Of Another Time and Place

by Brad Schaeffer

  Back out in the open I came upon Mueller’s parachute lying in a tussled heap on the ground. The harness straps had been unhooked, and my friend was nowhere to be seen, which was as a good sign. I feared coming across him either having died from wounds suffered in the fight or badly broken in an agony of pain and thirst. There was a dairy farm about a quarter mile from where I was, so I assumed they had come to help him. Satisfied that he was at least not dead, I knew that I couldn’t afford to tarry any longer.

  I calculated that I had roughly two hundred miles from this sector to Stauffenberg. That would be a long drive to make with Allied fighter-bombers patrolling the clear skies. I would stick to the wooded routes I knew, trying to conceal my movements until I found a good spot to hide and wait for darkness to fall. I would make the long drive through the night. Out in the open as I was, I made an inviting target for prowling Jabos. They were hunting us now. All over Germany. But it was not the Allies that I feared most at the moment. It was the Germans.

  I knew that I’d be branded a deserter by Seebeck. And in a moment of blind folly, I had told him exactly where I was going. Yet I had no choice but to proceed, taking care to avoid population centers like Frankfurt and Mannheim. Paul needed to go home. My family had a burial plot under a tree on Cemetery Hill just north of town looking down on a bend in the Main. My brother deserved to rest there.

  As I pulled away from the debris field, I gave myself short odds of even making it to Stauffenberg. I figured there were soldiers after me by now. And even if I got through, surely Seebeck would have people waiting to arrest me. What I didn’t know was that the Allies had already handed me my first break. It would not be the last.

  First Lieutenant Josef Mueller stood stiffly at attention before Major Seebeck’s desk. The group commander sat behind it, furiously puffing away on a cigarette, lost in his own thoughts. Deep lines ran down his face from the stress of the day. Five of his pilots hadn’t returned from their wild hunt for the American marauders who had so audaciously shot up his base. They recorded one kill for their efforts. He was now trying to oversee the movement of the entire aerodrome into the cover of nearby woods. No longer would the base be on the pleasant manicured grounds of a fine château with a strong concrete runway and sturdy metal hangars. Rather it would be a series of tents pitched around aircraft hidden in wooded thickets with nothing but an open pasture as their landing strip. It was an ignominious admission of the tide of battle turning against his beloved Fatherland.

  And now his best pilot, Captain Harmon Becker, had deserted—off on a personal quest to take his idiot brother home. It was a stain on the command structure and a personal affront. He would not escape punishment this time. Becker’s days were numbered.

  What was it about Becker? Seebeck thought to himself, contemplating his cigarette while Mueller looked on. Why did Becker so actively try to thwart him? He overshadowed his commander with his Knight’s Cross. And while Seebeck languished on the ground nursing his wounds, he won the loyalty of the men and the accolades of the nation. That the men should usurp the major’s authority and see Becker as their real leader was a slap in the face. And, most unfair of all, the man simply refused to die and get out of the way.

  Well, thought the major, this is where it ends. Now, he is a deserter. And who knows what else? A traitor perhaps? That psychotic SS man from the Oberfranken who called from time to time to check up on his movements thought it very likely. What was his name? Geiger? Keitel? Keitel. A man who claimed to hate Becker more than the major and was just waiting for the right moment to bag him. Becker could choke on his Knight’s Cross while he hanged, for all Keitel cared. And rumor had it in Berlin that this SS fellow had an uncanny nose for disloyalty. The moment he got word to Keitel, he knew the SS officer would find out once and for all.

  Seebeck ripped himself from his seething revenge fantasy to stare up at the grimy, but otherwise intact, first lieutenant. “You sent for me, Herr Major?”

  “Ah yes, First Lieutenant Mueller. I’m glad you’re unhurt.”

  Mueller nodded. “Thank you, Herr Major.”

  “We were worried when only your wingman returned.” He tried to gauge Mueller’s emotions. “Rather cowardly to leave you out there alone, no?”

  Mueller stiffened. “He was trying to protect Sergeant Becker, sir. I could handle myself.”

  Seebeck tilted his head and smiled. “Apparently not. Otherwise you would not have returned to us on the back of an ox cart. Becker, however, did make it back safe.”

  “I’m glad, Herr Major.”

  “Yes.” Seebeck jammed his cigarette butt into his full ashtray. “Well, we have a problem now.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Your wingman deserted.”

  Mueller frowned. “Beg your pardon?”

  Seebeck was gratified to finally get a reaction out of Becker’s lackey. “You heard me, Mueller. Captain Becker disobeyed my direct order and left the base. He is now a deserter. And not for the first time. As I’m sure you are well aware.”

  The first lieutenant stiffened. “Herr Major,” he said. “As I understand it, he left here to find his brother. Surely you can understand that.”

  Seebeck angrily ground the cigarette to a nub. “I understand that he abandoned his unit while we were under attack. Anyway, it will soon be out of my hands.”

  Mueller raised his eyebrows. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Sir?”

  Seebeck leaned back in his chair and pointed his cane at the young pilot.

  “What I mean, First Lieutenant, is that it’s time this group accepts once and for all who commands here. Starting with you.”

