“How am I supposed to grow crops if the bloody Russians won’t let me get any seeds?” he shouted at the fat woman who stood near him, her furrowed face under a colourful headscarf and her large front behind a dirty apron, her arms akimbo. She just shrugged her shoulders. His face was livid with rage. He dropped down his pitchfork and threw his hands in the air.
“Wasn’t it a lot better when we had good German law and order? Deutsche Zucht und Ordnung! I don’t believe the Führer is dead. He’ll come back one day and show those barbarians. We’ll have him back!”
This was a farmer one could safely approach. So he walked up to the fence and begged for something to eat. The farmer calmed down when he saw his dirty appearance, his emaciated figure and his military greatcoat. He looked the poor visitor up and down.
“Escaping from the bloody Russians, heh?” he asked.
“Yes, and I fear I might be in danger because I am a good German. I fought at Stalingrad, and I really did my bit for our Fatherland.”
“Well,” the farmer stroked his stubbly chin, “you’re a lucky bugger.”
His wife remained silent.
“I’m honoured,” the farmer added, “to meet a man like you, a true German. Do come in, you must be hungry.”
So this was a lucky day indeed. They invited him in and gave him a hearty breakfast of dark bread, butter, eggs, cheese and cold sausage. They didn’t have any coffee, but they gave him a hot drink of some sorts and fresh milk.
“You see,” he explained to them while he was chewing the bread, “I have to be careful. So, I only travel during the night. Otherwise, the Russian patrols might find me. Because I was a German soldier, they would imprison me or kill me or send me to a camp in Siberia, those awful barbarians.”
“But you’re not a deserter?” the farmer asked with a sly face.
“No, my unit was mostly slaughtered by the Russians, and only very few of us remained, so we had no alternative than this. We decided to split up and walk west, hoping to reach the American zone. The Americans might help us build up a new Germany again, a solid and proud Germany, as we used to have.” He added the last sentence hoping to avoid any further questions from the farmer, who looked as if he could bring up the illusion of a duty to fight any forms of Wehrkraftzersetzung.
They were interrupted by the appearance of a young woman dressed very much like the farmer’s wife.
“Good morning, Liesel,” the farmer beamed. “Come and meet a good German soldier!”
After exchanging their polite greetings, the young woman, who was the only daughter of the house, was instructed to take him to the bathroom at the back of the farmhouse. He was offered a bathtub, a towel, a brick of hard soap and some fresh civilian clothes. His old and worn clothes were half-military, half civilian. Now he would be safer with only civilian clothes. As he was stepping out of the bath and beginning to rub himself down with the green towel, the young woman opened the door and peeped in. She smiled. He realized what she was after, and he quickly dressed to avoid any misunderstanding.
“Won’t you stay with us for a while?” she asked in a cooing voice, with a heavy local accent.
He knew what that would mean, and he explained to her that he was in great danger if he was found out by the Russians. He made his situation very dramatic to impress her. She was disappointed and tried to convince him of his safety as long as he stayed in the farmhouse, with her. She stepped up to him.
“Won’t you give me a kiss?”
“All right, Liesel,” he smiled. “I’ll kiss you, but I’m leaving you. I can’t stay. Please, understand this.” And with these words he kissed her on the lips. Then he disengaged himself from her attempted embrace and left the bathroom.
Liesel’s mother showed him his room. He suspected she knew what her daughter was after, but neither of them said anything. Once in the bedroom, he locked the door with the big black key. He wanted to be safe from any intrusion, and he didn’t trust Liesel’s acceptance of his refusal.
It was late afternoon when he woke up. He dressed in his new outfit, brown baggy trousers which were a bit too short, a blue farmer’s shirt, an old black waistcoat and a grey jacket with holes in the elbows and a greasy stain on one of the lapels. There was even an olive-green pullover, which he decided to take along as an alternative to the waistcoat or the jacket. These were rather shabby clothes, but it was a good and warm civilian outfit. He saw it as an advantage to look poor and shabby. Like this, he would melt into the civilian crowds more easily. He didn’t want to look too conspicuous. He walked to the kitchen, where there was some food on the table, but not a person in sight. They were out in the fields, so he could fill his stomach plus a small bag for provisions and an old rucksack that they had left on a chair for him. There was a dirty slip of paper attached to one of the straps of the rucksack: “For you, good German.”
As he was walking away from the farm in the descending dusk, he looked back and wondered what would have become of him if he had accepted Liesel’s invitation. Quite apart from the danger threatening his life from the Russian occupation forces, he couldn’t imagine a life with a girl like Liesel. He had lost the ability to love and respect a woman. He could never again be natural with a woman, and he could never trust a woman again because no woman could ever trust him again.
