For Malice and Mercy, page 38
“No,” Karl said. “We were taken from our homes before we could collect any type of identification.”
“What documents do you have to prove who you are?” she demanded.
“Other than this, it was all taken from us. We were deported against our will.”
The women took some papers from a stack of forms and selected one.
“Go to that area over there to complete this form,” she said. “This is for your liberty certificate. You must complete every question, or your application will be denied.”
She pushed the papers at Karl. “Next.”
The lengthy form asked for a history of their residence for the past fifteen years. It also asked about their genealogy, going back generations, seeking out any signs of Jewish blood. As with most Mormons, Karl and Marta knew the names of their families for at least four generations. They filled in the forms and reviewed each other’s work before joining the line again to wait their turn.
After an hour, they approached the window, where a large man greeted them.
“Your paperwork, please.”
Karl handed over their American identification and the form they had been asked to complete.
The man glanced over the new form, a frown darkening his face. “This is wrong. Why did you fill out this form? Who gave this to you?”
Karl’s shoulders sagged a little. “A woman a few windows down.”
He mumbled, then glanced at her with a look of disgust. He looked up at Karl with a pleasant smile. “Aren’t you from that special train that arrived late last night?”
“Yes.”
He reached for a clipboard and ran his finger down a long list of names. “Let me see, Meyer, Karl. Meyer, Marta. There you are. We have your information here. We know who you are. That stupid woman gave you the wrong instructions.”
Karl flinched at the hostility in his tone. The man walked over to the woman and interrupted her, shouting obscenities and threatening to fire her. She left her window in tears. The man then returned and sat again, saying “She should know better. You are Germans sent here from America, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Karl replied.
He grabbed a large rubber stamp and pounded it with vigor on several forms. He rolled a half-sheet of paper in a typewriter, positioned it, then entered the Meyers’ information in the blanks. After a few anxious minutes, he handed each of them their identification papers. “We can only give you temporary German identification. This will expire in six months, and you will need to reapply for a permanent card. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Karl smiled as he reached for the papers.
“Thank you for your help,” Marta added.
They turned away from the window.
“We’re on our own now, I suppose,” Karl said. “We’ll need a train if we don’t want to lug our things all the way to Bremen on foot.”
“Who is going to want American money? We need to find a way to exchange our dollars for Reichsmarks.”
They wandered down the street, drinking in the German shop names and street signs. On the corner, Karl nudged Marta toward a small café. He held the door for Marta. A husky, bright-eyed woman in her mid-thirties attended to customers at the cash register. Karl waited his turn and approached while Marta stood behind him. “Do you know where we can exchange some American money into Reichsmarks?”
Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “You have dollars? Ill exchange them and give you a better rate than you’ll get anywhere else.”
He pulled out his wallet, but she waved it away.
“No, not here. Put your wallet back. Are you crazy?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The woman frowned in confusion.
“We just arrived here,” Karl offered an apologetic shrug.
“You,” she said pointing to Marta. “Meet me in the toilet room. How much do you have to change?” she whispered.
“One hundred sixty dollars,” Karl replied.
“Oh,” she gasped. “I can’t exchange that much. The official rate is two Reichsmarks to the dollar. I can give you three to one. That means I’ll give you a hundred-twenty Reichsmarks for forty dollars. Will you do that?”
“What will I get from a bank?” Karl asked.
“Probably less than two-to-one, if you’re lucky.”
“It’s so much of our money though.”
“If you go to the bank, they’ll ask a lot of questions.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s up to you.”
“Just do it,” Marta muttered next to him. “We can’t do anything without money.”
“Okay. We’ll do it.” Karl agreed with reluctance.
“You go over to that table. In about five minutes, I’ll bring you something. In another five minutes, she can act like she’s going to the toilet. Is that clear?”
Trying to appear as though nothing underhanded was about to happen, they sat at a table for two.
The cashier came over with two steaming mugs of foul-smelling coffee, placing them on the table as she said, “Here’s your coffee. Would you like anything else?”
Karl smelled the coffee and watched as she walked back to her register.
The cafe was almost empty. A lone man sat at a table reading a newspaper. Marta watched the brim of the man’s hat over the top of the newspaper as Karl fumbled in his coat pocket. He pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and put them in Marta’s hand. She clenched the money in her fist and folded her arms, pulling her gaze away from the stranger at the other table.
Marta sniffed her coffee. “I can’t understand how people can drink this stuff.”
Karl wrinkled his nose in protest but sipped it without drawing attention to himself. After five minutes, the black liquid still filled their cups to the brim, Marta stood to look for the women’s toilet.
After a moment, the cashier hurried in and locked the door behind her. She showed Marta the Reichsmarks. “Do you have the forty dollars?”
Marta opened her clenched fist and let her money fall into the women’s hand.
The woman held it closer to her face. A smile curled her lips. “You must keep this a secret,” she insisted. “The government punishes anyone who changes money. They use dollars to buy oil and materials on foreign markets. But they don’t give us a fair rate.”
