by Dean Hughes
“Ja,” the woman said. “But he’s resting now. He gets up every morning at four.” It was just after three in the afternoon.
“But is he here?”
The woman seemed wary, almost frightened. Alex knew that was partly because of the uniform he was wearing, and probably the fear Germans had learned, over time, of anyone in authority. He smiled at her. “I’m his friend,” he told her. He wasn’t sure how much more he should say. “If you’ll wake him, I promise you, he’ll be pleased.”
She seemed to respond to Alex’s smile, but she hesitated before she said, “All right then. May I tell him your name?”
“Alex Thomas.”
She nodded, and then she walked to the end of the counter, opened a door, and stepped into another room. She soon returned, smiling. “He wants to see you,” she said, but by then Brother Stoltz was already behind her. He was wearing his white baker’s clothing, and he looked rumpled and tired, but he also looked amazed. “Alex,” he said. “I can’t believe this.” He hurried around the counter and grabbed Alex in his arms. “Oh, my goodness. This is too much!”
But he was also quick to say, “Come outside with me. I must talk to you.” And outside, he told Alex, “I don’t want to explain everything to my friends in the bakery—not yet. They don’t know who I really am.”
“I understand.”
“Alex, it’s wonderful to see you. You made it. You survived the war. There were so many times when I feared that you never would.” He held Alex by the shoulders. “What about Anna? And the baby? I’ve gotten word out to them, through the OSS, but I’ve had no letters. Nothing is coming through yet.”
“I have a letter from Anna.”
“Has the baby come?”
Alex smiled. “Read the letter,” he said.
“All right. But come with me.” Brother Stoltz walked down the street. At the corner was a little square, with a fountain that had survived the bombs, and some benches. The two sat down, and Brother Stoltz opened the letter. Then he put his glasses on. Alex sat next to him, and he too read the letter, though he had read it many times before:
Dear Alex,
You have a son. He was born last night, June 26th, at 9:06 p.m. He weighed eight pounds, two ounces, and he is twenty-one inches long. He is beautiful, Alex, with not too much hair but big eyes. Mother says he looks like me when I was a baby, but I see only you. He has your chin and the shape of your face, and he is very strong. He takes hold of my finger and squeezes hard. When I held him in my arms the first time, I cried and cried. I was happy to see him, but I felt so bad that you cannot be here then.
But I will not complain. I asked the Lord so many times to keep you alive, and he did. I can live without you for a little longer. Many women have had their babies alone, and I was not that unlucky. My mother was here, and your heart was here. That will be enough for now, and once I have you back with me, I will keep you forever.
Is there any way you could tell my father about our baby? You told me when you were here that you would try to visit him. I can’t get letters to him right now, and it would be so wonderful if you could see him. You could tell me if he is all right, and carry this news to him. If you do see him, tell him how much we love him and miss him.
Alex, there is something I think we should do. We should name our little son Gene. This would mean so much to your family, and I think, to you. Is there any chance that you could come back to us, even for a short time, to bless your son and give him this name? I think I know the answer, but please try.
I nursed the baby a few minutes ago, Alex, and he’s a good eater. When he was full, he was like a lump—like a little fat man after a big dinner. He fell asleep, still against my chest, and I cried so hard I was afraid I would wake him. I couldn’t believe I would ever know this much joy. He is you, Alex. He is you and I. And before long we can start a life together. I know that hard things happen in life, but we have faced the worst, and we have made it through. Now we must only be strong through the last of this, and then all will be well. I know it. Think of me every minute, Alex, and think of our wonderful little boy. I never stop thinking of you.
Love, Anna
Brother Stoltz was crying, and so was Alex. They sat next to each other for a long time. Brother Stoltz read the letter a second time before he finally said, “This is right, I think, to name the baby after your brother.”
“It’s what I wanted. But I hadn’t told Anna. I didn’t know whether she would feel the same.”
“Anna is wise for her age. She’ll be a good mother.”
“Since I got the letter, all I think of is my little son. I want so much to see him.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wonder all the time now, what kind of world we’re going to give him. I don’t want him to go to war. I don’t want him to see anything like this.” Alex gestured at the destruction around them.
Brother Stoltz looked across the little square toward the fountain—from which no water was flowing now. “This is all so terrible, Alex,” he said. “I should have spoken up. I should have denounced Hitler. All of us who saw what kind of man he was—we should have done it. We were cowards, and now look what it’s all come to.”
“You couldn’t speak out against him. You would have been shot.”
“I should have been shot. If more of us had been shot back then, maybe the people would have seen what was happening, and more would have joined us—and all these millions wouldn’t have died.”
“But there was no knowing that then.”
“We should have known. We can see the future now. We have barely begun to pay the price for what Hitler did.”
