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I STRETCHED, PRESSING a hand against my stiff back. I’d been on my feet for days, resting only to sleep and eat what little I could force down. Occasionally, in the evenings, I played cards and drank with other journalists while we listened to the radio broadcasts. Every morning, I religiously read the newspapers, searching the killed-in-action list. So far, Charlie’s name hadn’t appeared.
By April twenty-fifth, Buchenwald was inundated with press answering Patton’s requests to send their brightest stars to cover the Nazi atrocities. I’d made deals with reporters from the Boston Globe, Iowa Dispatch, Milwaukee Evening Post, and a few smaller newspapers, who couldn’t afford or didn’t have the ability to get their own photographers into Europe, to provide photos of Buchenwald and surrounding camps. In exchange, the Globe supplied me with film and materials to process it, and the rest paid me outright. Lodging had been arranged for the press in surrounding towns, and I bunked with another female journalist named Marguerite, Maggie for short, from the New York Tribune.
Clouds drifted across the late-afternoon sun, and I paused from photographing the locals digging graves to change my lens.
“Hello, there.” A man dressed as a fellow photojournalist—two cameras hung from his neck and a large pocketed bag off his shoulder—approached me.
I didn’t recognize him, but there were so many of us now it didn’t surprise me.
“You are Lily, right?” His rolled-up sleeves revealed sinewy muscles, and he walked with a stiff, upright bearing.
I focused the camera on him. “Yes?” The lens clicked.
“Fleur-di-lis? The company is not pleased with your abrupt departure.”
I lowered the camera. “I was informed my mission had been cancelled. I believe my resignation explained my reasons for leaving.”
He glanced at the workers. “Let’s take a walk.”
We wandered uphill to a grassy hummock overlooking the gravesite, away from listening ears.
“I don’t think you understand, you cannot simply quit the OSS.”
“Actually, as a civilian agent, I’ve never been contractually obligated to remain.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Unlike you military agents.”
His eyes flickered but he didn’t acknowledge the hit. “The director isn’t pleased, and you’re lucky you’re a civilian and not military, or you would be brought up on charges,” he said in a low voice. “As it is, we’d been warned that you were prone to impulsivity.”
“Forgive me. What are you implying?”
“Your country still needs you.”
“My country needs to see this.” I flicked a hand at the diggers. “What can I do for the OSS besides sit behind a desk and analyze intelligence, receiving the occasional pat on the head like a favored family pet?”
“There are other missions. The war isn’t over yet.”
“It will be soon. The Russians will be in Berlin within the week. What other missions are there for a woman like me?”
“We’ll be hunting Nazis for years to come. You have the capability of identifying many of them.”
“I’m not a Nazi hunter, and you will have hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent civilians willing to help in the arrests. There’s already a strong contingent right here in Buchenwald, ready to provide testimony.” I raised a brow. “Though I’m not sure the enemy will make it as far as the courtroom, much less the hangman’s noose. Besides, you know where I am. Show me a picture when you find someone I should know. I will verify their complicity.”
“There will be negotiations with the Russians. Soon enough, Berlin will be the place to be.”
“You realize I don’t speak Russian. I can’t be of help in that quarter. The peace talks in Berlin will be up to politicians, not spies like us.” I kicked a stone in my path.
“You’re wrong, and there will be other nations at the table besides Russia.”
“Oh? Sure, there will be machinations on all fronts with whispered backroom conversations, but I am no politician. Besides, I’ve spent too much time in the company of politicians to know how my opinion will be valued.” I pursed my lips remembering the senator’s dismissiveness. “Minimal, to say the least.”
“We still need people on the ground to gather intelligence.”
“I am sure you do. However, I am not up for listening in corners or sweet-talking drunk attachés with wandering hands to find out what Russia plans for Eastern Europe. I am fairly certain Churchill, and Truman if he’s listening to his advisors, know exactly what kind of devil they were getting into bed with when they made the pact with Stalin. My intelligence gathering is in here.” I held up the camera. “My pictures will be circulated to thousands of Americans. My work is no longer secret. I am providing important information directly to the public. They deserve to know what we’ve known, or guessed, for years.”
“There are protocols, a debriefing is in order.”
I sent him an arch look.
