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An hour later, after turning my interplay with the old man over and over in my mind, it occurred to me, in my fear and desperation to get away as quickly as possible, I might have misread the situation.
What if he wasn’t a Gestapo snitch? What if he was part of an underground railroad for Jews? He said I was early. Who had he been expecting? Did I miss an opportunity for help?
A downed tree limb blocked my path, and I couldn’t summon the energy to climb over it. Instead, I dusted off the snow, plopped down on the damp branch, swung the backpack off my shoulders, and rooted around for something to eat and drink. I’d refilled the empty bottle of bier with water and took a few slugs before gnawing a piece of the deer jerky. The meat would hopefully give me the energy to keep going, because for the last kilometer, I’d actually begun thinking I should ditch the film and turn myself over to the Nazis. Once past Baiersbronn the terrain had gotten steeper and more mountainous, and I felt as though I’d barely made headway. My ankle throbbed, cold permeated the outer layers of my coat, seeping into my bones, and I might have foolishly passed up the best chance at getting out of this godforsaken country.
Ever-gnawing hunger in my belly likely gave rise to these fatalistic thoughts, and the salty deer jerky did little to thwart the hunger, so I dug out the tube of cheese. I’d no idea how old it was, but the seal hadn’t been broken and I took a chance. It had a fine, grainy texture and the taste was on par with glue. The best thing I can say about it, it filled the hole in my belly.
A whickering sound met my ears, and I froze with the tube of cheese suspended in the air.
There it was again, along with the unmistakable sound of a hoof stomp.
The food must have revived my survival instincts. I slid off my perch and crouched down, grabbing the weapon at my feet. Both the SS and the Heer had cavalry divisions, and a number of battalions still used horses for hauling artillery. There was only one round of ammunition in the gun, and I prayed I wouldn’t require more than that.
The whickering came again to my right, but I couldn’t see past the scree of brush. I slid into the cavity beneath the dead branch and shifted the weapon, ready to defend myself. The clop of the horse’s hooves must have been dampened by the snow, because suddenly shaggy white socks, dirtied with mud, walked directly into my line of vision. I listened for the creak of a leather saddle when abruptly a large brown nostril came down to my level. My heart leapt to my throat, and I jerked back, rapping my head against the hard branch. The horse let out a nicker and warm breath blew at my face.
Petrified by fear, I remained in my hollow, waiting for a pair of boots to jump to the ground or a simple demand to show myself. Neither of those things happened, and I finally noticed there were no reins attached to the beast’s bridle.
Gradually, I stuck out my head.
A large draft horse, bred for size and strength and usually used as a beast of burden, stood in front of me. Its dark brown coat showed a few bald patches, and as I pulled myself up out of the dirt, he backed up a pace, giving a snort and a shake of his head.
“Whoa ... it’s all right. There’s a big boy.” I crooned nonsensical German phrases. He allowed me to approach and take hold of the bridle; my mittened hands stroked his long neck. Gently, I blew into his nostrils and he gave another soft nicker. I hadn’t been around horses since finishing school, but I remembered my equine etiquette.
“Where did you come from?” I whispered.
The fellow seemed placid enough, and although dirty and perhaps a little thin, in fairly good shape. I removed the mittens and ran my hands down his forelocks, searching for broken skin. His coat was dull and rough, clotted with mud in places, but finding no injuries, I encouraged him to walk in a circle while I watched for any sign of a limp. His gait appeared fine. After a second pass, I led him over to where my rucksack lay and dug around until my hands landed on the soft, round turnip. Cutting the root vegetable into smaller pieces with a pocket knife, I held my hand out flat. The soft, whiskered lips tickled my palm.
When my mother died, in my anger and pain, I stopped attending services and turned my back on God. After witnessing some of the atrocities the Nazis inflicted on the French, I questioned even the existence of God. Nonetheless, in the past few days, I’d sent up whispered prayers, and perhaps God had been listening, providing me with shelter when I needed it most, and now a mode of transportation.
However, my journey was not turning into smooth sailing by any stretch of the imagination. This horse was a typical workhorse, likely used for hauling supplies, and had probably never been ridden before. That and the fact there was neither saddle nor reins had me thinking God had a bad sense of humor. I’d ridden bareback a handful of times, but never on such a broad-shouldered horse and always with reins. If I hopped up on his back with no way to control him, one of two things might happen. We’d either go trooping off wherever the horse pleased ... or he’d immediately throw me and I’d be dealing with a broken head in addition to the twisted ankle.
