CHAPTER 16
So many homes had been destroyed by the bombings, my efforts to find an apartment fell short. Gretchen had given me some cash to carry me over until I could find a job, but everything I owned I carried in a small bag. All the while, I was looking over my shoulder for the SS and the Gestapo, always dancing on the edge of the cliff, trying not to make a mistake. My life was ruled by secrecy and distrust. Normalcy might return if the Allies won the war. If Germany was victorious, my days would be damned forever.
In a moment of panic, I considered seeking shelter at the Frau’s, but I knew that arrangement would be too dangerous. Instead, air-raid shelters and the ruins of bombed-out apartment buildings became my homes. Money and food were scarce all around—a few nights I lived on scraps cooked over barrel fires, as did the other unfortunates of war.
One day, I decided to walk by the Frau’s house just to see the old neighborhood. Many of the surrounding blocks had been leveled or severely damaged. Her residence still stood, looking much worse, with its cracked walls and boarded-up windows, than when I’d lived there. However, a pair of friendly eyes peered at me as I passed—Katze, now fully grown, gazed at me from the windowsill of my old room. I doubted that he recognized me, but it cheered me to see his brilliant green eyes and distinctive white and orange markings. The Frau was nowhere to be seen.
The next day, I returned to Gretchen’s, desperate for a hot meal and a bath. Grumbling about my “stupidity,” she served me days-old bread and leftover meat for breakfast. My situation seemed hopeless. There was little I could do to help my parents, my money was nearly gone, and I had no home.
I was sniffling at the kitchen table when someone buzzed the apartment. A man walked in, the one who had taken my place, or so I thought. He was older than I, probably in his mid-thirties, with a kind oval face topped by a full head of black hair, not especially handsome like Garrick, but with deeply set tender eyes and an innate kindness that drew me to him. He wore the work clothes and boots of a tradesman.
I left the kitchen for the couch, so they could have a private conversation. When they returned to the sitting room a few minutes later, I still was considering what to do next.
I tapped my bag. “I’ve only got a few days of makeup left—there are no jobs or apartments to be found.”
Gretchen frowned, showing little concern for my situation. “What about Twelve Steinstrasse?” She looked at her watch—a sign that I’d taken enough of her time.
It had never occurred to me to visit the last safe house that Marion had mentioned.
“I’m headed past there on my way to work,” the man said. “I can take you.”
“Is our business done?” Gretchen asked with a bitter tinge to her voice.
“Yes,” the man answered. “I’ll be back in a couple of days if everything works out.”
He walked to the couch, clutching a key in his right hand, and beckoned for me to get up. Having nowhere else to go, I accepted his offer, apologizing to Gretchen on my way out for interrupting her day.
We walked to a battered truck parked near a pile of rubble that had tumbled into the street. The vehicle was much like the Opel I’d commandeered during my escape from Schattenwald, but without the wagon bed. He opened the passenger door for me, and I took my place on the cold leather seat. He slid behind the steering wheel and turned on the ignition.
“Let’s wait until the cab warms up,” he said somewhat shyly. “It’s a waste of petrol, but this wreck is drafty.”
I pulled my coat tighter and shivered, wondering how long it would take to get to Steinstrasse. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask, but are you the man who replaced me?”
His forehead crinkled. “I don’t think so. I’ve been a friend of Gretchen’s for several years. We communicate when we need to.... She doesn’t talk about her other business.” He rubbed his gloved hands together, looked at me, and asked with a frosty breath, “You have no place to stay?”
I wondered how much I could tell him, but I suspected if he had dealings with Gretchen he was a friend of the resistance. “No. I’ve been looking, but rooms are hard to come by. I also don’t have much money—well, none, to be exact. I’ve been living on the street like so many others.”
He nodded, thrust out his right hand, and shook mine with a powerful grip. “I’m Manfred Voll. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“How do you know Gretchen?” I asked.
He gazed through the windscreen at the shadowy beings that moved through the street like ghosts in the winter day, the collapsed buildings around us, the city’s fabric of life disintegrating each hour that Hitler remained in power. “The same way you do—working for a just cause against an unjust one.”
