The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  They rode in silence. Mueller was staying in a hotel near the regional airport. Parker pulled into the parking lot.

  “Can you at least tell me what you found out about my grandfather on the Internet?” he asked, turning off the car’s engine. “You said he was a high-ranking officer for his age. Is there a reason? And who was the general you mentioned?”

  “I can see you are a good lawyer who never gives up,” Mueller said with a smile. “But I am not the person to ask about the past.”

  “I can do my own search.” Parker shrugged.

  Mueller reached out and touched Parker on the arm. “Be careful. You may find something you don’t want to know. Your grandfather and I are old men who need to sleep in peace and rest. Give him that gift.”

  Parker sat in his car and watched Mueller walk slowly through the automatic doors of the hotel lobby. Something stirring inside made Parker want to ignore the old man’s simple request.

  Parker lived in a one-room efficiency apartment on the second floor of a brick home built in the 1940s. The house was located in a transitional neighborhood, and it was a matter of local debate whether the neighborhood was transitioning up or down. Parker didn’t care about the sketchy aspects of the area. He liked the eight-minute commute to the office.

  Access to the apartment was via an exterior metal staircase on the back of the house. A young couple with two small children and one large dog rented the main floor of the home. Because the couple used the single-car garage for their minivan, Parker kept his car on the street. When he opened the gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the yard, Bosco, the couple’s black Lab, greeted him excitedly. Parker kept a bag of dog treats in his car and slipped one into his pocket when he got out of the car. He tossed the treat toward the rear of the lot. Bosco raced after it past a wooden swing set while Parker climbed the stairs and unlocked his door.

  Originally the apartment had been the house’s attic, and the steeply sloping roofline forced Parker to walk toward the middle of the long room. The lower walls held shelving, an entertainment center, and the headboard for his bed. A kitchenette filled one end of the space with the bathroom occupying the other. There was a single dormer on the front side of the house where Parker kept a small desk for use when he needed to work at home. From the dormer he could see across the street to a vacant wooded lot.

  When he got home, Parker unwound by doing passive resistance exercises followed by several variations of push-ups. He could maintain a static plank for several minutes and moved smoothly from one position to another. Tonight the time with his grandfather had provided a buffer from work, and he did only a few stretches. Plopping into a secondhand recliner, he powered up his laptop and typed in “Hauptmann Franz Haus.” The results were a German-language jumble of obituaries and hits on Hauptmann, Franz, and Haus. The foreign-language maze was as impenetrable as an Amazonian rain forest, and after less than half an hour Parker gave up. If he wanted to find out something specific about his grandfather’s war record, he was going to have to narrow his search, just like he did when researching an obscure principle of law.

  Frank sat on the screened-in porch in the dark and let his thoughts stew like the okra and tomatoes he’d eaten for supper. He heard an unfamiliar sound in the yard and peered into the darkness. A few moments of silence passed, and he tried to settle back in his chair. For many years fear had not been his regular companion, but tonight it slithered across the sandy soil and tried to wrap itself around his soul.

  He lived in an isolated, rural area of the county, but the absence of neighbors didn’t normally worry him. The only security system he had was the crushed shells of his driveway that announced the approach of vehicles, and he rarely bothered to lock his front door. During the cooler months of the year, he slept with his windows open, a flimsy screen the only thing separating him from the outside world. But tonight the peace Frank normally felt at the end of a long day vanished with the final rays of the sun.

  He knew the source of his unease. Initially he’d been relieved when Mueller didn’t indicate knowledge of Frank’s desertion, but the former private’s mention of the Aryan Eagle caused the sinister nature of Frank’s past to creep from the shadows. This many years after the end of the war, the label should have faded like a wartime ribbon abandoned in the sunny corner of a rarely used bedroom. Frank never directly answered Mueller’s question, but in the depths of his being he knew that somewhere, someone was intent on tracking him down.

