Anton replied, “Yes,” in a weak voice.
“On your feet, soldier.”
Anton stood on shaky legs.
The SS-man put his hands on Anton’s shoulders. “Look at me.”
Anton looked up. The SS-man stared into his eyes. “Buck up your ideas, soldier. If everyone deserted, who would defend the city? Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Address me as Untersturmführer. Tell me you understand me.”
“I understand you, Herr Untersturmführer,” said Anton.
“What was Herr Braun?”
“He was a dentist.”
“I will ask you again. What was he?”
“He was a worm and a traitor to the Führer, Herr Untersturmführer.”
“That is correct, and don’t forget it.”
As soon as the SS-Untersturmführer had driven off, Anton and Hepple moved Braun’s body, placing it 100 meters away in some shrubbery. Then Anton found a quiet corner behind the sentry box and threw up.
Anton and Hepple discussed what they had witnessed. Anton asked whether Hepple considered the dentist’s fate justified.
The old man said, “He was a deserter. He must have known the penalty for desertion.”
“Yes, but do you think he deserved to be shot?”
“What are you asking me?” said Hepple. “Don’t you believe in military discipline?”
Anton changed the subject after that.
Hepple was a retired university professor. He had served in the last war and had volunteered to serve in the Volkssturm. Anton was surprised to find a man of such obvious intellectual powers so wedded to the Nazi ideology that he could stomach what they’d witnessed. The old man seemed devoted to the Führer, prepared to do anything, to make any sacrifice, for the Third Reich.
Hepple’s experiences of the Great Depression explained much about his attitude. He had lost a fortune on the stock exchanges that turned him into a penniless, homeless nomad. But when Anton asked him if he had a family, he discovered a man that knew how to hedge his bets. Hepple’s daughter, a widow, had been married to a Luftwaffe pilot. She had no children. Hepple had sent her to stay with relatives in Switzerland.
33
February 12, 1945
Hans paid a visit to Franz, the black marketeer, in Christstrasse. Reaching his apartment was a struggle. Hans thanked his stars that the black marketeer was there when he arrived; he dreaded the prospect of climbing those six flights of stairs a second time.
When he said he was looking for papers, Franz scanned the area and the staircase before hustling Hans inside.
Hans handed over Inge’s identity card. “This young lady needs new papers.”
Franz ran his eyes over the document. “What makes you think I can help?”
“I’m told you can work miracles.”
“You do realize what you’re asking me to do? This girl is Jewish. Falsifying papers for someone like this carries an instant death sentence. They’d hang me up by my thumbs if I got caught.”
“You’ll be well paid,” said Hans.
Franz ran a hand over his bald head. “How do I know you’re not working with the Gestapo?”
“Do I look like a Gestapo man?” said Hans, knocking his knuckles on his false leg.
Franz handed the identity card back. “I can’t do this. I’m no forger.”
Hans refused to take it. “But I’m betting you know someone who can.”
“I might. If I could get this done – and I’m not saying I can – how soon would you want it?”
“By the end of the month.”
“That’s very tight.”
“As soon as possible, so. We want to get her out of the city before it’s too late.”
“It’s probably already too late, my friend.”
“Will you try? And can you get it done by the end of the month?”
“It’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
Franz gave a thin smile. “You have an allotment…” He tapped his teeth with the edge of Inge’s card.
He knows exactly who I am! thought Hans.
“I used to have. The Gauleiter’s agent took it.”
“Jungblutt’s dead. You can claim it back.”
“When did he die?”
“A couple of days ago. You have your rental documents still?”
“I have.”
“Just take possession. Then sign it over to me.”
“All right, you have a deal.”
“What name do you want on the card?”
“Inge Pitt.”
“Leave it with me,” said Franz.
“How will I know when it’s ready?”
“I know where you live,” said Franz with a smile.
“He’s a creepy old man.” Inge crossed her arms and pouted.
“What did he do?” said Gretchen.
What could Oskar have done? She thought. I’ve only been out for two hours.
“He looks at me all the time. His eyes follow me everywhere I go.”
“Is that so bad? He hasn’t tried to do anything, has he?”
“No, he just sits there. Never takes his eyes off me. It’s creepy.” She tucked her legs under her on the chair.
“Has he said anything to you?”
“Not a word. I spoke to him, but he said nothing back.”
“That’s Oskar.” Gretchen laughed. “He doesn’t say much. He won’t harm you, Inge. Just ignore him. Read your book.”
At Hans’s request, Gretchen walked to the hospital and asked to see Max Jungblutt.
“Are you a relative of his?” said the nurse.
“We’re cousins on my mother’s side,” said Gretchen.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your cousin is not with us anymore.”
“You mean he’s been moved to another hospital?”
The nurse shook her head, gravely. “No, I mean he died from his injuries about a week ago.”
“Oh dear,” said Gretchen, solemnly, “my mother will be most upset.”
Gretchen reported back to Hans and he set out for the allotment with a light heart. The plot was useless as an allotment, and the cabin was barely standing, but Hans didn’t care. This was home. This was where he was happiest, where he’d spent most of his time since his discharge from the army in 1942.
First, he broke the lock on the door. The front wall shook when he opened it, but the cabin remained more or less upright. He set about getting it back into shape. By the end of the day, he had the four corner stanchions and the horizontal spars in place, making a sturdy rectangular frame. All he had to do now was to reattach the vertical slats that would make the
