Six

A cheer went up when the notice on the bulletin board said Friday, September 6th, would be a half-day. A groan quickly followed that the Secretary of State, the Honorable James F. Byrnes, was to make a major U.S. policy statement on Germany in Stuttgart, which was to be broadcast on the Armed Forces Network at one o’clock. A radio would be set up in the dayroom, and all were voluntarily urged to attend.

“Voluntary,” one soldier said, “means if you’re not there, you’ll be on weekend duty.”

“It don’t say that,” a recent replacement said.

“How long have you been in, buddy?”

The replacement, to avoid answering, said, “He can’t talk more than an hour.”

A second soldier said, “You don’t know much about politicians, do you?”

“Byrnes is from Georgia too,” said the first soldier.

“Where’s the dayroom, anyway?” the replacement asked.

“That’s the Flughafen, stupid.”

The first soldier said, “Boy, what they draft these days!”

“If you’re a winner,” the replacement retorted, “I want to be a loser.”

Henderson set up his own radio with built-in short wave aerials. Breen took a seat near a window to catch any September breeze that might come. All seats filled quickly, some with two squeezed in. Others sat side-by-side along the walls, cross-legged on the floor, or back to back in the aisles. Latecomers came in the back door than risk a curse or blow for stepping on an arm or a leg. Paul leaned back against Lew’s chair.

“Stuttgart,” the announcer said in a grave, subdued voice, “nestled in the valley of the wooded Swabian hills, is the capital of one of the four states, or Lander, in the American Zone, and the center of the printing and publishing industry in southern Germany.”

Someone shouted, “Hooray!”

Capt. Breen looked sternly in the direction of the voice and held an index finger to his lips.

The secretary’s party included Senators Connally of Texas and Vandenberg of Michigan along with Generals McNarney and Clay. The party arrived by private train from Berlin shortly before noon at the badly damaged train station in the center of the city. The city itself, bombed repeatedly because of its wartime factories, presented a somber sight of wartime destruction. The streets leading to the once-magnificent opera house, the only auditorium still standing to hold a large audience, were lined with colorful constabulary troopers and armored cars at every intersection. Inside, the assembled audience of Occupation personnel, residents, and key elected German officials in the front rows awaited the secretary’s imminent arrival.

From the back came suppressed laughter amidst pinched noses and frantic waving of hands to clear the air.

The Army Band began playing, and General McNarney escorted the secretary and the two senators to the stage with four chairs and a podium flanked by the U.S. flag and that of the Secretary of State. General McNarney introduced the secretary in one sentence.

The secretary, in a slow, clear, firm Southern-accented voice, said that the American people have learned we live in one world, and that peace is indivisible, which is why we helped organize and support the United Nations. We do not want a peace of vengeance, but a lasting peace insured by freeing Germany of the means to wage war and Nazi domination. Nor is it in the interest of world peace to make Germany a pawn between East and West by keeping her poor and unable to be self-supporting. The German people should be given the opportunity for self-government consistent with democratic principles. However, as long as an occupation force is required, we will be part of that force. The United States is pledged to an honorable peace and committed to maintaining the peace by helping Germany win its way back among the free and peace-loving nations of the world.

The band began playing “The Star Spangled Banner.” Capt. Breen rose to attention, quickly followed by the scraping and creaking of everyone else coming to attention.

“What do you think, Captain?” Henderson asked, unplugging the radio.

“He didn’t beat around the bush.”

Paul said, “And that we’ll be here for quite a while.”

A week later at breakfast, Breen announced that Col. Giles would be arriving that afternoon, and for everyone to be available for a special meeting. On their way back to their quarters, Henderson asked Paul, “Any idea what’s up?”

“None at all.”

Henderson looked at him skeptically. “Think it has anything to do with Byrnes’ speech?”

“Search me. I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

Waiting was not one of Paul’s strengths, and time moved slowly until the morning mail brought a large package with a new Currency Control Circular. “We’ve hardly finished the last one!” he groused to himself. The previous circular of early June required serially numbered books be issued to each soldier to prevent keeping or falsifying extra books. Beginning September 16th, military scrip in familiar American dollar and cent denominations would take effect. This meant, or admitted, the wartime agreement to use Allied marks as one currency in all four zones to treat Germany as one economic unit had failed. The Russians, given the printing plates for Allied military marks, had also flooded the economy with marks, easily identified by a dash before the serial number, producing inflation. But what did it portend? Did Bi-zonia with Britain or Tri-zonia with Britain and France mean two Germanys? The best thing, Paul decided, was to stop playing statesman and get on with his duty to implement the new circular. Let the colonel do the explaining, except Paul wished he’d get here and soon.

The colonel’s olive drab sedan didn’t pull up to the Headquarters building until three-thirty, a few minutes ahead of Breen’s jeep. On their way back to the captain’s office, Breen signaled Paul with four fingers for the time of the staff meeting. Paul cleared off his desk when Lew and Henderson arrived and followed them into Henderson’s cleaned-up office. Lew stood smoking while staring out the window.

Henderson, his feet propped up on the desk, toyed with a reciprocating valve. The minutes ticked away.

Harris appeared, saluted, and reported the captain said to come in. Col. Giles greeted each of them warmly and said, cheerfully, “Relax, gentlemen, this isn’t an inquisition but a celebration. I’m very pleased all of you heard Secretary Byrnes. It’s a watershed speech, or as the Stars and Stripes said, ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’ It’s been one setback after another with the Russians in Berlin, and we’ve reached the end of our patience. We’re on the move again.” He rubbed his hands together. “Charlie, you want to break the news?”

“I think it’ll mean more coming from you, Colonel.”

“You never were one to make speeches,” Giles said with a twinkle in his eye.

“St. Georgen has been chosen as the pilot plant for salvaging chemical munitions. The plan is to reverse the filling process and to remove the toxics, store them in the empty 10,000 gallon tanks, and ship the empties in cars to be used as scrap to make steel. I’m sure you’ve noticed how much work on the farms is done by hand or seen tractors and other farm equipment sitting idle and rusting for lack of repair parts. Steel production is a third of the pre-war level. The upshot is that tomorrow we’ll be meeting with Herr Albert Wehner, owner of Wehner & Sons, a small Munich steel company cleared by the AMG. They produce a high-quality steel critically needed for gears, ball bearings, metal cutting knives, and many others.”