  Mueller remained silent as Seebeck continued.

  “I happen to know he’s on his way to Stauffenberg if he finds that dead brother of his. A rather macabre thought actually. Anyway, the phone lines are down due to these damned Allied raids, so I cannot directly contact a certain SS major there.”

  Mueller leaned forward and placed his fists on the desk, a chill running through him. “SS!” he said, mystified. “Sir, you can’t do that!”

  “Stand at attention, you!” Seebeck shouted, and whacked his cane with a smack on the desk. Mueller backed off and smacked his heels, going rigid.

  “I beg the major’s pardon.” He composed himself. “But this should be a Luftwaffe matter, don’t you think, sir? If I may, I don’t believe it’s right for you to turn him over to the SS for this.”

  Seebeck just sat there, looking up at Becker’s wingman with haughty contempt.

  “I am not going to turn him in to the SS,” Seebeck said quietly.

  Mueller, though confused, breathed a sigh of relief. Even if Harmon had technically deserted, his record and the circumstances involved would get a sympathetic ear from the Luftwaffe high command, including Göring himself, who by all accounts had taken a liking to him at the Berghof. Maybe the major was even bluffing.

  But then Seebeck dropped the bomb: “I’m not going to turn him in to the SS, because you are.”

  45

  The same sun that shined down upon my brother’s mangled corpse also cast a warm glow over Amelia Engel as she strolled along the Leiselstrasse. It’d been days since she left the house, and she was starting to feel like a pent-up animal. How the Krupinskis could live so confined for as many years was beyond her. But, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t be sent to the camps if she ventured outside. That was a powerful incentive to endure the unendurable.

  She turned onto the cobblestone street that ran past her house and saw him. The lithe, ghostly figure of Keitel in his trimmed gray uniform, unaffected by the sweltering heat. She paused, hoping she could slip back around the corner before he saw her, but it was too late. He pivoted his gleaming boots, as if able to sense her presence, and caught her eye.

  A broad, emotionless smile spread across his pale face. She resumed walking towards he
r house, and as much as she wished to turn her nose up at him, that would be unwise considering who resided with her.

  “Fräulein Amelia,” he said formally, bowing and raising his gloved hand to the tip of his visor.

  She stopped by her door. “Johann, what a surprise.”

  He let her pass. “I hope it’s a pleasant one.”

  “I’ve no interest in holding grudges,” she said. “Especially on such a beautiful day.”

  He made an exaggerated motion to gaze up at the attic window on the third floor. Amelia followed his line of sight with unease. “A little hot for my liking. It would be terrible to be cooped up inside all day.” He lowered his eyes back to Amelia. “Russia was much colder.”

  Amelia smiled nervously. Why was he looking up at the attic? Her mind raced. Yet she knew she had to appear relaxed. “Yes, I heard it was freezing. So what brings you to my house? Just to talk about the weather?”

  He put his arm on her shoulder, and her carefree facade cracked. Her stomach churned and her legs shook. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked with a probing stare. “I hope even my touch is not repulsive to you now. You never used to object. It’s a shame we never even kissed. Becker, I suppose, has experienced all your charms.”

  Amelia ignored the provocation. She had to. He’d never come so close to the house before. So near to where she was hiding her death sentence.

  She smiled softly. “I do still feel a fondness for you, Johann,” she lied. “You always treated me well.” He seemed unsure what to say to that. He’d expected her to be more combative with him.

  “Well, I was just passing by,” he said. Then he caught himself. He was here for a reason. “But…may I come in?”

  “No,” she said a little sharper than she’d have liked. He raised his brow. Interesting, he thought. “I mean, Mother’s resting. Otherwise I’d gladly invite you in for some tea.”

  Keitel feigned a look of concern. “Still bedridden is she?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Poor Hanna. I assume while you’re out, you have someone to look after her then?”

  Amelia forced a smile. “You obviously don’t remember Mother. She would never let anyone but me care for her. And I was only gone for a short while. As I am sure your soldiers will tell you tonight.”

  He chuckled and gave her a knowing smirk. “We keep track of everyone.”

  “Of course.” She adjusted her grip on the parcels.

  “You know,” he said, still feigning concern “I’d be happy to send some of my men over to assist you with errands.” She didn’t like where this was headed, so tried to end the conversation without being overly curt.

  “Thank you. That’s sweet. But, as I said, Mother’s very private. And stubborn.” She made a move to pass him, but he kept his gloved hand on her shoulder.

  He wasn’t finished. “It must be difficult for her to go up and down the stairs to her bedroom each day. I could at least help you with that.”

  Amelia chortled nervously, uncomfortable with his touch. “Mother’s bed is on the first floor now. In the sewing room. She can barely walk, let alone climb stairs.”

  “I see.” Keitel glanced up at the attic window. His mind was moving, trying to piece it together. Then he released her from his grip and stepped out of her way.

  “Oh well. Just a thought. Good day to you, Amelia.”

  “And to you. Thank you for your concern, Johann.”

  The SS officer bowed. “I’m just doing my job.” And with that he turned away.

  When she entered the house Amelia had to steady herself against the door. She was shaking so violently she dropped the parcels to the floor. Then she wept.

