Of Another Time and Place

by Brad Schaeffer

  “And yet you’re still here,” she observes with interest. “What happened?”

  “That December I made my unauthorized trip to home.” I look into her alluring eyes. “That was when I first learned what Amelia was up to.”

  23

  I held Amelia so tight I thought I might crush her up against me. I could feel her body quivering as she sobbed into my chest. So many little things about her I’d forgotten. The silky hair running through my calloused hands, the musky scent of her skin, the back of her muscular neck and shoulders. Two years! I feared I might have changed beyond recognition in that time. I’d left her as a young, idealistic air cadet. A mere boy. And I returned to her as a cold-blooded warrior who’d killed and watched others die in the violent skies around me. We’d been thrown into different worlds—neither like that in which we had both lived before the war. Would we still be what we were? Would she still love me? Or, for that matter, would I still love her? I trembled as much at those questions as from the release of the longing for her I’d carried with me from Stauffenberg to Berlin to Russia to Belgium and back again.

  “My God, Harmon!” she finally said as she disengaged from our embrace and regained her ladylike composure. “I had no idea you were coming. When? How? Oh my, I must look a fright!” A strand of golden hair fell across her high forehead over her eye, and she shooed it away with her hand.

  “You look perfect,” I said softly, as she made a frantic attempt to brush flour off her dress and straighten her apron.

  “I’m a disaster. Why didn’t you tell me? Is everything alright?”

  I didn’t want to tell her that at least in spirit I was absent without leave, although as I was on my way to be personally decorated by the Führer, nothing would come of it short of Seebeck’s increased resentment…a redundancy at this point.

  “I just received my orders late yesterday. And the lines are down from the bombings.” This last part wasn’t true, as Mueller had managed to follow another order by getting word to Papa at the police station about my visit. Hence Paul’s meeting me at the station. He’d also let news of my Knight’s Cross slip. “Everything is fine,” I said. “I’m just passing through for a night. I had to see you.”

  Her face radiated relief. “Let me look at you!” she said, and she sized me up. The uniform, the boots, the coat. But her battleship-gray eyes rested on mine and peered inside me, as they always could. Then her face morphed from glee to pity. The war was forcing itself out through my cool facade, like grim light through a translucent shade.

  I stood erect and tried to usher all my steel to shield me from this vulnerable moment. I forced a smile. “I’m home,” I said with my hands out. “And I’m safe.”

  But she just waved the words away. Her eyes swelled and her nose turned crimson. It was as if she had so much to say and didn’t know where to begin. Her lip began to tremble.

  “Oh you poor man!” was all she could cry out before breaking down and weeping into her cupped hands. She saw what I’d become. A seasoned veteran. A killer. And she would never call me a boy again.

  I wiped her eyes and took her by the hands. Our emotions had subsided enough for us to grasp the wonder of seeing each other again, and happiness soon returned to our red faces.

  “I’m hungry,” I said in an attempt to introduce normalcy to our meeting. “You must be too.” She had, in fact, lost considerable weight from the stress of the war and taking care of her stricken mother. Stauffenberg as a whole remained a well-fed little town, with steady supplies of wheat and meats coming up and down the Main. The lack of bombing damage meant that the cafés and Brauhauses were intact.

  “I was going to bake some bread. But now I’m too excited to eat.” She laughed.

  “Then show me the town,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

  She nodded. “Let me straighten up this mess and get my coat. I have much to tell you.”

  We were soon strolling in the low-hanging winter sun along the Wilkestrasse. When I told her about my impending decoration, the news seemed to agitate more than excite her, so I changed the subject of our conversation. I pelted her with questions about families that I once knew. Stauffenberg, I saw, was not so immune to the war after all.

  “How is Ernst Geisshardt?” I asked.

  Amelia shook her head. “He joined the paratroops. He died in Crete.”

  “And what about Karl-Heinz Freytag from my rowing team?”