He paused to light a cigarette and give everyone a chance to consider what was said. “We’ll have to increase the labor force, which shouldn’t be difficult as we will be serving a free hot lunch. We’ve learned in the Ruhr that hungry men are too weak to work a normal shift. To start, three trainloads a week will be shipped to feed the Wehner furnaces.” He scanned the earnest faces, letting the smoke curl into the air. “I know it’s a tall order, but you’re equal to the task as you’ve ably demonstrated. Have I forgotten anything, Charlie?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Good. Does anyone have questions?”

Paul couldn’t think of one at the moment, but Henderson said, “Colonel, do you think more officers will be assigned here to help out?”

“Not immediately,” Giles said truthfully. “I know you’re badly understaffed; although, believe me, it’s a fight to keep our current strength. More stateside support has been promised, and our program has top priority. All toxics in our zone will be eventually sent here.” He paused again for questions, but none were asked, each thinking more of what it meant in workload and additional duties. “There’ll be time should other questions arise. In the meantime, let’s break for now. I hear your Guard Mount is close to that of General Harmon’s constabulary. Lieutenant Mason, would you remain a moment longer?”

Paul wondered what he’d done now. The colonel waited until everyone else was gone before saying, “I understand you’ve done a fine job getting to know the AMG officer in St. Georgen.”

“Major Purl has been a big help to us.”

“I’d like you to invite him to join us tomorrow for lunch to meet Herr Wehner and learn about the program. You will have to apologize for my not inviting him myself, but events have been moving rapidly. Do you think he might feel offended? The Army and the AMG aren’t always on the best of terms.”

“Not in the least, Colonel.”

Colonel Giles smiled at such confidence and leaned back in his chair. “As you know,” he said in a quiet, familiar tone, “your tour of duty ends next month. I’d like you to consider a three-month extension. Officers of your caliber are always in short supply, and needed now more than ever for both here and at Bad Nauheim.”

He hadn’t given any thought to leaving and absolutely none to staying longer. “What does Capt. Breen think about this?”

“I know his reply is best stated here.” Paul took the letter handed him from a brown briefcase. It was a recommendation for promotion to first lieutenant, submitted as an exception to normal regulations, for performing in a superior manner many duties usually assumed by others due to a critical shortage of officers. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ve known Capt. Breen a long time, and he’s not one to exaggerate.”

Paul lowered his eyes, feeling elated yet also cautious. “I’ll have to give it some thought, Colonel. How soon do you need to know?”

“By October 1st”. Giles arose and put on his visor cap with its silver eagle insignia. “That’s your copy to keep, Lieutenant.” On their way down the hallway, he said musingly, “I was almost thirty before being appointed first lieutenant. Our service is a small one, less than a thousand before the war. Things move so much faster these days. Oh, yes, let Capt. Breen know as soon as possible of your decision.”

Talk about a bolt out of the blue! Everything changed from moments ago. What about his own future? His plans to attend college? His family looking forward to having him home for good at Christmas?

Herr Wehner arrived in a black toy-size car driven by his son, who hurried around the hood to open the door and help his father out. The older Wehner was short and stocky, his hair almost white, his face careworn and sad. By contrast, his son was a head taller with an alert, assured face and dressed in a stylish gray trench coat with wide lapels and brass D-rings. Introductions were received with a slight bow and handshakes in the American fashion. Hearing Major Purl’s fluent German, father and son exchanged smiles of relief and delight. When young Wehner faced Paul, he said in good precise English, “How do you do!” at the very same time Paul said, “Guten tag!” Both burst out laughing.

On the way to the waiting jeeps to tour the depot, young Wehner fell in beside Paul, who overhead the colonel say, “They seem to know one another without words.”

After a lengthy tour, in which Paul saw things equally new to him, the group washed up in the Officers’ Quarters, then strolled next door to their small dining room. The long table was set with fresh flowers. Three waitresses wore starched white aprons bordered in star-shaped edelweiss flowers. Paul gave Frieda a quick wink, which momentarily startled her, and smiled to himself about the devilish desire to tease her about flowers than swastikas. Sergeant Murphy, in his best-pressed uniform, opened one of the bottles of chilled white Mosel wine Major Purl brought and filled each wine glass, also supplied by the Major. Colonel Giles lifted his glass to toast their guests and celebrate. “A New Germany!” Herr Wehner was delighted with the wine, calling it vornehm, which required an animated exchange between young Wehner and Major Purl to determine its meaning of “well rounded and balanced.”

Served were a fresh tomato salad followed by steak, browned potatoes, and fresh garden peas with hot buttered rolls. Henderson ate in silence, torn between astonishment to be wining and dining Germans and bewilderment whether it was we who conquered them or they who conquered us. The band out on stage, fortified by an umpah tuba, played louder and livelier. The tunes, however, still sounded all alike.

The desert of warm apple pie and real coffee, not a substitute such as ersatz beets, brought much favorable comment. Colonel Giles offered everyone cigars, but the Wehners preferred the prima American cigarettes. Thanks to young Wehner and Major Purl, the comments of Herr Wehner were fully understood on his enthusiastic appreciation and support of Secretary Byrnes’ strong and positive speech. In Herr Wehner’s opinion, the biggest step for the future were free elections for the three zonal state governments rather than the present AMG appointees; yet, there was still the danger of communist sympathizers such as in Mannheim who say, “Everyone else has failed you, now give us a chance, without saying it will be the last chance—just like the Nazis in 1933.”

They pushed back their chairs. Some stretched, others adjusted their belts. Major Purl sneezed, and Paul said spontaneously, “Gesundheit!” Young Wehner laughed lightly.

When the Wehner car pulled away, Col. Giles asked that his driver be found while he looked up Sgt. Murphy to tell him their meal was worthy of the Waldorf.

Paul didn’t find Sgt. Irving in the dayroom and called the motor pool. They said they hadn’t seen him since he’d asked directions to the gym. This seemed an odd place for him to be, but Paul hurried over and crossed the dim, empty basketball court. He heard voices off in a back room. Conversation ceased when he entered. Two German workers jumped to their feet with a click of their heels. A new replacement, probably Johnson, pushed back his chair, which clattered to the floor. On the table were cans of coffee, soap, cigarettes, nylon stockings along with a Leica camera, binoculars, chinaware and jewelry.