“All right then, the head office in Bern would like a report on what you’ve found here.”
“Fine, I’ll prepare one tonight.”
He sighed and scratched his neck as if realizing he’d taken the wrong tactic with me. “If another mission came up, would you take it?”
I gazed past him and watched an elderly man and woman carry another withered body to the grave. Baby leaves, new in the rebirth of spring, rustled in the breeze behind them, and I lifted the camera to photograph the juxtaposition of life and death. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
A soldier approached us. I twisted the lens and his features came into focus. Lowenfeldt hiked up to our knoll. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”
“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat and nodded at my companion. “I wanted to let you know, that picture you found ... it was used to identify some prisoners.”
“Pister?”
He nodded. “He and four others created false identities. They were found at a detainee camp outside Munich.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’m pleased to know they’ll stand trial.”
The sergeant glanced over his shoulder at the workers as he slipped a cigarette between his lips. “What a fuckin’ mess.” He lit the fag and sucked in a deep breath.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” my companion replied.
I did not introduce the men.
Lowenfeldt surveyed the two of us and must have realized he’d interrupted something. He took his leave, and I felt the agent watching me as I focused the camera on the soldier’s retreating back.
“Sounds like you’re already hunting Nazis.”
“Contact me again ... if there is an actual mission. Otherwise, the OSS can consider me on vacation. I think I’ve earned it.”
“Funny place to take a vacation,” he said to my retreating back.
♠♠♠♠
THE NEXT MORNING, I packed my bag and caught a ride out of town with a pair of Czechoslovakian POWs from Buchenwald, Ludvik and Jiri. Ludvik spoke broken German, and from what I gathered, they’d acquired some German rifles and “borrowed” the American Army jeep to hunt down another camp guard. They’d heard about a farm that might be housing an SS guard in the countryside south of Buchenwald. Initially, the men seemed hesitant to take me with them. However, after I showed them my photography equipment and offered them some of the cash in my pocket, they welcomed me.
I didn’t have much of a plan, but I knew I had to get away from the hoary cloud of Buchenwald for a few days. The compass hung heavy around my neck, and I had a vague notion of catching up with the 101st.
Jiri, the driver, wore a black beret and an olive American Army coat over a pair of black trousers. His square face and bushy brown eyebrows remained intent on watching the road. Ludvik wore a black knit cap, wool coat, and his black-and-white-striped trousers. Occasionally, he would turn to ask me a question in his broken German such as, “Where from?” or “How get here you?” A telltale tic had his left eye blinking and cheek twitching so much he would subconsciously place a hand to it when he spoke. Over all, the two men were in better condition than many of their comrades, and I gleaned they had been part of the camp rebellion launched two days before the Americans arrived.
We headed south on one of the major autobahns reserved only for Allied military traffic; Jiri had no problem entering the convoy in our commandeered jeep. The three of us watched in astonishment as blocks of surrendered German foot soldiers marched north along the grassy median; some still carried their weapons. American and British military trucks, tanks, and jeeps crowded the highway and made for slow going. The disintegration of the German Army was happening right in front of me. I’d never seen anything like it and spent half a roll of film capturing it. Jiri remained on the autobahn for an hour before taking an exit, my compass showed, turning southeast. Three transport trucks, filled with troops, took the same turning.
We’d only been on the road for a few minutes when the rumbling squeak of a tank had Jiri pulling us up short. I barely had enough time to throw my hands up to keep from slamming into the back of Ludvik’s seat. Jiri shifted into reverse, but when he glanced back, we realized there was nowhere to go, as the three transport trucks stopped immediately behind us. I didn’t recognize the style of tank, but it was surely German and grinding straight for us.
“Enemy tank!” went up the cry.
Jiri, Ludvik, and I hopped out, abandoning the jeep. The Czechs took to the surrounding woods while I hotfooted it behind the larger truck, where soldiers were dismounting. Two men set up a machine gun in the gully next to the road while the rest exited and scrambled for cover. I hunkered down behind the machine gunners as the weapon let out a whap-whap-whap. Bullets spanged against the front of the tank, setting off sparks as they hit, doing little damage. The tank rolled to a halt. I think we all drew in a collective breath.
