Of Another Time and Place

by Brad Schaeffer

  Her eyes stared straight ahead as a torrent of memories poured through them. “Tired?” I asked her. She looked over to me and caressed my cheek with the back of her hand. “Me too,” I said.

  In the back seat, the Krupinskis tried to stay awake but to no avail. Soon they were all sitting with their eyes closed and chins buried in their chests breathing in a slow rhythm. I thought I could hold out, but as my vision started to blur I had to face the fact that I, too, was at my limit. I needed rest.

  We eventually pulled up to a partially destroyed farm cottage nestled in a patch of woods just off the road. It looked like it’d been ravaged by bombs. On the barn situated behind it, a wall had collapsed on one side, and surviving chickens set free from their coops by the blast mingled with the bloated bodies of dead cows and horses.

  I ordered everyone to wait outside as I entered the blasted-out house through the intact front door. Its creaking broke the silence of the still night, and I wondered how far away it could be heard. Inside the dark home, I waited for my eyes to adjust so I could make my way around without tripping over anything. When my night vision kicked in, I found myself in a debris-cluttered salon, a fireplace to one side with a kettle suspended over a pile of charred embers. On the stone mantel sat two photographs. One of an older gentlemen in a Wehrmacht colonel’s uniform. The other a younger boy in the black uniform of a Panzertruppe sergeant. Both frames had a black ribbon draped diagonally over their corners. Two more offerings at the insatiable Nazi altar. In front of me a flight of stairs beckoned to the blackness of the second floor. Under the steps’ frame was a tall closet for hanging coats.

  Another doorway led to a small kitchen, and in the darkness I pushed my way through. It was far from a gourmet restaurant, but the neatly set table and stocked shelves told me it had been lived in just recently. I raided the cupboard and found a loaf of pumpernickel bread that was rock-hard stale but edible. To my disappointment, the cheese was vile and molded. I did find a few cans of peaches and preserves. I rummaged through the kitchen drawers but was unable to locate a can opener in the pitch dark of night, and I dared not light the lamp. The real meal would have to wait for the dawn, which was not far off.

  I retreated to the salon, cautiously navigating upended chairs and some plaster slabs that had been ripped off the walls from the concussion of the bomb blast. Amelia and the Krupinskis stood in the doorway. I tossed the bread to Krup. “Feed your family,” I said to him. “Just save me the heel. I don’t have any water, but there’s probably a pump by the barn. Let me just check the rest of the house first and I’ll get it for you.”

  “I’ll get it,” offered Jakob.

  That was fine with me. “Don’t make too much noise.” He nodded obediently and felt his way past me and through the kitchen to the back door. Krup ripped the loaf into chunks and handed some to Elsa and Constanze.

  “Well,” I said to Amelia. “It’s not the Stauffenberg Inn, but it’s better than we could have expected.” She smiled and tugged at my elbow as I turned to go up the stairs. “I’ll be careful,” I assured her and then cautiously ascended the steps.

  I could see even from halfway up the stairs that part of the roof had been ripped away, as stars appeared above me when I leveled off in the second-floor hallway. I was about to step forward to inspect the rooms when I glanced down and was startled to find the body of the Hausfrau in her tussled dress and bloodstained blouse lying facedown on the clapboard floor. By her sickeningly sweet odor, I figured she’d been dead for about two days.

  Stepping gingerly over her, I noticed that a debris field of broken glass, twisted nails, splintered wood beams, and roof shingles covered the floors, the beds, in fact everything, making the upstairs unusable.

  Suddenly I heard the floorboards creak behind me. I whipped around with my pistol drawn and found myself relieved and annoyed to be aiming at the forehead of my future wife. She, in turn, was staring down at the dead woman as if in a trance.

  “Jesus! Are you trying to get killed this week?”

  I holstered my pistol, stepped back over the dead woman, and ushered Amelia away from here. “Who is she?” she asked, as we both descended the rickety stairs.

  “I suppose this is her house.”

  “I wonder what happened?”