I hadn’t expected his blunt words in so short a time, but perhaps he recognized the same qualities—strength, resilience—in me that I believed were part of him. My liking, my trust of him, was immediate, but with everything that had happened, I still found it hard to speak truthfully.
“I’m Gisela Grass,” I said.
“That’s not your real name,” he said, aware of Gretchen’s tactics.
“No, but you know we can’t be—”
“—Of course.” The cab had warmed and he put his hands on the steering wheel. “Do you need a job too?”
Surprised, I turned toward him. “Yes, do you know of one?”
“Where I work—Moosburg—an Allied POW camp north of Munich. We need help with the prisoners.” He paused. “That’s how I know Gretchen, if you put two and two together.”
The connection became quite clear. She managed a safe house, helping those who opposed the Reich. If Manfred worked with Allied prisoners, he would have connections to many people hostile to Hitler. From the prisoners, he could cultivate those most useful to the resistance. However, I was uncertain about his personal relationship with Gretchen.
“Would you like to give the job a try?” he asked. “The pay is meager, but you’ll have a safe place to stay—the Allies won’t bomb a POW camp—and you can ally yourself with those making a difference. I’m a supervisor, so I can put your papers through without much trouble.”
It didn’t take me long to make up my mind—the choices were finding transitory shelter in a safe house, living by my wits on the street, or making a little money at a POW camp. I only hoped that Garrick, and the SS, anticipating that eventually I would come for my parents, would keep them alive.
“I’ll give it a try,” I said.
“Good.” He turned the wheel away from the curb and the truck wheezed through the streets until we were out of Munich and on our way to Moosburg.
* * *
Manfred told me about Moosburg as we drove through the countryside. I, like so many others, had no idea that Stalag VII-A, as it was named, even existed within an hour’s drive of Munich.
The camp had opened six years before and held the Poles taken prisoner after Hitler’s 1939 invasion. Since that time, soldiers from around the world had gone through its gates, primarily officers and enlisted men and women, who were processed and then sent on to other camps, often to their deaths. British, French, Russian, Greek, Yugoslavian, Belgian, Dutch, South African, Australian, Italian, and American prisoners had been housed there in addition to other nationalities. The number of barracks and the prison count had increased significantly as the war progressed. Initially, only ten thousand prisoners were to be housed at the camp.
“I don’t know how many there are now,” Manfred said, “but many of them are sleeping in tents, some even taking shelter in sewer pipes that haven’t been laid.”
We passed checkered farmlands and taller stretches of pines and spruce molded against the hills. The sun had burst forth from the clouds, spreading glorious warmth through the truck.
“The influx of prisoners seems to have slowed, but so many were captured in Allied advances . . .” Manfred continued. “The SS and the camp Commander are struggling with the sheer number of men.”
“Tell me what you know—I’ve been away for so long,” I said, feeling gratitude for Manfred’s company, the sun’s heat, and the blessing of another day.
“You must tell me your story.”
“Later. The tale is too . . . painful.” The sun’s rays fell in patches on my shoulder and I reveled in the light and color flooding my senses. I felt more alive than I had in years, even though Manfred and I were traveling to a prison camp.
He told me of the advances made by the Allies, of their setbacks, rumors of a nasty battle being fought in the Ardennes with terrible casualty numbers on both sides, a last gasp of the German military.
“Every time I think he’s finished, Hitler comes up with some new surprise,” Manfred explained. “But I sense the end is near. We can only pray.”
“I hope you’re right.” A more immediate concern than the end of the war came to mind. “What will I be doing at the camp?”
“My staff and I keep the water lines flowing, the electricity humming, especially for the guards’ barracks a short distance from the main grounds. They send us where we’re needed, but with the influx of prisoners, everyone is complaining about the amount of work they have to do, including the kitchen staff, cooking for so many men. The workers are civilians like me—many of them National Socialists, others are not so fond of Hitler. You must find your friends and keep them close. I can guide you in the beginning, but take your time getting to know people.”
There were certainly worse things than cooking and washing dishes for Allied prisoners. Considering the horrors of my life over the past two years, a period of relative stability seemed like manna from heaven. However, my notion of resurrecting the strategies of the White Rose appeared unlikely in Stalag VII-A. There would be too many people around, no safe area to write and produce leaflets, and no time to distribute them. There was no need to drop them in the camp—the readers were already on my side.
