Chapter 11 Born to Duty
BORN TO DUTY
Unfortunately, I couldn’t manage to go on. It didn’t matter anyway, because Frau Dr. Bauer said, “I’ll have to take this to the board,” with enough finality that it was clear she meant it. “I’ll contact you tomorrow or the day after. Will you still be in Dresden?”
“Well, yes,” Alix said, “since this is the whole reason we came. We’re not going home without at least looking. What else does Oma have to say to convince you to do that?”
I put a hand over hers. “I understand,” I said. “It’s a grave responsibility you have. One cannot permit sloppiness or half-measures in an endeavor as serious as yours.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Dr. Bauer said, unbending just a bit.
“We don’t guess. We must decide, always, whether the evidence is sufficient to permit us to say, ‘Such an artwork is originally from the collection of the Vatican,’ or, ‘Such an engraving is the work of Dürer.’ Otherwise, we may as well be postulating on the internet. ”
“Of course,” I said, and rose to my feet, Sebastian springing forward to help me.
I do approve of him; he acts as a man should.
We shook hands all around—how humbling to realize how German my manners still are, even after all this time—and went back to the hotel, Sebastian’s strong arm supporting me all the way until we were in my suite once again.
Alix said, “I should stay with you, Oma.”
“No,” I said. “I need a rest and some quiet, that’s all.”
“And an ice pack,” Sebastian said.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
He nodded. “I’ll round one up. If you don’t mind loaning me your keycard for a few minutes, I’ll save you getting up to open the door. Some tea and something light to eat, too, don’t you think, if you won’t be coming down to lunch?”
“Perfect,” I said, wanting nothing but to lie down again. “Thank you.”
I felt better once I’d been cosseted with more tea and the type of meal one usually saw at Abendessen, the light evening meal served after a heavier cooked lunch.
Here was the plate of assorted cheese and salami, the ham and mustard and pickles, and the thin slices of whole-grain bread, at barely past noon.
I confess I ate on a tray while sitting against the pillows, and was much the better for it.
So much so, in fact, that instead of dozing off straight away, I pulled out the letters and diary again.
I would have to tell the hardest part of the story to the others tonight, and perhaps I needed to approach it by degrees.
From my diary:
25 January 1945
No more air-raids since the two on 16 and 18 January, when the marshaling yards were bombed, where the train cars do their switching and so forth.
Fortunately, that’s not very near to us.
We could hear the bombers humming overhead, though, and the explosions, too.
The blasts shook us, distant as they were, and the lights came on and went off again.
After 20 minutes, the all-clear sounded, and we went outside.
We could see smoke to the west and were glad we weren’t closer to it.
Is it wrong to be glad we are far from the munitions factories, too?
The British bomb at night, we’ve heard, and the Americans during the day.
Father says that’s because the Americans are doing the precision bombing, while the British aim to destroy the cities.
That isn’t a very comforting thought, but although the tracks were hit at the main railway station, which is no more than a ten-minute walk from the palace, the rest of the Altstadt, the old city, was unharmed, so the British must be capable of more precision than we’ve been told.
A few days ago, the planes flew over us at school—so many of them, they practically darkened the sky—without any air-raid warning at all, but no bombs fell.
They must have been heading farther east, which we haven’t seen before.
The Russians are outside Krakow now, so perhaps the Allies are bombing German positions in Czechoslovakia, or maybe the eastern munitions factories.
Mother and Father look serious and talk in low voices, but the war must end soon, and isn’t that good news?
Germany will have lost, but at least nobody will be bombing anymore.
I just want it to be over so things can go back to normal again.
Joe saw things more clearly.
January 29, 1945
Dear Dad,
You’ve probably been wondering why you haven’t heard from me for a while. I hope it didn’t make you and Mom worry too much. We’ve been a little busy here, though.
Day before yesterday was a red-letter day for us.
The Army must have decided we needed a break after fighting almost nonstop for a solid month, because we’re now safe and sound behind the lines.