  His last words to Mueller had been a plea to keep their reunion a secret. Frank had couched his request in terms of the desire to live out the remainder of his life uninterrupted by painful memories, and his old comrade reassured him that his only purpose in coming to America was to thank him for the crucial warning years before. Frank didn’t know if Mueller would keep his word or not. Even if he did, it didn’t remove the threat of discovery. If Conrad Mueller could find him, so could someone else.

  Frank heard another unfamiliar sound in the direction of the creek and shifted in his chair. Getting up, he went to the front door, locked it, and flipped the dead bolt. Tonight he’d sleep with the windows closed.

  CHAPTER 8

  SOUTHERN FRANCE, 1944

  The two officers stood on a slight rise overlooking a tiny French village in the soft light of a midsummer dawn. The senior officer, Oberst Gottfried, lowered the binoculars from his eyes.

  “Are you sure that’s the place, Hauptmann Haus?”

  “Yes, sir.” Franz ran his fingers through his hair. The sleepy village was exactly as he’d seen it when he was lying in his bunk in the dormitory near the chateau where their division of Army Group G had its headquarters. Franz was a careful witness. He’d waited two days before saying anything to General Berg. One of the maxims he’d scrupulously stuck to since the early days of the war was to never tell all he knew until he was sure it was all he would receive. Otherwise there was a danger his imagination would take over and lead him down a detour that could mean life-or-death consequences for the men in the division.

  No one moved between the buildings. No dogs barked. The company of select infantry supported by a machine gun and mortar unit held the element of surprise. Franz took a deep breath.

  “Remember, the stone barn with the thatched roof is the primary target,” he said.

  “I see it,” Oberst Gottfried replied irritably.

  The senior officer motioned with his right hand, and one of four privates assigned to him as runners ran up.

  “Begin the attack,” he said.

  The soldier left. Less than a minute later Franz heard the muffled retort caused by a mortar. He and Gottfried watched as a puff of smoke and tiny flash of light marked where the mortar shell had landed. Others quickly followed. They peppered the open ground in front of the barn. Franz heard the colonel mutter impatiently as the soldiers adjusted the trajectory of the shells. By the time the battery fired a second volley, at least twenty men, some carrying rifles, were running from the barn.

  Gottfried swore. “We had them trapped, and they’re getting away.”

  He summoned a second soldier. “Tell Hauptmann Kolb to send in the infantry.”

  Franz looked to the places where soldiers lay waiting to attack the village from three directions. It was a risky strategy because of cross fire, but it was the only way to try to trap and destroy the unit of French resistance fighters who had been harassing military rail shipments and ambushing isolated patrols for the past few weeks. Franz could see the soldiers moving quickly from the shelter of the trees toward the buildings. The crackle of small arms fire reached their ears on the small hill. Gottfried called over another private.

  “I want the name of every man in the mortar unit,” the colonel said to the enlisted man. He then growled at Franz, “They should have covered three times as much ground with their initial salvo.”

  Franz didn’t respond. His job for the day was to provide information about the target and the enemy forces they faced, not im
plement a battle plan. Now he was nothing more than an observer. However, both he and Oberst Gottfried knew that General Berg would ask Franz to debrief him when Franz returned to headquarters. Field commanders both welcomed and hated the sight of Franz.

  Franz raised the binoculars that hung around his neck. Bodies of German soldiers and French fighters lay on the ground. The sight of battlefield death had sickened him when he first saw the carnage of war four years earlier during the invasion of Belgium. And he’d never gotten used to it. Over the next few minutes the sound of gunshots slowed before finally stopping. A soldier ran up to their position and saluted.

  “The town is secured, Herr Oberst,” he said with a smart salute.

  “Prisoners?” Gottfried asked.

  “Yes, sir. Almost twenty.”

  “Excellent. Bring my vehicle.”