  “Stray bomb is my guess. Probably dropped by Jabo under attack.”

  “We should rest here, Harmon,” said Krup, who was waiting for us at the bottom of the steps.

  I nodded. “There’s nowhere upstairs. We’ll spread out in here for the night. We have a few hours until daybreak. I hate to travel in the light, but we should be pretty close to Andeville by now.”

  “And then what?” asked Amelia.

  I eased down to sit on the floor and leaned my back up against the wall. I removed my boots from my aching feet and let out a sigh of relief. Closing my eyes, I could already feel myself drifting away while the rest of the crew tried to get themselves oriented.

  “I’ll figure that out in the morning,” I said. And then merciful sleep overtook me.

  It seemed that within a minute of nodding into a deep sleep, I was awake again. But a quick glance at my wristwatch revealed that I’d been unconscious for the better part of four hours. I slowly opened my eyes and noticed that, although the house was still dark, streamers of bright sunlight fingered through the spaces between the drawn curtains and the window frames. It was morning. Sitting up straight to get my bearings, I noticed the Krupinski family huddled together in one corner of the room like a pod of sleeping sea lions. I craned my stiff neck to find Amelia not curled up somewhere but instead sitting on the floor by the window and peeking around one of the drapes, her attention riveted on something outside.

  Instinct told me to crawl rather than walk over to her, and when I did she didn’t shift her gaze to me. “You let me sleep,” I whispered.

  “Shh,” she said in a reprimanding tone. Then she motioned for me to pull back the curtain just a hair and take a look.

  I gave her a quizzical frown and then did as she said. My mouth, already parched, went drier still. A Kübelwagen and an Opel truck behind it were parked in the lane along the stone fence right outside the front of the house. They must have just arrived, as their engines were idling. Three men in combat tunics with which I was now all too familiar, were grouped around the car. Another group, which I counted to be five men, had already fanned out to search the property.

  I quickly withdrew from the window. “Waffen-SS,” I said. “In full field gear.”

  “I hope they don’t plan on staying.”

  “Doubtful,” I said. “They look like they’re on the way to the front lines.”

  I felt especially happy with my decision to park the Kübelwagen behind the remnants of the barn, about fifty yards off the road.

  My self-assurance was short-lived however, as right in the window above our heads we could make out the silhouette on the curtains of an SS trooper trying to peer inside. He was so close we could hear his boots crunching on the gravel. Watching him in reverse from a cracked mirror that hung over the fireplace mantel on the opposite wall, we could see that all he had to do was break the window and reach in and he would touch both of our heads.

  His form disappeared, but by tracking his footfalls we knew he was making for the front door. I turned to Amelia and hissed: “Hide.”

  “What about them?” she asked, pointing to the sleeping family in the corner.

  “I’ll take care of them. Hurry.”

  She nodded and crawled into the kitchen, folding herself into a broom closet.

  I scrambled over to the Krupinskis, trying not to make too much noise. I shook Krup as gently as I could on the shoulder so as not to startle him. “Leo,” I whispered.

  His eyes opened, and he looked at me through the fog of his interrupted sleep. “Harmon? What is it?”

  “SS men are outside. Ge
t your family hidden.” I looked over to the door and saw that the knob was starting to rotate. Krup noticed it too, and his eyes went wide with comprehending fear. He quietly roused his family and motioned for them to get moving even as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

  Time was running out. “Where should we go?” he asked, as much to himself as much as me. I looked around. Upstairs would be too noisy, plodding up the creaky steps. Then I noticed the cracked door of the coat closet under that same stairwell. “In there,” I said.

  “Papa, what’s wrong?” demanded Jakob. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  Krup looked at his son and put his hands on his young shoulders. “The SS are right outside. We must hide under the steps.”

  Jakob quickly obeyed and ushered his mother and younger sister into the closet and then slipped in himself. “Will this never end?” I heard Constanze ask herself as they crowded together in a space designed for jackets and soggy boots, not four jammed human beings.