They say we’re going to be here for a while, training new arrivals.
Isn’t that a laugh? A month over here, and you’re an expert.
More importantly, we’re under cover, and there’s a rumor that we’ll be getting rides to a shower unit with hot water, and be able to exchange our uniforms for clean ones.
They showed us a movie last night: “Meet Me in St. Louis,” which was swell—that Judy Garland sure can belt out a tune!
—but we’re most excited for that hot shower.
What’s it like here? Well, Dad, it’s a mess.
Every town I’ve seen for the last month is a battered shambles, and this place is no different.
In some towns, you won’t see a single building that still has a roof, or a single unbroken window.
Hard to see how people are going to live when this thing is over—they’re going to have to rebuild from the ground up.
We dug around among the ruins, though, and found stoves, which means we’re eating hot chow again.
You get pretty resourceful once you’re hungry enough.
It's a different story from just a few days ago, when we were still in foxholes half-filled with freezing water, fighting an SS Panzer division—that’s tanks to you and me—our retreat cut off, so there was nothing to do but defend.
They sent wave after wave at us, and we took care of them.
The SS is supposed to have the most disciplined troops, and the best supplied, with plenty of experience, too, unlike us, but it seems even they are running short on just about everything.
By the time the smoke cleared, there were 800 of those SS dead, and only 34 of our boys.
Why did they keep coming on when they saw there was no hope?
Must have been their orders, but boy, I’m glad our generals have more sense than to lose men they don’t need to.
Not that we’re happy about losing those 34.
I got through it fine—I must lead a charmed life—but half of our riflemen have been killed or wounded in this past month, and that’s a mighty steep price to pay.
So many good men gone. I find I can’t think about it much.
I just do my job and figure I’ll think about the whys and wherefores later.
The Army’s come up with a new tactic that beats shooting everything we see, though.
First, we hit the Krauts with artillery.
One of the prisoners we captured—and we’ve captured plenty; Hitler may be telling them to fight to the death, but seems they’ve got ideas of their own, and who can blame them?
Anyway, this guy told us—well, he told me, as it turns out I’m the only one around who speaks good enough German to talk to them—that our artillery was so terrible, it took the heart right out of them.
They didn’t want to fire, he says, and expose their position.
And after we pound them with that artillery?
Instead of more shells, we load leaflets into the guns and fire those, telling the German troops that they’re stuck and plain out of luck, but that if they give up, we’ll treat them OK.
It works, too, probably because, if we’re hungry and cold, they’re worse.
I don’t guess I’m the same guy who walked onto that troopship, but I’m doing my best not to be a worse one.
That’s about all I can do. I can tell you, though, that the guys we capture are surprised to be treated as well as they are.
Makes you wonder how our POWs are doing under the Nazis’ tender mercies.
Some of them, it seems, don’t even make it to camp, but are shot where they stand.
There’s a thought to harden your heart. And if you wonder how I know, there’s something even better for getting at the truth than translating when a guy knows you’re doing it, and that’s hanging around listening to the POWs talk among themselves.
I’m a little bit of a secret weapon, I guess.
I might not be the best marksman, but my ears work fine.
Oh, and they’ve gone and made me a sergeant. Before you get too proud about it, remember that we’ve lost a lot of men, and somebody needs to train those grass-green boys who are fresh off the boat. I guess we looked that confused and scared too when we got here, but it’s hard to remember now.
Losing the light, so I’ll send love to Mom and sign off as
Your son,
Joe
Even I, it seemed, was finally getting the message.
6 February 1945
All the cinemas have been shut down for lack of coal, though the Sarrasani Circus is somehow still allowed to operate.
I’d like to go, as it’s the last entertainment to be had—the Semper Opera, too, is closed—but Mother says there are too many rough types there now, because it’s a favorite of soldiers on leave.
I wonder how she knows these things; she’s certainly never been.