Page 61 of Hell to Pay
We asked for Frau Langbein’s house when we reached the village, and again—there it was. It’s a large, half-timbered, whitewashed affair with a thatched roof, the people living in the front third, the cows in the back, a muck-heap in the stableyard, and window boxes that would be full of red geraniums in summer and were now, yes, full of yellow and purple crocuses!
I knocked at the kitchen door, and there she was. Wearing a flowered apron, her hair rolled behind her head and her feet in sturdy shoes and woolen stockings, looking practical and sensible and so comfortingly familiar. So like her sister, whom I’d loved all my life. I said, my heart beating hard, “Frau Langbein? It’s Marguerite von Sachsen, from Dresden. And my friends.”
Her face—disbelief, happiness, doubt, fear—I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, what she was feeling. She said, “Princess Marguerite?”
“I’m calling myself Daisy now,” I said, suddenly realizing the real risk of this venture—why hadn’t I considered the danger as well as the benefit of coming here? “Daisy Glücksburg. It seems safer, with all the—” I made a vague hand gesture. “All the upheaval.”
“But I thought you were all dead!” Her face became hopeful, then. “Maria? My sister? Did she really?—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as gently as I could. “She died. They all died in the cellar. I’m sorry.” I wished I had better words.
“Oh,” she said, her face falling. “Well, I was told, of course, but— But come in, do.”
She stood aside, but I hesitated, saying, “Our shoes are dirty, I’m afraid.”
“Your friends,” she said, seeming to register them for the first time. “Who are they?”
Again the difficulty. Dr. Becker could hardly be my uncle here, could he? Not to anyone who knew of my parents. “A friend of my father,” I said, then instantly realized the trouble with that. She would know that he wasn’t Herr Kolbe, as his Kennkartesaid. How could she not? She must have eaten with him many times in the servants’ hall. “Dr. Becker,” I finally said. “And his children, Andrea and Gerhardt. We’ve traveled together since Dresden.” It wasn’t as if she needed to see their Kennkarten,and I could give her our ration coupons; she wouldn’t need to see the actual books.
She made us come inside, then, dried our clothes before the fire, satus at the scrubbed pine table, and fed us peppermint tea and cakes. Yes, cakes! They weren’t very sweet, but they tasted heavenly. Surely there were eggs in them, and milk, too, and there were apricot preserves to put on top. We had to restrain ourselves from gobbling up the whole plate—at least I did!
Afterward, she gave us a room under the eaves—“I’m sorry it’s only one,” she said, “but my sister-in-law, Elsa, and her daughter are staying with us as well. Perhaps the gentleman would rather sleep on the couch?”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said firmly, “if you don’t mind. Dr. Becker must be with his children.”
“Oh, I can’t—” she began.
“And your children?” I asked, in order to deter her from, what? Offering me her bed? I longed to take off my wet clothes and avail myself of the unutterable privilege of her wringer-washer and bathtub, already promised. How long since I’d washed my clothes well, or had a real, honest-to-goodness bath with hot water?
Her face clouded. “We lost Klaus at Stalingrad. Hermann is at the Eastern Front as well, but I haven’t heard from him in a long time, and am hoping for word. Katya, my daughter, is married, of course. Her husband is an officer with the SS—an older man, aHauptsturmführer,and very important, and she and the children are living with him in Poland, where he’s stationed. In the same place as my brother Fritz, in fact, Elsa’s husband. Frau Biersack, I should say. I wish Katya and the children were here instead, but— Well, I’m glad they’re safe, that’s all.”
“Your husband, though,” I said. “He’s still here?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “Max is here. They didn’t take him, because of the farm, you know. We’re essential, you see, for the war effort. Milk, cream, butter—even preserves! And Schnapps, of course. Max still makes his famous apple Schnapps, and very popular it is. We’re meant to turn all of it in, but, na ja,one must eat to live! The children look very hungry, no?We’ll have a good dinner for you today, meine Kleinen, as many liver dumplings as you can eat! But first, Princess Marguerite, you must all bathe and rest.”
“Please,” I said, “I can’t be Princess Marguerite anymore, not even in the village. For one thing, the name doesn’t match my ration book!” I tried to joke, but it wasn’t easy.
She looked confused. “But why not? What have you to be ashamed of? It’s not as if you were Jewish.”
“No,” I said, “of course not, but?—”
She flapped a hand. “I’ll never remember, but never mind, you’re perfectly safe with us. A princess, and a Catholic one at that? Of course you’ll be safe. Who would want to harm you?”
I couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t me I was worried about. How could I?
As for Joe? Joe wasn’t the least bit safe or warm.
March 29, 1945
Dear Dad,
Well, I can truly say “Happy Passover” today, because we’ve crossed the Siegfried Line. Yeah, the four-hundred-mile line of fortifications that was supposed to be an “unbreachable bulwark,” according toNazi propaganda. (You know these things when you do the interpreting.) Steel-reinforced concrete pillboxes, trenches, dragon’s teeth obstacles, tank traps … you name it, he put it there. The idea was pretty simple: put your forces behind it, slow your enemy down, and counterattack.
Apparently Hitler put tens of thousands to work on strengthening the thing earlier this year—mostly slave laborers and boys as young as 14—but that’s nothing to how many worked on building it. Half a million, if you can believe it, almost all slave laborers. A thing like that has to fail for there to be any justice in the world, and fail it did.
We’d been advancing fast to that point, the German troops we met being mighty demoralized and scared. Too many of them are old men and young boys without much training. At one point, a kid asked me, “Are you Roosevelt’s SS?” That gave us all a good laugh. Apparently the SS are the crack troops. We’ve heard that we’ll see them around Nuremberg, where they’ll be making a stand. Not sure it’s the height of confidence to talk about how your army will get the job done once their backs are against the wall! “Last stands” are last for a reason, right? Because they’re last.
I won’t tell you any more battle stories—I don’t much want to remember most of it at this point—except to say that we’ve wiped out whole columns of Germans. We’ve developed a pretty streamlined process: locate the artillery, call in air support to take it out, then hit the troops with our own artillery. It’s a sickening sight, though, rolling along. The roads are littered with abandoned vehicles and equipment, and worse, with dead men and horses. The Germans aren’t even stopping to bury their dead anymore. Most of our time’s been spent chasing and capturing prisoners. As soon as we come up to them now, they throw down their arms. Within 24 hours of breaking through the line, we’d taken 2,000 prisoners, and spent our time combing the area looking for any pockets of resistance whileour engineers worked to blow up those Siegfried fortifications. That was a satisfying sight, and I hope some of those slave laborers get to hear about it.
