Digger was already on his way back to the window, but by the time he was there, a crowd of prisoners was trying to peer out. “Hot damn, it looks like the war done got here at last,” crowed one soldier.
“About fucking time,” came the grunted reply.
Kirby was on his feet. “Men, if the cavalry has arrived, as you Americans put it, we had better do our share in this.”
“With what?” a sarcastic voice called out. “Our bare hands?”
“Do you want our friendly SS guards to make their escape unharmed, or become POWs according to
our
standards of treatment?”
“Fuck, no!” The chorus of replies grew in volume.
“Do we want to show our friendly Nazis what we can do?”
“Yeah!” “Hell, yeah!” “Goddamn right!” “Let’s cut those bastards’ balls off and feed ’em to them!”
“Right!” Kirby called out loudly. “Take anything you can turn into a weapon, and let’s go!”
The camp adminstration building had an ornate Art Deco door, but it was splintered into nothing by a grenade. Rommel, escorted by several machine-pistol-bearing enlisted men, strode into the room. “Deserted, damn it!” he snarled. “We’re too late.” There were desks in the open room, papers neatly put away. Rommel pulled open a drawer filled with punch cards, and pulled one out. He peered at the pattern of holes. “A man’s life and death …” he murmured. There was a Hollerith tabulating machine behind a half window in the next office.
Angrily, he strode toward the door leading to the commandant’s private office, kicking it open with his boot. It, too, was empty. “The bastard got away. How did that happen? Did he get warning of our attack?” He turned around, glaring, looking for someone to blame.
“I-I don’t think so,” quavered Müller. “It would have taken hours to clean out a space like this. We-We weren’t even near when this work started.”
Rommel stared angrily for a moment, then said, “I suppose you’re right. It was certainly no secret that we would be here eventually. All right, Müller. This is your new office space. Take the people you need and get this place cleaned up.”
Müller looked around silently, then said, “Y-Yes, sir.”
Rommel clasped him on the shoulder, calming himself. “This is an impossible job I’m giving you, Müller. You must do your very best with it; these people depend on you.”
The supply officer took a deep breath, straightened up, and replied, “Yes, sir. I’ll do everything that can be done.”
“Good man,” Rommel said, then turned to the feldwebel in charge of his escort. “I need Kranz and Smiggs at once. Resistance should be over shortly; it looks like the officers have fled. Let’s move our forces into the camp as quickly as possible.”
Rommel did not notice as Müller left the building.
Chaos had overtaken the camp. Groups of prisoners hunted down surviving guards as soldiers tried to get them to return to their barracks. Calls in German, in English, and in Russian went largely unheeded. Digger wasn’t particularly interested in revenge, though. It was medical treatment he needed. The guards could wait for another day.
Holding Clausen tightly, two thin blankets wrapped around them both, he grabbed at one of the invading soldiers. “Hey, you—my buddy needs medical help. Me-di-cal help.
Hilfen? Bitte, hilfen
.”
“Gehen Sie zurück!”
the soldier replied, gesturing at the barracks.
“No. Listen to me. This man—German. Needs doctor! Doc-tor!”
“Rein Jetzt!”
Another gesture.
“Listen, buddy. I need help. Now.”
The soldier shoved Digger, nearly pushing him off balance with his bad leg. Although gaunt from poor rations, Digger was still a strong man. He reached out, grabbed the soldier by the collar, and pulled him close. “Help. Now.
Verstehen?
” His German still had a Southern accent to it.
The soldier was about to push again, when suddenly an officer appeared.
“Was ist los hier?”
Müller asked.
The soldier tried to explain, but Digger got there first. “This man. German. Deutsch. Needs medical attention. Doc-tor.
Helfen. Ja?
”
Müller shined his flashlight at the strange American and his companion. The American blinked in the sudden light. Then Müller looked at the other man, delirious, nearly dead.
“Mein Gott!”
he whispered. “It’s Mutti!”
The night and the snow could conceal some of the visual horror, but it was the smell that Sanger was never able to forget.
