Who Are You

My father was not a big fan of fireworks.  But the other dads in the neighborhood drove their kids across the Tennessee River to Morgan County, to stock up for the annual Fourth of July extravaganza.  It was illegal to sell the stuff in Huntsville.  Not that anyone searched the cars coming back across Whitesburg Bridge, or paid any attention as we peppered our neighborhood with pretend weapons.

 

I knew he didn’t want to take me, but Dad didn’t object when I hitched a ride with my friend’s father.  With my healthy allowance, it wasn’t hard for me to save up enough to come back with a grocery bag full of exploding goodies.

 

He was okay with using his professional skills to help me get optimal performance out of my bottle rockets and Roman candles.  He even pretended to enjoy the show I put on, as a good dad will do.  Had I bothered to think about it, I would have realized. 

 

My father experienced the bombing of Warsaw, multiple bombings at Peenemunde and Nordhausen, and the fury of an American artillery unit as the Nazis evacuated through Glashütten.  The first bomb that exploded in Warsaw packed more than the combined punch of every firecracker and M-80 that ever passed through my hands.  Nothing I did with fireworks was likely to impress Artur.

 

In Glashütten, the dull thud of the artillery shells approached.  Even from their underground shelter, the three could hear the truck engines on the road as the German army retreated.  Occasionally they heard men shouting.  Then the shells started exploding around them.

 

At one point, a cow issued a loud bellow after an explosion.  The anguish of death is universal and understood by all species.  The ground shook, dust fell from the rafters.  The smell of smoke filtered into the basement.  Something was on fire.

 

Then, everything was quiet.  Hans and Bertina climbed out of the shelter.  They insisted Artur stay inside.  They closed up the entrance and piled boxes inside the cabinet on top of the false floor.

 

The couple had already decided what to do next.  Hans propped the basement door open, then did the same thing to the front door.  They knew, the soldiers who would be there soon would not be deterred by closed doors. 

 

He stood on the front porch for a moment and surveyed the farm.  There were a number of holes in the ground where shells had exploded.  None of the buildings had been hit directly.  But the house had some broken windows.  A shell had landed just in front of the barn.  There was something wrong with the door, the concussion had probably knocked it off of the rail. 

 

Hans noted the source of the smoke they had smelled earlier.  A shell struck near a pile of dried corn stalks and ignited them.  The fire went out on its own as the stalks burned down.

 

Many of the cows were milling around, munching on grass.  Oblivious to the carnage they just lived through.  Hans wondered how many didn’t make it.  He wouldn’t find that out until later.  He rejoined Bertina in the basement.  He spoke loud enough for Artur to hear as he gave his assessment of the damage.  All in all, they were pretty lucky.

 

Again, it was time to wait.  Bertina uncovered the shelter door at lunchtime and handed a sandwich and a mug of tea to Artur.  Then she and Hans sat at the table in the basement and ate.  A few minutes later, they heard an engine.  And the squeal of brakes, as a Jeep stopped in front of their house. 

 

The voice over the megaphone was garbled.  The speaker was a beginner at German.  It didn’t matter.  Everyone knows “come out with your hands up” when they hear it.

 

Bertina had only seen the flag in a picture, long ago, in grade school.  She wasn’t sure how many stars or how many stripes it had.  She guessed incorrectly, 36 and 12.  And, she would have to make do with whatever shades of red and blue she had.  White is white, that wouldn’t be a problem.  She’d cut two rectangles out of one of Hans’ old tee shirts, stitched a nice border around the edges, and tacked each to a board. 

 

The dairy ran year round but the farm side of the business shut down during winter.  Then, Bertina would have a little time each day to paint, a hobby she had developed as a child.

 

When Hans and Bertina walked out their front door to greet the enemy, each carried a Bertina original on the end of a short pole, in their outstretched hands.  Despite the inaccuracies, the Americans did not have any trouble recognizing their flag.

 

The soldiers had been tasked with securing the newly captured territory.  Part of that involved searching every house and building.  After the war, the Allied forces would be in charge of the welfare of millions of people, living in a country whose infrastructure they had just bombed into oblivion. They documented the names and addresses of the civilians they encountered.  The ID cards they will soon print would be a part of managing the occupation.

 

That was when Hans saw an opportunity, and jumped on it.  You always need a plan.  But thinking on your feet is good too.  

 

Without the interference of the megaphone, the young American spoke passable German.  Hans answered his questions and watched him write down their names and the address of the farm.  The epiphany occurred when the soldier asked him, “Do you have children that will be returning from the war?”

 

He looked at his wife and knew she was thinking the same thing. 

 

“Yes, we cannot wait for this war to be over so our Axel can come home.”

 

The soldier wrote, Axel Müller, son, currently deployed.

 

Artur’s return home would be risky and complex.  He would travel from Glashütten to the border town of Wildenau.  From there, he would have to sneak across the border into Czechoslovakia.  Then somehow make it all the way across a country whose language he did not speak.  Next, he would have to manage a second border crossing, into Poland.  All in all, if he made it to Warsaw, he would complete a trek of 650 kilometers, across three countries. 

 

Hans expected that the trains would be running again in a matter of weeks or months, once the war was completely over.  About the time the German soldiers would be returning home.   If Artur had an ID saying he was Axel, he could blend in. 

 

In his heart, Hans knew Artur had no chance of succeeding.  It didn’t matter.  Hans had done everything he could think of to help.  With the ID card, at least the first part of the plan, catching a train to the Czech border, would be a piece of cake.