Himmler's War

CHAPTER 7

Hermann Goering half dozed in his oversized hospital bed and thought of Carinhall, his magnificent estate northeast of Berlin. Named for his first wife, Carin, it had also been the site of his wedding to his second wife, Emmy. His dreamy drug-induced thoughts included his happily observing the magnificent and historic art works taken from museums and private owners. Most of the latter were, of course, Jews. Much of it had been bought from the previous owners and not stolen, as some alleged, and so what if he paid only a minuscule fraction of the real worth? The owners were permitted to live, weren’t they? At least for a while, he thought and giggled softly, unless they had somehow managed to get out of Nazi Germany, in which case they could live all they wanted.

He managed to realize that he desperately needed to get out of this damned hospital bed and go home to Carinhall. He wanted to know what was happening in Germany, but no one would talk to him even during those brief times when he was lucid. He was alone in the large, even luxurious, room. Even though he knew better, he felt it could be a prison. But who would imprison the heir to Hitler?

His mind was fogged, but he’d been told that Hitler was dead. In that case, he, Hermann Goering, should be leading Germany in her fight against her many enemies. But if he wasn’t leading Germany, who was? Bormann was an obvious choice, since Bormann was an odious snake who’d connived himself into a position of power, but the equally disgusting Himmler was another possibility. If only he could think clearly, he could work this out.

Goering thought the doctors were trying to wean him away from his drug addiction, but they were going about it in a very strange way since he was not suffering from any withdrawal symptoms. He chuckled to himself, making a sound like a gurgle. At least he was finally losing some weight. Perhaps some of his older uniforms would fit him. That would be nice. He’d look well at social events.

A new doctor in a white coat came in and looked at his chart. He was very tall, well over six feet, and he had dueling scars on his cheek. His eyes were cold as ice and Goering suddenly knew that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t a doctor! It was Otto Skorzeny. So why is he in my room? Goering thought, and then smiled. He is going to take me from this wretched place and put me in charge of Germany as Hitler’s rightful heir. So why is he fiddling with the intravenous solution?

Skorzeny looked down on Goering and twisted his face in something resembling a smile. It made him look evil and Goering shivered. He tried to move his arms but they wouldn’t respond. Then his tongue wouldn’t either.

“It won’t be long now Fat Hermann,” Skorzeny said.

It wasn’t. In only a few seconds, eternal darkness enveloped Hermann Goering.

The city of Rennes in western France had fallen to the Allies. Located along the Ille and Villaine rivers, Rennes had been a major city since before Roman times and, along with medieval buildings, the city boasted a section of the third century city wall.

It was also a major rail hub, which accounted for the fact that it had been bombed a number of times. It was now the latest temporary headquarters for Eisenhower and the rest of SHAEF, which had moved from Bayeux.

For Jessica Granville, it meant that she could finally begin the work for which she’d volunteered-reuniting refugee families. She and a score of other Red Cross workers from England and France, as well as the U.S. had set up shop in a warehouse near the center of town. At first people who saw the Red Cross flag thought they’d receive handouts of food and clothing and were disappointed to find that the intense and eager young men and women were simply gathering information on missing people.

But they soon caught on and now Jessica and the others were inundated with French men and women looking for family members who’d disappeared into the bloody maw of Hitler’s Germany. Not only were many hundreds of thousands of French male POWs from the 1940 German assault somewhere in the Third Reich, but so too were many others who’d been swept up by the Nazis to work as slaves on various projects or in German controlled factories. Saddest were those who were looking for loved ones arrested by the Gestapo. Even they knew it was likely a futile search.

To her surprise, a number of Jews had escaped Himmler’s dragnets and emerged from hiding, and they too desperately wanted information on loved ones who’d disappeared. The Jews were fatalistic. They did not think they’d ever see their loved ones alive. They only wanted confirmation of death.

This was information she could not yet give them.