“It’s a Panzer Tiger. You got those mortars ready, Sully?” someone called out.
“Working on it.”
The top hatch opened and a white piece of cloth tied to a rifle rose out of the turret.
“Hold your fire,” the machine gunner called.
The rifle continued to rise, followed by a hand and then a hatless head. “Amerikaner? Ich gebe auf,” the German called.
“What’s he saying?” the machine gunner holding the shell rounds asked.
“He said, ‘I give up,’” I translated. “Don’t shoot.” I got to my feet.
“Who’s the dolly with the great gams?” one of the soldiers mumbled from behind me.
“Wie viele Männer sind im Tank?” I called out.
“Nur ich,” the tank driver replied.
“He says he’s the only one in the tank.” The camera still hung around my neck, and I pulled it up to snap a shot of the surrendering soldier.
The machine gunner with his finger on the trigger stared over his shoulder at me. “Tell him to throw down his weapon, exit the tank, and come forward with his hands above his head.”
I repeated the message in German.
The tank driver did as he was told. Once he was a few feet from the tank, five men scrambled forward. One held the German at gunpoint while the others surrounded the vehicle. A private moved up from the rear and took a knee beside me, his weapon at the ready.
The German looked at the men, then at me. “Nur mich,” he assured me and continued with a spate of German.
As the soldiers checked the tank, I explained to the machine gunner what the German said. “He says he traveled across Czechoslovakia and Germany on his own so he could surrender to the Americans and not the ... untermensch. Um, I think he’s referring to the Russians. It means something like subhuman ... pigs, maybe?”
The gunner’s gaze shifted to the private beside me. “Janssen?”
“Yeah, she got it right, Sarge.”
“I’ll be damned. I guess that means we just got ourselves a new Kraut Tiger, boys. Load the prisoner in the back of second squad’s truck.”
The machine gunner and his partner retrieved their weapon while a pair of soldiers climbed into the green-and-brown camouflage-colored tank. Three more soldiers mounted the vehicle, and one straddled the large gun. The tableau was so perfect I couldn’t help dashing up to take another photo. The soldiers smiled and cheered as though they’d won the homecoming football game.
“What paper are you with?” a private perched to the left of the gun asked in a thick New England accent while he lit a cigarette.
“I’m freelance. I have pictures appearing in The Boston Globe, Iowa Dispatch, and others. I hitched a ride with two Czechs who are on the hunt for a Nazi guard from the Buchenwald concentration camp.” I indicated with a thumb over my shoulder.
“Boston, huh? I’m from Boston, the North End. What about you?”
“Sorry, I’m from Washington, D.C.”
“Um, I hate to tell you this, D.C., but I think your ride just left without you,” the soldier said, pointing with his cigarette.
Sure enough, I looked back to find my bag, with my limited worldly goods, dumped on the side of the road. “Hey,” I called to no avail. Jiri zipped away, steering the jeep down the shoulder past the troop trucks. I took a few half-hearted steps before realizing the uselessness of my actions.
“Where are you headed?” The machine gunner stood over six feet tall, with the heavy weapon slung over his shoulder.
“Trying to make my way south, to Bavaria.”
“We’re headed to a town outside of Nuremberg.” He glanced uneasily around at the dense trees lining the road. “Lieutenant,” he called over his shoulder.
A lieutenant who’d been speaking with the driver of the front truck came over to where we stood.
“What’s up, Gunny?”
“The lady’s ride took off without her. It’s not safe around here. The Ruskies aren’t far off.”
I licked my lips and shot the young lieutenant a toothy smile. There were no lines in his round face, and he looked like a ninety-day wonder from West Point. “I’m a freelance photographer. My credentials are in my bag if you want to see them. I’m headed south. Would it be possible to catch a ride with you boys as far as you’re going?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No problem at all, ma’am. You can ride up front with me.”
“I’d be honored.”
The machine gunner grabbed my bag and the lieutenant assisted me into the cab. I was more than relieved the boys from the Twelfth Infantry hadn’t left me behind to fend for myself. The Red Army was close, and rumors of their ghastly treatment of the local women had been discussed by the journalists one evening over a bottle of schnapps. It wasn’t a pretty story and one that had chills running up my spine.