The Unlikely Allies

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Yes. I know that story.”

  “Well, everybody around at that time would have looked at John the Baptist, hauled out of prison to get his head cut off, and said, ‘Man, that guy’s a real loser!’ And they would have thought that Herod was the winner, because after all, he got to watch the woman dance, and he got by with murdering John.”

  “And you’re telling me that John the Baptist was the winner and Herod was the loser?”

  “When they went to meet God in judgment, I wouldn’t have wanted to stand in Herod’s shoes. Would you, Frederick?”

  Möhr stared at his roommate. He admired the tall, handsome young man who had everything—except common sense. “That’s crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy at all. The only difference is that Herod was the winner for a little while, but John the Baptist is the winner for all eternity. Poor old Herod! I would think he’d have a hard time explaining to God why he killed one of His servants.”

  Möhr shook his head and pulled a bottle of whiskey off of a shelf fastened to the wall. He took a healthy swallow and then gasped and stamped his foot. “Boy, that’s strong stuff they make around here! You want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Möhr laughed. He came over holding the bottle and sat down in front of Derek. He braced himself and took another large swallow. When he got his breath back, he said, “It’s an education living with you, Derek. You could have anything you want. You’re the son of our general! You could probably be a major by now if you’d put your mind to it.”

  “I don’t care about being a major.”

  “You see? You’re like Dopey there. You’re not very bright.”

  Derek stopped stroking Dopey’s head and put him on the floor. “Tell me, Frederick, do you enjoy what we’re doing here?”

  “Enjoy it? I haven’t thought about it. I just try to get by.”

  “We’ve seen some pretty rough things. You remember Guernica?”

  “Sure, I remember. What about it?”

  “What’d you think about it?”

  The question made Frederick nervous. “It was pretty bad, I’ll admit.” He took another drink. “I’ve thought a lot of times about those poor kids blown to bits by German bombs.”

  Guernica was a Spanish town of about five thousand people. It had become a military target, and the German air force dropped tons of bombs into the crowded city on a busy market day. The planes had kept coming until sixteen hundred people were killed, many of them women and children, and hundreds more wounded.

  Derek had gone in after the attack with his company led by his father, and Möhr had been at his side. He had not been able to sleep for weeks thinking of those poor women and children and old people who had died for no reason.

  “I wasn’t proud of what happened at Guernica,” Derek said. “I don’t think anybody should be.”

  “Don’t tell your father that!”

  Derek stared at the smaller man. “I’ve already told him. As a matter of fact, I don’t think we have any business being here in Spain at all.”

  The struggle in Spain had begun in 1936 when a fascist-led force commanded by General Franco had begun fierce fighting against the republic. The battle had seesawed back and forth. The common people of Spain had fought the fascists with every weapon they could find, though many had never used a rifle in their lives. Franco and those who came to help, including Germany and Italy, had not reckoned on the determination of the people to fight for their democratic rights. They had been shocked when anti-Nazis from all over the world, including twenty-seven hundred Americans, had come to Spain to form the International Brigade. They had fought valiantly, more than once stopping the fascists’ advances, but the military might of the German and Italian forces had proved impossible to stop. The end was in sight, and now it was only a matter of time until Spain would become another totalitarian nation.

  “I believe you’re really for the peasants, aren’t you, Derek?” Lieutenant Möhr never knew what answer his friend would have given him, for at that moment the door opened suddenly, and Captain Fritz Heilman stepped inside, announcing, “We’re taking the field. The enemy has broken through, and we’ve got to stop them. Come with me.”

  ****

  When Derek reached the line of battle, the machine-gun fire rattled, and the sound of artillery echoed with a dreadful finality. Möhr had taken the right wing, and Derek had stayed with Captain Heilman. Now he saw the German infantry falling back in a ragged fashion.

  “We’ve got to stop them!” Heilman screamed, waving a saber. Derek wondered if he thought he could stop bullets and artillery with it. “Grüber, you take the right wing. Go to every man. If you see a man retreating, shoot him!”

  “Yes, my Captain,” Derek said. He had no intention of shooting any German soldiers, but he saw that the men were indeed in a bad way. The enemy was in force, and for the next half hour Derek moved back and forth, urging his men to conceal themselves to keep from getting mowed down by the machine guns. He heard the line of bullets around his head, and once he felt one of them pluck at the shoulder of his uniform. He looked down to see that it had ripped a neat gash, but it did not seem real to him.

  Like most Germans, Derek had wondered how he would react in battle, if he would be one of those who would run. He hated military life, but he found that he could function, and in the heat of battle he remained cool.

  “Lieutenant, the captain—he’s wounded!”

  A corporal was crouched behind a broken piece of concrete blown up by one of the mortar shells. His eyes were wild, and he was gesturing out in the open space where the action was hot and furious.

  Derek turned quickly and saw Captain Heilman dragging himself along like a wounded insect. He was completely without cover, and bullets were kicking up dust all around him.

  Derek did not hesitate. Leaving cover, he ran straight toward the captain, unable to hear the corporal shouting, “Lieutenant, you can’t help him! He’s gone!”