“Hi ya, Lieutenant,” Sgt. Irving said. “Just having a little friendly exchange.”

“Black market trading, you mean,” responded Paul.

“I wouldn’t put it that way if I were you, Lieutenant.”

“How do you think the colonel would put it?”

“I’m not the colonel, and neither are you.”

“Suppose we go and ask him. He’s ready to leave.”

Irving gave a sour smile. “This isn’t for me. Mrs. Giles likes cups and saucers and that kind of stuff. Sort of doing a favor really.”

Paul looked at the young soldier, standing rigidly and sweating, his fists clenched at his side. “I suggest you take what belongs to you and go back to your quarters until further notice.” Seeing the worker’s frightened faces, Paul didn’t ask their names and told them to leave with their things, which they hastily crammed into a rucksack and rushed out. He turned to Irving, “I’ll tell the colonel you’re on your way.”

Irving bared his teeth. “You’ll get yours, Lieutenant.”

“Sergeant,” Paul said with flashing eyes, “if it’s more trouble you want, I’ll carry your things back myself.” He waited a moment and left.

The free noonday meal was like manna in the wilderness. A field kitchen was set up in a vacant building near the gym. A staff of local women prepared and cooked the food under the direction of Lotte, a broad-hipped woman with husky arms recommended by Major Purl. Nothing escaped her eye and no one her tongue. But she was good-natured and expected nothing of others she wasn’t able to do herself.

At noon, barking orders like a drill sergeant, Lotte had the big two-handled pots placed in a cafeteria line. Captain Breen usually arrived before the trucks that transported the workers; and, with Lotte at his side, sampled every steaming pot, blowing on each spoonful before swallowing. The crew of women cooks, red-faced with hair matted on their foreheads, stood back breathless. When the captain said, “Very gut,” the women poked one another in the ribs and cackled like geese. As the workers lined up, Lotte took a seat by the door and checked off each name. The men filled their plates to overflowing and rushed to the tables. Plates and scalding coffee were tightly held, lest they be snatched away or vanish. Barely a word was exchanged. Some secreted food in small jars or tins. Lotte began to complain, but Breen told to look the other way.

The compound workers were indispensable, as they alone knew how to operate and maintain the equipment. The SS, before fleeing, had systematically burned all blueprints, manuals and record books. Once up and under way, the Army transferred more railroad cars to speed up zonal production, which meant they no longer had to wait for the return of the emptied cars. This also meant they needed more workers, yet hardly a dozen men appeared from the surrounding villages.

“I don’t understand it,” Breen said, slapping his gloves in an open hand. “Hot free food should bring them running. How about seeing that major friend of yours, Paul, and find out what’s going on. I don’t want any criticism from the top for having empty cars sitting by idly and holding up operations. Tell him how many we have to have starting tomorrow. And don’t take’ no’ for an answer.”

Paul parked by the town hall and walked up the back entrance. Although he was expected, the Mage didn’t respond to his knock. The knob yielded, and he peeked in to see the Mage at the window, one arm doubled behind his back as he clasped and unclasped a fist. “Getting your speech ready?” Paul said.

Purl whirled about, his face dark and severe.

“Mage!” Paul cried. “You look terrible. Are you sick?”

“At heart, maybe.”

“You ought to sit down. Have you had bad news from home?”

Purl waved a hand. “Nothing like that, thank heaven.” He slumped down into a high-backed chair.

“How about a little schnapps?” said Paul. The Mage’s lips puckered with a slight smile. “What’s happened?”

Mage said, “You came to see me, remember?”

“That can wait.”

Mage unbuttoned his lumpy blouse, filled his pipe, struck a match on the sole of his shoe, and drew several long, satisfying puffs. “The police chief brought in some young boys for taunting an old man on the street.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders. “What’s unusual about that?”

“The old man is Polish.” The Mage’s face clouded in anger and, in an agitated voice, said, “What did we fight a war for? Are we going to decimate another generation to destroy another regime as criminally depraved as the last? Can’t anyone understand Dachau, or the trials in Nuremberg? Don’t we humans ever learn anything?” Paul leaned back and waited, tense and uneasy. Gradually, Purl collected himself and said in a tired voice, “We’re all Poles now. But it hasn’t sunk in. It may never sink in.” Shaking his pipe at the outer double doors, he stated fiercely, “It was all I could do to keep from shaking those boys until their teeth fell out!” Paul asked if any charges were made. “They’re not adults. No one was hurt nor any property damaged. We called in the parents, and I just gave them the riot act. I don’t often lose my temper, but when I do, my wife says it’s like the Fourth of July fireworks. Afterwards, I always feel miserable, which is why I always try to stay calm.”

How alike they both were in this. “It seems to me you have a perfect right to read them the riot act.”

Struggling to his feet, Purl went over and knocked the ashes into a large copper ash tray. “It’s those boys I’m concerned about. Their parent’s time is past, but they’re the future of Germany. I know the most unpopular law we’ve enforced is making German families double up to provide living space for DPs. Surely that’s the least hardship we’ve imposed to make up for their being brought here against their will to work as slave labors. At least we see it that way. But I guess we’re up against a historical hatred that refuses to be conquered or die.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Poles for generations have hated the Russians; the Russians have hated the Germans; and the Germans have hated both Poles and Russians. A real stew! It’s enough to destroy any faith in your fellow man.”

“Mage,” Paul said searching for the best thing to say, “I can see why you’re upset, but one incident doesn’t mean everyone thinks the same, anymore more than those soldiers who assault civilians, including a priest, speak for all of us. The chief brought them in. You laid the law down to them and their parents. That’s a far cry from sweeping it under the rug. If anything, the word is out that such conduct won’t be tolerated, which is pretty positive next to being sent to jail.”

“My, oh my,” the Mage said admiringly. “You’ll make a good attorney.” He re-centered his tie and smoothed down his blouse. “Now that I’ve got that off my chest, what can I do for you?”