Rommel’s escort could barely contain themselves; it took all of Sanger’s willpower to keep him from gagging. The Desert Fox himself looked on stoically, his face wooden. Sanger had observed that this was a dangerous early warning sign of Rommel’s ferocious temper.
Rommel seemed determined to visit each building, to see each atrocity at firsthand. He said little, marching with long strides from block to block (as the prisoner barracks were called).
It was easy to recognize the kapos, the senior prisoners who translated Totenkopf-SS directives into action. They were the ones whose throats had been freshly cut. The first time they came upon a prisoner who had died in this fashion, Rommel had asked, “What happened here?”
A gaunt, dirty, unshaven prisoner stepped forward out of the pack. “He committed suicide,” the prisoner said sullenly.
Rommel looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “I see,” he said.
The guards who had not yet been killed or captured were in hiding. If Rommel’s men did not find them, Sanger suspected that the prisoners would.
In each building there were many near death; there were dead in several of the buildings that had not yet been taken away for disposal.
“What building is this?” Rommel asked as they approached the next barracks.
One of his escorts shined a flashlight on the number. “Block 66, Generalfeldmarschall.” He opened the door and shined a light in.
It was full of children.
Silent, staring, solemn—gaunt and ragged children, bruised and malnourished, many with open sores and some with mutilations. Unlike the adult barracks, where the prisoners knew that liberation was here, these children saw only uniforms, and that was no different from their everyday lives.
Because of Rommel’s tendency for interminable car tours, Sanger had gotten in the habit of stuffing a few Hershey bars in his briefcase. He knelt down, opened the briefcase, and pulled one out. He held it toward a young boy who appeared to be about four years old. The boy cringed away. “Chocolate,” Sanger said in a quiet, soothing tone. No response.
After a moment, Sanger realized that the boy had never heard the word before and did not recognize the package. He unwrapped it, broke off a piece, handed it over. The boy scurried away behind an older boy, who was perhaps seven. Sanger reached out with the chocolate square and offered it to the older boy. “It’s good,” he said in German.
The boy took it and then gulped it down in a single bite. Sanger offered him another piece, which he chewed more slowly and with evident delight. He tried again with the four-year-old, but still no reaction.
Meanwhile, the guards shone their flashlights around the room.
“Du lieber Gott,”
one whispered. His light had revealed shackles on the far wall, from which four bruised and beaten children hung by their wrists, unmoving. Dried blood streaked their faces and the rags they wore.
Children cringed away as two soldiers ran the length of the barracks toward the hanging children.
“Sie sind tot,”
they called back. They were dead.
Sanger closed his eyes for a moment, and then he heard another noise.
“Gerade Stehen! Hände auf den Kopf!”
the soldiers called. There was a brief scuffle. They had found camp guards. All the remaining soldiers had weapons out, moving to protect their field marshal.
Rommel’s face darkened. “Bring them here. Now,” he ordered. His voice was low, almost guttural.
His men dragged two SS guards to him, and threw them down at his feet.
“Sir! You’ve got to protect us! The prisoners—they’re murdering everybody! We’re Germans, sir! Germans! Just like you!”
“Like me? Then God help Germany, because I want no part of you,”
Rommel growled, his voice nearly choking, and drew his officer’s Walther from its holster.
“Sir, stop!” said Sanger, standing up. “You can’t shoot them without a trial.”
Rommel turned to look at him. He was enraged, livid. He spoke slowly, his rage growing with each word. “A trial? Did they give these children a trial? Animals like this don’t deserve a trial.”
“You’re right, sir,” said Sanger, moving in between Rommel and the guards. “They don’t deserve a trial. But these children do.”
“Get out of my way, Colonel, before I shoot you,” growled Rommel, and pointed his pistol at Sanger’s face. “Now.”
Sanger didn’t budge. Looking the Desert Fox directly in the eye, he stammered out his argument. “This has to be part of the record. What they did here. What we see. It’s got to be documented. They don’t deserve a trial, but the world has to know the truth about this. This has to be done by the book. Not for their sake, but for everyone else.” Sanger had never been this close to death and his body was shaking.