Data gathering was only in its formative stage. Jessica interviewed them and would take down all the pertinent information she could gather on handwritten forms. These would then be sent to people who used data gathering and retrieval machines like those used in the U.S. Census. Information would be punched into heavy paper forms by IBM. She didn’t quite understand it, but, apparently, it would enable someone to locate a name.

Assuming, of course, that the person’s name was spelled correctly. For many of the undereducated French, spelling was an art rather than a science. When she’d mentioned it, one of her co-workers laughed and said it was how names of immigrants to America were recorded at Ellis Island, phonetically and not accurately.

Nor was her French up to the task. Three years of high school classes and two of college did not prepare her for the job. Her teachers had told her that French was the language of the world and diplomacy. The people she dealt with were not diplomats and spoke in often confusing local idiom along with heavy regional accents.

Nor were many of them very patient. With the arrogance of some French people, more than a few expected her to do something about their missing loved ones immediately and became irate when she told them it could take months, if ever.

At least she had her uncle to talk to. Tom Granville had arrived and was on Ike’s staff. One afternoon, he showed up at the warehouse and took her by the arm. “Come on, Jessica, I’ll treat you to some bad wine and stale bread.”

They sat on the grass by the river. The wine was bad, vinegary, but the bread was delicious, particularly when slathered with local butter.

“Uncle, are there any good Nazis?”

“In a word, no. There are a few devout and fanatic believers, and a very large number who are just along for the ride, but they are all guilty to some degree, which is going to cause a mess when this war is over and we try to find some Germans we can work with. Along with the invasions and the slavery, I’m sure you’ve heard about the death camps.”

She took a sip of her wine and tried not to grimace. It was described as a table wine and she wondered which table it’d been made from. “Death camps? Murder factories? It’s just too fantastic. I find the stories about them just too hard to believe.”

“Believe. And we are finding more and more about places like Auschwitz. They are nothing more than assembly line mass murder on an incomprehensible scale. We may find out that millions have been murdered.”

The numbers were too much for Jessica to contemplate. “Is that why we can never negotiate with Nazis and why there must be unconditional surrender no matter how long and how many lives it takes? If so, the world truly has gone mad.”

“That’s the current plan, Jessica, and yes, the world truly has gone mad thanks to Hitler and the Nazis. Of course, the politicians who plan the wars but never have to fight them can always change our minds for us. But tell me, which would you prefer to deal with-Hitler who ordered the atrocities committed, or Himmler who enforced them?”

“Neither.”

“Then let me ask you another question. What will you do when you have to coordinate the refugee efforts of Germans?”

Jessica paused and thought. “I hope I will do the best I can for them.”

Tom stood and brushed crumbs off his uniform. “And that’s all I or anyone else can do. I have to go back to my duties, but let’s end on a happy note. Your cousin Jeb is with the 74th Armored Regiment and not all that far from here. If something works our right, maybe I can get you to see him.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Jeb was a couple of years older, and had always been the big brother she never had. Distant cousins, they had spent numerous summers together when her family vacationed in the south and his in the north. She even forgave him those few times when he’d gotten just a little horny and rambunctious. She would indeed like to see Jeb. Along with her uncle, he would bring a level of sanity into her new life.

“Welcome to Festung Seine, Colonel Varner,” Colonel Hans Schurmer said with a wry smile.

Ernst Varner laughed and they shook hands warmly. They’d been friends for many years, starting with their early days as eager young officers in the army. Schurmer was short and plump, a no-nonsense engineer who was in charge of developing the defenses north of Paris along the Seine. He was also an intelligent and sophisticated man with a wicked sense of humor.

All around there was evidence of hurried activity. Hurried, not yet frantic, as the Americans were still more than a hundred miles away. German guards armed with submachine guns oversaw gaunt and half-starved French prisoners of war and freshly drafted civilians who worked with shovels, while German and French engineers worked with heavy machinery. The prisoners were unenthusiastic, to put it mildly, and had to be prodded by guards and prisoner overseers whose efforts often constituted beatings. The newly drafted French civilians looked in horror at the human wrecks who once had been French soldiers and then with hatred at their Nazi captors.