Paul spoke of their lack of critically needed workmen and their amazement that the free noon meal didn’t bring two to three times more men than needed. The Mage replied that it shouldn’t come as any surprise. The SS ran the depot, and anything that had to do with them struck terror in the stoutest heart. The villagers for years also used the depot to discipline their children. “Hold your tongue,” they’d say, “or you’ll be sent there to be a guinea pig.” Hunger is preferable to fear.

Paul said, “Certainly they’ve heard the way things are today and realize we need their help to rebuild their own economy.”

“That’s much too abstract for the villagers. Besides, producing Zyklon-B used in the gas chambers isn’t the most reassuring recommendation or safest place to work.”

Paul straightened up in his chair. “Where did anyone ever get that idea? The depot isn’t a chemical manufacturing plant but a filling and storage facility.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Zyklon-B is a trade name,” Paul went on, “for hydrogen cyanide, a commercial pesticide made by any number of companies used for fumigation and extermination of rats, insects, and other vermin. In our technical manual, it’s called a choking gas with an odor of bitter almonds. In a confined space like the Dachau shower room, death comes in fifteen minutes or less. Tear gas, too, can be as deadly in a closed chamber.”

Mage said, “I thought it was special made for that one purpose. A common product. Readily available, you say? And for vermin? The Nazi literature we gathered for the trials spoke of the Jews as vermin. What could be more logical to the warped SS mind than to use such a gas on those no longer considered human? Chilling, isn’t it?”

Paul nodded, finding this somewhat beside the point to their need for workmen. “Maybe a few of us and some of our workers could attend local meetings to put everyone’s fears to rest.”

“Before we do that, let me talk to Dr. Oberg and some others. By the way, Dr. Oberg wanted me to tell you that young Braun had his cast removed and is doing very well.”

“Happy to hear that,” Paul said, still preoccupied with pressing the issue. “Do you think you can find anybody by tomorrow? The captain has put me on the spot.”

“You go on back, Paul. We’ll have workmen there if we have to empty the jails.”

Early one afternoon, Henderson brought in the daily tally of cars received and loaded to prepare the shipping papers, something Lew usually did. This passed unnoticed until Henderson sat down beside Paul and lit a cigarette. “A little chilly out there this morning,” Henderson said, hooking an arm over the back of the chair.

“Almost October,” Paul said, D-Day for him.

Henderson tried unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring. “You hear the Nuremberg verdicts?” Paul indicated he hadn’t. “Twelve to be hanged, seven to prison, three acquitted. How anyone in that gang could be acquitted is beyond me.” Henderson coughed and studied the end of his cigarette. “Goering’ll be hanged as he should be. The 36th Lone Star Division picked him and his flunkies up parked in cars below Berchtesgaden. None of the Nazi big wigs died in battle.”

The more Henderson smoked and fidgeted the more obvious Cap’s hand was in this. Paul was a bit pleased but also annoyed to be pressured.

“Be a big feather in our cap,” Henderson continued, “when everything gets really rolling. I don’t know if I told you, but I’m here for the duration.” The farm life, he mused, was no longer for him: up long before daylight to milk the herd seven days a week with no holidays or vacation, eat dust all day plowing and harrowing the fields, fall asleep before the evening news was over. Nor did he want any kids of his to miss out on sports and dances with chores waiting everyday. Didn’t make much sense either to throw away the last four years of service. The government was never going out of business, and though the pay may not be as high in civilian life, a twenty-year man could retire on half-pay and still be young enough to enjoy life or take a high-paying job in business. “Time goes by before you know it.”

Paul said, “That it does.” Over three years for himself was a big chunk of his life too. But could he afford to fall farther behind those already discharged? Was he up to being a schoolboy again sitting in a classroom? Another three months too meant more eligibility under the GI Bill for college. But what of winter? Daylight getting shorter, maybe snowed in for days at a time. And seeing more of Frieda. And three months could become another with a point of no return. “Makes sense,” Paul said and added appreciatively, “Thanks for coming in.”

Paul took his father’s advise when confronted with a difficult choice of folding a piece of paper in half and writing on one side all the pluses and on the other all the minuses, only to find an equal number on each side to end up where he started. In the mornings, he meant to stay; in the evenings, to leave. He wasn’t certain he understood himself any longer. But he couldn’t keep the colonel waiting forever.

He did have a head start on a career. He liked and disliked the military life at one and the same time. The orderliness, the discipline, the patriotism appealed to him, yet there was also the regimentation, the off-duty monotony and boredom, the rigid and often petty chain of command. But any profession, he father often said, is what you make of it. And to be especially recommended for promotion wasn’t to be taken lightly. Little had he suspected that he had a talent for staff work that could result in a transfer to Theatre Headquarters, which wasn’t something to be taken lightly either. What was another three months? With things in good shape, there’d be time to see Garmisch, Salzburg, maybe Switzerland. By then he’d have a better idea of what he wanted.

That may be all well and good, but winter was on its way. Already, the morning grass was silvered with rime. The alpine winds were getting brisker and colder. Even in the midday sun, there was a slight chill in the shadows. This winter could be another like the last without sufficient coal or wood to keep warm. Snow was likely to clog the roads and coop them up for days on end. And there was Frieda. Shorter days and longer nights could only mean more frequent visits. He’d experienced genuine feelings of companionship and respect, but he was unready and unwilling to let things get more serious. Except he wasn’t made of stone. To take advantage of her after all she has been through and add another disappointment was thoughtless, even cruel. Even if marriage were permitted, it was out of the question. To return home with a widowed war bride with a child was unthinkable. How would they live? Stay where? What kind of work could he get? He never had more than odd jobs.

Now, here he was, making decisions all day long yet couldn’t make one—one—affecting himself. Then, by chance or providence, what tipped the scale was a mid-morning routine inspection through the barracks. He noticed behind an empty bed of the last redeployed group a paperback lying on the floor, its front cover torn half-off. It was a thin pocket-size Armed Forces Edition. His heart skipped a beat at the title: A Liberal Education. How could he have missed this? Maybe it was part of a new series. But who left it behind? Westerns, mysteries, and comic books were those commonly read and circulated. The author was a classics professor at Barrus Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, not far from Edgewood Arsenal where he attended Officer Candidate School. Its seven chapter headings made it hard not to sit down and start reading at once. But there was much to do, and he slipped the book into his back pocket.