I emptied the rucksack, searching for some sort of rope to use as reins. In one of the side pockets, I found a hank of twine, less than a meter long and much too thin to be of any use. I tossed the backpack aside with a huff and began searching the woods for other options. The horse followed a few steps behind as I canvassed the area before returning to where I started. I stared grumpily at the useless bag.
Shoulder straps! Made of leather and adjustable, they just might be long enough.
“Come on. Give me some luck,” I mumbled, unbuckling the bottom of the straps and holding the length from the bridle to the neck. It would be a little short, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I went about cutting the leather out of the top loops. The twine came in handy for making a new strap for the pack.
Finally, with a makeshift harness in place, I led the horse—who I’d taken to calling Franziska because of the similarity to an overly wide cook we once had when we lived in Vienna—over to the fallen branch, which I used as a mounting block. I thanked the saints for providing me the trousers as I tossed my leg across the large breadth of Franziska’s backside. He eyed me with a questioning tolerance while I arranged myself and the reins. I leaned forward and gave him a gentle kick.
He didn’t move.
I kicked harder.
Franziska stomped a foot and tossed his head, almost yanking the reins out of my hands and unseating me.
I racked my brain for the verbal commands I’d learned during my riding days in Switzerland; visualizing the trainer in the ring, it unexpectedly came to me.
“Schritt,” I commanded, pulling out the word so it sounded like shaare-itt, and flapped the reins.
His weight shifted beneath me.
“Tay-rap.” I tried another one. Not that I wanted to trot, but I figured whatever got him moving.
I let out a curse and kicked him.
Franziska moved forward about three steps, then came to a halt. I was fairly certain he just decided to move forward on his own, not due to my foul language.
Okay. This horse is not used to riders, so how do I get a horse used to pulling munitions to move forward? I’d once seen a farmer in France ploughing a field; he’d whistled at the horse when it was time to turn at the end of the field.
I gave a sharp whistle, flicked the reins, and we were off!
Franziska had a sure-footed, loping walk and a gentle rolling canter, which I preferred, but I had difficulty keeping him striding at that pace. He kept slowing into a bone-jarring trot. Eventually, I gave up and reduced him back down to a walk. Even so, we covered distance at least four times faster than my previous limping pace, and Franziska’s broad back allowed me to prop my injured foot up, reducing some of the pain and pressure from the tight boot. Once an hour, I allowed Franziska to graze on whatever he could find that wasn’t covered with snow. At one of the streams, I used a heavy stick to break through the ice to let him drink. Every so often, the crack of a falling branch would rend the air. Luckily, Franziska seemed unfazed by the random noises and continued his steady pace up and down the steep hills.
The horse’s gentle, warm presence provided me a sense of security. I had no idea why it should. I was fairly certain he belonged to one of the military regiments, and my having him constituted thievery, adding one more reason for the Nazis to hang me ... in case they didn’t already have enough reason to do so.
A few hours later, the scent of a wood fire drifted past, and I immediately gave a soft clicking noise, which I’d learned was a signal for Franziska to halt. I sniffed the air and desperately strained to hear the sound of voices.
The gun lay across my lap for easy access as we walked into the campsite.
Three surprised faces stared up at me as they scrambled to the far side of the small fire, where two rabbit-sized carcasses roasted on a wooden spit; the tempting smell had my stomach rumbling. Two men and a boy wore ragged coats that puffed out at odd angles. A crinkling ruffle sounded when they moved, and I assumed they’d insulated their clothing with paper.
As I observed them, the tallest, with a protuberant nose, withdrew a knife from his jacket pocket. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than twelve, shuffled behind him. Their eyes looked unnaturally large in their thin faces with protruding cheekbones as they warily watched me.
Franziska shifted and they drew farther back. The knife rose higher, poised to strike.
“Brrrrr.” I rolled my tongue behind my teeth to soothe the horse, patting his neck. Then I returned my own weapon to my shoulder.
“Guten Tag.” I murmured.
The man with the knife didn’t move, but the shorter one on his right, with a graying beard, lifted his chin. I evaluated the situation and debated my options. I didn’t like the looks of that knife, but the warm fire beckoned to me, and it had been years since I’d ridden a horse for any length of time. My backside could use a break.
“May I warm myself by your fire?” I asked in German.
No answer.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” Do you speak German?
Their eyes darted between each other before returning to me.