Varner looked on the scars the construction work had made in the earth. The bunkers and trenches would be visible to Allied planes as well as eyes on the ground once the Americans and British got close enough. Camouflage would be too little too late.

The work being done was impressive, but Varner still had his doubts. He took a puff of his cigar. It was a Cuban and thoughtfully provided by Schurmer who had gotten it and others from a Spanish diplomat in Paris. “Hans, do you really think this will stop them?”

“Of course not. The Seine is a miserable place to plan a defensive line. It twists and turns all over France and the embankments are no threat whatsoever. We will, however, attempt to correct nature’s deficiencies.”

“What I see is impressive,” Varner said. “But you will be attacked from the air as well as by artillery.”

As if to punctuate the statement, sirens began to wail. Workers laid down their tools and moved quickly to the shelters. Bombs did not discriminate between prisoners and guards.

Schurmer steered Varner to a slit trench as antiaircraft batteries opened up, attempting to set up a wall of flak. “We’ll be safe enough here. I have this deathly fear of being buried alive; ergo, I will take my chances on being obliterated by a lucky bomb. If that kind of death was good enough for Hitler, it’s good enough for me.”

“Why do the workers leave their tools behind?”

“So my soldiers don’t get their heads split open by a French prisoner’s shovel while they’re in the shelter. They don’t like us.” He grinned wickedly. “Surely even those in Berlin understand how unloved we are.”

Bombers were now clearly visible overhead, B17’s by their silhouette. Varner saw something flickering in the air and realized bombs were dropping.

Schurmer laughed harshly. “Don’t worry, Ernst, we are safe here. As usual the Yanks dropped their bombs too late when coming in from the west, which means they will pass over us. And if they fly north to south, their accuracy’s even worse. They have a devil of a time hitting a long, thin target like this. A large sprawling city like Berlin they can find and bomb, but not defensive works like these. After a number of terrible incidents in Normandy, the Allied bomber pilots are desperately afraid of dropping too soon and killing their own men. They are now doing a marvelous job of plowing various farmers’ fields for them.”

The bombs impacted. Explosions rippled and sent artificial winds over them. But Schurmer was right. The bombs fell harmlessly well to the east.

Schurmer took a happy puff on his cigar. “Oh, sometimes they get it right and we lose some men and we have to rebuild something, but the normal day’s bombing is of no consequence. Generally, they fly too high for precision bombing. They depend on their so-called secret Norden bomb sight, which is fine by me. Also, I don’t feel that their pilots have their hearts in the effort to bomb us.”

The all-clear sounded and the guards prodded the workers out of the shelters and back to work.

“As you can tell,” Schurmer said, continuing the tour, “our primary ground defenses consist of tank traps, large ditches, and bunkers made of sandbags and concrete. The whole area is or will be saturated with numerous antitank guns along with soldiers armed with machine guns and Panzerfausts. In front of the bunkers, we’ve sown tens of thousands of antipersonnel and antitank mines. When the Allies do break through, there are several hundred Panzer IV and about fifty of our precious and carefully rationed Panther tanks waiting to counterattack and nip the Allies in the bud while the bulk of our army withdraws to the next line.”

“So what should I tell von Rundstedt so he can tell Himmler?”

Schurmer chuckled. “I suggest you tell Rundstedt the truth and let him decide what to tell Himmler. In the meantime, I suggest we go to my quarters for some dinner and brandy. There is no reason for war to be altogether hell, now is there?”

“They’re fattening us up, you know,” Levin announced as he stood in his clean and creased new boxer shorts and undershirt. “From here it’s on to the Seine and God knows what else.”

Carter grinned. He was similarly attired along with the rest of the officers in the 74th. “You’re probably right, but, in the meantime, put a sock in it. Preferably a clean sock.”

