Volk (40 page)

“That's not how it's done in America.”

“You do not understand our ways.”

“Damn right I don't! What makes you think I could stand having you around all the time, with your—I'll bet you're a Nazi, too!”

“I was.”

“That's all I need! A Nazi wife! That's almost as funny as Quality taking a swastika!” He looked at her. “She did do that?”

“Yes. But she was never a Nazi. She accepted it from Ernst in lieu of a ring, because it was his most cherished possession. It is Ernst she loves, not the swastika.”

“You know, she
would
do that,” Lane said, bemused. “She has her own values.”

“She is a good woman.”

“All right! You've really run me through the meat grinder, here. I admit it. You tell me my best friend ran off with my fiancée, and you want to take her place, and you've got sex on the line to prove it. I'm going to tell you one thing, and ask you one thing, and then we'll see.”

She waited without seeming emotion.

“Here's what I'm telling you,” he said. “I don't regard sex as a commitment. I could do it with you without marrying you. Ernst is different. So you can't rope me that way. And here's what I'm asking you: suppose we do it, and then we discover that Ernst is dead? Who do you think I'll marry then?”

“I do not want Ernst to be dead.”

“Well, neither do I! But I'm not going to leave Quality stuck here in Germany, for sure! So do you want to gamble that's he's alive?”

“Oh, yes! I still love Ernst, in my way. I would never wish him dead. But I have accepted my loss of him. He loves Quality, and I want him to have her. If she died, he would not marry me, he would mourn her. And so would I. And if Ernst is dead, Quality will not marry you. She will mourn him. So do with me as you wish, Lane; I have no fear of that. And perhaps you will find that you like me.”

“You're on, sister!” Lane felt lightheaded, almost euphoric after the recent storm of emotions. This was like a dream, and Krista was as beautiful a woman as he could remember, and he needed release.

In a moment they both were naked. He met her on the bed, and she matched him kiss for kiss and move for move, as passionate as he. She
did
know him, and she catered to his foibles, fulfilling him almost perfectly. And in the throes of it, he found a strange doubt looming.

“God, Krista!” he gasped. “You may be right!”

•  •  •

She guided him to the present residence of Ernst's family. A woman came to the door. “Frau Best,” Krista said formally, “I bring Lane Dowling.”

The woman—Ernst's mother, looked at Lane. “I will tell Quality.”

Then Quality came to the door. “Oh, it really is thee, Lane!” she cried, rushing out to hug him. “I have not seen thee in so long!”

“Krista brought me.”

She looked up at him. “And did she tell thee, Lane?”

He knew already that it was true. Her love for him had diminished into friendship. Now he saw the bright silver swastika at her breast. He found it both appalling and fitting. “Yes. I—I understand.”

“Now thee must meet my son.” She turned back to the house.

“Your—?”

She picked up a child of about a year and a half. “Ernst Junior.”

Speechless, Lane looked at Krista, who nodded.

Quality caught the look. “I promised to introduce thee to Krista, but it seems I am too late.”

“Too late,” he echoed numbly.

“The game is lost,” Krista said.

“Lost,” he agreed.

Quality smiled, briefly. “And how long did it take for her to conquer thee, Lane?”

He had to smile, realizing that there was a new game. “About two days.”

Ernst lost track of the number of prisoner of war camps through which he was routed. There was such a tremendous influx of prisoners as the war ended that the camps were constantly being reorganized. Conditions were harsh, but that was to be expected; at least they were not being gunned down.

In April, 1945, he was transferred to a new camp on the Rhine River, only about two hundred kilometers from Wiesbaden. This was Camp Rheinberg, ironically close to the place where Neandertal Man had been discovered and named. It was surrounded by nine kilometers of barbed wire fencing. There were no guard towers, no tents, no shelter, no water, no cooking facilities and no latrines. It was essentially open countryside. There was not even enough barbed wire to divide the camp into separate enclosures; all the prisoners, men, women and children, were crowded in together. There were, it seemed, about one hundred thousand of them.

Ernst observed this with despair. He had seen the camps in which partisans were confined before they were killed; this was of that nature. This was an Allied death camp.

Trucks brought food, but there was little organization. The prisoners had to fend for themselves, walking up to get what they could, and retreating to allow others their turns. There was little internal strife; they knew that it was pointless. All of them had one mission: to survive.

“But where is our shelter?” a prisoner asked querulously in German.

“There is none,” Ernst said.

“But what of the Geneva Convention? Prisoners of war are supposed to have shelter, to receive mail, and be visited by the Red Cross.”

“Did we honor the Geneva Convention on the Russian front?” Ernst asked rhetorically.

“But they were animals! Jews, partisans, traitors.”

“They were captive enemies. Now we are the captives.”

The man stared at him, not willing to comprehend the implication. “The Russians—we expected no mercy from them. But the Americans are softhearted. They are merciful to enemies.”

“Let's hope so,” Ernst said. But his experience in American captivity the past three months gave him little hope. It did not seem to matter what the nationality of the captors was, or the nationality of the partisans; the end was the same. It was in its fashion fitting: he had not helped the Russian partisans, and now no one would help him. He had merely changed sides: from outside the barbed wire to inside. That was the only difference.

At first he had been treated decently, but as increasing numbers of German troops surrendered, the facilities had been overwhelmed. He had been shipped to ever-larger, ever worse camps. The respect of the front-line officers for enemy officers had gradually been replaced by the disrespect of the rear-echelon corporals.