  “He was in a Panzer and fought in North Africa. He’s back home now. Minus both arms.”

  With each name from my boyhood days, Amelia relayed to me a heartbreaking story. As we walked the narrow lanes, each turn of a corner brought back a memory of my younger days. We all used to jostle and chase each other through the cobblestone streets of our little village as the Nazis seized power all around us. In our teens, when the New Order came, in one degree or another we all embraced it as the dawn of a great age for Germany. We couldn’t see that our youth condemned us to a collision course with the rest of the world as the spearhead of our Führer’s ambitions. I could see all their smiling young faces.

  “Herbert Hräbak?” Killed in Russia.

  “The Meissner brothers, Egon and Werner?” Both Landsers. Both killed in Russia.

  “Paul Genth?” His U-boat was overdue, presumed lost with all hands.

  “Eduard ‘Little Edu’ Joppien?” Disappeared in Norway when his transport crashed.

  And on it went. Name after name. An entire generation of boys, just as old Grossman had no doubt been thinking, was being ground to dust.

  We passed by a burned-out shop. At first I didn’t recognize it. I halted and stared at the destroyed site. Then I realized where I was, and the memories washed over me. The word “Jude” could be discerned in dried paint chips with a Star of David painted beneath it on the discolored plywood that covered the shattered store window. “Is that really Krupinski’s shop?” Amelia grew solemn and nodded.

  “He never returned to it after Kristallnacht,” she added. “Hitler Youth did that soon after you left for training. So terrible.”

  I turned to her. “Was Paul one of them?”

  She nodded, while coming to his defense. “He was one of many, Harmon.”

  “I would’ve pasted him,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why is it still standing in the middle of town like some gaping wound?”

  “SS orders. Keitel wants it to remain as it was.”

  “But why?” I said.

  “To serve as a symbol.”

  “Symbol?”

  Her expression was dour. “Of the end of Jewry in our town.”

  So Keitel had turned Krup’s store into a monument. “I first met you there,” I said with a sudden sharp pain in my throat. Amelia’s eyes remained on the store. Then it dawned on me. In fact, my innards churned as I formed the question that a part of me did not want answered.

  “Where are the Krupinskis now?”

  24

  Amelia and I sat outside at one of the Hofbrauhaus tables set up on the wet sidewalk, observing the meticulously dressed citizens of Stauffenberg pass by. It was uncommonly warm for mid-December, and the people were taking advantage of the break in the winter weather, desperately trying to re-capture a sense of the pre-war Bavaria we’d once known.

  I stared into my beer and shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, Harmon,” she repeated. “One day they just vanished. Right after they destroyed his store.”

  “Maybe Krup finally came to his senses and left?” I proposed.

  “No,” she said with certainty. “By the time they disappeared there was no way they could have made it out.”

  “Did you ask Keitel about them?”

  She lowered her eyes. “You know how he feels about us.”

  “Still?” I said. “After five years?”

  “Still,” she said ruefully. “Besi
des, what good would it have done?”

  I yielded to her logic. “None I suppose.”

  She leaned forward to whisper, cautiously glancing around for prying ears. “It’s terrible what’s happened to all the Jews of the Oberfranken, Harmon. Not just here. The Katzes in Pottenstein, the Weissmans and Frankels in Bindlach. All gone. Some fled to Switzerland. But ‘I, Leopold Krupinski, refuse to go,’” she said, mocking his hand gestures and scratchy voice.

  I shook my head. “Stubborn man. I tried to tell him.” I paused and fought back another welt in my throat. I cast a look towards the burned-down store. “Krup worked many hours with me in there.” A smile broke out on my young face.

  Amelia managed to return the grin. “He was very fond of you.” She put her hand on my wrist. “And you him, Harmon. Don’t forget that.”

  I leaned back in my chair and repeated: “Now he’s gone.”

  Then I heard a shrill voice I will never forget. “Better to leave Germany to the Germans.”

