by Tom Zola
Therefore the hill had to be reinforced with infantry from the rear, while the armored forces of Heeresgruppe Mitte advanced to Kursk on the right and the left, passing through Fatesh and Schtschigry.
The hill near Olchovatka was the decisive position for controlling the area between Oka and the Seym River, and from the hills in the east one could already see Kursk. That was what Staff Sergeant Pappendorf had told his platoon, and he had made sure that everybody was listening. The two squads had marched across the plains close to each other, laterally off-center to the rest of the company, and now they reached the bottom of the hill. To their right some carriages, loaded with ammunition and rations and driven by Russian Hiwi’s, rumbled off.
Pappendorf had run around his platoon like a satellite the whole way – more than twenty kilometers - barking orders and loudly admonishing soldiers who took their eyes off their sector even for just a second or who held their weapons the wrong way. Sweat spilled out of every pore of his body, soaking his tidy uniform, but he showed no signs of fatigue. All Berning could do was shake his head. He didn’t know if he should admire his platoon leader or think he was crazy. In the meantime, he kept his eyes on the ground and the shrubs. The Russians had planted anti-personnel mines – wooden “cigar boxes” – throughout the salient. He couldn’t believe how Pappendorf was jumping around here like a rabid dog.
*
It was already late in the afternoon when the platoon was assigned its trenches.
The soldiers had sincerely hoped that Pappendorf would collapse after his marathon run, and crash until noon the next day, but the staff sergeant seemed to have inexhaustible energy reserves. Now he was jumping around from one foxhole occupied by privates to the next, criticizing anything that wasn’t according to the rules, or harassing the men with questions and orders.
“Why did you take off your stahlhelm? Put it on right now!”
“Button up your left chest pocket!”
“Put your field blouse back on, dammit! This is not a day at the lake!”
“Berning, tell me the caliber and combat distance of the Karabiner 98! Come on, Sergeant!”
Again and again, Berning had been the target of Pappendorf’s temper, and of course he had kept giving Pappendorf plenty of opportunity. The staff sergeant just wouldn’t leave him alone. Now Berning was glad that Pappendorf had turned to the 2nd Squad.
Relieved, he slumped back into his foxhole while his heart kept hammering. He stroked his weapon with trembling hands. He had never shot another human being before, but the Russians were going to attack this sector. That was certain, because the enemy also knew that Olchovatka was the key to Kursk. Berning sighed. He didn’t want to shoot at anyone.
When the sergeant realized that his thoughts and fears were about to overwhelm him again, he quickly climbed out of his hole to take a closer look at his squad’s trenches.
The company’s foxholes were spread 300 meters across the width of the hill, where several groups of trees provided cover as well. Other infantry companies were to the left and right, and the anti-tank gun crews of the anti-tank battalion of the division had put up their cannons everywhere among the infantry troops.
The 7.5-centimeter Pak 40 with their shaped charge rounds even posed a danger to medium-sized Soviet tanks; they were also equipped with explosives to combat so-called soft targets – i.e. human beings – a euphemism that made shooting HE shells at people sound less nasty.
Open fields, providing nearly no cover at all, spread across several thousand yards up ahead before they turned into a large forest that was several miles wide and deep, reaching up to the horizon.
That was where the Russians were.
Yet the traces of the enemy didn’t even stop at the foot of the range of hills, which the Soviets had defended with an iron will almost until last man standing. Thousands of shell-holes lined the trenches, while here and there Berning could make out dried blood on the ground and the leaves of the bushes. It made him sick to have to spend his time in such a cemetery. Under the cover of the back of the hill, the sergeant walked from trench to trench, crawling on his stomach the last few yards to the foxholes to avoid the attention of any Russian observer. Finally he reached the MG nest of the squad, on the left flank that was slightly farther ahead and could therefore flank their own positions in close combat. Berning crawled on his hands and knees up to the dugout and let himself drop into it. He found his first assistant machine gunner, Lance Corporal Bongartz, with a cigarette in his mouth. His machine gun was resting on the edge of the trench.
Bongartz’ eyes grew wide. “Is Pappe around or what?”
“No, no.”
“Thank God!” Bongartz threw the glowing butt on the ground of the hole, that was already covered with cigarette butts and cartridge cases from Russian machine pistols. They stared at each other for a moment.
“Where’s Hege?” Berning asked finally.
“Taking a shit.” Bongartz lit another cigarette and thoughtfully blew the smoke into the air.
They fell silent again for another minute.
“And – everything okay with you?” Berning asked.
Nodding, Bongartz answered with a grin, “Everything’s Bochum.” He had taken so many draws on his cigarette and taken them so quickly that half of it had already burned away.
“Aren’t you scared of the Ivan’s at all?” Berning asked suddenly, peering over the edge of the trench into the distant forest.
Grimacing, Bongartz shook his head.
“Oh, it’ll be okay,” he thought aloud. “By the way, I’m Rudi.” He offered Berning his hand but the sergeant just stared at him without knowing what to do. In Sigmaringen they had taught him not to get too close to the Landsers – the enlisted men. They would be killed too quickly and replaced by others. Plus it wasn’t proper for a non-commissioned officer to make friends with his subordinates. Yet there was this longing to finally have something like a friend here.