  An armored car sputtered onto the ridge and they got in. In combat situations many officers preferred the protection of a vehicle with a machine gun on a turret. They rumbled down the hill and onto the narrow road leading into the village. Franz counted the bodies of four German soldiers and six French fighters. Several German soldiers were receiving treatment at a hastily constructed medical tent on the outskirts of town. They reached the center of the village. A group of forlorn and dejected-looking Frenchmen, some wounded, sat or lay huddled on the ground surrounded by guards with automatic rifles. The car stopped, and Oberst Gottfried got out.

  “Stay here,” he said to Franz. “And keep your head down in case there’s a sniper. I don’t want to report your death to General Berg.”

  Franz cautiously eyed the blank windows of the houses surrounding the center of town. Suddenly he heard the sound of a gunshot and a puff of dirt appeared at Gottfried’s feet. The colonel was quickly hustled back inside the armored car while a squad of soldiers rushed into a nearby house.

  “Did you see that coming and neglect to tell me?” Gottfried asked Franz, his eyes blazing.

  “No, Herr Oberst.”

  A few minutes later the soldiers emerged from the house dragging what appeared to be a ten- or eleven-year-old boy between them. A woman, who Franz guessed was the boy’s mother, was crying and screaming. They brought the boy up to the armored car, and a sergeant showed Gottfried an antique hunting rifle.

  “He fired the shot, and he’s proud of it, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “Put him with the men,” Gottfried said.

  “He’s only a boy,” Franz objected.

  “When he fired that shot, he became a resistance fighter,” Gottfried replied brusquely. “And he’ll share their fate.”

  While Franz watched, the sergeant dragged the boy over to the group and threw him to the ground. A man who’d been wounded in the shoulder came over to the youngster. Franz could see the family resemblance of father and son. The father began to berate his son in rapid French until one of the guards ordered them to be quiet. The father then put his good arm around his son, who was now crying. The boy’s mother continued to wail from the doorstep of the house.

  “Hauptmann Haus,” Gottfried said. “You’re no longer needed here. A jeep will return you to General Berg’s headquarters.”

  While they waited for the jeep, there was a commotion in the direction of a side street, and several soldiers appeared with another group of ten or twelve teenage boys walking in front of them. Franz saw two girls in the group as well. A soldier from the group came over to the armored car.

  “We found them hiding in an outbuilding behind the barn,” he said.

  “Did they have any weapons?” Franz asked.

  “They were near the barn,” Gottfried replied, giving Franz a cold look. “That was the target you identified. And young fighters are just as dangerous as older ones. We lost two men last month who were killed by a woman hiding a grenade in a handbag.”

  “But Herr Oberst—” Franz began.

  Gottfried turned his back to Franz and began speaking to another officer. The jeep arrived, and the oberst faced Franz.

  “Hauptmann Haus,” Gottfried said, “give my regards to General Berg. I’ll include your vital contribution to this successful operation in my report.”

  Glancing one last time at the group of men, boys, and two girls now seated in the center of the village, Franz got in the jeep. When they neared the turnoff for the observation point, he touched the driver on the arm.

  “Private, take me to the top of the hill for a moment.”

  The driver slowed to a stop but stayed in the middle of the road. “Oberst Gottfried ordered me to take you directly to headquarters, sir.”

  “Where I will tell General Berg you disobeyed a command if you don’t do as I say.”

  The driver jerked the wheel of the jeep to the left and they drove to the hilltop. Franz got out and raised the binoculars to his eyes. He could see the group of resistance fighters moving down the road in the direction of the barn. The coming execution of members of the French Underground was as certain as the death of the German soldiers the French fighters ambushed along the roadways. But the presence of the teenage boys and the two girls greatly troubled Franz. Oberst Gottfried followed the group of prisoners in his armored car. When they reached the barn, the soldiers herded the captured fighters inside. Franz saw the man hold the hand of his son as they passed through the double doors together. The other boys also entered the barn. At the last second, a sergeant pulled the two girls from the group and made them stand across the barnyard. Franz could no longer see the mother of the boy who’d fired the shot at Gottfried.