“Ja.” The short man spoke and let out a dry cough.
Finally, a response. “I am not here to harm you.”
The short man seemed to relax and moved forward a step, but the knife holder held out his arm blocking the shorter man’s approach. His face remained taut with anger and fear. The blue trousers that stuck out below their dark coats were similar to the men who had been forced to work at the factory, and, except for the boy, their faces displayed beards.
“Ich bin kein Nazi.” I am not a Nazi, I said in my most soothing voice.
Still, no welcoming overtures. Like me, they were obviously on the run, and I understood their hesitation to greet a stranger riding a horse and carrying a weapon, even if it was a woman. Who was to say I wasn’t a Gestapo spy sent to inform on their location? To my left stood a crudely constructed lean-to made of sticks, bark, and pine branches. Beside the fire sat two tin cups and what was obviously a military mess kit, most likely pilfered on their run.
“Never mind,” I mumbled beneath my breath. “Schritt, Franziska.” I whistled to the horse. He lumbered forward a few steps.
“Warten Sie.” Wait. The short man pushed the knife holder’s arm out of his way. “Englisch?"
My blood ran cold at my foolish mistake. However, I saw the man’s hopeful expression and clicked at Franziska to pull him up. “Ja.”
It was as though the spigot turned on full force. German babbled at me, and eventually I held up my hands to pause the flow. The short man approached the horse and helped me off while the boy went to hold his head. During the ride my ankle stiffened, and I was thankful for the help. Had he not given me a hand, it would have been a hard landing. As it was, I hobbled painfully over to a dead log fireside and held my hands toward the warmth.
“How did you find us?” The knife had disappeared back into the coat, but the man’s expression remained wary, and he stayed on the far edge of the fire.
“Smelled it.” We spoke in German.
The fear was back as eyes darted around.
“It is better to have a fire during the day, but you should really have a lookout. We are fairly deep into the woods, still I believe there is a village not too far away.”
“About twenty kilometers that way.” The short man pointed over his shoulder to the west.
“Is there Heer? Waffen SS? Gestapo?” I asked.
“Ja, Heer. Gestapo?” He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Who knows?”
I understood. The Gestapo was like ivy, growing in all directions, invasive, eating away at the foundations of German cities and towns.
The boy sat on a rock to my right and asked, “What is the name of your horse?”
“I call him Franziska.”
“Franziska?” His face crunched up in thought. “But, fräulein, that horse is a boy,” he said with such gravity that, for the first time in weeks, I smiled.
“You are correct. But he reminded me of a cook we once had when I was a girl about your age.”
“Where did you get him?” knife man asked. “Stolen?”
“Actually, Franziska found me. We wandered into each other, you could say.”
“He is strong, like a Wehrmacht draft horse. For hauling the big guns.”
“Probably so.” I didn’t like how knife man’s pugnacious eyes studied my mount. Rationing forced many Germans to survive on horsemeat, and though I understood the need to use whatever food could be found, I had no plans to allow my newfound friend to become dinner. His use as my transportation was far too important, and I made a mental note to keep my new companion within sight. I slipped the weapon off my shoulder, laid it across my lap, and removed my mittens. I had no interest in shooting anyone, but if I, or my horse, were threatened...
“Where are you headed?” the short man asked.
“L’Alsace.”
A look passed between the two older men, but the little boy gasped, “Nein, nein, fräulein, you shouldn’t go there. It’s too dangerous for a pretty girl like you.”
“The Gestapo is not kind to spies.” This from the knife holder.
“I do not imagine they are kind to Jews who have escaped the work camps ... either.”
No one moved. Eyes darted back and forth, but it was the boy’s actions that affected me the most. He shrank away with a look that could only be described as too knowing for one so young. The inquisitiveness in his eyes went flat, and the animated expression smoothed into an impersonal drawn countenance. Upon observing his reaction, I immediately regretted speaking so baldly.
“How did you know?” the short one asked in quiet tones.
“I’ve been living the past few months in Oberndorf.” I nodded at him. “Your clothes gave you away.”
“I told you we should have stolen those uniforms,” the knife holder snapped at the older man.
I had taken the man into dislike and wildcatted to the older man’s defense. “That might have been fine for the two of you, but what about the boy?”
The dark glance he gave the urchin led me to believe the boy was with them by the grace of the older man. It was clear he saw the young one as a liability.