  I looked up and shielded my eyes from the low sun. There before me stood a tall figure, very Germanic; angular and crisp. His field gray long coat was pulled taut to his narrow waist by a thick leather belt. Underneath it I could see the proudly displayed double-lightning insignia on his collar and the Totenkopf emblem on his visor cap, announcing to all the world that this was a proud member of Hitler’s most feared combat unit: the Waffen-SS.

  “Harmon Becker,” he crowed. “As I live and breathe. You’re still alive then.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Johann,” I said stiffly. “I see you made it into a combat unit after all.” I was referring to his Wolfsangel emblem sewn onto his coat bicep identifying his unit, the Second SS Panzer Division—Das Reich. I knew they’d been mauled in Russia. I also knew them to be fanatical soldiers for the New Order. That Keitel should have fallen in with them was only logical.

  “Indeed,” he said with a hint of a smirk. “I’m actually Hauptsturmführer Keitel now.” He was proud of his rank, which was the SS equivalent of my own. He was a man who sought station in life outside of the family fortune. “Heil Hitler!” he saluted with raised arm.

  “Heil Hitler,” I saluted back without emotion.

  His eyes flitted to Amelia, who gave me a cautionary glance. An unspoken message passed between us: Be careful, Harmon.

  Keitel clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “Amelia.” He extended his gloved hand to her. She took it dutifully. I said nothing more. He didn’t move on with the other pedestrians out strolling on the Himmelplatz, but rather stood there contemplating the both of us. What did he want?

  “It’s warm for this time of year,” he observed.

  “It seems to have brought out the townspeople,” Amelia answered dryly, figuring she’d better say something, as he was not leaving.

  Keitel took up a chair and slid onto it. “May I sit?”

  “You already are.” I nodded. “Das Reich? You’re a bit far from the front lines. Where’s your Panzer?”

  He grinned. “I’m in reconnaissance.” He sized me up some more and then said: “I see Major Seebeck’s been kind enough to send you home before your little ceremony in Berlin. I’m envious.”

  I leaned forward with a sense of vulnerability. “You know Major Seebeck?”

  He ignored my query and twisted his torso as he called out to a waiter: “Beer, please.”

  “Answer me,” I insisted. Amelia put her hand on my forearm to keep me composed. But I already knew that the SS through their now absorbed Gestapo liaisons probably knew the comings, goings, and associations of everyone from this little town.

  “That uniform looks good on you, Harmon,” he said. “You’ve become quite the soldier. A pity you joined the Luftwaffe. You’d have made a fine SS man.”

  I accepted that no answers were forthcoming. “I prefer to fly.”

  “Yes, yes.” He groaned dismissively. “Always above it all. I imagine you get a distorted perspective on matters from so high.”

  “Do my men not die just because they’re killed five miles high?” I shot back.

  Amelia was watching in silent trepidation as the tone of the conversation grew more hostile. “Pilots are soldiers, like me. Why does the Luftwaffe act as if the loss of a pilot is somehow more tragic or heroic than that of a foot soldier or Panzer driver or SS trooper?”

  I took a swig of my beer. The waiter brought Keitel his. “I don’t think that, Johann. But I take special offense when my men are jumped by Allied fighters that supposedly don’t exist because little robots like Seebeck refuse to tell Berlin the facts.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. “Harmon,” she cautioned, looking at the SS man in our midst. “You don’t mean that. His humor is lost on many, Johann.”

  I turned to her. “You of all people are telling me to curb my tongue?” The beer was getting to me, I admit.

  “Harmon Becker, shut up!” she sneered. “No one thinks you’re funny. You’re just upsetting me.” She gave me a “Go along with this, you idiot” look.

  Keitel drummed his fingers menacingly. He clenched his chiseled jaw. “Listen to her, Harmon. You’re on dangerous ground.”