  Derek ran, crouching low, firing his pistol, and saw two of the enemy drop. When he reached the captain, he saw that blood covered the front of his uniform, but he picked him up and started back. I’ll never make it! He ran as fast as he could with the captain in his arms. He was strong and could carry the captain easily, who was rather small. He heard the bullets ripping, and once he felt as if someone had run a red-hot poker along his side, but he ignored it. When he reached the wreckage of the demolished barn, he dodged behind it and set the man down. He turned to find Colonel Dieter watching him with shock on his face. “That was a brave thing, Lieutenant Grüber.”

  “He’s hurt pretty badly, Colonel. I’d better get him to the medics.”

  “Are you hit?”

  Derek touched his left side and found it bloody. “It’s not serious.”

  “Have them take care of you.” He clapped Derek on the shoulder. “That was well done. I will see that your father hears of this!”

  ****

  Derek felt ridiculous standing in the line of men receiving military honors. His father had gone down the line awarding medals, and now he stood before Derek. Derek heard him speak the words that went with the ceremony and felt his father’s hands as he fastened the iron cross to his jacket. When his father put out his hand, he took it, and General Wilhelm Grüber suddenly stepped outside of the iron discipline he nearly always maintained. “I cannot tell you, my son, how proud I am of you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  It had been one of the greatest moments of General Grüber’s life when he had discovered that Derek had performed not just as an average soldier but had gone beyond the call of duty to rescue his commanding officer. He tried not to show it, but those who served under him were well aware of his pleasure in his son’s action.

  Derek waited until the company was dismissed. He saw his father standing beside the general’s staff, still watching him. He nodded, then left. When he got to his room, he pulled off his jacket and hung it up carefully, and going to the d
esk, he opened the drawer and picked up the letter he had received from Rachel—the only one he had received since he had been in Spain.

  My dearest Derek,

  I pray for you each day. You make little of the danger there, but I know that in a war, soldiers get wounded and killed. I am praying that God will deliver you.

  Derek reread the letter, which was three pages long, although he had committed it to memory. When he got to the last page, he slowed down and read it carefully.

  It is so good to be back in Czechoslovakia. As you know, I loved Paris but I missed my parents terribly. Now I am afraid of the political situation here. I must get my parents out of Czechoslovakia. Some say I can get them to Sweden. They would be safe there, I think.

  I must close but not without telling you how I live upon the memories of the days and nights we had together. I love you with all of my heart.

  Derek folded the letter, put it in the envelope, and returned it to the drawer. He took out the long letter to Rachel that he had been working on earlier when he’d had to leave for the ceremony. Now he picked up where he left off.

  Do not worry, my dear, Germany will not attack Czechoslovakia.

  Even as he wrote this, Derek felt uneasy. No one knew what Adolf Hitler would do. He had attacked other nations, and the talk at General Headquarters was that Czechoslovakia was on the führer’s agenda. He continued writing:

  Even if that should happen, I will come and get you across the border to a safe place. There are so many things I want to do that I can’t. I read the other day that a big elm tree can make six million leaves in a single season. I can’t even make one. That sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But I do want to make something, my darling Rachel. I want to make a life with you. That’s the height of my ambition. Right now, like the apostle Paul, I see through a glass darkly.

  I was reading in the Bible last night about a man called Ezra, and when he got bad news, it said, “When I heard this, I tore my tunic and cloak, pulled hair from my head and beard and sat down appalled.” I’ve been reading the Bible a great deal lately, especially the Old Testament, and I feel like Jacob at Peniel wrestling with the angel. Things seem dark now, but time will change those things. You and I will have many mornings and days and nights. Do not despair, my love. I read a poem once—can’t remember who wrote it—but a line sticks with me: “God lies on his back under the world. I wanted to see him, but I kept seeing only the soles of his shoes, but even that is glory.” Isn’t that a marvelous line? I wish I could write like that!

  He closed the letter, pledging his love as always, and then sealed it.

  Later that day he was going to try to mail it, but he encountered his father, who stopped him.

  After Derek saluted him, his father said, “Big things are brewing. I’ve just gotten orders to go home with all my staff. We’ll be leaving at once.”

  “That’s good news, sir.”

  Derek felt the letter in his pocket, and touching it, he thought, I may get to see Rachel before this letter can get there. That would be all I could ask. The best thing I could think of!

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Net Tightens

  A faint blue haze of cigar smoke filled the room as four men sat around an ornate walnut table. General Wilhelm Grüber ignored the glass of brandy in front of him, for he was more interested in the man who sat across from him than in drinking.

  It was his third meeting with Adolf Hitler, and as always, Grüber was mesmerized by the man who had led Germany out of a crushing depression to become a world power. To Hitler’s left sat Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, and to his right Hermann Göring, minister of the economy.

  As Hitler exchanged small talk with the others, Grüber allowed his gaze to rest upon Himmler, an ex-police chief from Munich. Heinrich Himmler was anything but an inspiring figure. He was an awkward man, regarded as a meddling but generally well-meaning fussbudget before his rise to power. He wore a heavy coat that overwhelmed his spare frame, emphasizing his narrow shoulders and thin chest. Himmler’s pinched face with its modest mustache and thick round glasses displayed none of the fervor of a revolutionary. As usual, he wore an air of confusion and anxiety.