The pistol was inches from his face and the expression on Rommel’s face made him think of flames. They stood together for a long time, and then Rommel lowered his gun. His eyes never left Sanger’s face as he said, “Take them away and put them in a cage somewhere. We’ll give them a fair trial and then we’ll kill them by the book. Does that meet with your approval, Herr Oberst?” The last was a sarcastic snarl.
“Yes, sir,” Sanger replied, standing at rigid attention. His lips were thin and white. As Rommel’s knifelike gaze pinned him to the spot, the soldiers pulled the SS guards to their feet and prepared to hustle them out the door.
“Stop!” Rommel ordered. “The guards—they have warm clothes. Strip them. Give the clothes to the children. All of you. Give them your coats. Now.”
Sanger took off his coat at once and started a pile. It was cold in the barracks, even with his uniform jacket on. He took that off, too. A pile of coats grew as other soldiers contributed their own. The Totenkopf guards were stripped to their underwear before being roughly hauled away.
“Food. Food and blankets. Bring them to me,” Rommel ordered as the soldiers left. When only Sanger was left, Rommel said in a low and harsh voice, “If you ever interfere with me again, I’ll shoot you where you stand. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Sanger stood his ground.
“Then get out of my sight.”
With that, the field marshal turned away, and took a slow, deep breath. Then he slowly took off his coat and then his uniform jacket. He knelt down on the floor and began unpinning the decorations. Holding each one in his open palm, he offered his medals to first one child, then another, until one
took his gift. Then he took another medal, and repeated the process. The children looked at him, some with dulled, expressionless eyes, some with cringing fear, but with wordless coaxing, he distributed all his medals. Then he gave his coat to one child, a rail-thin girl with matted hair, and his jacket to another.
Sanger stepped outside.
He shuddered as the frigid air rushed into his lungs; he felt weak and drained. He had ruined his relationship with the Desert Fox over the fate of two men who clearly deserved to die and by the most horrible means available. He hadn’t felt like this since he was in his teens and resigned from his cousins’ Hitler Youth chapter in Augsburg. More friendships sacrificed on the altar of morality.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one into his shaking hand. His gloved thumb couldn’t work the wheel on his Zippo, but when he took off his glove, he dropped his cigarettes into the snow. Gathering them back up, he tried again to light his cigarette, but this time the wind blew it out.
A hand reached out with a flame in it. “Here, Colonel. Let me help you.”
It was Captain Kranz, the battalion commander from Panzer Lehr that Rommel had drafted for this assignment.
“Thanks,” said Sanger, taking a deep pull off his cigarette, enjoying the feel of the warm smoke entering his lungs. The frigid air was not nearly as terrible now that he was out of the barracks.
“I was looking for the field marshal, and overheard you. Don’t worry. He’ll calm down and realize that you were right. People don’t stay on his shit list unless they really deserve it. Although, I must say shooting those scum on the spot does seem like a very good idea.”
“Hell, I agree. I wanted to shoot the bastards myself,” said Sanger. He didn’t believe Kranz was right about Rommel’s shit list, but he was glad of the thought. He held out his cigarette pack to the captain. Kranz took a Lucky Strike and lit it. “Is the camp secure?”
“As secure as we can make it under the circumstances. We need supplies and medical personnel more than anything. This is going to be the world’s nastiest cleanup job, I suspect.”
“Until we find the rest of the camps,” Sanger replied.
“You think there are more?”
“Quite a few more. I’ve seen the photographs and heard some of the stories. This evidently isn’t even the worst.”
“
Scheisse
. When it comes time to execute those
Hurensohne,
I want a piece of them myself,” Kranz growled.
“You’ll have to stand in line,” replied Sanger.
A figure in a thick coat was running toward them. “Where’s the field marshal? I’ve got to see him now!” It was Müller, the supply officer.
“He’s inside,” said Sanger, “but I wouldn’t interrupt him right now. He’s found the barracks with the children.”
“Children?
Here?
Oh, my god!” Müller gasped, stunned. Then he collected himself. “But I have to see him.”
“Why?”
“We’ve found Mutti.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here in the camp.”
“Oh, my god,” Sanger echoed.