“Theft would have been noticed,” I continued calmly, glad the child had been watching me and didn’t notice the man’s calculating look. “You would be better off going into town and acquiring some regular villager clothing. The beards are good if you didn’t have them when you were at the work camps.” I looked directly at the knife man’s curly hair and full lips. His overly large nose was only accented by the hollow cheeks. “Your features are very Jewish. It would be best for you to stay behind.”
“What have the Jews ever done to you?” he snapped at me.
“Not a thing. But I think we all realize Der Führer has deemed otherwise, and it puts you in danger.” I looked toward the shorter man with the blue eyes. “Your features are far more Arian. If anyone needs to go into the village for supplies, it should be you and the boy. Children often go unremarked and can slip under the noses of the Gestapo,” I said, remembering a nine-year-old French boy who had a knack for being in the right place at the right time and was able to provide the Resistance with intelligence he’d “overheard.”
The man’s laughter turned into a coughing fit. When it ended, his eyes crinkled with a genuine smile. “She is very astute, Jako. Thank you, child, you speak the truth. I am Gregor, that is Jako, and the little one, Dieter.”
“You are Jewish,” I stated.
“Nein, I am a Protestant minister.”
“Minister?” I frowned. “I don’t understand. Why were you taken to the camp?”
“My sermons on embracing all of God’s children, including Jews, were deemed subversive.”
My brows rose. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Much like you, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”
“Who is to say I am doing anything?”
“You are an English spy, no? Behind enemy lines. I do not believe you are here for the fresh air.” He shifted and coughed again.
I didn’t correct their assumption that I was English. The less anyone with whom I came into contact knew about me, the better. “What camp did you escape?”
He named a town I’d never heard of.
“Outside Frankfurt, we were assigned to a work group and sent to build Luftwaffe airstrips, for landing the planes.”
“Even the boy?”
The boy listened attentively to our conversation as he slowly rotated the rabbits; fat dripped and sizzled on the burning wood.
“Even Dieter.” He went into another coughing fit.
“You are ill, Gregor, and need medicine.” I stated the obvious.
“Have you any?” Jako asked in a clipped manner, leaning to the side, as if to see through the dark leather of my rucksack that I kept strapped to my back.
“Unfortunately, no.” My gaze returned to Gregor. “You are a minister. Have you tried approaching the village cleric? He might be able to help you. Give you shelter, medicine.”
“Perhaps me, but what about my friends?” His hand arced through the air, encompassing Jako and Dieter.
“There’s got to be some sort of resistance or underground that can help them get to safety.”
“The Gestapo is unrelenting, and with the Allies moving closer by the day, villagers are not so willing to put their own families in danger. We cannot blame them. Though they may be willing to help a Protestant minister ... a Jew?” He shook his head. “The Nazis have put normal German people into untenable positions.”
“I know,” I whispered. The guilt over seeing the gaunt workers being herded like sheep from their barbed-wire-enclosed barracks into the factories every morning was something I had had to live with on a daily basis in Oberndorf. I used my intelligence gathering as a justification for my direct inaction to helping them.
“They have special treatment for spies ... if they aren’t shot on sight. You should be careful. They can be particularly brutal with women,” Gregor said.
Jako had picked up a stick lying by the fire and began whittling with the knife.
I nodded. “So I’ve been told.” A few days after dropping into France, I hooked up with a group of French Resistance fighters outside of Le Mans. While we discussed sabotaging key rail lines inside the dank depths of a root cellar, a middle-aged fighter named Reynaud, whose wife and children were killed during the initial German invasion, pulled me aside. I can still remember the distinctive smell of his Gauloises cigarette. Its smoke wafted around us as he explained in no uncertain terms the type of treatment I would experience should I fall into the hands of the enemy. His dark eyes remained hard and unrelenting, and I didn’t blink once as he spoke. The lecture, a shock to my then naïve sensibilities, stayed with me. Do not mistake, I didn’t enter this war unprepared.
During my time in England, I was taught how to use a knife, familiarized with the varied weapons from German, Italian, British, and American armies, trained in hand-to-hand combat—with limited success—and had been given munitions training. I’d been woken in the middle of the night by men in German uniforms. Buckets of ice water were thrown at me along with interrogation questions as I stood in nothing but my nightgown. It had all been part of the training.
Nevertheless, Reynaud’s words brought home, for the first time, that I would likely meet my death in a country that was not my own, and there remained a distinct possibility my demise would be gruesome and unimaginably painful at the hands of the enemy. Being shot in the head suddenly became a far more palatable way to go, and it was down in that dark room—between the smell of cigarettes and earth—that I decided I would try to provoke the enemy into shooting me immediately if I was ever caught.
