The prisoners were often ordered to unload trucks arriving from the American airfield so supplies could be dispatched to other camps. Some shipments included crates of baseballs, bats, and leather gloves, and the prisoners quickly learnt the value that their captors placed on their national game of baseball.
“Captain?” Private Lothar whispered to Paul one sunny afternoon, soon after their capture.
“What is it, Shoes?” Paul said, hoisting a sack of flour onto a cart. He noticed that the private had pried a slat loose from one of the crates.
“Captain, I can do something with these,” Shoes said, fingering a leather catcher’s mitt.
Paul raised an inquisitive eyebrow, considered for a moment, then nodded. “Carry on, Private.”
Shoes waved to a few of his comrades, and together they helped the crates of baseball gloves disappear.
The Americans complained bitterly that the baseball gloves they had ordered had not arrived, and promptly placed another order.
“How do they expect us to play baseball without gloves!” the supply officer grumbled.
Shoes ensured that the crates of gloves were stashed out of sight, and, as time passed, he transformed the leather baseball gloves into footwear, a pair for each of Paul’s men.
“Shoes, we are very fortunate that you worked as a cobbler before you were drafted,” Paul said privately, patting Shoes on the back. “Keep up the good work!”
One by one, as the men received their shoes, Paul instructed them on the best route home. “Follow the road north, by night. Stop at cloisters and beg asylum by day. Hopefully, the nuns will take pity and provide food and shelter for God’s loyal Christians.”
Adding words of encouragement, he said, “And fill your pockets with canned goods before you leave. The nuns will appreciate a donation for their efforts.”
Slowly, the number of men diminished, but not the headcount. Because the American soldiers charged with carrying out the daily headcount did not speak German, they had failed to realize that the number of heads ceased to equate to the final number shouted at the end of each muster call.
As the one-year anniversary of their capture approached, Paul began to worry about their circumstance. Many of the men had already escaped, and he feared their captors would soon realize the headcount deception. He called a secret meeting with the remainder of his men and spread the word that the next escape would be en masse. Private Shoes assured him that, by the targeted escape date, every man would have appropriate footwear and sufficient canned goods to see them home.
Together, Paul and the remaining German officers devised a plan that would guide everyone north. As a distraction, a few small groups of men were to head in other directions first, then wind their way home. They hoped that, by splitting off in small groups, headed in a variety of directions, their captors would be overwhelmed with the resulting search and give up the pursuit.
Paul knew that, because he was an officer, he was a valued captive. He and the other officers expected to be pursued, aggressively.
On the night of the escape, Paul ensured that his men were away safely before he set out on his journey south toward Rome. He deliberately left small clues so that the American soldiers would follow him, allowing the others ample time to travel beyond risk of recapture. When he was confident that sufficient time had passed, Paul disappeared into the dark.
Paul’s plan was to seek asylum from the Pope. He was confident that, if he reached Vatican City, the Holy Father would feel compelled to keep him, one of God’s faithful servants, safe. He was wrong.
When he finally arrived at the Vatican, Paul announced to the Swiss Guard that he wished to ask the Pope for asylum. The guards laughed at him.
“This is neutral territory, yes,” one of them said, “but currently the Pope is not accepting any foreigners, not even devoted ones, into the Vatican. We can, however, offer you a comfortable prison cell once you’ve been tried for trespassing.”
As the guards lunged toward him, Paul raced off in the opposite direction, twisting and turning down cobbled streets until he was beyond the pursuit of the Swiss Guard and clear of Vatican City.
Appalled at the Vatican’s closed-door policy, Paul resolved to find his own way home to Deutschland, and to focus instead on finding Ilse-Renata. He had been away too long.
I hope she still thinks of me the way I think of her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
PAUL TRAVELLED NORTH, keeping his distance from the prisoner-of-war camp that had held him for the past year. Until he was well beyond the area, he travelled by night, avoiding the check stops and patrols that continued to search for him.
Paul had no idea of the date, except that it was 1946. The Americans had celebrated the arrival of the new year with a raucous party. It feels like spring, perhaps early summer.
One warm evening, he took shelter in a small barn that housed two milk cows, a pig, and some chickens. He burrowed under a stack of clean hay and fell asleep. Early in the morning, he awoke abruptly to squealing brakes, followed by a heated exchange of Italian and English-speaking voices.
Paul pushed hay from a crack in the planked wall, providing a clear view of the dispute. He lay motionless, noting from the uniforms that American soldiers were interrogating the Italian famer—the farmer whose barn he happened to be occupying.
The conversation was stilted; neither party had a particularly good command of the other’s language. To each insistent suggestion made by the sergeant in charge, the farmer responded in the negative, insisting that the Americans leave his property.
Having learnt Italian in school, Paul gleaned from the farmer’s comments that the Americans were indeed looking for him. He burrowed deeper under the sweet-smelling hay.
The sergeant insisted that the farmer’s property be searched. The farmer relinquished finally, and two privates moved briskly from one building to another, looking for their missing quarry.