Officially the 74th had been pulled back to get some rest and new equipment. Unofficially, the regiment had suffered badly and needed to get over the shock of their losses. Of the seventy tanks, twenty-one had either been destroyed or were so seriously damaged that they were not repairable by the regiment’s mechanics. Nor were other categories of equipment immune. Many Jeeps, trucks, and half-tracks had been damaged or destroyed.

Nor had they yet run into heavy German armor. While other units had fought the Panthers and the Tigers, the 74th had not.

Most significant was the human toll. Of the three thousand who’d landed in Normandy only a few weeks earlier, more than two hundred were dead and another three hundred wounded. Six men were reported missing and at least two of them had likely deserted. Nobody wanted to talk about desertion, but rumor said that thousands of GI’s were wandering around France looking for a safe place to wait out the war. Morgan wondered what they’d do when it did end, and concluded that many probably hadn’t thought that far ahead. They just wanted to get out of the horrors of the fighting no matter what the future price.

Thus, Jack and the others had the chance to have a long, hot shower and wear clean fresh clothing for the first time in more than a month. Even the mess hall food wasn’t as bad as remembered. After all, it was hot and had been prepared by actual human beings. The time off was a major morale builder even though the coming advance to the Seine and beyond was on everybody’s mind. The Germans were fortifying the east bank of the river and what once had been a romantic tourist destination now seemed like it would be a voyage to hell.

“I never thought I’d praise shit on a shingle,” said Carter after they made it to the mess hall in their new uniforms. Nobody ever called it chipped beef on toast and it was almost always universally despised.

“And here I thought everyone else smelled terrible or it was the stench from all the dead bodies around,” added Levin, “but now I realize it was me. How did you ever stand me?”

“We didn’t,” gibed Morgan. “We attributed it to gas from all the kosher food you eat and tried to be tolerant of your religion.”

“How thoughtful,” Levin said. “And by the way, Jeb, did you notice that all the equipment was distributed by colored soldiers? Any thoughts on that?”

Carter scowled. “Actually, I have many thoughts. I have no problem with Negroes in the army so long as they aren’t officers and so long as they aren’t in combat.”

“Why not?” asked Jack. “Wouldn’t putting them in the fighting actually save white guys’ lives?”

“Yeah, but it’s not that easy,” Jeb said. “Put a gun in colored boys’ hands and rank on their shoulders and they’ll begin to think they’re equal to white men and nothing good can ever come from that. Then they’ll come home and want to go to school with us, be our bosses, and then maybe marry my sister. Now my sister may be truly ugly and desperate to get laid, but I still don’t want her marrying a nigger.

“On the other hand,” Jeb continued, “I sure as hell don’t want them sitting on their asses at home while I run the risk of getting shot at. I admit it’s a dilemma.”

“Blacks served in the Union army way back in that misunderstanding we call the Civil War,” Jack said, “and in combat. And we’ve had colored units in wars since then.”

“That’s right,” Jeb said, “and did you know that several thousand free blacks volunteered to serve the Confederate army?”

They’d never heard of that. “Why?” Jack asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Jeb answered. “If any are still alive go ask them. But let’s quit talking serious stuff and get some of that bottled dog piss they call beer.”

Levin concurred. The beer was low-alcohol, but it was better than no alcohol and, besides, Levin’s contacts for booze had dried up, temporarily they all hoped. “Might as well enjoy ourselves before we get tossed to the Nazi wolves.”

When the Nazis first invaded the Soviet Union, rumors flew that Josef Stalin had collapsed from the unexpected shock of Hitler’s betrayal of their nonaggression pact and had suffered a nervous breakdown. If they were once true, and no one knew for certain, they no longer applied. Stalin was in complete command of the Soviet war effort. His military title was Supreme Commander in Chief, and in theory there was a military hierarchy under him called the Stavka, but in reality Stalin controlled it. He also headed the Communist Party and was the Soviet Union’s prime minister. In effect, the massive Soviet Union was a one person empire. Stalin ruled alone and with an iron fist. The blood of millions of his own people was on his hands. He didn’t care. He cared only for the worldwide expansion of communism, and the Soviet Union was the tool that would do it.