  46

  So without my realizing it, the Allied bombers cutting the phone lines had made it possible for me to pull into Stauffenberg at 3:00 a.m. unannounced. The drive had been difficult with my being forced to take a serpentine route along as many back roads as possible. The Kübelwagen bounced over pockmarked dirt lanes, and the heat was oppressive. My brother’s body lay in the back seat, and as much as I hated thinking about it, I knew that he would soon start to emit a vile odor. Already his face was hardening into a swollen mask.

  I briefly pulled the vehicle off to the side of a road that bordered a shallow creek bed. I searched the trunk for a canteen filled with vodka or schnapps that I knew some drivers liked to keep handy should the mood strike them. Unfortunately the corporal who had surrendered the auto was all business. I didn’t want the spirits, just the container. I would have emptied any canteen and filled it with the clear creek water for later. My mouth was beyond dry from the heat and the stress of this terrible day. Plus I was dehydrating from sweating in the Kübelwagen, which was so warm—even though it was a convertible, with Paul in back I obviously had to drive with the canvas top up. I knelt down on the edge of the brook and greedily slurped up the refreshing water, and splashed my face and neck to wash away a layer of salt and grime. Then I took an oily rag I found in the back, rinsed it, rung it out, and submerged it in the running water until it was fully saturated. I used the dripping cloth to wipe the caked blood off Paul’s face. I didn’t want my parents to see him like that.

  I steered clear of scattered columns of Landsers I encountered, and passed through villages quickly, leaving nothing but dust clouds in my wake. All around me evidence of Allied air power was visible. Demolished houses and barns, cars overturned in ditches along the side of a road, their drivers lying spread-eagle and swollen to grotesque proportions as they rotted in the June sun. On several occasions I had to make a quick turn into a patch of woods as I heard the distinctive low growling of marauding American Thunderbolts. But luck stayed with me. I came upon an abandoned fuel truck that had been shot up but miraculously failed to explode. The main drum was empty, but the vehicle’s own tank was full and thus I could siphon it off to the Kübelwagen. I even managed to fill a replacement can, which gave me ample fuel to make the drive.

  Once night fell I headed east by southeast down the autobahn, making for the Oberfranken and home. Under the gift of a new moon shrouding me in blackness, I motored though the countryside of my youth. Rolling pastoral folds and pleasant hillside vineyards gradually rose into more imposing escarpments and then into the steep foothills of the Bavarian Alps to the southeast. In the dead of night I crossed the Main Bridge and passed under the Rathaus tower and into the Himmelplatz. I was near collapse from exhaustion, and I fully expected the SS to be waiting for me. But the town was unnervingly quiet. Only a lone dog, a low-slung shadow, shuffled around in the darkness before raising its mangy leg to piss on the fountain stones.

  I needed to think. Now that I was here, what next? I’d made up my mind to first find Amelia before seeking out my parents. She was close with the local priest, Father Anton, who could coordinate Paul’s clandestine burial. Then I would have the horrible duty of informing Mother and Father that their baby boy was dead. That I’d failed to protect him.

  I tapped softly on the door until a light appeared upstairs through the drawn-back curtain. I recognized her shapely silhouette. She was in the process of tying her robe at her waist when she peered out the window. I can’t imagine her primal fear at hearing a knock in the middle of the night. I was the last person she expected to see. And in Germany in 1944, an unexpected knock on the door often spelled one’s doom. But there was no other way.

  When her eyes adjusted, she saw me standing by the door and her body sagged with visible relief. I motioned for her to be quiet while looking around. She’d just started making her way downstairs when the door suddenly swung open.

  It wasn’t Amelia but rather Hanna who heaved open the wooden door with extreme effort and stood there, diminutive and frail, with her white hair hanging loosely about her shoulders like that of a character in Greek mythology. Even though it was June and the night was still warm, she wore a shawl draped over her sl
oped shoulders. Her eyes, a haunting shade like her daughter’s, pierced through even the moonless night. Sick as she was, she seemed determined to lay into whoever dared disturb her household at such an ungodly hour. “I swear I’ll have your head for this, if this isn’t the most important….” She stopped cold. “Harmon! My dear boy, what are you doing here?”

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek and stepped inside briskly. Amelia stood at the bottom of the steps looking anxious. She went to her mother and supported her on her arm. She didn’t need to be told that my presence here meant I was in serious trouble. My dust-caked appearance offered nothing to quell her fears. “You’re wearing a flight suit,” Hanna observed. “And you’re filthy.”

  “I’ll explain. But first….” I glanced up at the ceiling and then to Amelia.

  She nodded. “They’re still safe.”

  “For now,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  Seated at the heavy wooden dining room table, it took me just five minutes to give the Engel women the abbreviated version of Paul’s death. Besides wearing a heartfelt expression of condolence, Hanna sat stoically as she tried to imagine what this all meant for my future and therefore her daughter’s. Amelia, for her part, openly wept. The war seemed to be creeping ever closer. Now those she truly cared about were starting to die. I was over the shock of what had happened. But another profound sadness washed over me as I asked aloud: “How am I going to tell Mother?”