I Marched with Patton, page 16
I walked into the kitchen and discovered that I was the first one up. I sat down at the wooden table that had obviously been handmade. Its worn surface must have fed who knows how many people over the years. The kitchen had a charm that felt almost like home. I found some cheese and a small, round loaf of bread tucked away in a cupboard. The cheese had a different smell to it, and I had no idea what kind it was, but the taste was on the mild side. I sat there in the quiet, enjoying the absence of cannons blasting and rifles firing.
I lit a cigarette and thought about what it might be like to go back home again. Would the town be any different? Would the people be the same? Perhaps life in Weleetka had rolled along like a train leaving town, and I would be left in the station alone as it roared away. Hard to say. But I knew the war had made everything different whether I liked it or not.
Mr. Dobson came in and sat down across from me. “I see you ate everything in the house,” he said with a grin.
“Would I betray you?”
“Yeah, you would!” Dobson laughed. “Anything left?”
“Try that cupboard over there. I think you’ll find something better than those army rations.”
We sat there lost in our own thoughts. Finally, I spoke.
“Thinking about home?”
Dobson looked down at the table for a few moments. “Yeah. Seems like it’s a chapter of a book that I once read, but now the book is lost. I’m somewhere else.”
“Know what you mean.” I blew a puff of smoke overhead. “You can certainly disappear in this strange land called Germany. Never seen anything like it. The buildings are different. The streets twist and turn without any rhyme or reason. Never heard people speak German before like they do every day of the week here. I miss that Oklahoma twang. Really different.”
“Know what you mean.” Dobson looked away. Of course, he was older, but something had touched a nerve, and he didn’t want to talk about it.
I finished my bread and cheese. Put out the cigarette. “I guess I’ll go pack my gear, so I’ll be ready to go when everybody else is.”
Mr. Dobson nodded but didn’t say anything.
An hour later, the six of us were sitting on the curb waiting for Dobson to pick us up. Nobody was saying much. The concentration camp experience had affected everybody in much the same way. We didn’t want to talk about it.
Our truck rolled up in front of us. Everyone picked up his gear and climbed in. We rode back to the highway that took us into Munich proper. The smoke had cleared, and there were no sounds of shooting. Military trucks loaded with soldiers were going in the opposite direction, probably, I would realize later, on their way to the final battle at the airport. We passed a cart loaded with home furnishings of some sort being pulled by a man and a woman, with another woman in back helping to push the cart forward. They were dressed like poor people in the 1920s looked, with shawls wrapped around them and bedraggled coats.
We turned into the city. It was clear that Munich had been as badly bombed as we’d heard. Everywhere we looked, the evidence of explosions littered the streets. Splintered boards and scattered glass were strewn over the sidewalks. Roofs cratered. Windows and doors gone. Hunks of concrete piled up. Church steeples destroyed. Devastation everywhere.
Not until we were halfway into the city did we finally see anyone: an old lady walking a dog on a leash turned a corner just ahead of us. Her scarf was pulled down, nearly covering her face, so she didn’t have to look up. The woman didn’t glance at us as we roared past. Since we seemed to be the only vehicle within miles, we got the picture. Her avoidance meant “Go to hell.”
As we got nearer the Marienplatz, an American guard stepped into the street and held up his hand to have us stop.
“Where you men headed?” he asked.
“Believe it or not, we’re here for a little R&R. Doesn’t look like much of a place for a little vacation, though,” I said.
“You got that right,” the guard said. “You need to check in so they’ll know where to find you. Straight ahead is a bombed-out hotel. You’ll see the sign. Aloft Munchen. Headquarters is in the basement.”
The only habitable area in many of these bombed buildings was the basement.
“Okay,” I said and saluted.
The guard returned the salute, and we drove off. A block away, the Aloft Munchen sign hung precariously at an angle like it was ready to fall off. We walked inside—made easier by the fact that the front doors were gone—stepping over broken glass. One look around, and we spotted the stairs that led down. We walked up to a sergeant sitting behind a desk.