“How far away did you smell the fire?” Jako flicked a shaving into the fire.
“Not far, maybe twenty meters.”
“Have you a plan?” Gregor asked.
“Get to the front. Find a friend. Try not to get shot.”
A log shifted amidst a shower of sparks and Gregor kicked it back into place. “The last is perhaps the most important.”
“And the most difficult.”
“Do you have help?”
“Once I cross the Rhine.”
Jako gave a disbelieving snort. “You still have long way to go.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and eyed me.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult with Franziska.” I gripped the gun in both hands and stared him down.
“The rabbits are almost done,” Dieter chirped. “Will you eat with us, fräulein?”
Jako’s eyes slid away. I had perhaps won this round, but I didn’t trust him, and I’d come to the realization that I would gain no more information from this disparate crew. I did not believe Gregor would allow harm to come to me, but I doubted his ability to overpower Jako should he make a move toward the horse. And I had no interest in using up my single shot of ammunition by gunning down an innocent man who had already endured Lord only knew what kind of torments and was simply trying to survive. I also needed to make a plan for the night. The temperatures would be plunging, and I needed to find some sort of shelter; it would not be the tiny lean-to across the way with a boy and two men.
“Nein, meine Kleine, I must be moving on.”
Dieter’s face fell.
“Come, now, stay and eat with us. You have a long road ahead of you and will need your strength,” Gregor enticed.
Jako’s mouth flattened, most likely displeased at having to share his paltry catch with another mouth. As welcome as the meal would be, I hadn’t interest in lowering my guard enough to eat around Jako and his deadly blade. I still had provisions in my pack, and besides, I imagined my portion would come out of Gregor’s or Dieter’s share, both of whom needed the nourishment more than I.
“Must you go already?” Dieter’s pleading eyes seemed to beg for another friendly face.
“How about I stay for a few more minutes while your dinner finishes cooking?” I smiled at the imp and was rewarded with one in return.
Jako harrumphed.
“Who taught you your German? You have no accent,” Gregor asked.
“I lived all over Europe when I was a child.”
“Hasn’t that made your ... position difficult? Even more dangerous?”
He voiced a fear that I’d struggled with during my ship ride over to England. “You mean, did I ever run into someone who knew me as a child?”
Gregor’s brows rose.
“Once. I looked very different when I was younger ... knock-kneed with a narrow face and very blond into my teens.” I glanced down at my canvas-covered knees thinking back to that alarming encounter in the colonel’s house. The children and I had just walked in the door—I remember I’d gotten down to one knee to help Klara with the buttons on her coat—when the colonel stepped out of his study followed by Herr Heinberg. I rose as the colonel proudly introduced the children to his guest. It took me only seconds to recognize Heinberg, he’d grown a mustache and grayed around the temples, but the moment he bent to shake Dagobert’s hand ... I remembered. Fear shot through me like a lightning bolt. I stepped back from the tableau to distance myself, but the colonel insisted on introducing me. I waited for Heinberg to recognize me ... call out ... have me arrested. Instead, a gleam of male appreciation lit his face, and I knew I was safe.
“There was no flicker of recognition. The men never notice; it is the women I fear.”
Jako’s hollowed gaze narrowed as he studied me. “You are saying women are more observant, ja?”
I lifted my chin. “Perhaps.”
“That is why they make excellent spies.” Gregor held out his hands and leaned closer to the heat of the fire.
“Who was he?” Dieter asked.
My gaze shifted back to the boy. “The man I recognized?”
He nodded.
“When I knew him, he was an insignificant government worker. He is now an important man in the Nazi Party.”
Gregor helped Dieter remove the rabbits from the spit, laying them on a large, flat rock, and while Jako began cutting up portions, I decided it was a good time to take my leave. Gregor did not renew his entreaty to remain. I thought he had finally picked up on Jako’s dislike of me, or perhaps he realized it was not safe for me to remain with their little coterie. The lad followed me to the horse, and I showed him how to hold his hands together to give me a much-needed boost onto Franziska’s back. Once situated, I whistled him into his teeth-clacking trot to get away from Jako while he was still occupied with his meal. I couldn’t take much of the uncomfortable jouncing, made worse without stirrups, so once we’d gotten far enough away and I knew we hadn’t been followed, I slowed the horse back down to a walk.