“Where will I be housed?” I asked.
“There may be room at the guards’ barracks, or with one of the women who live near Moosburg.”
“That would probably be better,” I said, considering the cosmetic preparation I still needed to keep my identity a secret.
“Or you could stay with me,” Manfred said offhandedly. “That way you wouldn’t have to hide.”
His surprising offer tempted me. The risk of discovery would be less if I stayed with Manfred, and it was much better than struggling on the streets of Munich. Despite that, I was still uncertain. “I know nothing about you. I don’t even know whether you can be trusted.”
“You can ask Gretchen about trust,” he said with a smile.
I returned the smile, feeling that this man was telling the truth.
We passed over the Isar River on our way into the village, the water sparkling blue and clear beneath us, the naked trees along the river swaying in the wind, the twin towers of what I presumed to be a church rising in the distance.
“It’s beautiful,” I said as we drove past.
“We’re lucky. We’ve been spared.”
The truck sputtered through town and headed north along the few remaining kilometers of road to the camp. As it curved around a bend bordered by flat farmland, the Stalag watchtower came into view. I grabbed Manfred’s arm in a sudden panic. “Stop!”
He jerked the truck to the side of the road and turned off the ignition.
I opened the door, slid out of the seat, and collapsed on a brown patch of grass near a gully. I tried to speak, but only spittle came out, followed by the remnants of my breakfast at Gretchen’s. I spit out the remaining bile and then wiped my mouth on my coat sleeve. Everything I’d endured over the past two years had come rushing back to me: my arrest, the trial, my imprisonment at Stadelheim, my brush with death at Schattenwald, the murder I’d committed.
Manfred bent over me, concerned etched in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
I struggled to catch my breath, swallowing drafts of cold air, placing my hands over my chest to calm my racing heart. “I think so.... The watchtower . . . reminded me of prison and then the . . .” I looked again at the wooden structure rising in the distance.
He lifted me to my feet from the frosty patch of ground. “Don’t look at the camp. Look toward Moosburg—it’s a pleasant view. Remember—you aren’t a prisoner.”
I leaned against him. He smiled, an expression born of care and concern, if I was to judge his character. He was right about the view: The town, its towers resting behind us, lay in profile on the horizon, inviting me to remember a time when I’d gazed in wonder at the Frauenkirche in Munich with its stunning spires that split the sky. A feeling of peace swept over me as I viewed the tranquil buildings. Munich and the bombs seemed far away.
“I can’t be late,” he said, looking at his wristwatch. “It’s almost noon and the Nazis will use any excuse to question us.”
He guided me back to the truck. I took my seat and then rolled down the window because the warm air in the cab, once comforting, roiled my stomach.
“We’ll enter through the main gate,” he said. “Try to relax when we pull up. I’ll introduce you to the guard. They all know me, but he’ll ask to see your papers. Thank him and give him what you have—don’t offer more information. If he asks you a question, answer in a calm and pleasant voice.
“After we get through, I’ll introduce you to the kitchen manager. She’ll be happy to have the help. I’d say she’s with us, but you know how people are. They grumble under their breath about Hitler and the war, but when stirred up by the Propaganda Minister they’re ready to take up arms against the Allies.”
I took a deep breath and steadied myself in the seat. The gate was coming up fast. We passed over a brook and soon arrived at the main entrance. The truck rolled up to the barrier; the tower guards watched over us as an armed sentry approached from a hut.
Manfred gave a modified Hitler salute, lifting his right hand, palm up, to the guard. I did the same as the two men exchanged greetings.
“Who is she?” the guard asked. “You’ve never brought a woman here.”
“Gisela,” Manfred said. “She’s going to work in the kitchen. They desperately need help—everyone here’s told me so, even Colonel Burger.”
The guard smiled, showing teeth stained by cigarette smoke.
“She’s pretty,” I overheard the guard whisper, “but I have to . . .”
I opened my purse, took out my forged papers, reached across Manfred, and handed them to the man, thinking that I was anything but pretty with my grubby face, dirty glasses, and blond wig that needed washing and combing.
He leafed through the documents for a short time before handing them back. I leaned against Manfred, hoping to make a point.