The woman turned around and unlocked the door, then stopped all of a sudden and insisted, “You wait here for a few minutes before you come out again, okay?”
Marta agreed, and locked the door. After two minutes, she returned to sit with Karl.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
“Yes.” She sank down into her chair.
“We need change to call your mother. Where should we get it?”
“Let’s wait a few minutes and ask the cashier. She’s our only real hope to get some coins for the pay phone.”
Marta downed her coffee, hiding her grimace with every swallow. With her empty cup, she approached the cashier again, gesturing to her mug.
The woman smiled. “Ready for a refill?”
“If you please.” Marta held it out to her and whispered. “Could you give us coins for the pay phone?”
“Sure, how much do you need?”
Quietly, Marta answered, “I’m not sure. I need to call my mother in Bremen.”
“A three-minute call should be about three to four Reichsmarks.”
“Then give me change for five, just to be safe.”
Marta thanked her, and the cashier smiled back. Karl led the way as both of them walked out the café’s door. Before the door closed behind them, Marta noticed the man reading the newspaper had stood and looked around. Holding Karl’s hand, Marta glanced over her shoulder and saw the man picking up his pace to catch up to them. The door to the café flew open, and she pushed Karl into doorway of another business.
“Just wait here a minute.” She held Karl’s elbow. Her heart pounded as she watched the man’s head hurry past the window. “I think that man from the café is following us.”
After a few breathless moments they found the pay phone and stepped to the back of the line. Four other people were ahead of them. Marta fidgeted with her coat sleeves, her buttons, her ring. Karl squeezed her hand, but she drew in sharp anxious breaths. After a few nervous moments, Marta looked over her shoulder, then snapped her gaze back to Karl and pointed. “There he is.”
Karl stiffened, turning to hide his face. He whispered to Marta, “Do you think he’s with the Gestapo?”
Marta lowered her profile, but out of the corner of her eye spotted the man. “I don’t know. He’s looking in our direction, but I don’t think he’s seen us.”
Marta poked her elbow into Karl’s ribs. “Calm down. Everyone’s looking at you. You look like a child with your hand in the cookie jar.”
Karl took a deep breath and exhaled, struggling to stay in control of his emotions.
The woman ahead of them finished her conversation and hung up the phone, Marta pushed Karl to step forward, then took one final glance around the room. “I think he’s gone?” Still unconvinced, Marta continued looking for him.
Karl turned to lift the earpiece from the cradle. Marta watched while Karl waited for the operator to answer. That instant, she recoiled as she felt a stranger tap her shoulder. She gasped in fear at seeing the man from the café.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he stepped back as she spun around. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Marta looked on in terror.
“I think you left your luggage in the café. Is this yours?”
Marta looked down, his hands clutching their suitcase. “Oh, I can’t believe I did that. Yes, this is ours. Thank you for tracking us down. I can’t thank you enough.” Her pounding heart slowed, but the thought of losing all their belongings still clenched her chest with fear. She said a silent prayer of thanks.
“It’s my pleasure to help,” he said. “Have a safe journey.”
Karl handed the phone to Marta. She paused to catch her breath, then spoke into the mouthpiece.
“This is a station-to-station call please. The number is Stuhr 11-42-11, Hildebrandt residence.”
The operator replied in a monotone voice. “One moment, please.”
Marta looked up at Karl. “What if she’s not there?”
He shrugged.
“I haven’t spoken to my mama for ten years. What if she doesn’t recognize my voice?”
The operator said, “Please deposit two Reichsmarks-seventy for three minutes.”
Marta slipped the coins into the payphone, then waited for the operator to acknowledge. “One moment please.”
Who is calling, please?”
“Mrs. Marta Meyer.”
A series of clicks and beeps sounded in Marta’s ear before a voice, as familiar as her own, answered. “Hildebrandt residence.”
Marta held her breath.
The operator said, “Please hold the line for a call from Mrs. Marta Meyer.”
“My Marta is calling? How could that be?”
Another click. “Go ahead,” the operator instructed.
“Hi, Mama.” Tears pricked Marta’s eyes.
“Oh, my Marta. How are you calling me from America?”
“It’s a long story,” she said, sniffing, “but I am in Ravensburg.”
“Ravensburg! Why in heaven’s name are you in Ravensburg? Is Karl okay? What about the children? What is going on?”
“Listen, Mama, I don’t have much time to talk.” She explained their arrest, detention, and transoceanic voyage. “Karl and I arrived in Ravensburg late last night. But we have no place to go. I was hoping we could live with you for a while.”
“Of course, you can,” she said. Her voice turned firm as she asked, “Do you have the proper papers?”
“Yes,” Marta frowned. “Why would that even matter to you?”
“That, too, is a very long story that must wait until you get here. How long will that take?”
“I don’t know, Mama. It’s almost 700 kilometers from here, and I don’t know what to expect, or even how we will get there.”
“You must be very careful,” her mother warned. “Avoid Frankfurt if you can. The trains are constantly attacked. And the rail lines are damaged almost everywhere.”