The private that dared to enter the farmer’s house exited promptly, the farmer’s wife chasing him out with a flick of her apron, waving a floured arm in protest.
The other private stood at the entrance to the barn, nose wrinkled, and waving his hand before his face. “Sarge, this place stinks like a latrine! No one in their right mind would spend time here, let alone hide.”
Five minutes later, the Americans and their jeep drove off the farmer’s property in a cloud of dust. The farmer stood his ground firmly, shaking his fist in protest despite the dust.
Paul waited. When he was certain that the American soldiers had left the farm, he crawled out from under the haystack.
Dusting himself off, he walked out of the barn with his hands raised high in the air, then addressed the farmer. “Sir,” he said in clear Italian, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I believe those men were looking for me.”
The farmer turned and looked at Paul with an expression of disbelief. As a smile of awareness dawned on his face, the farmer said, “Please, Signor, come inside. You must be hungry. You can freshen up a little. Yes? And my wife will be happy to cook you a good breakfast from our meagre pantry. Please. Come.”
The farmer and his wife were kind and generous Catholics who were happy to provide Paul with a hearty breakfast of warm bread fresh from the oven, a chunk of hard cheese, and a cooked egg. He rubbed his belly in gratitude as he popped the last of the bread, dripping in egg yolk, into his mouth and grinned. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so well!” he told them.
The farmer’s wife responded to his gratitude by assembling a bundle of extra food for him to take on his journey north.
When he announced that he must leave, his hosts detained him long enough to give him a change of clothes and a pair of sturdy boots. He could see misery in their eyes as they proffered the boots and the clothes.
“These were our son’s,” the farmer said. “He died of an intestinal illness last fall. He had just turned eighteen.” The farmer shook his head in sadness, and a tear escaped his wife’s e
ye.
“He was about your size.” The farmer continued. “I think you are thin enough for them to fit.”
“I can’t accept your generous offer,” Paul told them, empathizing with their loss. “Your gesture is greatly appreciated, though. And I am truly sorry to hear about your son.”
“No!” the wife said with insistence. “You must take them. Please.” She held the folded clothing in her outstretched arms, willing him to accept. “If you don’t take them, one day we will have to discard them, or give them away to someone else. We would rather you had them. You too have suffered much, we think.”
“Then I’ll take them, with thanks,” he said, with a small bow.
Steam rose from a kettle sitting on an old, cast iron stove. The farmer’s wife efficiently poured the warmed water into a basin and invited Paul to wash, while she and her husband gave him privacy by busying themselves in the yard outside.
Seeing the sun rising higher in the morning sky, Paul quickly washed and changed. I must be away from here, before the Americans’ return. If I’m found here, that will cause trouble for these kind folks.
Twenty minutes later, with a bundle slung over his shoulder, Paul hugged the farmer and his wife and bid them farewell. Setting steps to road, Paul marched off, thinking, I should be able to cover a few kilometres before the heat of the day forces me to find shelter.
Paul travelled north, through the remainder of Italy and then Austria, mostly by foot, grateful for the heavy boots he had received from the farmer. On occasion, he managed to find a ride with a sympathetic local, who would share whatever food they could and pointed him in the right direction.
Once he reached Austria, travel was easier; a few of the locals even welcomed and fed him. On the outskirts of Innsbruck, he approached a Red Cross unit and asked for shelter and food. He was given another pair of boots and a change of clothing.
Paul gave his name and military information to the office clerk. His name was added to the list of displaced persons, and he received papers for travel.
“Please,” he said to the clerk, “I’m looking for a young woman. Her name is Ilse-Renata Chemiker. Is she on your list?”
The clerk flipped through several pages. When she finally stopped, her finger ran down a list of names beginning with the letter C. “I have an Ilse-Renata Chemiker and an Erna Chemiker residing in München. Is she the one you seek?”
“Yes, yes,” he said with enthusiasm. “Erna is her mother. She has an aunt and uncle in München. That must be where she is. Can you give me the address?”
The woman hesitated. “Is she a relative?”
“No,” he said with pleading eyes. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“For your sake, I hope she accepts,” the woman said, her voice doubtful. “Young women don’t wait around for soldiers these days: especially ones who’ve been missing for so long.”
She hastily scribbled the address on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Good luck to you.”
Paul tucked the paper into his jacket pocket and walked out of the Red Cross office, plopping his cap upon his head. I’m grateful that Ilse-Renata is in München, not Dresden or Hof.
Paul managed to catch a ride on a transport truck that took him all the way to München and dropped him just outside a train station, a mere two kilometres from the address he had been given by the Red Cross.
Before he closed the truck door, he asked the driver for the date.
“It’s May 8th, of course! The war has been over for one year already!” the driver told him.
Paul thanked the driver and headed into the train station. It was evident to him that the station had been bombed at some point during the war, but repairs had already been made.
In the water closet marked Herren, he washed his face and tidied his hair as best he could. It had grown long during the past year. I need a haircut and a shave. He fussed, rubbing the dripping beard that bushed around his face. It was only then that he noticed the deep lines etched in his face, evidence of hardship and starvation.
