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February 1945
Germany
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By morning the swelling and the storm had receded. I tore the dusty, white-linen valance hanging above the window into strips, and after wrapping my ankle, I was able to get the boot over it. The small chest, about the size of a footlocker, revealed not only the World War I bolt action rifle that kept me company through the night but also a pair of navy mittens, a pair of men’s trousers, and a beat-up brown rucksack. I filled the rucksack with the rest of my rations and my handbag. A search through the small dish cupboard revealed a tin of sardines, a tube of cheese, and some crackers, which were also added to the sack. I pulled on the trousers, tucked up my dress, and tightened the oversized waist with the belt from my coat.
The morning sun shone bright enough to filter through the pines and bounce off the three inches of fresh snow covering the ground. I estimated the temperature hung around the freezing mark when I set out that morning. The soft snow made the going slow, but worse, it laid a track. I soon broke off a pine branch and used it to obscure my trail. This area of the Black Forest was littered with streams and rivers. Most of them were frozen, and I successfully crossed over on foot, but it took time to scout some of the larger streams to make sure the area was uninhabited. The Nazis built many of their dreadful work camps outside small towns, so I had to be careful to avoid stumbling into one.
There was a work camp not far from the weapons factory in Oberndorf. Ironically, the men were forced to construct the weapons that built the army that subjugated them to begin with. I’d been stunned when I’d found out about the appalling practice. Some were their own German people the Nazis considered “undesirable,” others were gypsies or healthy men and boys from France or Belgium. The Nazis basically enslaved each country’s inhabitants that they’d invaded. However, a recent conversation I’d overheard between the colonel and Minister Speer led me to believe this workforce was treated rather well compared to the camps they’d built for the Jews in Poland. The colonel had at least insisted on daily meals to keep the workforce alive and so they could churn out their monthly quota of fifteen thousand guns. Speer spoke further about the Polish camps, referring to them as Hitler’s “final solution.” Unfortunately, I’d heard Magda approaching and had to abandon my hidey hole, so I missed the rest of the conversation.
The path I took headed uphill in a westerly direction north of Baiersbronn, where I would have to cross one of the major roads heading out of town. A train whistled in the distance. I debated heading closer to Baiersbronn to see if I could find some sort of transportation, when the grind of an engine met my ears. I stuffed my gloves into my pocket and swung the gun off my shoulder as I hid behind some shrubbery. Two staff cars and a motorcycle with sidecar roared past at a fast clip, and a few minutes later, trucks filled with soldiers lumbered into sight. I slunk down farther as tanks squeaked and rumbled past followed by lines of troopers marching on foot. All in all, I estimated two battalions paraded past.
I waited until the sounds of their engines and footsteps could no longer be heard. Taking the plunge, I ran across the road and slid down the embankment on the opposite side; my feet slammed into the rails of the train track, jarring my injured ankle, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the cry of pain.
The track looked well used, the grease on the rails fresh from a recent train. I picked my way across and scrambled back up the verge into the cover of trees. The passing caravan had put me off any thoughts I might have had about going into Baiersbronn, and I hustled as fast as my injured ankle allowed over the hill and down the valley. My hop-along flight soon came to a standstill when I ran into the Murg River.
The banks were frozen, but in the center of the green river, water gurgled and flowed around the treacherous rocks. Using the flat of my hand to shield my eyes from the bright sun, my gaze swept up and down the gorge, eventually alighting upon an old-fashioned, manual cable car. The metal basket hung in the center about fifteen meters above the river and looked only large enough to hold one person.
I climbed the treacherous ladder to the icy platform and halted at the top. Half a dozen homes across the river came into sight. They were a less than a kilometer away and clustered around a bridge. An army motorcycle, looking remarkably like the one that passed me, was parked outside one of the homes. Anyone watching would be able to see the cable car. I could wait and cross at the bridge after dark, but sunset was still hours away and I needed to keep moving.
The rusty pulleys groaned as I hauled the cage toward the platform. The cable caught twice, and I had to hang on it with my full weight to get it going again. My feet slipped, and the cable dropped from my hands as I reached out for the railing to save myself from tumbling off. Finally, I drew the basket even with the platform. I took one last look at the homes before climbing into the bucket and letting go. The car whizzed across the river, whining with disuse. I feared the high-pitched squeal could be heard as far away as Vienna and breathlessly watched for curious figures to come running out of their homes. The cage came to a halt about three quarters of the way across, and I quickly grabbed the guide cable before the car could slide backwards and continued to pull it to the far side. I heard the rumble of trucks in the distance. Fear gave me added strength and swiftness, and soon I successfully reached the far side and scrambled down.
My relief upon reaching terra firma was almost euphoric. However, I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching. My obsession with what was behind must have been the reason for almost walking directly into what was in front of me.
He wore a brown coat and carried a weapon slung across his shoulder, wispy white hair tossed in the breeze, and his piercing eyes gave me a start. I’m sure I made quite a picture in my overly large trousers carrying a gun and rucksack. I’d tucked my hair up into the stolen brown scarf, and I imagined my cheeks were bright red from exertion, but that didn’t exactly explain why his brows knit in an angry glare. Perhaps he was the owner of the cable car and didn’t appreciate strangers.
I decided to brazen it out. “Guten Tag.” Good day.
I nodded and moved to pass around him, but his hand whipped out and grabbed my arm in an unexpectedly firm grip.
“Du bist früh dran.” You are early.
Early? What is he talking about? I shook my head and tried to pull away.
He glanced over his shoulder before pulling me closer and said in an undertone, “Haben sie eine Zigarette?” Do you have a cigarette?
“Nein.” I wrenched my arm from his grip. “I haven’t got any cigarettes.” This fellow was just the type I expected to be a Gestapo snitch, and the sooner I was away, the better.
I took five long strides before pulling up short at his next softly spoken word.
“Jude?” Jew?
Slowly, my head turned on its axis. He’d pulled the semiautomatic gun off his shoulder and held it in his hands, though he didn’t point it at me. With an unforgiving squint, I answered his question, “Nein, mein Herr, I am not a Jew.”
He shifted uncomfortably and seemed unsure what to do.
So, I turned the tides on his impertinence and, with raised brows, asked, “Sind Sie Jude?” Are you a Jew?
His head jerked and he coughed. “Nein, fräulein.”
“Auf Wiedersehen,” I said, between clenched teeth, before carrying on without a backwards glance. It took all my willpower to force myself not to limp. My shoulders remained stiff with tension as I prayed this stranger wouldn’t shoot me down.
When I’d gotten far enough away, I slowed my pace and the limp returned. I’d been hoping to find a place to stop and have something to eat and drink after the cable car undertaking, since the effects of this morning’s breakfast—the other half of the potato—had already worn off, but now I trudged determinedly onward, putting as much distance between myself and the inquisitive old man as possible. I climbed higher into the hills, my pace slowing even more as the woods grew thicker and was often blocked by compact undergrowth that forced me to circumnavigate to a less dense pathway.
