them to Meerfeld, Ernst, because of Captain Rodemann and his regiment. Does anyone know where they are tonight?”

  “The last telegram I saw for him went to the Meerfeld depot,” Ludmilla said. “But perhaps they will move on tomorrow.”

  “Marina, if we have no other alternative—is there any chance?”

  Marina hesitated. Her family’s home was always only an option of last resort. Oskar was coming tomorrow, his first visit since Christmas. Marina found herself surprisingly happy at the prospect of seeing him, given the tension that had been simmering between her and her father ever since the war began. Their weekly phone conversations were short and perfunctory, a delivery of information, usually about the movements and safety of Franz’s battalion. But now, she felt her spirits lift at the thought of his arrival.

  It was the same sense of excitement she used to feel as a child, looking out the living room window, watching for Oskar to come home from work. Back then, when she was very young (too young to know any better, she might say now), Marina adored her father. Revered him. Followed him everywhere he went, if she could. “Your vati has a second shadow,” Edith used to joke. That bond had never really broken, despite her current suspicions and anger. Marina allowed herself a moment to bask in the comfort of memory: the embrace she gave him each time they reunited, the earthy amber-and-tobacco smell of him, the faint cloud of cigar smoke mixed with Mouchoir de Monsieur cologne that spread through a room when he entered.

  “Marina?” Johann was giving her a bemused look.

  “What? Oh, I don’t know, Johann, Oskar arrives tomorrow,” Marina said. “It might be difficult.” What an understatement. If Oskar was at home, hiding a family of five in the house was out of the question.

  “Well, I hope we will find another solution. Meanwhile, I will try to confirm the exact arrival date and time,” Johann said. “Ernst or Ludmilla, let me know the moment Rodemann moves his men out. Maybe the farmers can sour some of their milk for him, hurry him along.” Marina imagined that Captain Rodemann might thrive on sour milk, but she did not say so aloud. “Also, Ernst, could you put together a set of travel documents? I have their identifying information here.” The young
man, who had been thoughtfully shaping the end of his mustache, took the folded piece of paper that Johann handed him. “The sooner you can get this done, the better. I know it’s short notice . . .”

  “I’ll work on it tonight. Where can I find you tomorrow?”

  “At the Protestant church. Thank you so much, Ernst, it is good to have that taken care of.” But there was no relief in Johann’s face, Marina thought as he turned to her. “And Marina, we can talk more tomorrow, yes? Are we still meeting at nine?”

  Marina nodded. Oskar would not arrive before lunchtime, at the earliest.

  “Johann, tell me,” Ludmilla said. “How did it go with our last charge?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have mentioned that in the beginning. Yes, Ludmilla, he arrived quite successfully, I’m pleased to say. Reunited with his aunt in Britain, I’m told.” The group breathed a collective sigh of relief. They didn’t always get news confirming the successful arrival of travelers.

  For Marina, such news assuaged complicated feelings about her participation in this group. When Johann had asked her why she wanted to join, she could not give him a complete answer. Sympathy for the plight of the refugees, of course, and anger at the Führer for his aggression toward other countries and their people. But that wasn’t all of it. There was also guilt. For most of her life, Marina hadn’t thought much about Oskar’s position in the government. She knew he was highly placed, head of the Economics Ministry, with vague responsibilities for wartime transports. The complications in her own life had always overshadowed her curiosity about Oskar’s duties and authority. But shortly after Sofia’s birth, the world around her shook her out of her self-centered cocoon. The yellow stars that so many of her friends and acquaintances were required to wear. The forced closing, after Kristallnacht, of many of the shops that she had frequented. The disappearance of the Sterns.

  Hilde and Martin Stern lived across the hall from her parents’ apartment in Berlin. Close neighbors, and closer friends. Marina adored them. Martin was Oskar’s smoking buddy, his accomplice in the domestic crime of enjoying imported South American cigars, which Martin was inexplicably able to procure even after the war began. Marina remembered childhood evenings spent hiding under the table while the Sterns and her parents played canasta and drank sherry and pretended they didn’t know she was there. When she was older, she occasionally joined Oskar and Martin for a glass of brandy on the fire escape, to which the men were banished because Hilde and Edith claimed they detested the smell of cigar smoke.