“We’re here to sign in,” I announced. “We’re with the Six-Sixty-Seventh Field Artillery Battalion. We were sent here for a little relaxation. Where in the hell can you put up your feet in this blown-up city?”
He laughed. “Now, that’s a challenge, but you’ll find a number of places the bombers missed. Just come back after you settle in and let us know where we can find you.”
“Will do,” I said.
Each of the men registered, and we walked out. Back on the street, we glanced around. A huge cathedral looked like it had been hit but was still standing. Inside a tall tower, a huge clock with moving figures grabbed anyone’s attention that walked by. The bombers missed it, but the magnificent clock no longer ticked.
“Maybe we ought to find a hotel or some housing facility,” Al Jackson suggested. “Possibly there are some empty houses around.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let us see what we can turn up.”
34
Roughing It
By nightfall, we’d found one hotel near the center of town that was semifunctional. They seemed overjoyed to see anyone, much less seven of us. We quickly found our rooms. To do nothing more than relax seemed heavenly. A real change of pace. Other soldiers began to roll into Munich as the occupation developed. The surrounding small towns became sites where houses were commandeered. The owners were allowed to stay there without any disruption to their kitchen or facilities. The commander explained that bedding was needed only for a night or two, and then they’d be moving on.
Word spread quickly that the vast majority of local citizens actually did see us as their liberators. They had not only not supported the Nazis, but many had been abused by them. Hitler had become a hated symbol of tyranny. These German natives now recognized us as their deliverers. We found quickly that they wanted our friendship. Of course, that was smart on their part.
We strolled the streets to see anything that was still worth seeing. On one corner, we found a large concrete swastika statue with an eagle attached on the top. Wouldn’t be long before someone tore that down. We found shrines and some statues that had survived. Actually, Munich proved to be a fascinating city even with all the destruction. The medieval touches of the distant past remained in much of what we saw.
That evening we hunted for a nightclub still standing. The infamous Hofbrauhaus of Bürgerbraükeller, where Hitler started out in the basement, had been destroyed, so that beer garden was out. Someone told us about a place called Kulbtiaabrik, but we couldn’t find it. Another nightspot, the Strom, operating out of a cellar in the center of the city, seemed to fit our needs best, so we sauntered over.
We were met at the door by a maître d’ who was almost out of his mind with joy that U.S. soldiers had walked in. He immediately showed us to a table next to the dance floor and brought us a complimentary bottle of wine. You would have thought we were royalty. The food selection was skimpy, but we understood; they were lucky to still be in business.
I noticed a small group of women walk in and start looking us over. I imagined they hadn’t seen too many GIs up close and wondered what made us tick. We had just about finished eating when two of them came over to our table.
“Tanzen?” the first girl said, beaming. “Dance?” She was tall and kind of skinny, with a pretty face.
“Der Tanz?” the second one added. “Do you dance?” Much shorter, she had a knockout figure.
“Sorry,” I said. “No sprechen. Only English.”
The girls giggled. One said, “Swing? Jitterbug?”
“Hot dog!” Al Jackson jumped up. “You’re on!” He held out his hand, and the tall one took it.
I noticed a waiter pushing a record player onto the edge of the dance floor. He held up a 78 single record and studied it for a moment. Then he put the black platter on the turntable and set down the needle. Suddenly the infectious rhythm of clarinetist Benny Goodman and his orchestra echoed around the room. Jackson was out there in the middle of it, having the time of his life. The woman that he kept swinging around seemed to know the steps like a pro. While the Nazis abhorred swing music as degenerate, and, of course, hated bandleader Goodman, who was Jewish, somehow these girls had smuggled the records in under the door. She was following Al like an American dance queen.
“You dance?” Snuffy Smith asked me.
“Not worth a hoot.”
