“What happened?” she said.
Martha answered her. “The youngster shot the SS-man.”
Inge was confused. “Why?”
“You may go,” said Anton.
Hans shook the boy’s hand. “That was a brave thing you did. Thank you.”
Anton pointed to the Feldjägerkorps Kübelwagen. “Better take that one. Where are you headed?”
“Luckenwalde. It’s about forty kilometers south of here.”
Anton shook his head. “Not a good idea. The Russians are advancing from the south. They have encircled the city on three sides. West is the only way out now.”
Inge drew in a sharp breath. “The English and Americans are waiting in the west. No direction is safe.”
Hans searched the SS-man’s pockets and found the key. He climbed into the Kübelwagen.
Martha said, “The Russians are animals. We can expect better treatment from the Americans.”
“Come on.” Hans starting the engine. “Everybody on board.”
Martha got into the rear seat and Inge joined her. “Aren’t you coming with us?” she called out to Anton.
Martha said, “You can’t stay here after what you did.”
Anton took a moment to think about it, then he jumped in beside Hans, holding his rifle between his knees.
“You too, old man,” said Hans.
The old man hesitated.
Anton climbed into the back seat beside Inge to make room for his companion. “Come on, Professor,” he said. “What’s to think about?”
“How can you drive with that leg?” said Hepple, opening the driver’s door. “Move over. Let me drive.”
Hans slid over onto the front passenger seat, the old man threw his rifle into the shrubbery and got behind the wheel.
They headed west.
The road west was cratered, but they were soon outside the city limits, passing a stream of refugees heading for the Elbe river. The Kübelwagen jounced along, and Martha dozed off.
Anton was a bit young, but Inge enjoyed the delicious sensation of hip to hip contact with a boy.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon dead ahead, Inge could see that Hepple was finding it increasingly difficult to see where he was going. She begged him to slow down for fear of running someone over, and he slowed to a crawl, little more than walking pace.
The wheels hit the edge of a crater jolting Martha awake.
“Where are we?” she said. “Are we nearly there?”
“We’re about half-way to Tangermünde,” said Hepple. “We should arrive in about an hour.”
“Can’t we go any faster? We could walk faster than this,” she said.
“Be patient,” Hans replied. “We will get there soon enough.”
Thirty minutes later they had to abandon the Kübelwagen. The road ahead was full of refugees, blocking the way. They climbed out and joined the throng, shuffling forward, meter by meter, toward the river.
Two hours later, as darkness fell, lights appeared in the distance ahead.
“That’s the Tangermünde bridge,” said the woman in line ahead of them. “Once we cross that we should be safe.”
As they got closer to the river, the outline of the bridge came into view.
“The bridge is destroyed!” said Inge, feeling very much like the little boy who’d shouted that the emperor had no clothes.
She was right. The woman explained that the retreating German troops had blown up the bridge, but enough of it had survived to allow the refugees to cross.
And so it was. When they reached the American checkpoint, several guns were pointed at them. Hans, Anton and Hepple were all in uniform and Anton still carried his rifle.
“We need something white,” said Hans.
Martha pulled her wedding dress from her suitcase, Anton tied it to his rifle and held it as high as he could. A soldier waved them on, and they crossed the remnants of the rickety bridge.
52
On Seelow Heights, the Red Army continued to attack night and day through April 17 and 18. The city defenders lost hundreds of men. The Russians lost countless more, but great hordes of them kept coming. The fields were littered with broken and burnt-out Russian tanks, but still they had more and more and more.
With two warheads left for his Panzerfaust, Ludwig realized the hopelessness of their situation. Nothing the defenders did would stop the advance of the Red Army. When Artur Axmann had said they must be prepared to fight to the last bullet, to the last man, he had meant it. They would be overrun soon – that night or the day following.
By April 19, the battle of Seelow Heights was over. The Volkssturm retreated to the city streets with the Red Army in pursuit.
The sergeant issued each man with 12 rounds. “Make them count, lads,” he said. “And good luck.”
Ludwig and Korn stayed together. Taking defensive positions among the ruins, they were driven steadily toward the center of the city, picking off a Russian soldier here and there, beating a hasty retreat every time they were confronted by a Russian tank.
On April 20, they found themselves sheltering behind the Dom cathedral, when an unexpected lull in the fighting gave them a chance to catch their breath.
“How many rounds do you have?” said Korn.
“Three.”
“I have four.”
“It’s the Führer’s birthday,” said Ludwig.
“Happy birthday Adolf,” said Korn.
Ludwig lit a cigarette. He grinned at Korn. “I know, I know, it’s not good for my health. What did you do before the war?”
“I was a master baker,” said Korn. “What about you?”
“I was a schoolboy,” said Ludwig.
53
The Americans relieved Anton of his rifle and let him go. They had no place for a 13-year-old in their pow camps. Inge and he joined a stream of refugees heading north to a resettlement camp at Osterburg.
Hans was escorted to a tent where he was interrogated by a young German-speaking American soldier.
“How did you lose the leg?”
“At the Siege of Leningrad in 1942.”
“And they had you defending Berlin?”
“No, I got out as soon as I could. I needed to evacuate the two women I was with.”
“And the other two? The old man and the youngster?”
“They helped us to escape. We wouldn’t have made it without them.”
The soldier stamped a card and handed it to Hans. “You’ll be checked over by