  The front doorknob jiggled and then stopped as the man on the other end realized it was locked. I looked at Krup and then at the gaunt faces of his family peering out from the closet, ashen with terror. There was no more room. He knew what I was thinking before I said it. “You go in, my boy. I’ve lived long enough.”

  “Nonsense,” I replied.

  “Harmon, there’s room for only one more. You’ve done more than I could have ever asked of you. Please get in.”

  For a brief instant a part of me thought the probing SS man would just move on, since the door was locked. But no such luck. A glass pane from the little window carved into the wooden door shattered, and broken glass fell to the floor. The soldier’s rifle butt, like a battering ram, withdrew and then his hand reached in to unlock the door from the inside.

  Without saying another word, I shoved Leo gently but firmly into the crowded closet with his family over his whispered protests. I leaned back against the door until I heard the click of the latch catching. The Krupinskis’ muffled chatter stopped when I gave the door a good thump with my heel.

  Now what about me? As the knob turned, I desperately scanned the room. My only hope was to bolt upstairs, but just as I was turning towards the first riser, the door creaked open. I stopped cold. My heart hammered and my legs grew weak with fear. As the door swung open and light poured into the room, I opted for the only trick left in my bag. Hiding in plain sight. I stood in the corner, waiting for the SS man to find me. I had one last role to play as an officer in the German Luftwaffe.

  A lone figure stood like a shadowy apparition at the threshold. His baggy uniform, crisscrossing haversack belts, and field cap were unmistakable. His gun was no longer drawn but swung casually around to hang at his back again. Why should he be on guard in his own country, away from the front lines? As he stepped into the house he called out: “Hello? Is anyone here?” He paused to wait for a response. As he stood there, both of our eyes adjusted, his to the dimness, mine to the light, and we sighted each other simultaneously. I recognized his Wolfsangel insignia and cuff title as that of the Waffen-SS, Das Reich. An awful notion ran through my head, but I immediately shook it off as being impossible.

  He tilted his head as he processed what he was seeing. Standing in the darkened corner, I didn’t make a sound at first. He just gawked at me dumbly. But he didn’t go for his weapon, which was a reassuring sign. With more confidence now I stepped out of the shadows towards him, revealing my full figure to his surprised eyes.

  “Well,” I finally said with an air of authority, “are you going to tell me who you are, Sturmmann?”

  He collected his thoughts and drew himself to attention, his heels smacking together. “Heil Hitler!”

  I took another step forward. “Heil Hitler,” I replied earnestly.

  “Captain,” he stammered. “I, uh, didn’t expect to find anyone here. Least of all a pilot.”

  I casually strolled past him, trying not to let him see my quivering hand. “Yes, well, I didn’t expect to be here.”

  He began looking around the room, which made me nervous. “How did you get here?” he asked.

  “I was shot down about a mile from here.” I smiled and added for effect: “I can handle one Thunderbolt. But eight?” Then I made a twirling motion of my plane spinning to the ground with my finger.

  He chuckled. “I can’t even imagine. Is there anyone else here?”

  I shook my head. “The Hausfrau upstairs, but she’s dead.”

  The stormtrooper seemed satisfied with that. He made for the door. When he glanced back at me, he noticed that I wasn’t following him. “Are you coming, sir?”

  “Am I coming?” I replied. “No, no, Sturmmann. I need to rest some more before making my way back to my unit. I’ll stay here a while longer.”

  He chewed on that. “Why don’t you come outside with me? We have food and water. And you may need medical attention.”

  “I’m fine, really,” I said rather more insistently than one would expect.

  He paused. This was a boy in the SS who’d known only a totalitarian state and was, by his very association with his unit, totally committed to its dogma. I pegged him as one who, like that little rat Stefan, reported on his neighbors. His suspicious mind was not fooled by even the authentic cover of my grimy flight suit.

  “I really think you’d better come with me.”

  “No,” I blurted out. “Now go. Leave me, Sturmmann. That’s an order.”