Busy until dusk, he undressed to shower when he suddenly remembered the book. He breathed a sigh of relief to find it still in his back pocket. He postponed a shower to read a few pages but couldn’t put it down. Like every magical book every reader experiences when ready for it, this one didn’t speak to him so much as for him. Sentences leaped off the page, articulating, as he never could, his own vague feelings and unformed thoughts. Liberal education was to discover the common humanity we all share: it trained the mind to think clearly and communicate intelligibly in speaking and writing; it developed a critical sense to see through the prejudices and biases, the hypocrisies and humbug, of the day—and in oneself; it refined tastes and neglected no art or science that could add to the enjoyment and richness of life.

None of these statements were entirely new, but they stirred him as never before.

The next evening, he read the book through again, underlining sentences and bracketing paragraphs until it seemed he had marked nearly everything. As a result, in the days that followed, he began to feel like two people: the one who went about the daily tasks as usual, the other who looked at everything from a distance. Come Friday evening, he didn’t turn his room light on and stood leaning by the window, his arms crossed, looking out upon the grassy oval clearing. How long he stood there, he didn’t know. How he came to a decision, he didn’t know either. But his duty was over, his job done. The Occupation, in such a short yet long time, was flowing into different waters and other seas. Someone would have to pick up where he left off as he had since the Hartley days.

It may be he was giving up a great opportunity he would regret in years to come. Let the years come! College was a greater opportunity, a greater challenge. And he was ready as never before with a mental footlocker of questions and few answers about the war, Nazism, other lands, good and evil, and most of all himself—this being civilized and human, fully human: what it was, what it was not, what it ought to be.

He took a deep breath, feeling a little light-headed as from climbing a flight of stairs too fast. He went down the hall and knocked on Cap’s door.

Waiting quietly in his room, Paul half-heard rolling tires come to a sudden stop. The door to the lounge slammed, followed by grunting sounds. He stepped into the hallway and saw Dumas with a red face struggling with two suitcases barely off the floor. Paul’s replacement, 2nd Lt. Owen was here. “Let me give you a hand,” Paul said. Dumas dropped the bags with a thud. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Must be bricks in ’em.”

In Owen’s assigned room, Paul asked, “Anymore?”

“Footlocker, tennis racket, skis,” Dumas said with disgust. “He must think this is a country club. Lucky I picked him up last for there was hardly room for us and the mail.”

Once everything was brought in, Paul said, “Where’s Lt. Owen?”

“I let him off at the mess hall, sir. Said he was hungry as a bear.”

“Better get there yourself.”

“You bet, sir. I can eat a horse and then some myself.”

Later came a loud knock on his doorjamb. He closed his book and turned to see someone about his age, good-looking with curly blonde hair, blue eyes, strongly built with an air of well being and success.

“You have to be Paul Mason,” Owen said with an extended hand. “I’m Lawrence Owen, but everyone calls me Larry.”

Paul returned his strong handshake, saying with a slight smile, “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

Owen’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “There must be some mistake. My orders read today.”

“I was only kidding.”

“Colonel Giles asked me to deliver this to you in person.” He handed Paul an envelope. “Mind if I smoke?” He tapped a long filtered cigarette out of a pack, lighted it with a silver monogrammed lighter, and blew smoke out his slightly parted lips. “How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

Owens raised an eyebrow. “What kind of a CO is Capt. Breen?”

Paul thought the question tactless, but said, “Hard-working, fair, backs you up, strict on regulations and proper channels.”

“The colonel said as much. How long have you been in CWS?”

“Since being drafted in 1943.”

“A long time. Was yours a battlefield commission?”

Paul laughed. “No, I went to OCS after being a cadreman training troops in a Replacement Training Center.”

“This is my first duty. I volunteered from the ROTC at Rutgers University. I have my two-year Associate Degree but need the GI Bill to get my BBA in Business.” He looked around the sparse and bleak room. “What is there to do around here?”

“Work.”

Owen slapped his thigh and roared with laughter. “Now that’s a good one! How far is Salzburg?”

“Seventy or so kilometers.”

“How many miles is that?”

“Forty give or take a few.”

Owen smacked his lips. “Farther than I thought. I hear the Officer’s Club there is full of life.”

“Could be. I was never there.”

Owen snuffed out his half-smoked cigarette in the waste basket. “Well, got to unpack. Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“That we will.”

Owen paused in the doorway. “Say, you wouldn’t know a fraulein who needs taking care of?”

Paul said stonily, “No, I don’t.” Alone, he felt ancient.

He almost forgot the letter on the table and opened it:

Dear Lt. Mason,

Thank you for your personal note. It is much too flattering of my abilities, but it is one I shall keep. Sgt. Irving is no longer my driver for reasons best known to you. Thank you for the way you handled the situation, for I know how repugnant it must have been. When I was a junior officer in France, I had a similar experience. Greed is a terrible madness like power. It changes people beyond recognition. But we all have our weaknesses.

The service does set high professional standards. That many do not meet them is evident in any issue of the Stars and Stripes. You are among the distinguished company who do, not perfectly, for that is beyond human capability.

If there is a fault, and certainly not a grievous one, it’s a preference to seek the company of the men under your command than your fellow officers. This I attribute to your longer service prior to being commissioned and would correct itself in time.

Paul put the letter down. Yes, there was truth to the colonel’s observation. That the Mage would never be other than a civilian in uniform apparently also applied to himself. He did feel closer to the rank and file and didn’t aspire to any special privilege denied to others. He was, it seems, a GI at heart. Would he have changed if he stayed in? That he’d never know. Possibly that played a part in his decision. Not that it mattered now. He lifted up the note:

It has been a pleasure to serve with you under very trying and uncertain conditions. Confident that our presence here will have lasting results for a peaceful and prosperous Germany, you can look back with no little satisfaction in any successes achieved.

Warren Giles
Col. CWS

P.S.: Included is something you may wish to keep.

A half-page form had fallen to the floor, the order for the red paint with various stamps and initialed endorsements. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. The colonel knew of his escapade all along.

Standing by the dinner table, the Mage tugged the wine cork loose. “I don’t expect to be here much longer myself.”

“Why is that?” asked Paul.