“I know it’s not really right for me to … ” Bongartz began, trying to interpret Berning’s hesitation, but then the sergeant reached out and shook his hand with determination.
“Franz,” he said, beaming. “Franz Berning.” His Austrian Burgenland dialect gave a special ring to his name.
For a few moments they fell silent again but Berning didn’t want to end their conversation yet. “What team is Bochum playing against next?”
“Against Bielefeld. On Sunday.”
“And?”
“Yeah. They’re good. But we’re better.”
“So it’s gonna be better than against Schalke, won’t it?”
“Whoa, don’t say that! We lost ten to one in March. But then they’ve got this guy Klodt now. He’s supposed to be a top player.”
“Mhh … ”
After that exchange they fell silent again, and Berning felt how much he missed his home and Gretel.
“Man, I can’t wait to get back home. Then I’ll watch the games every week,” Bongartz said thoughtfully.
Berning just nodded. Silence.
“Oh well, I guess I’ll get going,” the sergeant said finally. “Check out the other trenches.”
“Well, good luck then.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“And watch out for Pappe, the old Nazi is out to rap your knuckles.“
“You know me, Bongartz,” Berning joked, grinning widely, “I don’t give a shit about his crap. I’ll be fine – after all, I’m not a nobody!” He didn’t stop grinning until he noticed that Bongartz’s grin had disappeared and that he was looking past Berning with fear in his eyes.
Turning around, Berning stared right at the face of Pappendorf, whose eyes were narrow slits and whose every pore was about to explode with rage. The bastard had sneaked up on them without making a sound.
“BERNING!” he yelled.
Belp, Switzerland, May 7th, 1943
Thomas Taylor sat in a small café in the quaint small town of Belp right outside Bern. Though he was here on busi
ness, he enjoyed the tranquility that he was able to indulge in for the moment. He really could use some peace and quiet after the turbulent past few days. After rushing from Remigen to Bern the same night, he had received his next order. Taylor had reached Bern sometime in the afternoon of the next day. The first thing he had done was to drop down on the bed in the apartment Military Intelligence had provided for him in the center of Bern, and sleep like a log until the sun rose again. As of the next morning, Taylor had been busy preparing for his new job; he had studied documents the guys from MI had deposited in his apartment in Bern, and he had already followed her – the name of his job was Luise Roth – to get a feel for her. Through another agent who had already shadowed the target for some time, they knew her daily and weekly routines and were generally well-informed about her. These preparations made it possible for Thomas to start the approach soon.
So now here he was, sitting in this small Swiss café – run by a family of Italian origins offering as a specialty Italian coffee and ice cream – and waiting for Luise Roth to quit her work early as she did every Friday to meet five other women of the Jewish community of Belp to plan their joint activities.
It was a pleasant early summer day. The birds were chirping, and the sun presented herself in all her glory, while the café was filled with Swiss state officials who were eating breakfast, reading the newspapers, or talking about politics – of course they were also talking about the incident in Lucerne as well as the dangers the German Reich posed, which naturally was one of the major topics discussed in Switzerland these days.
Thomas always had to grin to himself whenever he overheard such debates; usually they were very naïve and only superficially informed. He often wondered how horrified many Swiss would be if German soldiers ever stormed across the Swiss border.
Habits, Taylor thought while observing the Jewish community hall that actually was only a regular townhouse on the other side of the street, habits are the things that’ll kill you.
He was enjoying a cup of coffee – his third – and an expensive cigar – a Montecristo – pleasures that had already cost MI quite a tidy sum. But Thomas was prepared to make them pay for a good smoke, and that was exactly the way he smoked this cigar – as fast as a cigarette. A cigar connoisseur would surely have slapped him in the face for that.
It was still early in the morning; the little hand on his watch would reach the eight any moment now.
Why does this slut have to get up so early for her coffee party? He put out the cigar in an ash tray on the table without taking his eyes off the car on the other side of the street – an old, yellow Maximag with an open driver’s cab and strikingly narrow tires with spokes. Taylor was lucky that it looked like it was going to be a beautiful day today because otherwise Luise would have taken the train. Then he could have kissed his trick goodbye – but he wanted and had to get to her as fast as possible. The Reich was in a war, and therefore every day wasted without collecting adequate information, would cost them dearly.
While Taylor emptied his cup, the door across the street opened. An old woman said goodbye to a young lady in her early twenties. Luise Roth really was breathtakingly beautiful. Long blonde hair she usually wore pinned up, and light blue eyes – these were the highlights in a lovely face with soft features, a cute little nose and narrow lips. The few sunny days of the year had already given her skin a healthy, light tan. She was dressed in a black skirt and a white blouse that showed a pleasant amount of skin.