“We will do our best to get there as soon as we can. Okay, Mama?”
Marta hung up the phone and stepped out of the phone booth. A man waiting in line brushed past her and grabbed the phone. Karl took Marta’s elbow and led her away.
“What did she say?”
“She asked if we had papers. Why would she be so concerned about that?”
Karl scratched his chin. “Maybe she’s renting out rooms to help supplement her income?”
“That doesn’t sound like my Mama.”
“Let’s go. The sooner we can there, the better.”
They waited their turn at the ticket window. Karl stepped up to the agent with a forced smile and said, “Two tickets to Bremen, please.”
Chapter 53
March 8, 1944
Stalag 17-B, Krems-Gneixendorf, Austria
Hank jumped up to a sitting position on his bed. He didn’t know what a restful sleep felt like anymore—not until tonight, when he had fallen into deep sleep and then something startled him awake. Sleeping next to him, Don flinched at his sudden movement. The blanket they shared slipped, and Don grabbed it before it fell to the floor. Hank was breathing fast. He scanned the barracks in the darkness, expecting to see a commotion.
“What’s wrong?” Don asked.
“I thought I heard gunfire.” Hank was confused, still not fully awake. The subdued sounds of slumber filled the barracks. Everyone else still slept.
“You must have dreamt it. But thanks for waking me up.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Shut up you two,” came an angry whisper from another bunk. “It’s too early.”
Hank lay back down, pulling the blanket over their shoulders. They slept in their clothes every night, sharing each other’s body heat. Even in his sleep, Hank could still feel Don trembling in the cold.
“I don’t think my feet will ever warm up,” Don said. “These boots just aren’t doing the job.”
“Too bad you didn’t get a pair of these wooden, clog-like things; my feet stay warm all night and all day.”
A loud “Shhhh” came from a man in the bunk below.
Hank laid back down and put his hands under his head.
Don whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry. How do these guys get used to it?”
“I guess it takes time.”
“What day do they bring the Red Cross parcels?” Don asked. “Is it Fridays?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
“These have been the longest four days of my life. And it’s not just the cold and no food or seeing the poor Russians over there being treated like pigs. It’s the hopeless grind with nothing to look forward to. Nothing. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”
“It will get better once you get something to eat.”
Their hushed voices drifted back into sleep, but Hank had yet to fall into a deep sleep since he arrived.
An hour later, the 0600 reveille resounded throughout the camp. “We can go outside now without being shot.” Hank was groggy as he mumbled. Don grunted in reply. Some men with work details tumbled out of bed and left the barracks for their daily jobs.
”Come on.” Hank shook Don’s shoulder as they shivered in the cold morning darkness. They stumbled outside to the washroom between the two barracks. For breakfast, where they were given a measly ladle of hot water. Some used it for coffee, if they had some from the Red Cross parcel. For most, breakfast wasn’t worth the bother. Hank and Don held the hot water close to their faces and breathed in the warmth.
Two guards wandered by, and a bunkmate beneath Hank and Don shuddered, looking away from them. “Keep an eye out for those two,” he warned.
“Why?” Hank asked.
“See that oversized oaf over there? That’s Stabsgefreiter Schröder. He’s gotta be at least seven feet tall; we call him ‘Big Stoop’.”
Hank glanced where the prisoner pointed and snickered. “He reminds me of that Chinese character in Terry and the Pirates.”
“It’s not funny. Big Stoop has a sadistic streak a mile long,” Hank’s bunkmate said. “Stay out of his reach, ‘cause he’s been known to hit prisoners for no reason, other than he enjoys seeing them writhe on the ground in pain.”
Big Stoop’s arms hung by his side; his catcher’s-mitt-sized hands curled into fists swinging with each step. “His hands are huge.”
“A couple times he just blind-sided a prisoner and cold-cocked him in the ear. It ruptured the guy’s eardrum, and while he thrashed in pain on the ground, Big Stoop stood over him laughing.”
“That’s horrible.”
“But that’s not the worst of it. Big Stoop’s attacks are always encouraged by his partner.” He pointed to a guard who looked to be about thirty years old, with pasty skin and sinister eyes set deep into his gaunt face. His uniform hung on him like a drape, giving him an unkempt, sickly look.
That guy is Gefreiter Sikkar, but we call him ‘Sicko,’ partly because of his sick sense of humor—he’s always egging on Big Stoop—and because he looks like he’s about to keel-over any day now.”
”I can see how the name fits him so well,” Don smiled.
“Whenever Big Stoop whacks someone, this guy’s cackle gives me the creeps.”
Hank watched the two guards and their slow, methodical pace. “I guess he seems a little scary, but is he really that much worse than Big Stoop?”
“Absolutely.” The prisoner looked Hank in the eyes. “No one has ever witnessed Sicko actually hit anyone. He’s more of a cheerleader than a brute. Stoop has a tendency toward violence, but Sikkar is more Machiavellian. He’s corrupt and scheming. He’ll do anything or say anything to get what he wants. Don’t ever trust him.”