  I was about to say something that could have landed me in serious trouble when I was saved from myself, ironically enough, by the Americans. As if by signal, the unmistakable droning of high-altitude bombers began to grow over our heads. Like a hive of wasps in bass baritone. Everyone in the Himmelplatz craned their faces skyward and shielded their eyes from the sun. We could see the familiar white string-like contrails streaking across the sky.

  Keitel stared up angrily. “More bombers. Murdering criminals. I actually interrogated one of them once. A tail gunner. You should have seen him by the time I was through with him.”

  I noticed that the townspeople were not exactly scrambling to get out of the streets. “Shouldn’t we take shelter?” I said, slightly confused.

  Amelia shook her head as if this were no longer a noteworthy occurrence. “They don’t come for us. It’s Adelstatz they try to destroy. But it’s a hard target, so protected by mountain folds along the riverbank.”

  Keitel snorted. “Our munitions factory.” Then he leveled his dark eyes on me. “It seems that our indispensable pilots are unable to blunt these criminal raids.”

  The juvenile faces of Kluge and others flashed before me, and the effect on me was galvanic. I felt like I was watching someone else lurch across the table and grab Keitel by the leather lapels of his jacket with both hands. My fiery assault startled him, and he knocked over his beer trying to fend me off. The glass stein rolled off the table and shattered on the stone sidewalk. Heads turned to watch us.

  “Harmon! Stop!” Amelia cried.

  Keitel turned white as I pulled his face to within a foot of my own. Gritting my teeth I fumed at him: “We’ve lost twenty-five pilots in three months, you snide son of a bitch! You think those losses come from hiding out in Brauhauses casting inane judgments?”

  Curious pedestrians, civilians, and military personnel alike forgot about the bombers overhead as they stopped in their tracks to observe the curious row between the Luftwaffe captain and feared SS-Hauptsturmführer.

  Keitel quickly regained his senses. He was still just slightly smaller than me, but years in the field had given him a wiry vigor. He was able to release himself from my grasp and shove me back so we were both standing. Amelia, too, rose from her chair.

  “Enough of this lunacy!” she shouted. She wedged herself between us and cupped my face in her firm hands. “Harmon, calm yourself. Now!” Her touch diffused my temper, and my hyperventilating subsided. Still staring at Keitel, I took my seat.

  The SS man straightened his long coat and replaced his hat. He glanced at the people, who quickly turned away to resume their day. He seemed more concerned with how this looked to them than with any breach of military etiquette on my part. He gra
bbed a napkin from an empty table next to us and wiped beer off of his sleeve.

  But Amelia wasn’t finished. She shot a mean leer at my antagonist. “You’ve seen enough here, Johann. I know what this is about. You may tell yourself that Harmon and I are very much in love.” Then her tone softened. “I’m sorry you still carry such a burden. After so many years. You must move on.”

  Keitel stiffened. In a very cool manner he offered me some advice. “If I were you, Becker, I’d keep that Ritterkreuz you’re about to get very close to you. It’s the only thing that prevented your arrest in front of these people today.”

  I said nothing more. I turned away from him and stared at the fountain of Charlemagne while the bombers continued on their indifferent trek above us.

  “Good day to you, Amelia.” Keitel clicked his heels again. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, Becker,” he said to my back.

  He marched off, tramping into the crowded square. People stepped back to let him pass. An angry SS officer was not an enemy to be made lightly in a small German town in 1943. Amelia made sure I knew this as well.

  “Are you trying to get in trouble, Harmon? Honestly, what’s gotten into you?”

  “He’s a swine,” was all I said in reply. “What else do I need to know?”

  She squeezed my forearm. “What else do you need to know? That I must live here. That the SS runs Stauffenberg and I need to be careful. It’s not easy being the lover of Harmon Becker in a town run by the Keitels.” Then she added chilling words I’ll never forget: “Not with what I’m doing.”

  I put down my beer. Off in the distance I could hear the muffled thuds of faraway explosions echoing down the banks of the Main as the bombers emptied their payloads onto the general location of Adelstatz.