He walked through the whole night. Towards the early dawn showing on the eastern horizon he crossed the main road between Themar and Henfstädt. The country was a lot more open here, with undulating green fields and great distances between the farmhouses. He would have to be extra careful in this new environment. After a while he came to a farm near a village whose name he couldn’t find out. They had removed a lot of village signs when they had to withdraw from their positions in view of the advancing invasion of the Allied Forces. He remembered the same procedure from the eastern front. You didn’t want the enemy to find out where things were, you hoped to confuse them, thereby gaining some valuable time for your own retreat. To the south of the village, which had a narrow road running through its middle, he discovered a small lake or pond whose shore was overgrown with reeds and small hazel bushes. This gave him excellent cover from which he could observe the shed on the pond’s southern shore. It looked unoccupied.
He sat down among the bushes and ordered his thoughts. The experience of his last encounter with a farmer and his family had taught him the necessity of a new biography. Naturally, he had to give people a name and a story. To Liesel and her parents, he’d been Hans Meyer, a name he’d just invented. But he would have to be more careful. He would have to invent a more convincing name, not too common and not too special. And he would have to invent a better story than the one he’d told that farmer. Fought at Stalingrad, and now his unit disbanded, that was rubbish, altogether too general. He decided to take a rest once he was in the American zone and take time to think of a convincing new biography. It would have to be a lot more detailed, and he would have to season it with a sprinkling of exciting anecdotes that would catch any listener’s attention and steer things away from suspicion.
Carefully, he walked up to the small shed. The door was open, and it was empty. No wonder it wasn’t occupied, he realized, when he saw the few gaping holes in the roof. There was no threat of rain, so he decided to spend the day in this shed.
After eating the last piece of bread he had and drinking some water he’d scooped from the pond, he was tired from his long walk through the night and lay down on his bed of grass and straw and covering himself with his greatcoat. It was the only piece of military clothing he had allowed himself to keep, because as he had seen in many places, people wore such greatcoats even though they had no connection with the army. Coats were rare, and the nights could still be cool.
As he was slowly falling asleep his thoughts returned to Liesel. She was the only young woman he had been close to for several months. She was not beautiful, but
she was young and radiated a healthy constitution. He remembered her well-developed breasts which he couldn’t miss when she stood in front of him in the bathroom. However, in spite of Liesel’s possible female attractions, his own sexuality was not aroused. It was rather the naive trust which she seemed to offer him that touched his heart in a strange way. He knew he would have disappointed this innocent farmer’s daughter. It had been the right decision to say no.
He jumped up when he felt a hand on his shoulders. Someone had awoken him. It was about noon. The sun shone through one of the holes in the roof and it was a lot warmer. He looked up. A man’s face with a stubbly beard stared at him.
He wanted to stand up and either defend himself or run out of the shed, but the other man held up his hands and smiled.
“No fear, my friend. I’m not going to harm you or betray you.”
“Who are you?”
His question reminded him of his own need. The situation in which he needed a name had come right now, earlier than he had expected. He cleared his throat and decided to go first, and before the other man had time to answer his question he uttered the first name that came to mind. “I’m Dieter Wolff.”
“My name’s Karl Huber,” the other man replied.
After this introduction there was silence. Karl Huber sat down, and they remained seated on the floor of the shed, facing each other.
“So, Dieter, we seem to be in similar circumstances.” There was no need either to deny or confirm this. It was so obvious.
“Got any food about you?” Karl asked, inclining his head in the direction of his new companion’s bag.
“Not much left. You hungry?”
“I wouldn’t refuse a good dinner now,” Karl smiled.
Dieter - as he now decided to call himself until he could think of a better name - took an apple out of his bag. “I’ve got two of these. You can have one if you’re desperate.”
It was a small gesture, but in these hard times it was a very generous offer, and it immediately sealed a sort of companionship between the two men. They both relaxed and began to chat of things in general, first about food and drink, then about life in the Army, and about the War, which they both agreed was now definitely over. After a while, their talk turned to their families. They didn’t tell each other any details, numbers of their units, military ranks or where they came from, they just talked about their parents and siblings. Karl also had a lot to tell about an uncle of his who had disappeared during the War. Dieter mentioned his father and his brother. Then it was girls, women. Both men had lost touch with the female half of the world, as Karl was putting it, and they both gained some degree of consolation from the stories they told each other about their intimate experiences with women, some true, some not so true. Dieter thought he might as well invent some good stories about women. These were small lies that made Karl happy. White lies.
They never touched upon any awful aspects of the War. Dieter was sure Karl must have seen some horrible things, too, but it was better to let those things be. They would have to forget a lot of terrible experiences during the rest of their lives anyway. They might as well begin to forget them here and now.
It was afternoon, but they were both still tired. So their stories gradually petered out, and they fell asleep again.
* * *
It was pitch-dark when he woke up. He heard Karl, who was still snoring. He got up and opened the door. There were stars in the sky. Without disturbing the other man, he managed to get away from the shed and from the small lake. He headed west. He made slow progress and lost a lot of time when he had to wait for a group of middle-aged men walking home from a drinking spree to disappear towards the village to the north of the pond. He didn’t want to take any risks with them. From what they were shouting into the night he gathered they were Germans, but their celebrating mood indicated a certain sympathy with the occupying forces. In the dim moonlight, he could see that his way lay through a valley between two small hills. After another hour, he found that the village to his left was called Bibra because a broken sign with this name lay in the grass beside the country lane.