The guard looked at us, ordered us to step out, and then checked under the seats. Satisfied with his inspection, he said to Manfred, “Ah, I see. A woman from Munich—a student too.” He hitched his thumb under his ammunition belt. “Better here than there. The pickings are slim in Moosburg.”
“The pickings are slim everywhere these days,” Manfred said with a laugh.
We got back in the truck, and the guard motioned us through the gate. The camp had been constructed on a large plot of swampy land between the Amper and Isar Rivers, a consideration when it came to making it hard for POWs to escape. A rail station bordered the west side of the camp where prisoners could be unloaded for processing, or, just as easily, transferred to other camps. What struck me first about the Stalag was its size—it stretched to the wooded hills to the east and then so far to the south that it looked as if Moosburg were included within its confines. More barracks stood under the sun than I could count.
The truck lumbered down a long lane called Lagerstrasse, running between rows of austere barracks, where groups of men walked the barbed-wire corridors in their worn-out military uniforms; others strolled in flight jackets with nothing covering their bare heads. The clothing hung on their emaciated frames. Despite their thin bodies and dour faces, the men took advantage of the rare January day. Many prisoners sunned themselves against the barracks’ walls.
Manfred rolled up his window and told me to do the same as we crept down the lane. “You did the right thing—leaning against me. I wish I’d thought of it.” He slowed the truck to a crawl. “I didn’t mean what I said about ‘slim pickings.’ I had to humor him.”
“Yes, I’ve seen better days,” I replied in jest; however, we couldn’t afford to lose time talking about trivialities like beauty. “With so many prisoners, how hard would it be to start an uprising and overpower the guards?”
“Not as easy as you might think,” he said. “These men catching a glimpse of sun—what, a thousand, if that?—they, along with the other prisoners, are an illusion of force. They’re officers from many countries, not a cohesive unit.
“There are plenty of sick men here, too, but you can’t see them. This place is a hellhole despite what the Nazi brass might claim. I can’t help the prisoners as much as I’d like because I’m assigned to guards’ barracks, where conditions are better. Here, the food is lousy and there’s not much anyone can do about it considering the supplies. Malnutrition is rampant, the men are covered with lice and fleas—the only thing that helps is the cold. I’ve seen men strip their clothes off and bury them in the snow to kill the lice. Then, after an hour or so they put their uniforms back on and return to their cold barracks. The latrines are dreadful with a gut-wrenching stench and pits near to overflowing. The brass doesn’t care whether the slops are cleaned—the unsanitary conditions only spread disease.”
“I was a nurse. Maybe I’d be of better use in the hospital.”
Manfred frowned. “You’d betray yourself—it’s too easy to look into the past of a nurse who shows up unexpectedly at a camp hospital. Besides, they don’t want civilians in those positions. They’re using French and Polish assistants under the supervision of German doctors. Stick to the kitchen.”
“And no one can escape?”
He pointed to the rows of high barbed-wire fences stretched between barracks, and strung in a double row on the camp’s distant perimeter. “More than seventy thousand men—maybe more—share your desire to see freedom, but if you have a realistic plan for breaking out of here, let me know. There are two thousand armed guards on patrol, an equal number on the outside, with weapons more than a match for an unarmed man.”
We came to a stop near a wooden canteen in the center of the Stalag. Manfred leaned back against the seat. “Did you hear what happened in March of last year? The rumor made the camp rounds.”
I shook my head. I’d heard little about the outside world while in Schattenwald.
“POWs built a tunnel at Stalag Luft III. Seventy-three of the prisoners were recaptured within days and fifty were executed under direct orders from Hitler, in violation of the Geneva Convention. Later, posters went up in all the camps saying that ‘escape has ceased to be a sport.’” He bowed his head. “I’ve talked with Gretchen and others about smuggling in weapons, but vehicles are searched regularly like we were today—the only weapons we could hope to smuggle inside would be a few pistols and their capacity won’t stand up to an MP 40 that can fire off thirty-two rounds with lightning speed.