Snuffy laughed. “Well, here’s your chance. I see one of those girls over there eyeing you.”
“Get serious,” I said.
“Here she comes!”
I looked up to see blond hair framing a beautiful face. “Tanzen?” She appeared to force a smile. Even though she was poured into a dress on the suggestive side, and wore fire-engine-red lipstick that was almost fluorescent and too much rouge, under it all, this young woman certainly looked to be on the naïve and unsophisticated side. “Tanzen?” she repeated.
I glanced around at the men, knowing my face was turning red. They were laughing. The young woman kept grinning.
“No sprechen German.” I shrugged.
“Okay, American boy,” she said with only a slight accent. “I teach you.” She laughed.
“I’m not good at dancing,” I replied.
“Okay, American boy, you can learn.” She reached for my hand.
The next thing I knew, I was on the dance floor, probably looking more like a clown than a dancer. She kept moving her feet to the music and swinging her hips with the beat. I tried to imitate whatever she did.
“How’d you learn to speak English?” I shouted over the music.
“Study in school it.” She kept grinning.
“And your name?”
“Am called Greta. Greta Hirsch.”
“Well, Greta, my dancing isn’t very good.”
“Oh, fine.” She kept moving her feet back and forth to the music.
I kept doing whatever turns and twists that she did. I didn’t have to talk while dancing, so that made it easier. When the song stopped, Greta didn’t let go of my hand. She pulled me over to an empty table away from the rest of the guys.
“We talk here nice,” Greta said. “What your name, American boy?”
“Frank. Frank Sisson.”
“Oh, nice name.”
“How old are you, Greta?”
“I am twenty-seven years.”
I laughed. “Don’t kid me. How old are you really?”
Greta blushed slightly. “Seventeen.”
“Ah, just about what I thought. You like a cigarette?”
“Sure.”
I pulled a pack out of my pocket and gave her one. I lit it for her.
“Keep the pack,” I said.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” She quickly slipped it into her purse. “You have . . . I think you say . . . girlfriend?”
“I do. In the United States. Her name is Alice.”
“Sorry,” Greta said. “I make you nice girlfriend.”
I smiled. She didn’t.
“You would, Greta. But I’ll be here only a couple of days, and then I’m gone.”
The waiter came prancing over immediately and bowed slightly. “Bottle of wine for you, Herr soldier?”
I had a sense where this might be going, and I didn’t want to hop aboard that train. “One glass for the lady.”
“Of course, Herr soldier.” The waiter hurried away.
“You escaped danger during the war, the fighting?” I asked.
Her smile disappeared, and she straightened in her chair. “This is difficult to talk about. Unpleasant. Why you ask?”
“I would like to know about your experience. Your struggle.”
“Maybe we can talk of something else. Like discuss swing music. The sound. The beat.”
“The past few weeks have been hard for all of us. Has been for me. I’m sure it has been for you. Your city was bombed. I’ve walked down the streets and seen the rubble everywhere.”
“Pleasant it has not been.” She swallowed hard.
“Tell me some of the details. What happened?”
Greta looked at me for several seconds as if struggling to decide whether or not she should speak of her experience. Her jaw tightened. “My friends been killed. Our house bombed. Very dark time.” I studied her face for a clue. All flirtatiousness had disappeared. Her eyes looked haunted. I had touched something painful that had been lurking just below the surface. It had taken only a second to peel back a scab on a throbbing hurt. Abruptly, it seemed as if a different person was sitting in front of me.
“I find it hard the war to talk about. Please, can we change subject?”
For a moment, I studied her eyes again. Sadness had surfaced. “You are a nice person,” I said sincerely. “A good girl.”
Greta nodded but didn’t say anything. She stared at me. Not hard. Not angry. But as if I had stripped her of a façade she had not expected to reveal on this night.
The waiter slipped a glass of wine in front of her, smiled perfunctorily, and handed me a bill. I paid it.
“No more hard questions,” I said. “Do you come here to dance with men often?”