The first signs of dawn appeared in the east when he reached another village. He thought he had to be quite close to the border. Better be extra careful.
On the edge of the village he observed a farmer entering his cowshed. The cows mooed with the prospect of being milked. Dieter peeped through the stall door and tried to assess the farmer. Could he be approached safely?
It was getting light, there weren’t many alternatives, he had to take the risk. If the farmer was opposed to giving him shelter or if he was in league with people who could be dangerous for him, he would just have to run. Run back to the nearest woods. He looked back to where he’d come from and took a mental note of a wooded area which might give him enough shelter if the need arose.
He knocked on the upper half of the door, which was left open. At first, the farmer didn’t hear him because he was too busy with a cow’s udder, but when the knock was repeated he looked up.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“My name’s Dieter Wolff. I’m on my way west. I’d be very grateful if you could give me some food and if you allowed me to take a rest in your hayloft.”
“Can you milk a cow?”
“I’ve never tried.”
“A city-boy, then, heh?” the farmer chuckled.
“But I can help you in other ways, perhaps.”
The farmer was silent. He continued with his milking. Dieter saw pail after pail being filled with fresh warm milk that made his mouth water. After a while the farmer reached for a small metal container. “Go on then, help yourself, city-boy.”
Dieter helped himself to fresh milk. When the sweet warm frothy liquid touched the tongue in his mouth he nearly choked with shock. It was so unexpected and so absolutely wonderful to taste this fresh milk. He gulped down a fair amount before he handed the container back.
“Thank you very much. This is very kind of you.”
The farmer completed his milking task and loaded the milk cans onto a bicycle trailer.
“Wait here. I’m taking the milk to the village dairy. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t go and frighten my wife. She’s very frail. Wait for me.” Then he disappeared round the corner of the cowshed, riding his bicycle and pulling the trailer with two cans of milk.
Dieter waited at the back of the cowshed. Soon, the farmer was back. He took him to the farmhouse which they entered through the back door. They stepped through a sort of utility room before they reached the kitchen.
“Why must you invite every tramp to our kitchen?” the farmer’s wife pleaded when they entered.
“Don’t mind her,” the farmer said to Dieter, ignoring his wife’s protest. “She’s afraid the Russians might come and rape her. You can’t blame her. I mean, from what you hear about the Russians. But I always say: No need to worry. If you treat them with decency they’ll be decent with you.” While he was offering this piece of advice he began to fry himself an egg on the old stove. His guest sat down at the kitchen table. The woman remained standing at the back of the kitchen, observing the two men and keeping a watchful but frightened eye on the newcomer’s appearance.
“So they’re here for good now?” Dieter wanted to make sure.
“Yes, so they are,” the farmer explained. “They’ve now taken over the whole of Thuringia. The Americans have left.”
“How far is it to the American zone from here?”
The farmer handed him a cup of hot milk, a cold pork sausage and a chunk of fresh brown bread, and he sat down to his own breakfast, which consisted of the same items as Dieter’s, with the additional delicacy of the freshly fried egg. For a few moments, not a word was spoken, and only the chewing and slurping noises of the men filled the kitchen. Dieter wondered if the farmer hadn’t heard hi
s question or if he didn’t want to answer.
“It’s just over there,” he replied at last. He underlined his vague statement with a gesture in the direction of the kitchen window and a loud burp. His plate was empty. “You see, Olga dear,” he remarked, turning to his wife, “this city-boy wants to go west. He doesn’t like the Russians, just like you. Why don’t you go with him?”
She did not reply but lowered her face in shame.
“Ha, I was only joking,” the farmer chuckled. He was the only one who laughed. “But listen, city-boy,” he continued, “you can just walk over there. That’s Henneberg, that village over there. That’s where you can join the main road from Eisenach to Würzburg, and that’s where you’ll be certain to walk into Ivan’s arms.”
“Do you know a better way, then?”
“If you can get round Henneberg alive, you can find a forest area to the west of Hermannsfeld. That’s where it’s quite easy to get across without running into a military patrol. But the problem, as I say, is getting past Henneberg. The village is full of Russian soldiers, and the border is heavily guarded. You better walk south. Just before you get to Schwickershausen, you turn right. That’ll get you to an easier crossing. Mind you, it’s guarded, too, but you can wade across in the dark. Just don’t go too near the bridge. And there’s another problem. The country round there won’t give you a lot of cover. It’s mostly open fields. But if you ask me, I’d go for it rather than meeting up with Ivan in Henneberg.”
“Thank you. You’re very well-informed.”
“Do you think you’re the first fellow who’s looking for a way to get across?”
“No, probably not. You must have seen a few people like me, living in this place. Haven’t you thought of crossing over yourself?”
White Lies Page 9