“I’ve helped three officers escape—two of them later died at the hands of the SS. They never spilled a word about who helped them. They were honest, decent, honorable men. The odds of escaping Stalag VII-A aren’t good; yet, I’ve risked my own life to stand against tyranny.” His eyes locked on mine. “The men earn money, some of them work outside the camp; they have a life they believe will go on until they’re liberated. Why take on the Wehrmacht, the Gestapo, and the SS, with the possibility of getting yourself and your men killed, when the slim promise of liberation fills your mind? And even if many men escaped, where would they hide in a war-torn country? These men remember what happened at Stalag Luft III.”
Everything that Manfred said made sense. “If escape is impossible, what’s your connection to Gretchen? What do you offer for those who resist Hitler?”
“I make sure high-ranking intelligence officers get out of Stalag VII-A. When I’m not doing that, I do everything in my power to make sure that prisoners don’t die. The men and women who fight for freedom deserve to live. That’s why you’re with me now.”
He opened the truck door. “Let me introduce you to the manager. She’s a tough old bird, but fair. She’ll give you good food. I’ll pick you up after my shift is done at eight.”
The compacted earthen road crunched underneath my feet. The camp, its barracks spread to the four corners, was huge in comparison to the small canteen. I followed Manfred to the door, where, once opened, the pleasing smells of baked bread and fried sausages made my mouth water.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I said, as he closed the door.
“This way.” He pointed to a long counter filled with pots and pans.
* * *
Inga Stehlen, short and stocky, was as tough as the meaning of her surname—steel.
Her gray hair pulled back in a bun, legs descending from her plain skirt like tree trunks, her agile feet springing about in black shoes, she lorded over every detail in the kitchen. Inga reminded me of Dolly at Stadelheim, but without the obvious cruelty that my former tormentor was so quick to display.
Manfred made a quick introduction and then left us, saying he would return at eight to pick me up.
Not one to slow down operations with formalities, Inga got right to the point. “What can you do?”
“Most anything,” I said, not wanting to disqualify myself from the kitchen work.
“You’ll start over there,” she said, pointing to a sink and washing counter. “You’ll have your hands in hot water ten hours a day to start—scrubbing pots, pans, and baking utensils. If you’re good, I might let you get your hands out of the sink, but we’ll see.” Her brows furrowed. “I don’t imagine we’ll have these jobs much longer.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Was she hinting that an Allied victory was all but assured, or that Germany would somehow conquer its enemies? I was in no position to debate the question. I started for the counter, but she pulled me back. “You’re a friend of Manfred’s?” A hint of deviltry glinted in her eyes.
I nodded.
“He’s a good man. He deserves a good woman.”
“Yes,” I replied, unwilling to discuss her romantic notions about a man I’d just met.
She brushed by me and I took my place at the sink. I worked beside another woman who barely gave me a look until she announced it was time for her break. “Inga doesn’t like us to talk,” she said.
Night fell and I scrubbed and cleaned dishes, heavy pots and pans, until I was dead on my feet, but I didn’t complain because I watched thousands of men with their cups and tin cans stand in line for food as the temperature dropped. They were served a weak barley soup, a few small boiled potatoes, black bread, which I noticed had been supplemented with sawdust, and tea. Some lucky ones got to sit on the kitchen floor, while most ate outside in the cold.
At eight, Manfred walked in the door. Other workers had arrived to take my place, and as I left, Inga informed me that I was expected at eight the next morning for a shift that would last until six. My only day off would be Sundays, she said. It hadn’t taken me long to discover that she was the driving force behind the kitchen and canteen operation. She ruled with an iron fist and no one crossed her.
“May I take you home?” Manfred asked as we walked the short distance to his truck.
“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking with fatigue. “Anywhere there’s a warm bed.”
We left the camp through the Lagerstrasse gate after checking out with the night-duty guards, and drove in silence for many kilometers. I relaxed in the seat, the mild bounce of the truck nearly putting me to sleep after the long day on my feet. The road took us around Moosburg until we arrived at a small farmhouse south of town near the Isar. Manfred shifted the truck into neutral, and it coasted to a stop in front of a wire gate.
“I suppose I should ask the question,” I said, as Manfred put his hand on the door handle. “Are you married?”
“No,” he said flatly.
“A girlfriend?”
He shook his head. “Well, maybe one.” He got out of the truck and stood in front of the gate, his body framed in the headlights. “Schütze! Come here!”