That reality had certainly set in with the German people. Some still hated the Allies, the pilots who had bombed their country, and especially the Russians for their brutality, and most of the people still said, “There was nothing I could do.” But privately a number of Germans had told Alex, “I don’t know how we allowed this to happen.” There were those who still refused to believe what they were hearing about the death camps, about the murder of millions of Jews, but Alex was well aware that many had known what was happening in the camps and hadn’t dared to speak out. That would be Germany’s shame forever.
“I can’t tell you how relieved Anna and your wife were to find out that you were all right,” Alex said. “Let’s concentrate on that now—think about the future.”
“Yes. It’s what I’m trying to do.”
“You did so much more than most.”
“I did more harm than good, Alex. That’s what I will always have to remember.”
“You tried. You put your life in danger. You didn’t have to come back here, once you had escaped and were safe.”
“It is true that I have been in serious danger—many times. I’m lucky I survived. I’ll tell you that, but I won’t ever tell Anna and Frieda what I’ve seen, what I’ve done.” What he gave Alex was an account of the mistakes he had made in Berlin, how he had lost his cover, how he had found his way to Karlsruhe, and about his work with the resistance.
“What are you going to do now?” Alex asked him.
Heinrich shook his head. He looked considerably older to Alex, aged perhaps by what he had gone through in the past few months, and thinner—even weak compared to what he had once been. He had lost much of the bulk in his shoulders and chest. The lines around his eyes had deepened, too. “I don’t know what to do. I refuse to go back to England without Peter, but it’s almost impossible to look for him right now. I went to one of the prison camps—manned by the French. There were thousands of German boys there, and I asked whether I could see a list of their names. The guards told me no. I tried to explain who I was, what I’ve been doing, but they wouldn’t listen. To them, I was merely one more German. They threatened to throw me in the prison with the others.”
“I can do some looking,” Alex said. “I’ll get better cooperation. But if he was in the east, the Russians may have him. They’re much harder to work wit
h.”
“Most of the soldiers in the camp I went to had come from the eastern front. They had fled to the west so they wouldn’t be taken by the Russians. Peter might have done that too.”
“There’s no telling. He could also be somewhere in Russia or Poland or eastern Germany.”
“I know that. And I know the Russians are shipping their prisoners back to their own country.” He didn’t have to explain the danger in that possibility. Stories had spread across Germany about the inhuman treatment POWs were receiving at the hands of the Russians.
Alex tried to think what he could do. He knew even better than Brother Stoltz that a search like this was almost hopeless, at least for the present. The Red Cross was trying to compile names of displaced persons, Jews, and prisoners of war, but the lists were months away from being of any real help. And Peter had no idea where his family was, so he wouldn’t know how to make the contact himself.
“I keep thinking,” Brother Stoltz said, “if he was fleeing ahead of the Russians—like so many others—that he might have tried to contact the Church at some point. That would be his best hope of finding us.”
“Where would he go? Would he try to get to Frankfurt?”
“Yes. If he could. I think he would try to find President Meis or some of the other members there.”
“I’ve seen President Meis, Heinrich. I’ve been to church in Frankfurt. No one has had contact with him there.”
“Tell me about those families. How well did they survive?”
“They all have losses. President Meis was drafted into the Wehrmacht. He was wounded in the leg, but he’s doing quite well now.” Alex listed off some of the families, tried to account for everyone he could. Tears filled Brother Stoltz’s eyes as he listened to the stories.
“But no one there has heard from Peter?”
“No.”
“His only other contact would be in Berlin. And there, he only knows President Hoch. We didn’t get acquainted with the other members.”
“I have no idea whether the Hochs survived the war—or whether they are still in Berlin. Most people had to leave the city.”
“He might have looked for the Church, wherever he could find it. But are the branches in touch with each other?”
“No. Not yet. Some of the leaders are trying to reestablish the district organizations, but there are no membership lists—and people are scattered. You know how it is. It’s going to be a while before we can learn anything through Church headquarters. My father has talked with some of the Brethren in Salt Lake, and he’s given them the information I send him—about the state of things here. President Smith wants to help. Do you know that George Albert Smith is president of the Church now?”
“Yes. We have started holding meetings again in an old building that’s half destroyed. We’ve had Mormon soldiers—Americans—visit our branch. They told us that President Grant died in the spring.”
“President Smith wants to send help, but from the look of things, that won’t be happening right away. The military is in control, and they want to establish order before they let civilians come in. They think other organizations will just create more confusion.”
“Alex, do you have any idea what Germany is going to be like this winter? The people are going to starve if we don’t get food.”
“Yes, I know. I know far too much.”
“How soon can the Church do something?”
“I don’t know, Heinrich. The bridges are all gone. The railways are destroyed. It would be hard to distribute food, even if the army let us bring it in. We could help our own people if we could find them, but there are so many others in need. The poor Jews must wonder whether they’ve been liberated. Most of them are still behind barbed-wire fences, with guards at the gates.”
“You mean they’re still in concentration camps?”
“No. They’re called ‘displaced person’ camps. But General Patton is afraid to let them free. He says they’ll stir up trouble—try to take revenge on Germans. They’re eating better, but their camps are crowded and filthy. I’ve been inside them. The stench of those places is disgusting.”
