“Are you all right?” said Martha.
Inge felt bruised all over her body, and she was terrified, but she’d had more excitement in the last hour than in the whole of her life.
“Are you injured?” said Martha to Hans.
“No, I’m fine. Next stop Potsdam,” he said. “If we don’t run out of fuel.”
50
It was 4:30 p.m. when they reached a checkpoint on the Glienicker Brücke, a bridge leading to the northern approaches of Potsdam. They joined a line of people waiting to cross.
“We’ll be waiting here forever,” said Martha.
“Not necessarily,” said Hans. He put the heel of his hand on the horn and kept it there.
A figure in uniform emerged from the sentry hut and waved them forward. “Make way there. Make way for the Kübelwagen.”
The crowds parted and the Kübelwagen jerked forward.
As they approached the checkpoint, Hans knew they were in trouble. The reception committee consisted of an old man and a young boy, both in uniform, both armed with Volkssturm VG1-5 rifles.
Hans recognized the youngster: Anton Tannhäuser, the fanatical Hitler Youth who had lived in Hans’s block, the young man who had fallen over his iron leg.
Hans was a deserter, the Kübelwagen was stolen, and he was carrying a Jewish girl with no papers. They were in serious trouble.
The old man directed them to park behind another Kübelwagen and asked for their papers. Martha handed over her identification and ration book.
“This is my sister, Inge,” said Martha. “She lost her papers during the bombing.”
The old guard lifted an eyebrow. He stared at Inge. “Don’t I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Inge.
“I’m engaged to be married to one of you soldiers,” said Martha to deflect his attention from Inge.
“Where is he?”
“He’s a prisoner of war in France.”
The guard handed Martha’s papers back. He turned his attention back to Inge. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”
“Quite sure,” said Inge.
He clicked his fingers at Hans and Hans handed him his identity card.
“Hans Klein. Shouldn’t you be defending Berlin?”
Hans lifted his iron leg and placed it on the door of the Kübelwagen. “As you can see, I have only one good leg. I would be useless in a trench.”
“You could fire a weapon,” said the guard. “And who gave you permission to use a military vehicle?”
“My Company commander, Hauptmann Engels. He asked me to take his children to safety.”
“That is most irregular. You have paperwork authorizing this?”
“I had, but I lost it along the way.”
“Step out of the vehicle,” said the guard.
Hans hauled his iron leg back into the vehicle and opened the door.
Anton, who had been standing on the other side of the car, spoke up. “I know these people. We do not need to detain them.”
The old man hesitated. “Their papers are not in order, Anton. We cannot let them go. Call the Untersturmführer.”
Anton stuck out his chest. “Let them pass. I told you, I know them.”
The old man shrugged a shoulder, stood back and waved them through. Hans slammed the door shut and attempted to restart the engine. It coughed but showed no other sign of life. He stared at the fuel gauge. It was showing empty. He swore and tried again, with the same result.
He turned to his passengers. “I’m sorry, we’re out of diesel. We’ll have to walk from here.”
At that point, a third man emerged from the hut. “What’s the hold-up?” he barked.
This man was dressed in the uniform of the head-hunters.
“We’ve told this group they may cross the bridge, but they’ve run out of fuel,” said the old man.
The SS-man circled the vehicle, peering inside. By the time he’d completed the full circle, his pistol was in his hand, hanging down by his side. “Step out of the vehicle, all of you,” he said. “Be very careful not to make any sudden moves.”
Inge and Martha stepped out. It took Hans a little longer to maneuver his iron leg through the open door.
The SS-man waited patiently until they were all lined up at the side of the Kübelwagen. He began with Hans. “So tell me why you are not busy defending our city against the enemies of the Reich?”
“I lost a leg in 1942, at the Siege of Leningrad.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” said the SS-man. “Where do you live?”
“The Kaiser Wilhelm blocks, Westend,” said Hans.
The SS-man waved his pistol. “You are clearly a deserter. Stand over there.”
Hans moved to the front of the Kübelwagen and the SS-man turned his attention to Inge and Martha.
He scrutinized Martha’s identity card. “You two claim to be sisters, unless my ears deceived me?”
“Yes, we are sisters,” said Martha.
“You don’t look like sisters. How many years are there between you?”
“Ten,” said Martha.
He fixed Inge with his gaze. “How old are you?”
“I’m fourteen, sir.”
“Your papers?”
“I lost them during one of the bombing raids,” said Inge, her chin trembling.
“Hmm. We have a report of a 14-year-old Jewish girl living in Kaiser Wilhelm block 2 at Westend. Your sister looks more Jewish than you do. Could you both be Jews on the run, I wonder?”
Inge’s face turned white as a ghost. Hans’s blood turned to ice in his veins.
“We are Christians,” said Martha, indignantly. “I am engaged to an army soldier.”
“And where is he?”
“He’s in a prisoner of war camp in France.”
“Very well, Martha Engels, you may cross the bridge. Your sister will remain here with me.” He strode over and stood facing Hans.
He raised his pistol.
With every ounce of energy he had, Hans swung his leg in an attempt to do to the SS-man what he had done to the soldier guarding the Kübelwagen. But this man was too quick. He took a half-step backwards. Hans lost his balance and fell to the ground.
The SS-man laughed. Then he cocked his pistol and pointed it down at Hans’s temple. “This is what we do to deserters.”
Inge closed her eyes. A shot rang out.
51
When Inge opened her eyes, a thin plume of smoke was drifting from the barrel of Anton’s rifle, the head-hunter was lying in