A dark blur bounded from the back of the house and jumped and whirled against the fence with great joy. “She’s been outside all day—she’s happy to see me.” He opened the gate and the dog vaulted past it and into the truck, slathering me with kisses.
I got out and the eager dog jumped after me. I stood in the frosty air, grateful, yet wary of relying on a stranger’s hospitality. What was I getting myself into? Schütze circled me as I waited for Manfred to park the truck near the house and close the gate.
He strode up with key in hand. “It’s not much.”
The dwelling was constructed of stone and wood, with an overhanging slanted roof to slough off the Bavarian rain and snow. Once inside, Manfred lit a lamp and then the woodstove. I could feel the generations of spirits that had resided in this modest house, their pictures hanging in black cigar-box frames on the wall, the fancy embroidered pillows and furniture covers—not of a man’s taste but left untouched as a sign of respect for the women who had lived here before him—resting in their designated positions as they had for years.
Manfred hung his coat on a door hook and called the dog into the kitchen. After being fed, Schütze pawed the hooked rug in front of the stove into a comfortable bed.
I collapsed in a chair, shed my wig, and ruffled my hair so it wouldn’t look as awful. The kettle boiled on the stove and Manfred returned with tea mugs for both of us, his left hand still gloved.
“How did you get this?” I asked. Tea was difficult to obtain.
He sat across from me on a small sofa with the dog between us. The pleasant sitting room, the dog, the warm fire, made everything comfortable—too comfortable—and I suddenly had the urge to run from the house into the night. Why had he opened his home to me? The losses I’d suffered made it difficult to trust anyone.
He eyed me with concern, sensing my discomfort. “So you’re not a blonde. I suspected as much. You’re pretty with short hair.”
He smiled and I blushed, as he tapped his mug. “I get tea from the camp black market. Red Cross packages come to the officers. I can get coffee, sometimes chocolate, cigarettes as well, if I want them, in exchange for goods baked outside the camp; in other words, loaves of bread free from sawdust.” He took a sip and then placed the mug on a small wooden table to his right. “You don’t trust me, do you? What if I told you I know about the White Rose?”
His blunt questions caught me off guard. I looked at Schütze curled in a ball in front of the stove. “If I’m honest with you—no. Why should I? We only met today and other than knowing that you have some kind of relationship with Gretchen, I know nothing about you. You could be a Gestapo agent, a member of the SS, for all I know. Perhaps you even worked at Stadelheim or Schattenwald. Many people know about the White Rose leaflets.”
He removed the glove from his left hand and rolled up his shirtsleeve, exposing his arm. The top of his hand was pitted and scarred as if it had been charred by fire. Chunks of flesh, revealing skin turned pink from the lack of pigmentation, had been removed on both sides of his arm up to the elbow.
“This is what happened to me in the Reich’s French invasion. I was never one for war, never a Party member, never a supporter of Hitler, but, of course, I was forced to serve, and to take a shell that nearly blew my arm off. The wounds took months to heal because of operations and infections. After that, the Wehrmacht was through with me and then the Party tracked me down, offering me the kind stipulation that I work at Stalag VII-A.”
Had I been a nurse in France, I would have tended him with care.
“I have no feeling in my left hand, my fourth and fifth fingers don’t work because the tendons were severed. Luckily, I’m right-handed.” He lifted the injured arm. “This is pretty useless except for balance and resting a beer glass on it.... I can grip a shovel and pliers if I need to.” He reached down to pet the dog. “I was surprised that France was taken so easily. Hans Scholl said the same thing to me one day.”
I gasped. “You knew Hans Scholl?”
“We served together—he was a good man—perhaps too good for this world. He would have been an excellent doctor.”
“I knew his sister, Sophie, as well . . . and Alex . . . and Willi.”
“The White Rose,” Manfred said.
A log popped in the stove’s belly and a thin plume of smoke spilled into the room from a crack in the firebox glass. Schütze started and raised her head, inspecting Manfred and me with her alert brown eyes.
“She’s true to her name,” Manfred said. “The best guard dog I’ve ever had.” He rolled down his sleeve and leaned back on the sofa. “So, you might as well trust me; otherwise, it’s going to be a long winter.... Who are you?”