“Since village elections, our role has become more advisory and liaison to their officials as it should be.” He sniffed the cork, poured a little wine into his glass, swirled it, and tasted it slowly. “Very, very good.” He filled both their glasses.

“You know, Mage, I’m not much of a wine drinker.” On New Year’s Eve with his parents, he might have a glass of sparkling burgundy.

“This is an occasion. Taken with food, it also aids digestion. You can add a little water if it’s too strong.” The Mage smacked his lips. “A vintage Traminer from 1943.” He raised his glass. “To good health and long life!” They clinked glasses.

Paul sipped the white wine, finding it cold, prickly, and spicy. “Where did you get a vintage wine, Mage?”

“I have no idea. I simply asked Herr Hoehn upstairs to get something special with money no object. You like it?”

“Mmm,” he fibbed.

Frau Hoehn answered the small silver bell the Mage rang and entered from the kitchen with a steaming tureen of kale and potato soup. The Mage ladled out two full bowls. Paul found the soup a meal in itself along with the heavy black bread, which he couldn’t seem to stop eating.

“More?” the Mage asked.

Paul raised a hand. “Not for me. The bread alone makes a meal.”

“Black peasant bread is hard to beat compared to the white fluff we call bread at home. Biscuits make good eating too when pan-fried. Anything cooked over a campfire tastes the best.”

Frau Hoehn backed through the swinging kitchen door with an enormous platter of several wursts, warm tangy potato salad, fresh beans and peas from their garden. And more bread. The Mage refilled their glasses. There was no doubt why the Mage weighed what he did, eating huge portions with relish and delight. Paul declined another helping and, unobserved, loosened his belt.

“Are you looking forward to going back?” asked Paul.

The Mage dried his hands on his napkin, sat back, and rested his elbows on the table. “Yes and no. This has been an interesting assignment. Unique, I should say. No one from our un-bombed country expected the massive destruction, or what a complete breakdown of government really means. We all take for granted utilities, food supply, police and fire protection, credit and the like. At least I did before I came. Add to that DPs, POWs, and war trials, and you have a real mess, chaos almost on your hands. It’s a wonder we’ve done as well as we have.”

“You think democracy will take hold?”

The Mage exhaled and pinched his nostrils several times. “That’s for the German people to decide. I’m inclined to think it will, except it won’t be necessarily the same as ours. They have to travel their own road like any people. We’re certainly going to give them that chance after Byrnes’ speech.”

Paul turned in his chair. “Things are already different at the depot.”

“I’d say we’ve come full circle. The world has changed, Germany has changed, and so have we. Looks like Bizonia is only a step away.” He tinkled the bell again, and Frau Hoehn reappeared carrying a German Chocolate cake. Paul almost groaned. The Mage filled their glasses without asking. “Now this,” he said, “is extra-special and something you’ll seldom taste anywhere but here.” He cut a generous piece, too generous, and passed it to Paul, who took a small bite. “Like it?”

“Heavenly,” responded Paul.

The Mage repeated this in German to Frau Hoehn waiting by the swinging door. She hid her face in her apron and disappeared into the kitchen. The cake was rich, heavy, delicious, and filling. Paul ate his slowly giving the wine credit for helping him finish. “More?” the Mage asked.

Paul shook his head. “I’m stuffed like the Christmas turkey.”

“I’ll send some back with you later.” For next week, Paul thought, or next month.

The Mage led the way into the living room and stirred the dying embers in the fireplace. Tiny flames began to flicker and glow around the blackened wood. The room already felt hot and airless to Paul, and he unbuttoned his collar behind his tie. The Mage filled his pipe from a humidor with a picture of the Cliff of the Loreli on the Rhine, and said, “The packages on the table belong to you.”

“I hope it wasn’t any trouble. How much do I owe you?”

“For the china? A thousand Pfennings.”

“How much is that in dollars?”

“I’m not sure what the latest exchange rate is.”

“Mage,” Paul said firmly, “I want to pay for them.”

“You have already in many ways. My wife can’t have children because of a birth defect. Open the small one.” Paul unwrapped what was obviously a book: Hitler’s Seizure of Power by Alan Dodd. Paul insisted that he couldn’t accept depleting his personal library. “Nonsense,” the Mage said. “You’ll need it for that boring voyage.”

“I have something for you,” Paul said, taking an unsteady step to his field-jacket, and handed him a little box with a golden Zippo lighter sent from home. The Mage was delighted, his own having been lost or stolen somewhere, and immediately put it to use.

“What have you been up to lately?” the Mage asked.

Paul explained his good fortune in finding A Liberal Education and began to expound on the meaning and need of such an education, quoting many times from memory. The Mage listened attentively, chuckling to himself, as he recalled his own starry-eyed excitement to be entering college and the intoxication of these purple platitudes. Nonetheless, the really great ideas and noble ideals by which men live and die are very often platitudes. Youth was the time to want all knowledge at once and should be given the chance to take every subject and read every book before reality intervenes. There would never be another time for such sweet madness.” You do have to consider,” the Mage said, “that in a business society like ours, the liberal arts aren’t the best or easiest way to earn a living. Some claim the arts are a way to hide from life, and dubbed the College of Lost Ambition.”

“But the good life is more than a good income,” Paul said passionately.

The Mage smiled broadly. “A good income helps. The liberal arts, it’s said, bakes no bread, but eating gets to be a habit. Payments too have to be made to buy a home and own a car. That’s why I went to law school. But, as you intimated, men cannot live by bread alone. One caution, however. It’s possible with the elective system to graduate having taken only survey courses and end up what the Germans call a luftmensch—an air head.”

Paul couldn’t quite take all this in at once and asked, “What did you study in college, Mage?”

“Liberal arts.”

Paul burst out laughing. He looked at his watch. Where had the time gone? He got to his feet. “Mage, you’re a liberal education yourself. Can I have your home address?”

“What for? Nobody ever comes to West Texas who isn’t sent there.”

“Maybe they’ll rediscover gold in California, and I’ll be passing through. I can at least send you a Christmas card.”

“If you wish.”