Some time or other while doing his research on Luise, Taylor realized that he had never before had anything to do with a Jew – much less with a Jewess. He didn’t really like the Nazis, and being a German with foreign roots himself, he might quickly have become a target of the Germans’ racial fanaticism. Yet he had never understood their hatred of the Jews. Before the Nazis appeared on the German horizon, Thomas had never even once given a thought to the Jews, nor had he had any contact with them. This section of the population had simply never been an issue in his life. And all of a sudden they were supposed to be the cause of all the world’s problems? They had been dragged out of their homes, had been banned from their professions, and finally they had disappeared somewhere in the East ... Taylor just never understood it. The Jewesses in the small community of Belp didn’t have long noses or dirty fingernails – on the contrary: All of the women were a pleasure to look at and seemed to be of a friendly disposition, too. On such occasions Taylor realized once again that it was a good thing the Nazis were no longer in power. The new government had finally stopped that madness of deporting Jews and restricting their civil rights.
So now he had had to do quick research on the Jewish culture, had studied the documentation collected by MI, and familiarized himself with his new biography. But if he wanted to remain convincing for a longer period of time, he definitely needed to study the subject even more intensely and become acquainted with all of the trivia a Jewish life consisted of.
Luise Roth walked to her car, while the old woman disappeared in the house again, closing the front door behind her. Yes, Taylor’s target was truly a feast for the eyes.
He grinned; in the meantime the engine of the automobile across the street kicked in. Luise put on sunglasses that concealed not only her eyes but also part of her face. Then the exhaust spat out black smoke, and the lady with British and Swiss roots sped off.
That was Taylor’s cue.
He got up and left a generous tip on the table – after all, MI had enough funds. Then he swung himself on his bicycle and rode off.
*
Taylor had memorized Luise’s route to work in detail and had found it to be perfect for making contact. For the most part it mainly consisted of a country road which, while passing a few small villages along the way, otherwise twisted through the middle of nowhere. Forests, brooks, hills, river meadows, and fields that were starting to sprout agricultural crops, dominated the area. In Taylor’s opinion even Bern, which bordered on Belp, was surprisingly rural for a capital city – and Belp itself was a real one-horse town. In any case, the road Luise took to her workplace in Bern every day was completely cut off from the rest of the world – and therefore perfect for Taylor’s job. Out here no one would disturb him.
Taylor pedaled down the road at a high speed. His bicycle vibrated on the bumpy road. A hundred yards up ahead, a small forest appeared and swallowed up the road after a right turn.
Pushing the pedals down even faster, he reached the forest. Riding under tall tree tops, he smelled pine cones and musty soil.
Suddenly he heard a gentle woman’s voice.
He stopped, jumped off his bike and leaned it up against a tree. With silent steps, he sneaked away from the road into the underbrush so he could take a shortcut around the bend in the road. Then he saw the yellow steel flash between the bramble bushes that provided a dense cover at eye level.
There she is! He approached Luise slowly while her vocal complaints filled the air.
“No, that can’t be true!” she moaned in a soft voice that sounded very pleasant. Her Swiss dialect had an exotic yet appealing ring to Taylor. “I don’t believe it!”
He approached her. In the military, he had learned how to move through the woods as silently as possible. Cautiously he pushed small twigs and rocks aside with his foot before taking each step.
Gradually he came closer to his target. He felt the hard metal of his Luger that he had put into the back waistband of his pants; it was invisible from the outside. His whole body was tense and his mind was totally focused.
Now he was only five yards away from his target.
Now he would strike.
*
Luise stood beside her Swiss vehicle that was already almost a vintage car, and stared at the yellow metal hood, the dark radiator grille, and the protruding round headlights. She had no idea what to do now. It couldn’t be happening, her car breaking down right here in the middle of nowhere!
And she was late for work as it was, having had su
ch a lovely talk with the girls of the community. So Luise cursed again in the way properly educated girls cursed. “It can’t be happening,” she moaned without realizing that someone was right behind her.
“Grüessech,” a voice behind her said.
Startled, Luise squealed loudly and spun around. She looked straight at a man with a friendly smile and big freckles on his nose and cheeks.
He’s cute, was her first thought. His red hair and strong features reminded her of a Scotsman. Immediately she felt embarrassed about having screamed. So she started to laugh nervously while putting her right hand over her heart.
“Dear God,” she groaned. “You gave me quite a start.”
“I’m so sorry,” the man answered in a very friendly voice. He spoke excellent High German rather than the Swiss dialect, but with a slight British accent, a fact that immediately made Luise curious.
“Oh no, that’s quite all right.” Again she had to giggle nervously. Oh God, what must he think of me? I’m squeaking like a mouse!
“I just noticed that you were standing by your car in the forest and thought you might need some assistance?” the man explained politely.
“Oh, that’s too kind of you, thank you.” Luise curtsied slightly and realized at once how stupid she must look to him. Embarrassed, she smiled again.
He really is cute, she couldn’t help but think. She tried to shake off these thoughts.
“But where are my manners?” She offered him her hand. “Luise Roth.”
“Aaron Stern.” He shook her hand.
Firm handshake, she noticed, and smiled again bashfully. But Stern? Aaron Stern? What a coincidence! And why does this nice man have to run into me right here in this situation? The way I look! Wearing only my stupid work clothes. What must he think of me? He probably thinks I’m a silly goose!