Greta shook her head. “Before never.”
“Just want to have some fun?”
She shrugged and looked away.
“The Nazis made it hard for you?”
“Hitler made big promises, and then everybody got pushed into army.” She stopped. “My brother never came back.”
“I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Silence fell between us. I watched the crowd on the dance floor, swinging away. Al Jackson looked like he was a monkey going out of his mind. Even Parker was jumping around like a toad on a hot plate.
“You are kind man,” Greta said eventually. “Your soothing words good to hear. Important for me tonight.”
“You must be cautious, Greta. Most American soldiers are good folks; some aren’t. Don’t make yourself vulnerable to the bad boys.”
“Vulnerable?” Greta shook her head. “Don’t know this word.”
“Means don’t let anybody talk you into doing something that will degrade you, demean you,” I explained.
“Oh!” She blinked several times. “Understand. Yes . . . understand.”
“You are a good person,” I repeated.
Greta nodded soberly. “Understand.” She managed a weak smile. “Thank you for your kind thoughts. They help. Tonight . . . a hard time for me . . . yes, hard.” She scooted back in her chair and stood up. “Thank you for cigarettes. Thank you, Frank American boy. Thank you.”
I watched Greta bypass the girls she’d come in with, press her way through the crowd, and disappear out the door. Meanwhile, the swing sound kept pumping and the GIs hopping. The rest of her group was out hoofing it with the guys. Quite a sight.
I never saw her again.
35
The Russians
The next morning, Walt Brandon, Jack Postawaiet, and I started out again to see what remained of Munich. Snuffy and Al stayed behind, as did Dobson and Parker. Even with all the destruction, the city retained some of its glory. When we walked down Gumpendorferstrasse, we passed the huge concrete tower that had been built to combat World War II air raids. We came back around to St. Stephan’s Church. The ancient building had been hit at least twice but came off better than most of the downtown and remained awe-inspiring.
We found an open outdoor corner coffee shop and sat down. The waiter smiled pleasantly.
“What can I get for you gentlemen?”
“You speak excellent English,” I said.
“I can speak English, French, German, and Italian,” he said. “In Munich, one learns to be versatile.”
“You’re way ahead of America,” I said.
“How about strudel?” Walt said. “Got any?”
“Of course. Strudel is our specialty. Coffee as well?”
“Sure.”
We talked while we sat there waiting for our order. We knew the Russians had already hit Vienna, Austria, and that the struggle had been fierce. The waiter returned carrying a large tray with our strudel and coffee. His balancing act could not have been easy.
“Sit down,” I said. “You are working too hard.”
The waiter laughed. “I am happy to be here at all. Yes, today hard work makes me feel good.”
“Have a question for you. Do you know anything about Vienna?”
The waiter nodded his head gravely. “Of course. I have a cousin who lives there.”
Walt leaned forward. “We heard the battle to take Vienna proved to be tough.”
The waiter shook his head. “You are Americans. Civilized. You have come to set Munich free, but the Russians always had other ideas. They hate the Germans, and the Austrians are too much related to us. The Russians were savage.”
“We’ve heard such reports before,” Walt said.
The waiter’s eyes narrowed. And he told us of his cousin’s experience. He was living in an apartment on a side street. As the Russians approached, German soldiers started shooting from the roof. When the exchange stopped, the Russians ordered everybody out of the building and lined them up in front of the apartment building. Apparently, they thought somebody in the apartment building had been firing at them. The Russians prepared to kill every one of those people. A man was standing there with his infant grandson and realized they were all about to die. He suddenly tossed the baby to one of the Russian soldiers. The Russian looked puzzled, but he realized the man was doing everything he could to save the child. Suddenly the Germans started shooting from another building they had moved to. The Russian soldier tossed the baby back to the man and started shooting at the Nazis on the other roof. If the Wehrmacht hadn’t started shooting again, the Russians would have killed every one of those people.
