Himmler's War

CHAPTER 27

It had been years since Varner had ridden a bicycle and his legs hurt from the effort. However, it was the best way of finding his way to his family. Cars were few and gasoline in short supply.

Schurmer had been right. The code-names had been a magic wand, a real get out of jail card. Instead of years in a prison camp, like so many will be enduring, he’d only spent a couple of months and most of that simply waiting for the inevitable bureaucratic snarls to clear up. Finally, he’d been given a pass and an identity card which he’d had to show several times before clearing the prison area along with several more times since then. After all, he still wore a German uniform and carried the rank of general.

He’d managed to write to Magda and gotten notes from her. Again, his exalted status as a friend of the United States, however undeserved, helped him. Magda had told him frankly and candidly of the terrible times they’d endured. She said that the two Jewish refugees were still at the farm waiting for things to settle while the Brit had gone to find his unit. A good man, Varner thought. No, good men. They’d saved his wife and daughter from a terrible death.

He pedaled through a village. Where had all the swastikas gone, he wondered with intended irony. The history of the Third Reich was being whitewashed away. He sighed. A coat of paint would not be enough to erase the horrors. Many high ranking Nazis would pay with their lives for their sins and their arrogance.

The Allies had been wise to let Rommel continue on as a figurehead leader. Although once a dedicated Nazi, Rommel had turned on the war criminals who had nearly destroyed Europe with a vengeance. He was making plans with the Allies for new elections in Germany. The Nazi Party, of course, would be prohibited.

Himmler was dead, but scores of SS leaders and a number of other high ranking Nazis were in custody awaiting trial or were running for their lives. Included in the latter group were Volkmar Detloff’s father, who was rumored to be in Switzerland. Volkmar, that fool, was in a hospital, a cripple. A tank had run over his legs, smashing them. He would live as either a cripple or an amputee.

Von Rundstedt was in prison along with a number of high ranking generals and admirals, and their fate was uncertain.

There were many other uncertainties. He had written to Margarete that no word had come from her first love, the appropriately named Hart. Apparently the base where he’d been stationed had been heavily bombed and casualty reports said he was missing and probably dead. She would have to get over that just as she would have to somehow get over being raped. He wondered if he was strong enough to help her, and Magda, who seemed stronger than all of them.

Rommel was forming a state militia to work with the Americans in keeping order. Varner had been offered a place in it with the rank of general. He would accept it. The alternative was working the Mullers’ farm and he was not a farmer. The militia position would keep them all in food and shelter.

The Mullers’ farm finally came in view, as did two women and two men, who stood and stared as he pedaled down the road. He smiled at the thought of how he looked. His once proud uniform was in rags and tatters.

The main building had suffered damage and he could see several burned out tanks in the fields, graphic testimony to the fighting that had swept over his family. Magda said they’d all endured by cowering in a shelter built by Uncle Eric.

As before, Margarete shrieked and ran out to him, grabbing him and almost knocking him off his bicycle. Magda followed a few strides later, and he engulfed her and their daughter in his arms.

He looked at them. Their eyes were wide and clear. “Are you all right?”

They nodded and smiled. “Everything is healing,” said Magda and they all hugged again.

The two Jews silently took in the tableau. Their plans had been to return to their homes, but anti-Jewish rioting had changed their minds. They would be heading to Palestine. Varner noted the pistols in their belts. Some college professors, he thought. He shook their hands and thanked them. Magda suggested they all go inside for dinner.

Morgan thought of the poem that said something about poppies growing among the rows of crosses in a vast cemetery. He never liked poetry and only dimly remembered that it had been a tribute to the dead of World War I.

There was a bumper crop of white wooden crosses and the occasional Star of David in this field, but no poppies just yet. It had been too soon. Mounds of raw dirt were in front of each cross or star. Thousands of Americans had died in the last epic battle that ended the Third Reich and most of them were buried in this field south of Reinbach.

They had a map of the cemetery and good directions. Colonel Tom Granville had used Ike’s name to get all of them access to the field. It had only been three months since the battle and it was a long ways from being ready to receive visitors, but it would likely be a long time, perhaps forever, before they would be able to return.

Hilda found it first. She sobbed and fell to her knees in front of Jeb’s grave. Jack wondered just how much of Jeb was actually buried there. He’d heard from Levin that Jeb’s tank had been blown to pieces and doubtless too was Jeb Carter.

Hilda’s pregnancy was becoming pronounced and she would leave by plane for the United States the next day. She would be staying with Jeb’s parents who desperately wanted a grandchild. The child would be born on American soil and, therefore, be a United States citizen.

Jessica and Jack stood back. They held hands, but said nothing. Finally, Jessica took a deep breath. “I will miss him. I have a lot to thank him for. After all, he did find me you.”

“He was crazy,” Jack said, “but crazy in a good way. So he gets the Medal of Honor, but he won’t be around for the honor.”

Jeb’s heroism in attacking the enemy armor resulted in the posthumous Medal of Honor, which was another reason why Hilda’s move to the States was being expedited. After all, she was the widow of a hero.

As for the two of them, their return would be routine. Permission to marry had been granted and a chaplain had performed the service. Jessica and Jack would be going back on one of the ocean liners that had been converted to military use. Ironically, that meant they would be separated for the voyage. There were no accommodations for married couples and Jack would be stuffed in with a large number of officers.

Jack would be discharged since his shoulder injury meant he would be incapable of being a soldier for at least a year, while Jessica had resigned from the Red Cross and simply wanted to go home with Jack.

“Too many,” Jack said as he looked over the vast field of death. “Far, far too many.”

Sergeant Major Rolfe was buried out there somewhere, as was Feeney. Snyder was still in a hospital but would recover. Levin was also wounded and recovering. He had reiterated his desire to go to Palestine as soon as he was able.

Jessica squeezed Jack’s arm. Hilda had stood up. She nodded and smiled wanly. Jessica agreed. “Let’s go home.”