  He smiled wryly. His suspicion was now palpable. “You’re giving me an order?”

  “I’m a captain,” I said rather petulantly.

  “And I’m not in the Luftwaffe,” he reminded me sternly. “I’m in the SS.” Then he called out the open door. “Herr Sturmbahnführer!”

  This was getting too intense, and I tried to diffuse the situation by appeasing him somewhat. The last thing we needed was for more SS men to enter the house. I had to, if anything, steer them away from this place.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll go with you. Do you have water?”

  He looked at me coldly. “I said we do. Come with me.”

  I followed him anxiously into the sunlight and towards the small gathering of men huddled around the hood of the idling Kübelwagen. I could hear them chatting amongst themselves, and the gist of the conversation centered around a map spread out before them in a scene eerily familiar to me.

  The Sturmmann kept turning around to make sure I was still with him. I noticed his hand now resting on the assault rifle slung about his shoulder. The other men heard our approach, looked up from the map, and gawked. A filthy Luftwaffe pilot was not what they expected to see.

  “What’s this all about, Mats?” asked a lanky Untersharführer.

  “Where’d you find the pilot?” inquired another fierce-looking Sturmmann.

  Mats, as was the suspicious SS corporal’s name, wiped the sweat off his brow with his field cap as we made it over to them. “I found him inside.”

  The only person who seemed not to care about our presence was the commanding Sturmbahnführer he’d to called to from the house. The SS major stood with his back to us, still intent on studying the map. I noticed that under his visor cap a bit of white cloth showed. A thick head bandage.

  My wary escort stood before his commander’s back and clicked his boots. “Herr Sturmbahnführer! I beg to report I was unable to complete the search of the house, as I found a comrade in need of aid inside.”

  The officer folded the map and then slowly turned to face me.

  I felt as if I’d fallen through a trap door.

  I couldn’t believe it! The black eyes pierced through me and I fought off a sudden wave of nausea. A terrible smile spread across his pale face as he tucked the map into his uniform pocket. Johann Keitel simply said with utter euphoria: “Oh my, oh my!”

  My expression must have shown abject desolation. I
really wanted to sit down and cry. I just didn’t care anymore. How many times could a man escape death just to fall back into its clutches again? And with the same demon prodding the trident in his back. I had been right to try to kill him, and I found myself silently damning the piss-poor gunsmith who’d made that Luger.

  “Sir, I found him inside. He was shot down.” The familiarity of Keitel’s greeting was lost on young Mats.

  Keitel played along. “Shot down? Is that what this man told you?”

  Young Mats nodded. Keitel put his hands to his side and stepped up very close to my face, his breath reeking of onions. “And where were you shot down, Captain?”

  I said nothing but looked straight ahead. The small group of soldiers watched in curiosity. It was quite possible that one or two even recognized me, as this was the same unit that had butchered the inhabitants of Sainte Laurie-Olmer that winter. But if they did know me, they remained quiet. It was obvious that something bad was going on between

  me and their commanding officer.

  Keitel’s expression went from giddy amusement to dark, intense hatred. “You’ll talk soon enough,” he hissed. With that he backhanded me hard across the face. The men stepped forward, shocked to see one of their own slapping the face of a Luftwaffe officer…especially one with a Ritterkreuz pinned to his uniform.

  “Stand fast!” Keitel shouted, and they obeyed. My face started to swell on one side. “Untersharführer!” he barked to a sergeant while still glaring at me. I recognized the burly man as that same NCO who had treated me after my crash. Again, if he did recognize me, he gave no hint as such.

  “Jawohl!” He snapped to attention.

  “Take some men and search the house. Rip it apart if board by board you have to.” The man immediately obeyed, and soon a group of four men raced past us and burst into the house. He then commanded Mats to bind my hands.

  There was no point in resisting, so I willingly submitted to the boy’s motions as he took my pistol. Then he wrenched my arms behind me and proceeded to wrap my wrists in what felt like a leather strap. He cranked my shoulders until tiny flares erupted in my joints.