“I keep thinking about the Rosenbaums. Is there any way to find out whether they’re alive?”
“I contacted the Red Cross about that. They had no record. But that doesn’t mean very much.”
“They’re probably dead, aren’t they? All three of them.”
“I don’t know, Papa. I just don’t know.” It was the first time Alex had called Brother Stoltz “Papa”—the name Anna always used. Alex saw the man’s eyes fill with tears again. He took hold of his hand. “Some made it. And the Rosenbaums were strong. I’ll try to find out what happened to them, too.”
“This is all worse than after the first world war. We had little food then, but our nation wasn’t devastated. What we’ve done this time is cut ourselves off from our own past. We had such a grand tradition—in philosophy and music and poetry—and now we’ll be known forever as thugs and murderers. How do we get our spirit back after this?”
Alex continued to hold his father-in-law’s hand. He felt close to him, but he also felt his own link to Germany deepen. He remembered the Germany he had loved, before the war, and Brother Stoltz’s words brought the tragedy into focus, the loss. “People can repent,” Alex said. “Nations can too. And no one in this war is without sin. We all have to put this in the past.”
“Yes, of course. But I wonder whether Germany can ever recover.”
“When I was a missionary,” Alex said, “you spoke of all this—what could happen.”
“More than anything, I didn’t want Peter to have to fight for Hitler. But I couldn’t protect him from it, could I?”
“Are you sure he joined the army?”
“Yes. That much is a certainty. Whether he had to fight, I don’t know, but if he did, it must have been unthinkable for him. What I do believe, though, is that he’s alive, and I won’t ever stop looking for him.”
“Heinrich, I can do that better than you can. You need to go home to your family. Let me find Peter.”
“Not yet. I don’t want to face Frieda until I have some sort of answer for her. I’ve failed at everything else; I can’t fail at that.”
“Heinrich, you have to stop thinking that way. You’ve done your best. You got information back to the OSS, didn’t you?”
“Some. But not as much as I wanted to. I did help to blow up tracks one night—when the Allies were crossing the Rhine. But I killed Germans doing it, and that was the one thing I didn’t want to do.”
“That’s what we all have to face. That’s what happens in war.” There was so much Alex could have told his father-in-law about his own failures. He wasn’t allowed to talk about any of that, but he knew he wouldn’t have anyway. Alex had already vowed that many of the things he had done he would never tell anyone, not even Anna, and try never to think of again, if he could do it.
“I did find out, later, that the damage to the track—and to the repair crew—delayed a train that was bringing equipment and ammunition to the front.”
“Heinrich, I can’t tell you what I know about the Rhine crossings. But I’ll tell you that I was involved in a certain way. What you did—along with the other resistance people—did make a difference. I can’t say that you saved my life, but you certainly did save lives.”
“What I hope is that I saved German lives as well as American ones—at least a few.”
“Yes. That’s exactly the right way to look at it. And there’s no question that you did. You helped to shorten the war. Every day that was cut from the length of the war saved lives.”
Across the square Alex could see a brigade of workers—all women. They were using hammers to knock the mortar off brick, to salvage it. “Rubble women,” they had come to be called, and Alex had seen them in every German city. They earned a little money that way—very little—but it was something to keep their families alive. The sound of their tapping, so pervasive across the country
, had become for Alex a symbol of German will. So many of the men were dead or in prison camps, so the women were making the best of things, doing what they could.
“How long will you be in Germany, Alex?”
“I have no idea. It could be quite some time. The army needs people who can speak the language.”
“But you’re longing to see Anna and your new son, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course. I miss the men I fought with, too. If I have to be here, I’d rather be with them.”
Alex could hardly express how lonely he had been. He’d had no contact with anyone from his old squad; he had no idea how many of his men had survived. His battalion was occupying Hitler’s “Eagle’s Nest” in Berchtesgaden, on the Austrian border. That he knew, but nothing else.
These recent weeks, after his time with Anna in London, had been the emptiest he had ever known. It was not good for him to be on his own, with time to think. Everything kept coming back to him now—all that had happened in the past year of battle—and there were so many things he didn’t know how to think about, how to live with. Without warning, images would appear in his brain: pictures of battles, of dead friends, of dead enemies. He wanted the Spirit back, wanted to put all those things behind him, and he tried, but the pictures came no matter what he did.
“Are you all right, Alex?”
“Heinrich, I’ve . . . gone through some bad times. It’s a little hard to imagine right now how I can ever be the same person I once was.”
“You won’t be, Alex, but you can be better than before. That’s what life is for. Isn’t that what you taught me?”
Alex nodded. But he wondered. He didn’t seem to be making a lot of progress.
“You have a son to raise. That will help you. It will change your heart back to what it was.”
“I hope so, Heinrich. I’m trying very hard. But what about you? Are you going to be all right?”