It galled him that converting the world’s oppressed working people to communism had to take a back seat to defeating the vile fascists who were now led by the odious Himmler. The Nazis had broken the treaty with the USSR, invaded, slaughtered, raped, and plundered. They had nearly brought communism and the Soviet Union to ruin.

Both Field Marshal Georgi Zhukov and Foreign Minister Vacheslav Molotov sat in scarcely disguised terror as Stalin’s cold eyes fixed on them. They were in a large and ornate office in the Kremlin, one that had once served the Czar Nicholas II and other Romanov nobility. If anyone thought their presence in the home of the czars was incongruous, they didn’t mention it. Zhukov and Molotov had begun to sweat. Stalin had murdered thousands of military officers and politicians. Two more wouldn’t matter.

Physically, Stalin was a small man with a peasant’s habit of smoking cheap cigarette tobacco in his pipe, resulting in a noxious cloud of smoke around him. He was crude and undereducated despite having spent time in a Russian Orthodox seminary.

“Comrade Molotov,” Stalin said flatly and coldly, “is it true that the Hitlerites have initiated contact with Sweden regarding the Swedes their functioning as a broker for peace?” He smiled without warmth. “Or should we now call the Germans Himmlerites?”

Molotov smiled wanly at Stalin’s small joke. “It is true, Comrade Stalin, although nothing appears to be forthcoming regarding either England or the United States. They seem fixed on their policy of Unconditional Surrender.”

“Have the Germans asked to contact us?”

“Not yet,” Molotov replied. “It appears the Nazis are waiting for the current campaign for Poland to play itself out.”

Stalin nodded. The thought of negotiating with the hated Germans was worse than repugnant. Still, he knew just how much the mighty Red Army had deteriorated. There were many fine units left, but second and third rate divisions were also being used in key areas, which meant that the poorly trained and inadequately equipped infantry were simply cannon fodder.

The same was true of his once proud armored forces. The tanks, in particular the T34, were magnificent, and the larger Stalin series were at least a match for the German Tiger and King Tiger, but their crews were raw and inexperienced. The Germans had their own problems with manpower, but theirs were easier to hide when fighting a defensive war, and the Germans were masters of defense.

The Soviet air forces were large in numbers and steadily improving, but they too lacked the skills necessary to fight the Germans in the air. The Nazis didn’t have the numbers of planes they’d had in the past and their pilots were of a lower quality. On a qualitative basis, the Luftwaffe remained hugely better.

He accepted the simple truth that Russian peasants who’d never even been in a car would take forever to become mechanics, tank commanders, and pilots, while it came as almost second nature to German youths who had a long term familiarity with things mechanical. He knew that millions of Soviet soldiers had never seen a toilet, much less the engine of an airplane.

“Comrade Zhukov, your armies are now well into Poland and approaching East Prussia. The German defense is stiffening. When will you break them?”

Zhukov suppressed a shiver. He decided to answer truthfully. Why not, he thought, since Stalin had his spies everywhere and doubtless knew as much as he did. Zhukov was one of several leaders of what the Red Army referred to as “Fronts,”

Konev and Rokossovski being two of the more senior ones and both were Zhukov’s rivals. He and Konev had a particularly bitter relationship based on personal ambition. Stalin understood that and played them against each other to keep them off balance. Neither Konev nor Rokossovski was at this meeting and each was doubtless seething and wondering what was transpiring behind their backs.

Zhukov answered. “Comrade Stalin, the days of breaking through and surrounding whole German armies like we did at Stalingrad, or hammering them to destruction at Kursk are over. The Germans fight much more rationally and logically without Hitler to lead them and make his senseless demands that each piece of ground be held to the last German soldier. We will push them back, but it will be a slow and tedious process and we will suffer enormous casualties.”