I closed my eyes, which were heavy from the relief that flooded my body. The thought that I might be able to trust someone again warmed my soul. I lifted the wig from my lap and stared at it—disgusted by what it signified. “I’m Natalya Petrovich, a Russian living in Munich who served as a volunteer nurse on the Eastern Front . . . who was arrested as a traitor . . . who survived Stadelheim and Schattenwald and now has a job at Stalag VII-A thanks to the kindness of a stranger.” My eyes fluttered, and I fought to keep myself awake. I’d sleep indoors, warm and safe, for the first time since leaving Gretchen’s—a wonderful feeling that fed my drowsiness.
“I’ll wait for the rest of your story . . .” Manfred said. “Would you like to go to bed?”
His words woke me up. “I’ll be fine on the sofa.”
“It’s small, lumpy, and, when the fire dies, very cold,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
“No, I’d rather be here . . . with the dog. I’m used to sleeping by myself—besides you’re too tall.”
“All right,” he said, his soft blue eyes taking me in. “I’ve fallen asleep on it before.”
“We are friends tonight,” I said.
“Yes—for as long as you want.”
Manfred made up a bed with comfortable pillows and blankets and within seconds I was asleep.
I awoke to a gray dawn light seeping around the blackout curtains. Manfred was standing at the kitchen stove preparing breakfast, but soon he came to me bearing a smile, and a warmth in his eyes.
However, we were running late and I wanted no questions from my new boss at Stalag VII-A. I wrapped myself in the blanket and headed for the bathroom.
* * *
By the middle of March 1945, my routine at the Stalag was firmly established. Inga moved me around the kitchen like a chess piece, first from my position washing dishes, to mopping and scrubbing, to cooking and even to baking the dreaded black bread “fortified” with sawdust. The local women used caraway seeds in their breads, making them much more palatable to the prisoners and profitable on the black market.
As rumors swirled about the Reich’s ultimate downfall, the camp POWs kept a reasonably high morale. The noncommissioned prisoners often worked in Munich, so I heard stories about the state of the city—now mostly in ruins. They cleared rubble from the street, filled bomb crater holes, and repaired damaged railroad tracks. The work was hard but not unbearable and they seemed to be treated well, primarily because the guards were old men recruited for the job.
With Manfred, I slipped into an easy, friendly relationship and after a few weeks I called the farmhouse my home. At first I denied any attraction between us because the war made everything so uncertain. I finally gave up the couch, with no coaxing from Manfred, and we slept together in his bed but never made love. Often I found myself nestled in the mornings against his bare chest, unsettled at first, but soon growing more comfortable as we got to know each other. When we were apart, I missed him and looked forward to our time together.
Our evening talks, when they occurred, allowed our bond to deepen. I recounted my history, including my volunteer service in Russia, my work with the White Rose, my imprisonments, and my stay with Gretchen.
“What about you?” I asked Manfred one night from my chair.
“Oh, I’ve had a very exciting life.” He removed his boots, placed them on the floor in front of the stove to dry, and took his usual seat on the sofa. He leaned back, content, and stretched his left arm across the fabric. “I was born on this land—there are easier ways to make a living than farming—especially since the Nazis took over. My father died about ten years ago. I think the hardships of running the farm and Hitler’s rise to power killed him. My mother died a few years later about the time Germany invaded Poland.”
“She missed your father?” I asked.
“Yes, the war didn’t kill her. She died of grief—she wanted to be with her husband—at least delivered from her misery and loneliness.”
“She lived alone here?”
“I had a job in Moosburg and rented a small room behind a house. I’d come out to the farm to help when I could, but it got to be too much for both of us. Eventually, we had to sell off the livestock and what few crops we grew, mostly potatoes. The Nazis felt they could help themselves to everything we had anyway. Once the war started, and after I was deployed to France, I returned here to live—by myself.”
The oil lamp’s wick popped and flared, then settled into a steady flame.
“I worked the farm and also did odd jobs—electrical, woodworking, plumbing—things that needed fixing. When the Nazis came knocking for workers, I told them that’s what I could do, and that’s how I ended up at the Stalag. I had no choice. Later I connected with Gretchen and I decided to aid the resistance while working in the camp.”
“Did you and Gretchen ever . . . ?” I didn’t finish my question, certain that Manfred knew what I was asking.