Paul almost forgot to take the packages. The cool night air invigorated him. He shook the Mage’s hand and waved as he slid behind the wheel. Someone had moved the ignition, but he got the engine started. Then the lights were in the wrong place, but he finally found them. At the edge of town, the jeep bounced through half a dozen new potholes. He pulled over to the side and leaned out over the drainage ditch. A jet of vomit burst from him, and he heaved again and again. Oh, that wine! that cake! His stomach seemed shriveled into a ball, his mouth tasted sour; but he felt better, much better. He wiped the bitter spittle from his lips and pulled away, staying within the speed limit.

Things were as busy as ever, and Paul worked as hard as ever; yet, everything wasn’t the same. Was his imagination at work? Or was there a subtle change? Perhaps it was the unavoidable and interminable waiting. Everyone knew he was leaving and treated it as a private matter: someone going, someone else coming. Perhaps it was the feeling of being temporary, transitional. At times, he’d stop what he was doing and realize he was doing it for the last time. This leaving was proving to be harder than he thought it would be. Why couldn’t a small plane land in the grassy oval and whisk him away?

His duffle bag stood upright by his door without a wrinkle. He bounced it a few more times until able to close the flaps and finally snap the combination lock. There had been no room for books, and Murphy had found him the right size carton to mail them home. It was amazing how much accumulated in six month’s time. Every corner of his personal Val-Pac, lying flat on the floor, held something he didn’t want broken or lost in transit: the tea pot and cups for his mother; the jeweled Swiss Omega watch for his father; the new souvenir of pre-war pictures of Bavaria for his kid sister titled Take Me to U.S.A.; the red Swiss pocketknife for his younger brother, which he had intended for himself and forgot to reorder. Maybe he should have collected some war souvenirs, which held little or no interest, though where would he have ever put them?

The most awkward and cumbersome item was the drawing of the oval presented by Herr Thurn on behalf of everyone. It was done in shaded pencil on heavy cardboard from a hawk’s eye view complete with the buildings under the pines, the home plate, the flagpole, the road leading to the compound. Even birds sat on the telephone lines.

“Got a minute?” Breen asked in the doorway.

“Sure thing, Cap.”

“Let’s go down to my room.”

Paul sat down beside the table with the score pad and one of the crisp new playing cards sent from home along with those for Lew and Henderson. Breen dragged the armchair closer and sat down, tucking one stubby leg under the other. “You’ve spent more time with Owen than anyone else,” Breen said. “I’d like your opinion about him.”

Paul bent forward and rested his hands on his knees. He’d hoped he’d be gone before being asked. “He’s very intelligent.”

“He thinks so too. But can he handle things in the office? We’ve worked too hard to get a top rating to let things slip. The colonel has promised two more officers to help in the field. Grafenwohr and Wildflecken are each to send three trainloads a week.”

Nothing like being put on the spot. Owen showed a lot of potential and picked up things quickly, but he seemed less interested in what had to be done than keeping an eye on Marguerite. Paul had in a diplomatic way advised Harris to keep a close watch on things and, to show his own appreciation, to give her after he left a present of a perfume bottle of Chanel the Mage found for him. Having pacified Harris, he had to settle down Murphy, Jensen, and Colbert. Owen, or “Rotesee” as he was known, was new and inexperienced and would measure up given more time and their support.

“Things have changed, Cap.” Paul said. “The orderly room can stand on its own and shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to see that it’s running smoothly.” The addition of Gonzales with clerical training lightened the workload as well as good insurance should Harris get redeployed. The Signal Corps also installed a direct line to their office bypassing the switchboard.

“For you maybe.”

“For anyone. Harris is very capable. It might take another typist as the shell-recycle program increases. The exec could spend at least half-a-day helping out in the field.”

Breen looked Paul directly in the eye. “You haven’t answered my question.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “We’ve been together too long to start kidding one another, going back to our talk at the fire tower. Remember?”

Paul forced a laugh. That seemed ages ago, after a dark time too. The Occupation, like wartime, speeded everything up: days became weeks, weeks became months. “Owen has the ability but needs some seasoning. It’d be better if he spent some time in the field with you for a while.”

“Then who will be the executive officer? I have no idea of who or what background the two incoming officers may have.”

“Henderson.”

Breen scoffed. “He hates paperwork, you know that.”

“Cap, it isn’t the same job anymore. The men respect him, and he knows how to get things done. I think he’d be pleased to be asked and earn your confidence in no time.”

“Hmm.” Breen pushed off his slipper and scratched his instep. “What aboutDanforth?”

Another hard question, with Lew a good and trusted friend. “He would do anything asked of him, but it’s very hard for him to say no.” There it was, for good or bad.

Breen sat back a few moments, smiled, and rose to his feet. “We’re going to miss you, Paul. We couldn’t have whipped the field into the shape its in without you.”

“I’m going to miss St. Georgen too.”

At the door, they gripped one another’s hand firmly, each knowing that they would be going their separate ways never see one another again. “Take care,” Cap said.

Paul, his thoughts racing one way and his feelings another, couldn’t find what he wanted to say and responded lamely, “Take care, Cap.” Afterwards in his room, what he had wanted to say came to him. But it was too late. Too late.

Cowardly, Paul waited until his last night to see Frieda. He knew she was on duty, and he waited by the side door of the mess hall. Other waitresses appeared and disappeared into the evening chatting and laughing. The cooks came and went. Had he missed her? Why hadn’t he gone in and had her excused? Who cared what people knew or might think?

He went inside. The large dining room and stage were dark and silent. The kitchen lights were still on for the workers to finish up the pots and pans. He heard the shower running in back and opened the door to ask Murphy if he had seen Frieda.

Part of a face peaked around the sideboard—Frieda’s!

“I…I beg your pardon.” he said, his ears tingling.

“Be out in a minute,” she said.

He waited awkwardly by Murphy’s office. She finally came out, tossing and fluffing her damp hair. “Hello,” she said lightly and cheerfully.

“Hello,” he responded dully.

She smiled impishly and slipped her hand in his. “Shall we go?”

Gnats and moths buzzed and darted about the outdoor bulb. The full moon bathed the oval clearing in a soft fairyland light. Ahead, the road shone like a ribbon of silver satin between the black walls of the pines.

She said, “What’s that you’re carrying?”

“A surprise.”

“From Kriss Kringle?”

‘Wait and see.”