  He may look like nothing, but he’s a carnivore. Grüber knew the violence that lay beneath the mild manner of Himmler and was repelled by the cruelty of the man.

  He shifted his gaze to the bulky figure of Hermann Göring. He was not the slim figure he had been while shooting down enough planes in the Great War to make him an ace. His body had thickened, his face had rounded, and rumors were circulating that he was a cocaine addict. He served as commander of the German infantry and was given to ornate ceremonies and fancy uniforms. There was something of a clown in him, but like Himmler, he was a deadly man and totally dedicated to his master, Adolf Hitler.

  “Well, my führer,” Göring started, “we have come a long way.” He picked up his glass of brandy and drank it, his broad face beaming. “I think often of the days after the Great War.”

  “They humiliated Germany!” Hitler stated harshly, his eyes burning. Indeed, postwar Germany had been transformed into an economic wreck by the terms imposed at Versailles. The treaty made there had pared German territories down to the bone. Inflation had made the reichsmark absolutely worthless, so much so that women used the paper money to start their fires. The German people had felt ashamed and believed their punishment was undeserved. Hitler had fed upon their misery and desire to hold their heads up. He had screamed, “You are humiliated! You are degraded! Germany is a sick nation!” And he always blamed everything on people he called Jewish Communists.

  Grüber knew that Hitler was basically a shy man and an awkward speaker. Grüber was aware that Hitler rehearsed long hours to bring the impact and impression of spontaneity to his speeches. Grüber thought it strange that now at the crest of his power, Hitler was still nervous. He twitched in his chair and wrung his hands together in an agonizing gesture as he spoke. But when he addressed masses of people, all this changed. He learned artfully honed gesticulations, imparting such force to his words that they became a raging torrent.

  Hitler was not imposing physically. His small square mustache was his most noted feature. His straight brown hair was often unruly and sometimes fell over his forehead. By no stretch of the imagination could he be called handsome. His eyes, however, could be as powerful and penetrating as a bolt of lightning. And even now, in the privacy of this secluded room, power seemed to emanate from him.

  “All that is past,” Himmler said nervously. “Need we speak of it?”

  “You are right, Heinrich. We have risen out of the ashes, and now we must think of Germany.” He looked down at his hands, and when he raised his eyes, they seemed to burn with a hidden fire. “We must talk of Lebensraum.” The word, which meant simply living room, had become the key to Hitler’s entire strategy. He had insisted that Germany be fenced in on all sides, so there was no room for growth of any kind. He had screamed at the masses at Nuremberg and other huge gatherings, “Germany must have room to grow to its full potential!”

  Grüber listened as Hitler spoke erratically of his plans, as he often did. Obviously he intended to enlarge Germany’s territory. In order to do this, he would have to occupy the nations that surrounded Germany. After Hitler mentioned Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Austria as being rightful German territory, Grüber spoke for the first time.

  “And what about England, my führer?”

  “They are of the Aryan race. If they will be reasonable, we will not invade them.”

  They all knew that Hitler admired the English. None of them really understood why, but Himmler and Göring simply accepted Hitler’s dictum that Germans were the master race and all other races were inferior. Yet somehow he was able, in his thinking, to include England under that general umbrella. Göring continued to drink his brandy, and his face grew flushed. Finally he said, “We need to talk about Norway. I think we must have that territory, my führer.”

  Hitler shook
his head. “I would prefer for them to remain neutral.”

  Göring rarely argued with his master, but he had obviously spent some time thinking about this. “We need Swedish iron for our war machines. We can only get it by passing through Norway. They can shut us down anytime they choose.”

  “Germany must have her day in the sun!” Hitler responded harshly. “The master race cannot be stopped by a tiny country like Norway.”

  Göring leaned forward. “Then you would not absolutely rule out occupying Norway.”

  “No. But it will be a last resort. Now, let the plans for the invasion of Czechoslovakia be set in motion.”

  Himmler shook his head slightly and protested. “There will be trouble over that with England and France.”

  “They are weak! We Germans are strong. We will take what must be ours so that Germany will one day be the premier nation on the planet!”

  The meeting ended abruptly, but Hitler took time to come around and shake the hand of Wilhelm Grüber. He was charming when he chose to show it. He could be kind to dogs and peasants, could win their sympathies and their admiration. Now his grip was firm as he said, “We shall count on you, General Grüber, to help fulfill the destiny of Germany.”

  “I know my duty as a soldier, my führer.”

  “Good. You will receive your orders shortly.”

  Grüber left the room, not stopping to speak to Göring or Himmler. A strange thought crossed his mind. He knew that Himmler had developed techniques for racial selection, dreaming up pseudoscientific tests of the ideal Aryan look. The final product was a tall, strong, and handsome people with fair hair, not unlike most Germans. But none of the three men who led Germany fit Himmler’s own criteria for what an ideal German should be. Göring was fat and round-faced, a drug addict. Hitler was not even a German but an Austrian—and certainly did not look like the fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, strong master race that Himmler envisioned. Himmler himself looked more like a bank clerk than anything else.