He chuckled. “No. Gretchen is much too cautious to become involved with someone who works with her.” He rested his hands on the sofa. “She sees men who don’t want a relationship—and there are plenty of those.” He looked at me, the lamplight flickering in his eyes.
I squirmed a bit in my chair, not from discomfort, but from the fondness building in me for this man, a sensation quite unlike one I’d ever experienced.
He pointed to the bedroom. “My family is Catholic, but everything about religion is hidden in that room, including my grandmother’s rosaries, the family Bible, and the crucifix. Those trappings can’t be on display. What about your family?”
“Eastern Orthodox, but not practicing of course. My parents dropped religion a few years after we arrived in Germany—they fell away from the church. I pray now and then.”
Schütze rose from her resting place in front of the stove, apparently too warm from the fire, circled the room, and settled in front of Manfred.
“Have you had girlfriends?” I asked.
“A few—one serious affair for a time, but she wanted more than a poor farmer could offer. After my injury, she left me and got engaged to a Wehrmacht officer. He was shipped off to Stalingrad. I suppose he’s dead. I haven’t seen her again.”
“What will you do when the war is over?”
He looked at me with a faint longing. The oil lamp’s amber light mixed with the red glow of the firebox. “I suppose I’ll stay here. This house is all I own, and I can’t imagine giving it up for anything.” He glanced at the dog, napping at his feet. “Schütze’s happy here.... What about you?”
In a way, I dreaded talking about the future. What was there to look forward to? Even if you found happiness, how long would it take to put lives back together, how long would it take to find my parents, how long to rebuild a city and find a paying job? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was thinking about the future, and Manfred was a participant in my silent hopes and dreams.
“I might go back to the university—finish my degree—but before that I want to find my parents . . .” I couldn’t finish because of the pain tearing at my heart.
He got off the couch and kneeled in front of me. “I’ll help you find them—I’ve never met a woman as loyal and brave as you—a beautiful woman who stands behind her convictions.” He grasped my hands. “All of us who resist are trying to survive. I’ll give you anything you need. You’ve kept me company . . . given me a reason to think about love.... I’ll be there whatever you decide, but I hope you find it in your heart to love me.”
I leaned over and kissed him.
He rose and pressed against me, kissing me, stroking my face and neck with his hands.
The warmth I’d felt for him had turned into a desire that burned in my heart. “There’s so much to think about,” I said, gently ending a kiss. “Everything is still up in the air. I care for you so much, but we need to wait . . . until this is over.”
He backed away and petted Schütze, who rolled onto her back and wagged her tail.
I could tell Manfred was disappointed, but his smile showed hope. “I was working on a leaky faucet today,” he said, lightening the mood. “Did you see the bomber?”
“No.” I’d been in the kitchen all day.
“Several have passed overhead recently—American and British. They aren’t bombing us. The word’s still out about Moosburg. I think we’ll be safe until it’s over.”
“That’s good,” I said, unsure whether our luck would hold out.
“I’ve heard rumblings about Commander Burger,” Manfred continued. “He’s not in step with other Nazi officers, which makes it dangerous for him but better for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“What will happen to the camp when the Allies get here?” He went back to the sofa. “Prisoners from other camps have been marched here because Hitler doesn’t want them to fall into the hands of his enemies. If Hitler’s pushed, he might direct his staff to institute a ‘scorched earth’ policy—everyone and everything would be destroyed.”
The horrible recollection of the truck pulling into the Russian forest jumped into my mind—the execution that could never be blotted from my memory. Could these exterminations happen here and at the other camps being evacuated?
I had no answer, but I was terrified at the thought.
* * *
Three weeks later, the SS instituted a surprise inspection at Stalag VII-A on a rainy day. All the men and women on the kitchen staff were told to fall in for a roll call, with Inga heading the line. I had become careless about wearing my wig around Manfred’s house, but I still styled it and wore it to my job.
Four SS officers, all looking stern and forceful in their damp field coats, worked their way down the line from right to left. I had taken off my glasses, which I needed for work, and put them into my dress pocket. I was in the middle of the line, my hands at my side, trying to remain calm and at attention as each man stopped and studied me.
The last officer turned his gaze toward me and I froze in terror.
I stared into the face of Garrick Adler.