Some prisoners had been treated carefully: the “Wanted.” This was not a good status, for those were the war criminals: the officers who had given the orders to extirpate Jews or to commit atrocities. They were being saved out for trial. Ernst was among the unwanted, which had seemed better, at first. He had hoped he would be interrogated and released in due course, but it became apparent that surrendering to the Americans had been a grotesque mistake. He had learned from the remarks of the guards and other prisoners that the American General Eisenhower, though possessed of a German name, hated not only Nazis but all things German. He wanted to destroy the German military machine forever, and the German industrial complex. He wanted a “Carthaginian peace”: the settlement the Romans made on their most formidable enemy, the Phoenician city of Carthage. Total destruction. They had plowed salt into the earth so that no crop would grow there. Germany was to be reduced to a peasant economy, as in medieval times. The destruction of its manpower was the second step in this program; the industry had already been demolished.

Ernst sat on the ground and dug into the dirt with his tin cup. He poured cupfuls of dirt to the side and his hole deepened.

“What are you doing?” the nearest man demanded.

“I am digging a hole.”

“But you need to drink from that cup!”

“First I need protection from the night.”

The man considered. Then he lifted his own cup. “May I join you?”

“If you dig your share. I am Ernst.” Prisoners did not bother with their last names, because their acquaintances were likely to be fleeting.

“I am Ludwig.”

The man began digging. Soon others, observing them, were doing the same. Holes developed, with mounds of earth between.

A woman came. “May I join you? I see that you are strong men.”

Ernst looked at her. She might have been attractive once, but she was in a sad state now. Her hair was matted and her dress was so dirty that its original color could not be told. She was thin, and there was a festering sore on one arm. “You look too weak to do your share of digging.”

“I have a cardboard.”

Ludwig laughed, but Ernst did not. “Fetch it.”

“It is here.” She lifted a section of cardboard about as long as a man and somewhat wider. It had evidently been salvaged from a supply box.

“What is your name?,” Ernst asked, by that token accepting her. “I am Ernst.”

“Johanna.”

“But what good is that?” Ludwig asked.

“It is good insulation,” the woman explained. “Like a blanket.”

The man nodded, suddenly appreciating its value. “Ludwig.”

They dug the hole as deep as was feasible, then tried it. The two men lay down at either side in their clothes, with the woman in the middle. The cardboard covered her and part of each of them. It would have to do.

The trucks brought food in the evening, but not enough. Ernst and Ludwig got some American K rations, but Johanna was not able to forge to the front before it ran out. There was no water.

Ernst measured off a third of his portion and gave it to her. He glanced at Ludwig. The man hesitated, then did likewise.

“I will return this favor when I can,” Johanna said. She did not offer anything now; it was obvious that even sex would be no reward for them in her present filthy state.

“How did you, a woman, become prisoner?” Ernst asked.

“My husband was trying to defend our house. He shot an American in the hand. They killed him, and took me.” She did not need to say what they had done with her; it was obvious that after raping her they had simply put her in with the prisoners.

Someone started singing as the dusk came. They joined in, singing German folk songs. It was not great music, but it engendered a feeling of camaraderie.

The night got cold. The people walked to one side of the compound, near the barbed wire, before hunkering down in their holes. The three of them followed to the edge, and found a crude trench with a log over it. They took turns on the log, two standing at either side of the trench to hold the third steady in the middle. They did not worry about modesty; the facility was crowded, and the line of people was long. Those who needed only to urinate did so from the sides, without waiting.

They returned to their hole and settled in for the night. The cardboard blanket was a considerable help, as was their closeness; now Ernst understood with new clarity how Quality had survived in Gurs. Body warmth was precious.

He also understood how he had helped her, in that camp. Now he was echoing her experience, and his love of her welled up and gave him strength to carry on. This, too, was fitting.

A wind came up in the night, chilling them despite their limited shelter. Ernst heard the moans of those who had not made holes; they had no protection at all. Those others had to huddle together in human mounds, with the associated discomforts. Ludwig, Johanna and Ernst huddled too, but at least they were out of the wind and had the protection of the walls of their pit and their cardboard blanket.

In the morning they went to wait at the gate, so as to be ready when the food was delivered. Soon long lines formed behind them, as others realized that this was probably the only way to get fed. But the food was slow in coming. Instead a guard signaled Ernst aside. “Speak English?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” The man was a sergeant, but too much respect was a better risk than too little.

“You look strong. You're assigned to body detail.”

“Sir?”

“Any dead bodies in there, you haul them out here. You get a bonus for it.” The man held out two packages of food.

“Thank you, sir.” Ernst tried not to show his extreme eagerness for the food, because he knew it would always be in short supply and would be a terrible tool for discipline. That had been the way of it on the Russian front. “Do you wish me to look now?”

“Get moving.”

Ernst tucked one package inside his shirt and opened the other. He set off around the edge of the camp, just inside the barbed wire, eating as he walked. Others would believe that this was his only ration. He did not speak to Ludwig and Johanna, knowing that they had seen, and that it would be better for them if no one else realized that they were associated with a man who had food. The two of them might be denied it by the camp authorities, or other internees might attack them and him for it. Again, Ernst's experience as an observer in Russia prepared him; he had survival information. For that much, perhaps, he should thank Dr. Kaltenbrunner.

“Are there any dead?” he called in German.

To his surprise, he received an answer. He went to the man who had answered and squatted by the indicated body. It was an old man whose eyes stared unblinkingly at the sky. He must have been dying when unloaded here. “I will take him away,” Ernst said. “Have you saved his things?”

“We would not rob the dead!” the man protested.

Ernst gave him a level stare. “If we do not save what we can, we will all die sooner. His things are of no further use to him. He would want you to have them.”

The man nodded reluctantly. He bent to rifle the pockets of the dead man. There were a few coins. He offered them to Ernst.

“No. I am paid to do this work.” He looked at the man's feet. “Take his shoes, also; they may fit someone. And his shirt.” He got the shoes off and handed them to the man.

“This is ghoulish,” the man protested.