Page 79 of Hell to Pay
His hand tightened on mine. “Carry a white flag. Made of something—anything. A shirt.”
“Oh, no,” I said, trying to joke, for he looked most distressed. “Shirts are far too dear now. I’ll cut it out of the sheet we destroyed to make your sling.”
“Yes,” he said. “Out of something. And tell them the Rainbow Division, the 42nd. Sergeant Joe Stark, Rainbow Division.”
I nodded. “I will.”
I straightened, but he didn’t let go of my hand. “Be careful.”
“I’m not a very frightening person,” I said. “Nobody could be tempted to shoot me.”
“White flag,” he said, then fell back again. “Rainbow Division. Please. Remember.”
For all my brave words, it was frightening to step out onto the empty street. It was also very quiet. People might venture out in the morning, but they were waiting a bit yet, it seemed. The street was full of detritus from the battle: shell casings, discarded equipment, and worse. I saw bodies as I walked—westward, for that was the way the battle had moved. Bodies of German soldiers, not American ones. Who would collect them and bury them? I had no idea, and tried not to look at the mangled corpses. Gray hair on some, and often, only half a uniform: a military blouse or trousers only. I saw bodies ofSS men, too, and those aroused less pity.See where your arrogance has landed you,I thought, remembering the things Dr. Becker had said about the SS in Poland, and farther east. Remembering how Dr. Becker had been barred from the university, barred from the trams, barred from Brühl’s Terrace, and then ordered to report for “evacuation” anyway. Dr. Becker, and the children. No, the dead SS men stirred no compassion.
I thought about that so as not to be frightened. A few streets ahead, I saw a few people moving and hurried along, the piece of sheet I’d tied to a yardstick fluttering behind me.
Two women, it was, searching among the bodies. I stopped and asked, “Which way did the Americans go?”
“Which way?” one of the women said bitterly. “east, of course. East, to kill more of our men and boys. Why, oh why has this been visited upon us?” So you see, no help there.
I walked for thirty minutes, for forty, until I was in the countryside again, beside the river, the same way we’d come. I saw something in the distance, then, at least I thought so. It was hard to tell in the gathering dusk. I ran—I didn’t want to reach them after dark, and was feeling more frightened now.
I came closer, and saw. Tents, surely. Tents, and figures moving around.
“Halt!” a voice called, and I stopped, my heart pounding, for a man had stepped out from behind a tree. A man with a rifle aimed at me. “No entry,” he said in English, then,“Eintritt verboten!”His German was atrocious.
I said in English, “There is a wounded man in my house. Back there.” I gestured. “In the old city. His name is Joe Stark, of the … of the 42nd. The Rainbow Division. I’ve come to find … to find somebody to take him home. To take him to … to your camp.” Why hadn’t I rehearsed this speech? I sounded very muddled.
The sentry stared at me. “Why is he in your house?”
“Because I took him there. When he was wounded.”
“Are you English?” His eyes were suspicious now. “How can that be?”
“No,” I said. “I’m German. But I have Joe Stark, truly. He is shot in the shoulder, and he has fever.”
“Wait here,” the sentry said. He turned and spoke to another man, who’d come out of the bushes. The second soldier headed back to the camp, while the first waited, his rifle pointed at me all the while.
Five minutes later, four men appeared. Rifles in their hands with bayonets fixed, and grenades on their belts. They didn’t look friendly. They asked me all about it again, and I explained again. They stared at me skeptically, and one of them, who seemed to be the leader, asked, “Who else is with you?”
“Nobody is with me,” I said. “I came to get help for him.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. What does that matter? Perhaps I was foolish. Perhaps I am even a traitor. But he was shot before my eyes, I pulled him into my house, and he is lying on a bed now with fever.”
“Who else is in the house?” the leader asked. I told him, and he said, “Why didn’t the man come? Why did he send you?”
“He didn’t,” I said. “I volunteered. I thought you’d be less likely to shoot me.”
The leader grinned, then rearranged his face. “How do we know this isn’t a trap?”
I raised my free hand, then dropped it again. “I don’t know. This is your job, not mine. I suppose you can hold a gun to my head once we get there and tell him to come out. That’s how it would be done in films.”
“Why is your English so good?” the leader asked now.
“I had an English governess. An English nanny also.” I wasbecoming frustrated. “Shall I tell you the story of the Elephant’s Child, who went to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River to find out what the Crocodile eats for dinner? Or sing you an English song? I know ‘God Save the King.’ Will that do? What would satisfy you? If you don’t want him anymore, I suppose we can keep him. If he lives, of course.”