Stalin barely nodded. Casualties were nothing to him as long as communism was safe. So many of his enemies misread him. They thought of him as a bloody and vicious dictator who used communism as a front for his iron-fisted and sadistic rule. They were wrong. Josef Stalin was a confirmed and dedicated communist committed to expanding his version of Marxism to the world, no matter what it cost. He was more than a dictator. He was a fanatic communist dictator.

He was also a realist. In the heady days after the fall of the Romanovs and the subsequent Bolshevik takeover, he and his mentor, Lenin, had been stunned when the proletariat of the world hadn’t risen in support of Russian communism. Now he understood that much of the world wasn’t ready, and that included many people in his own Soviet Union. In particular, the people of the Ukraine had welcomed the Nazis as liberators before they found out the truth. Therefore, he had to tread lightly, at least for now.

He was also concerned about the so-called communists who were fighting the Nationalists in China. They were peasants, not workers, and he doubted the depths of their commitment to true communism. He sometimes thought it would be good to side with the corrupt and incompetent Nationalists and purge China of her ersatz communists. After that purging, of course, he could easily turn on the Nationalists and impose true communism. That would have to wait. His first priority was the destruction of Germany.

“How much more can the army take?”

Zhukov understood the question. It was not a matter of dead and wounded, it was a question of possible mutiny by the masses when confronted with the likelihood of slaughter. The Russian peasant had fought desperately to save Mother Russia, but now Russia was safe and the Germans were slowly falling back through Poland, killing large numbers of Russians as they retreated. It was not a question of if the army would shatter, but when. If victory was unlikely and the primal urge to live perceived as hopeless, the army might revolt and communism go the way of the Romanovs.

“Unless something dramatic and unexpected happens, Comrade Stalin,” Zhukov continued, “I would estimate a couple of months at best before the army either cannot or will not move forward.”

“What do we need?”

Zhukov exhaled. Stalin was listening to him. He might make it through the afternoon without a bullet in the back of his head.

“A rest. A pause. A very long pause to build up our strength and train our armies. We must also weed out the defeatists who would poison our new recruits.”

“How long?”

“At least a year, Comrade Stalin, preferably two.”

Another purge, Stalin thought, with more people sent to the gulags. So be it. “Continue to push the Germans,” he said and turned to Molotov. “While you, comrade, contact the Swedes. We will see what Himmler has to offer.”

Life on the farm agreed with Margarete. After only a few days, she realized that she was eating better, losing weight, and gaining muscle. Of course, her mother said it might just be the natural shedding of baby plumpness, but it didn’t matter to her. She only knew that she was well on her way to becoming a woman.

Aunt Bertha’s farm was south and west of Hachenburg, which put it only a few miles east of the Rhine. The farm was prosperous. Bertha and her husband Hans grew wheat, raised cattle and pigs, and made a modest attempt to grow grapes to turn into the white wine that was grown so successfully elsewhere. Their pigs and cows prospered; the wine was ordinary at best. Magda whispered to her that some of the poorer versions could be used as paint remover. Hans and Bertha were stout and looked the part of wealthy farmers with more than enough to eat. As in contrast to the people in Berlin where fresh food was always short.

Margarete had taken with pleasure to milking the cows and feeding the pigs. There were cats and dogs everywhere demanding to be petted. It was almost possible to forget there was a war going on someplace and that people were being bombed to pieces. She could breathe deeply and think clearly. There was no smell of smoke and burned things in the air to choke and nauseate her.

No sirens went off when the American planes flew overhead, which they did quite frequently. Sometimes, she would just look up and watch the precise bomber formations and their fighter escorts as they headed eastward towards Berlin and other major cities. Sometimes she would say a short prayer.