They walked slowly. The moonlight seemed bright and clear enough to read by.

Their twin shadows swung left, then right, trailed behind, raced ahead. “Let’s use the back gate,” he said. They walked along in silence, and he slackened his pace to be beside her a little longer. Was he making another big mistake? He switched the heavy package to his other hand.

“Frieda?”

“Shhh,” she said and held a finger to her lips. “There’s no need for words.”

“Are you cold?”

“No, how could I be?”

The long way didn’t seem long when they passed the guard and climbed the steps to reach her room—for the last time. She turned on the light and then the radio, tuning it softly to music. “Can I see now?” she said excitedly.

He put the large square box on the table. She snapped the string. “Careful,” he said. She opened the flaps and lifted out of the straw a teapot with sugar and cream pitchers, each hand-painted with long stem pinkish flowers. “How beautiful!” she said. ‘You remembered, didn’t you? Shall I use them?”

“Of course.”

“And what’s in the paper bag?”

“Homemade sugar-dipped crullers.”

“Where did you get them?”

“Major Purl’s housekeeper specially baked them. From scratch.”

She smiled and unfolded a white tablecloth bordered in blue stitching and set the table. “I should have fresh flowers,” she said pensively. Paul filled the pan from the water jug and dampened the cloth to wipe clean the pitcher. Soon, all too soon, the crullers were gone, the teapot empty.

Paul picked up his spoon and concentrated on tracing figure eights on the tablecloth. “If only we had met at another time in another place.”

She crossed her forearms on the table. “We never would have met, and we have, which is all that matters. I’ve learned to take life as it comes without questioning, and to give up what it takes away without complaint.”

“Frieda,” he said tenderly, “you’re far better and wiser.”

“Not at all,” she replied spiritedly. “You are very warmhearted and respectful. You treat me not as a weak and inferior woman but a person like yourself. That makes me very happy. I feel alive again and want to go on living.” She added gravely, “You have to go back to your own country as I have to stay in mine. That is best for both of us.”

“But I wish—“

She smiled wistfully. “Wishes are for children, and we are no longer children. Come,” she said and took him by the hand and led him over to the dresser. “I have a present for you too.” She opened a small jewelry box and handed him a light gray round medal, crowned by a steel helmet and grenade, and embossed with a wingspread eagle gripping a swastika. On the reverse were the words:

Winterschlacht, Barbarossa, 1942/43.

“I can’t accept something like this.”

“I want you to have it. Every soldier in Russia was given one to raise morale. Heinz and his comrades called it ‘The Frozen Meat Medal.’ Please, for me, Paul.”

It was first time she used his given name. She closed his hand over the medal. He held her in his arms. She tried to fight back the tears. He kissed her on each moist cheek. She clung to him tightly, then gently pushed him away. “Yes, you must go.”

“Yes, I must go.” He brushed her chin with a forefinger. “Goodbye, Frieda.”

“Goodbye, Paul,” she murmured through trembling lips.

In the pitch-black hallway, his fingertips guided him along the wall. Twice he stopped and stood motionless, his breathing the only sound; twice he hurried forward.

Paul squeezed the Val-Pac closed and fastened the reinforcement strap before he dragged it into the empty hallway. There must be bricks inside, he said to himself with a laugh. He had turned his bedding in to Jensen at eight and had folded his mattress in half at the head of the bed in regulation manner. The room was as plain and barren as he had first found it, except for packing away the signal mirror with its sighting cross.

He pulled the chair over to the window to watch for the mail jeep. He sat with an elbow on the sill, his chin cupped in his hand. The oval clearing was empty and deserted as a stadium after a game. He wondered what was keeping Dumas. Maybe he ought to give the motor pool a call. He checked his watch. The last day of the last month of the last one-hundred and eighty days. Tomorrow, Bremerhaven again.

How anxious he and the infantry captain had been on their first morning after they’d docked late the previous evening. They had been the first in line for breakfast, then had bluffed their way past the front camp guard simply to feel foreign soil underfoot, to walk into a strange town with strange signs, to hear a different language spoken. Then it had mattered little how long his stay was going to be, while Lew marked off the days. How strange, how awfully strange, things turned out! Yesterday, Henderson said, tapping a knuckle on his chest, “See you on the Russian front.” It could very well be. And Lew, shy and unassuming as ever with a limp handshake, thanked him again and again.

Less than a year ago, he had been in Edgewood. It seemed unbelievably far away now. Six months had passed more quickly than he would have believed possible. Despite failings, had he done his best and tried to bring out the best in others? Whether partly or mostly he couldn’t say. A new and different life awaited him. But he would never forget those arcing, agonized fingernails on the wallboard at Dachau, or those gray moldy shoes of a young child. Certainly to have received an uncommon education in the worst was to be better prepared to seek a liberal and liberating education in the best.

Yes, time now to go home. Home! The very word seemed to sweep him off his feet. October there too, hopefully Indian Summer. The trees turning red and yellow and orange. Leaves to be raked and burned. The brisk air filled with eye-stinging smoke. Storm windows to be put up. Wood split for the fireplace. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. Time now to be home—for good!

“Ready, sir?” Dumas asked in the doorway.

He almost jumped out of his chair. “All set.”

They piled his luggage into the back of the jeep, winterized with canvas sides.

Dumas braked down on the main road. Someone at the shortcut was trying to flag them down.

“Almost…forgot,” Murphy said winded. He handed Paul a heavy paper bag. “Sandwiches are better than those rocks the canteen calls donuts. There’s also something to drink too.”

“Don’t tell me. Grapefruit juice.”

“Rich in Vitamin C, sir.”

“Murphy, you are an incorrigible rogue.”

Murphy grinned from ear to ear “Whatever that is beats me, Lieutenant, except it must take one to know one. Give my best to the Lady Across the Pond. Safe journey, sir.”

At the gatehouse, Roberts checked their trip-ticket and recoded it on the daily log on a clipboard. Roberts then circled around to shake Paul’s hand. “Been a pleasure serving with you, sir.”

“Thank you, Roberts.”

Roberts tilted up the cantilevered guard and snapped to attention with a crisp salute. Paul returned the salute. Dumas eased the jeep forward. Paul didn’t look back.

There was no need to.