Mein Gott, I hope she doesn’t turn and run at the sight of me.
He covered his head with the familiar cap, given to him by the farmer and his wife, and set off in search of his ultimate destination.
On the road outside the train station, he put purpose in his stride and went in search of Ilse-Renata. Since he had last seen her in Breslau he had worried after her safety, hoping that she was able to exit the city before the Russians attacked. She must have, idiot! She’s in München, after all!
He also hoped that she would greet him favourably. The thought of seeing her again was the one thing that had kept him going. A knot of anxiety formed in the pit of his belly and grew tighter with each step he took toward the address where he hoped to find the woman he loved.
Walking along a main street, reality slowly permeated Paul’s press to find Ilse-Renata. The devastation of his surroundings saddened him. Devastation was a part of war. He knew that. But now that the war was over, it all seemed pointless. Did anyone really win?
All around him, beautiful, old buildings had been scarred, marred, or demolished. Some of the city lots had been cleared of debris; others showed signs of new construction or repair. The Allied bombing may have broken the city of München, but the people seemed determined to make it rise again.
During his imprisonment in Italy, Paul had begun to realize that he had detached his emotions from his military responsibilities. He had blocked his feelings to protect himself against the horrors of the war in which he had been forced to participate. He tried not to see and feel the harm inflicted by one human being upon another.
Why? What’s the point? What was achieved? My questions never stop, and no answers ever come.
He felt an overwhelming sadness and sense of despair when he considered the loss of life, the loss of land and home, the wickedness of war, and the men who governed it. Paul’s footsteps slowed with tiredness. He was tired of war, ruin, and loss. Mostly, he was tired of walking.
He was tired, too, of waiting for Ilse-Renata. Paul desperately needed to find her, telling himself that she could help him end the madness that threatened his soul. His anxiety blossomed, aggravating a pain that twisted in his belly.
Paul turned onto a side street that appeared relatively unblemished. The roadway had random craters, more like potholes than bomb damage, and an occasional injury to a wall.
With relief, Paul noted that the house before him appeared to have been divinely protected. The white stone wall that surrounded the property was unmarked, as was the two-story house built of sturdy, red brick.
Standing before the wooden gate in the stone wall, Paul compared the numbers written on the scrap of paper given to him by the Red Cross clerk against the iron numbers nailed to the gate. The paper fluttered between his vibrating fingers.
Paul inhaled deeply to still his racing heart as he replaced the paper in his pocket. His belly fluttered again. What if she’s not here? He licked his dry lips and ran his tongue around his teeth. Breathe!
As he searched for the courage to open the gate, Paul absentmindedly brushed his clothing and polished the toes of his battered boots on the back of his shabby pant legs.
Automaton-like, he reached down, released the latch in the gate, and entered a small garden. Paving stones formed a rose-lined path that led him to a front door of dark, weathered wood. Paul removed his cap and smoothed his hair with trembling hands. What if she’s not here? What if she doesn’t want me? What if …? Stop fool! Just ring the damn bell!
Ilse-Renata had been sitting in the living room reading a book when she heard the hinge of the gate squeak and footsteps approach the front door. Curious; we aren’t expecting anyone today.
She snapped the book shut and set it on the table next to her chair. Leaning forward, she peered through the window and blinked, not believing who she saw. She took a deep breath and blinked again. Heart pounding, she flew out of the chair and raced to the door. Before the
bell chimed its first note, she tore open the door, grinning from ear to ear.
“What took you so long!” she exclaimed as she leapt into Paul’s arms.
Paul wrapped his arms around her and twirled in a circle of joy before he set her on her feet again. He gazed into her eyes, only then noticing her lips, parted and waiting. He promptly responded to her invitation.
When they finally separated to catch their breath, he dropped to his knee, holding her hands firm in his. “Marry me,” he said. “I can’t bear another day without you. I have dreamt of you and only you for more than a year. I would have come sooner, but my men and I were captured and held in a POW camp near Rome. We finally escaped, and I’ve been walking for weeks just to get here. To you. You must be my wife.”
Ilse-Renata met Paul’s eyes with sincerity. “I have loved you from the moment I saw you standing in front of that ancient church in Breslau. You could have swept me off my feet that first night.”
Taking a deep breath, she straightened, encouraging Paul up off his knee, and continued with sincere confidence. “Of course I’ll marry you!”
“Ilse, what’s going on? Who is this?” Erna Chemiker asked, standing in the doorway.
Paul took a quick step away from Ilse-Renata as they each guiltily clasped their hands behind their backs. Paul dipped his head, as if embarrassed to be caught canoodling on the door step.
Blushing, Ilse-Renata responded to her mother through a great smile. “Mama! This is Captain Paul Lange, just returned from a year of internment in Italy. Tomorrow, I will be his wife!”
The next morning, as Erna and her sister prepared a wedding lunch, Paul and Ilse-Renata took a bus to a small town outside of München. They had little money and no clothes fancy enough for a wedding. They did not care; they had each other.
The Crest Page 19