Only two things bothered her. The first was petty-Bertha insisted on calling her Magpie despite Margarete’s protests. The second was far more serious-the depressing presence of foreign laborers at the farm. Large numbers of prisoners of war had been pulled from the POW camps to help out on farms, freeing up German men to fight the enemies of the Reich, and the Mullers had three of them.

It was clear from their sullen expressions and the hatred in their eyes that they despised their situation and everything German. One prisoner in particular, a man she knew as Victor, gazed at her family with barely concealed loathing. Bertha noticed it too and simply told Magda and Margarete to stay away from him. They could send him back to the prison camp, but what if anything would they get instead? They need him to do the work, so they would endure his silent insolence.

Bertha shook her head. “I cannot understand why the prisoners don’t realize that they are so much better off with us than back in the prison camp. Here they get good food and decent living conditions. Why are they so hateful?”

Because they are nothing more than slaves, Margarete thought. They might as well be Negroes working on the southern plantations in America that she’d read about. Since seeing the death train and the dead Jews, Margarete had become more attuned to what was happening around her. Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich had more than a few warts, she’d concluded, and Himmler was doing little to change matters. When she’d mentioned it to her mother, Magda had simply told her to be still. Hans and Bertha were devout Nazis and still mourned Hitler’s death. According to them, he was the greatest man in Germany’s history.

Everyone glanced up as a dozen American fighters flew low overhead. They were so low they could see the outline of the pilots’ heads in their cockpits.

“The arrogant yanks are doing that to annoy us,” Bertha sniffed.

“I think they are looking for trains to attack,” Margarete said, again thankful that they’d come by the automobile that was now locked away in a small barn.

Bertha agreed. “As long as we don’t do anything to annoy them, they will leave us alone. Someday soon we will launch our super weapons at them and then they will learn humility.”

Germany was a very large country and there were still whole sections where the war had scarcely touched them. Most of the major cities had been savagely bombed, but not little farms or villages like theirs south of Hachenburg. The war, however, was far from abstract. The enemy planes flying overhead prevented that, as did the feeling of dread when the mail came for those families with loved ones in the military. Far too many announcements had arrived saying that young Johan or Fritz had been killed, wounded, or was missing in such places as North Africa, Italy, Russia, and now in France. The war was an omnipresent dark and brooding background.

That evening, Magda showed Margarete a piece of paper that had just arrived by mail. Magda was clearly unhappy.

“We have been drafted,” she said.

Margarete at first thought it was a joke. “Where?” she laughed. “Into the Luftwaffe? I’ve always wanted to be a pilot.”

“No, you silly child, into one of the labor battalions that are being organized to develop defenses along the Rhine. All eligible German civilians between fourteen and sixty, male and female, are to participate, according to Himmler and Speer. Since we are not the farm’s owners or laborers, we are eligible. We will be trucked to the appropriate areas on Friday mornings and be returned on Saturday night so we can spend the Sabbath either praying for Germany’s success or salving our sore muscles.”

Bertha huffed. “You’d think that having a husband as a high-ranking officer in the OKW would be enough to exempt you.”

Magda declined to tell her sister that Ernst wasn’t all that high ranking and that he most likely wouldn’t permit special favors even if he had the power Bertha thought he had. She did wonder if the policeman who’d scolded her for protesting the deaths of the Jews had found out who she was and had been behind the conscription notice. No matter. She would serve the Reich.

Margarete understood Aunt Bertha’s dismay and shared it, but only to a point. Working to defend Germany would be an adventure and might help erase the lingering memory of those dead and rotting Jews. She stepped outside, away from bickering adults, and into a clear refreshing night filled with stars. She stiffened. Victor was slouching against a fence and staring at her. His hand reached down and briefly touched his crotch. She gasped and he walked away. She thought about telling Bertha, but what had she actually seen? Perhaps it was nothing more than a middle-aged man scratching himself.

Besides, she told herself, the farm needed men like Victor to work it. She would ignore the vulgar creature.