Page 83 of Hell to Pay
While I’ve been laid up, the unit’s been moving right through Bavaria to the southeast like lightning—orBlitzschnell, as Grandma would’ve said. The quartermasters have had a heck of a job keeping us supplied with food and fuel, we’ve been going that fast, and the guys have been laying wire over and over again to keepup with communications. (Not me, though—my sling and I are riding in a Jeep, leading the life of Riley.) The engineers keep sweeping the roads for mines, fixing the bridges—under fire!—and building pontoon bridges on the spot. Weren’t the SS men surprised today when our tank columns rolled in before they’d imagined we could get there! And didn’t those “elite” troops scamper over that flat plain like jackrabbits! They bought it anyway, and I can’t shed a tear. They turned and fought at last only because their buddies up front blew the bridge and cut off their retreat.
Of the hours after that today, I’ll just say—we didn’t even take twenty prisoners. The SS, unlike most of the regularWehrmachttroops we’ve met, are fanatical enough to actually fight to the death.
We’re headed to Munich tomorrow, where Hitler got started. Munich has plenty to answer for. We don’t know where the Brits are, where the Russians are, where the French are, and the Japs might as well be on another planet. It’s been just one blown bridge and one sniper’s nest after another, and we keep rolling along. If you saw those engineers staying at their posts, Dad, while the fellow beside them is cut down—well, you’d be as proud as I guess I am. The Germans were told we were soft. They’re learning the hard way that it was another Hitler lie.
This job doesn’t get any easier, but at least we know now that we’re going to win, and that makes a difference.
Love to Mom—and to you.
Joe
36
THE WHEELS TURN
A few things happened on Monday.
We headed back to Dresden in the morning after a leisurely Sunday exploration of Fürth, which was remarkably charming in appearance and contained more original structures than most German cities—we’d certainly been fortunate, back in 1945, to end up in a place that hadn’t been bombed and shelled to bits—followed by Sunday dinner with Matti, his son Konrad, and all their family, who’d turned up “to meet the princess.” Rather embarrassing, but accompanied by a great deal of animated chat and laughter, not to mentionJaeger Schnitzel—breaded pork cutlets on a bed of noodles, with mushroom gravy and cabbage—and to top it off, an authenticPrinzregententorte,a cake I’d never seen outside of Germany but remembered well—how I missed Frau Heffinger!—made of eight thin layers of sponge cake filled with chocolate buttercream and topped with dark chocolate glaze, whipped cream, and chocolate curls. “Supposed to be a tribute to the Prince Regent,” Konrad’s wife Angela told us with a laugh, “whoever that was. Somebody who liked rich food, apparently.”
“That seems like pretty much everybody in Germany,” Ben said, and we all agreed. Will my Chanel skirt even fit me anymore after this? My doctor scolds me constantly over my weight. She calls me “frail” and tells me that’s a bad thing, as if I haven’t always been the same. She at least should be happy about all this butter and cream.
“Why do the young never learn history?” Matti objected. “The cake was named for Prince Regent Luitpold, of course. It wasn’t even so very long ago, for he ruled until 1912. An accomplished commander who was eventually promoted to Field Marshal, and a most popular ruler. His reign—necessitated by the mental incapacity of both his nephews—was considered the golden age of Bavaria.”
“And here we see the problem with royalty,” Alix said. “You can’t even get rid of the crazy ones.”
“You have no regrets, then?” Angela asked her.
“Who, me?” Alix looked startled.
“About not living as a princess anymore,” Angela said.
“Not even a tiny little bit,” Alix said cheerfully. “Absolutely no desire. How can I? I’m American all the way. Although we do want this tiara back.” We’d told them about our search—how could Ashleigh resist?—and they were now eagerly following Ashleigh’s channel, or so they said, though that may have been politeness. Our view count, Ashleigh had proudly informed us, was almost two million now and still rising.
We were in the car on the way back to Dresden when Alix’s phone rang. She picked up—rather rude, I always think, in company—said, “Yes,” a few times, and “Definitely” another, then rang off and announced, “Annnddddd … we have a contract. I’m forwarding it to your lawyer right now, Oma.”
“Oh, wow,” Ashleigh said happily. “Just in time, after we’ve built up all this suspense and have the whole sympathetic story,includingthe romance. Perfect.”
What did I think? I couldn’t have told you. I was excited,certainly, though it would be poignant, too, to see the tiara again, and remember it on my mother’s shining head as Lippert readied her for the opera. Her loving smile in the mirror, her scent when she kissed me … how I wished I’d had a chance to get past my adolescent opposition and truly know the woman she was!
It was perhaps fortunate that Ashleigh’s phone rang at that moment. She picked up also—had nobody learned better manners than this?—but when she began exclaiming, “Yes. Yes, definitely. Sure. Yes,” in an excited tone, I grew curious.
From behind me, after “Goodbye,” I heard,“YESSSSS!”It was accompanied by Ashleigh throwing her hands into the air and dancing in her seat. Perhaps not the wisest exclamation when sitting directly behind a man operating a piece of heavy machinery at eighty miles an hour, but Sebastian, to his credit, didn’t flinch.
“What?” Ben asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Ashleigh said happily. “Just that a German TV network—ZDF—hang on, hang on—ooh, the biggest network in Germany! Sixty-fivemillionviewers per month. Oh, score.”
“What about them, though?” Ben asked.
“They want to interview us, that’s all,” Ashleigh said happily. “Mrs. Stark—they called you Princess Marguerite instead; isn’t that great?—of course, and me, because I’m producing your story, and Alix, because she’s the new princess. Sorry, no boys allowed.Andthey want to go along if we actually ever get to look for the tiara. We’re in prime time, baby! Also, Mrs. Stark? My parents say I’m supposed to say ‘thank you’ for all the stuff you’ve been paying for.”
“You should really thank Sebastian, then,” I said.
“Oh! she said. “I totally forgot. My dad’s embarrassed to ask—I’m supposed to be casual about it—but he’s a majorfootball geek, so if you could, like, do an autograph or something, Sebastian?”
“I can send him a signed jersey if you like,” Sebastian said. “They give you all these game jerseys, and I never know what to do with them.”
“Ooh,” Ashleigh said. “The Super Bowl one?”