  When all of the men and boys were inside the barn, a soldier closed the doors and placed a metal rod through the handles to lock them in. He stepped back, and two other soldiers came forward with something Franz couldn’t see in their hands. A few seconds later they were holding torches that slowly flickered to life. Franz suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

  The two soldiers looked at each other, nodded, and simultaneously tossed their torches onto the thatched roof of the barn. Flames quickly shot up from the dry, densely packed grass. The faint sound of shouts drifted across the fields surrounding the village and up the hill to the place where Franz watched. As the flames grew higher, the shouts turned to screams. The smell of smoke began to reach the hilltop. Soldiers fired shots at the windows of the barn as men and boys tried to jump out.

  Franz had seen more than enough. He got in the jeep and left.

  Frank involuntarily jerked in his bed as the memory of long-ago flames shot through his mind in a searing nightmare. He sat bolt upright, breathing heavily. The smoke no longer lingered except in the crevices of his soul. For a few moments he tried to remember the name of the village with the burning barn, but he quickly gave up. Nothing could be undone.

  At 8:00 a.m., Frank got out of bed. It had been over a year since his last nightmare, and he suspected the trigger for the latest installment was the visit from Conrad Mueller. Needing to banish the apprehensive melancholy of the previous evening and the harsh memories that jerked him awake, Frank brewed a pot of coffee and sat on the porch sipping a cup. Within a few hours Conrad Mueller would be on a plane leaving town. Hopefully the dark memories his presence awakened would go with him.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle on his driveway caused Frank to sit up straight. He knew who it was. Mueller had caught a cab and was returning with more questions Frank didn’t want to answer. Frank shuffled into the living room and peeked through the window near the front door. Cowardly as it might be, he could always hide in his bedroom and not answer the doorbell.

  It was Lenny.

  Most people equate mistake with failure, but relief washed over Frank that he was wrong. What had once been an accurate, precise ability to see into the unseen and witness what would happen in the future had been dulled by age and neglect. And he was glad. He held open the door for his friend, who’d parked his truck beneath the low-spreading branches of a live oak tree that stood as a sentinel in the front yard.

  “I didn’t wan
t you to head downriver without me,” Lenny said as he climbed the steps.

  “I thought Mattie had chores for you to do.”

  “Her sister from Buxton is driving over for a visit, so I was only going to be in the way.” Lenny pointed at the sky. “And on a day like this, is there anything better to do on God’s earth than cruise to Oriental? I thought we might even stick our nose into the Sound.”

  Frank hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”

  “What?” Lenny asked in surprise. “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do all day? Your house stays neater than ours when Mattie and I finish mopping the kitchen and vacuuming the carpets. I’ll pay for the gas.”

  “You always pay for the gas because we use my boat.”

  “And I want you to appreciate my generosity.”

  Lenny pushed past Frank into the living room. “Any coffee left?” he asked. “I brought my travel mug just in case. I don’t understand why people stand in line to pay five bucks for a cup of burnt coffee when they can get the real thing for pennies. Did you grind the beans this morning?”

  “Left over from yesterday.”

  “Still better than anything I could get in downtown New Bern.”

  Frank led the way into the kitchen while Lenny continued to chatter. It had taken Frank years to adjust to the random thoughts that poured out of gregarious Americans. For Lenny, talking was a by-product of breathing.

  “How was your fish dinner last night?” Lenny asked. “Mattie kissed both my cheeks just like you Europeans do after she tasted the fish. Did you fillet yours?”

  “Yes, and I fixed okra and tomatoes with some of the okra you gave me. Parker ate with me”—Frank paused—“and brought someone with him.”

  “The dark-haired girl he dated when he was in law school?” Lenny asked. “Mattie was asking me about her the other day. Didn’t she get a job in Raleigh with some kind of marketing company? The girl has a great personality. I don’t think she’s ever met a stranger.”