Chapter 8
The hours passed slowly as the two cars sped through the German countryside. Weary of the endless succession of bombed out buildings, refugee camps, and needless destruction, Dietrich endeavored to read, ignoring the conversation between Corporal Hitchcock and Sergeant Troy. Soon, the battle between the German verse and the English chatter became too much, so he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.
"Checkpoint," Hitch announced for the fourth time in as many hours.
Dietrich inched forward on the back seat and peered through the front windshield. An American corporal approached the car, rifle in hand, and waited as Hitch rolled down the window.
"Papers," he said as he examined the three passengers. "Any German nationals?" the guard asked as he collected their traveling permits.
"One," Troy responded. He jerked his thumb towards Dietrich who silently assumed his role as a rescued refugee. "He's our cousin," Troy explained. "We're taking him back to the States."
The corporal closely examined Dietrich's papers, then looked again at the passenger in the back seat. Satisfied their papers were in order, he handed the passes back to Hitch. "He don't look too happy about leaving this hell hole," he commented, assuming the German would not understand.
Dietrich's eyes flashed in anger, and he leaned forward to answer the insolent soldier, but a warning look from Troy stopped him. Instead, muttering a German obscenity, he leaned back against the seat.
Hitch, to distract the corporal from Dietrich's wrath, said, "Oh, he'll be happy enough when he gets there."
"Just one of the 'sour Krauts,' huh?" All three Americans laughed at the pun, while the captain stared indignantly out the back window. "Good luck, gentlemen," the soldier said, while indicating to his partner to let these travelers pass.
Hitch waved his thanks and, heaving a sigh of relief, started through the gate. "How many more of these do we have to pass before we get out of Germany?" he wondered aloud.
"I think there are road blocks every hundred kilometers or so," Troy answered. He glanced at the back seat. "And I suggest you keep your temper in check, Captain. I don't want anything to screw up this mission."
Dietrich was about to ask Troy if he needed the sergeant's permission to be insulted when the gleam of chrome outside his window caught his eye. "Pull over!" he blurted out.
Hitch looked back at Dietrich and then at Troy while trying to keep the car on the road. "Sarge?" Mark waited for Troy's direction.
Grabbing the dash, Troy braced himself as the car suddenly weaved across the road. "What the-?" He turned to the captain in time to see him slam his hand against the seat in front of him.
"Stop the car!" Dietrich ordered, distinctly uninterested in Hitch's concern over the chain of command.
The situation had escalated beyond his control, and with nothing left to do but comply with Dietrich's request, Troy ordered Hitch to pull over to the side of the road. "What the hell is going on?" he yelled.
Dietrich's door was open before Hitch came to a complete stop. As he hastily left the car, he stopped long enough to answer Troy. "That is my car, Sergeant," he said, pointing to the black Mercedes parked alongside the road at the checkpoint they had just passed. Leaving Troy and Hitch behind, Dietrich jogged back to the roadblock.
Troy pounded his fist on the dashboard. "Damn!" he angrily cursed. This was no time for Dietrich to be worried about his lost car. "Follow him!" Troy ordered curtly as Hitch automatically swung the car around in the opposite direction. Dietrich's actions would not only put them off their time schedule, but could jeopardize the whole mission. "He's going to blow our cover!"
Hitch and Troy beat Dietrich back to the checkpoint station in time to prevent the captain from investigating the reappearance of his car. Jumping from the front seat of their car, Troy grabbed Dietrich by his coat lapels.
The corporal, who had busied himself with Moffitt and Tully's papers, swung around at the clamor arising on the other side of the road. He instructed Tully to pull over while he investigated the ensuing brawl between the German and his American cousins.
"I want an explanation, now!" Troy demanded, while attempting to restrain Dietrich. When the German refused to answer, he exploded, "I'm giving you an order, Captain!"
"Get your hands off me, Sergeant!" Dietrich growled. Not only did he resent being restrained, but he took umbrage at taking orders from Sam Troy.
"This is not the time to worry about your car!" Troy exclaimed angrily. "You're putting us all at risk!"
Dietrich quit struggling long enough to look Troy squarely in the eye. "My car?" he asked in astonishment. Troy had entirely misread his motives. "This has nothing to do with my car," he said bitterly.
By now all the sentries had gathered around Hitch, Troy, and Dietrich, their guns at the ready. "Hold it right there!" one of them shouted.
Troy ignored the soldiers and stared at Dietrich for a moment. If this weren't about the car, then it had to be about the Mueller boy. "Even if he's in there-" Troy indicated the lean-to set up as a shelter, "-What will you do then?" He didn't need an answer from the captain when he saw the look in his eyes. "No!" he decided immediately, "you're not taking him with us."
"Let me be the judge of that," Dietrich responded while forcing his way through the maze of men.
Troy grabbed him by the arm and spun him around to face him. "This is my operation," he warned the captain. "I make the decisions."
"And I am responsible for that boy's life," Dietrich answered hotly, the strain of the day beginning to take its toll. "I suggest you wait until we find out if he is here before you start throwing your authority around."
"All right," Troy agreed, while loosening his grip on Dietrich's arm, "but let me handle this."
Dietrich nodded his consent. "Agreed," he replied more calmly.
Assured of the captain's cooperation, Troy let his arm go and addressed the guards. "The Mercedes," he said, pointing to Dietrich's car, "how'd it get here?"
"It's stolen," one of the guards answered, "the kid who took it is in our custody. We're waiting for the MPs to pick him up."
"Can I talk to him?" Troy asked.
"What's this all about?" asked the corporal who had allowed the three to pass. "I thought you guys were on your way to the States."
"My cousin thinks this is his car," Troy answered politely, as Dietrich impatiently looked on. "The boy who was driving it is an acquaintance of his." The sergeant gave Corporal Lambert a crooked smile. "Just some sort of misunderstanding, I think."
Not entirely convinced by Troy's explanation, Lambert nonetheless allowed them to pass and escorted them to the shelter. "He's in here," the soldier said as he shouldered his rifle, and opened the door to permit Troy and Dietrich entrance.
The building itself had been constructed hurriedly of whatever wood the engineers could find. Barely large enough for two people, it was distinctly crowded when the three men entered. Martin Mueller
sat forlornly on a wooden chair in the far corner; scared and out of his element, he looked as if he finally had met his match. His eyes grew wide when he recognized Dietrich, but understood an unspoken cue from the captain not to divulge their relationship.
"This is him," the corporal said by way of introduction. "Sassy little brat," he added, "but I think he's relatively harmless."
Troy looked at Dietrich. "Is this him?"
"Yes," Dietrich answered quietly, his gaze focused on Martin. He didn't know whether to be angry or glad that they had found him. Now the question remained what to do with him. "May I have a moment with him?"
The corporal stepped back as Dietrich approached Martin. With as much control as he could muster, Hans addressed the young man. "Get up," he ordered quietly. If Martin wanted to be treated like a man, the captain had every intention of fulfilling his wish.
Unsure of Dietrich's intentions, Mueller refused to move. Instead, he sat rigidly in the wooden chair.
"I said get up!" Dietrich barked wearily in German. The boy's rebellion was growing tiresome and the captain's nerves were wearing thin. He closed his eyes long enough to gain his composure as Mueller jumped up from where he was sitting. "I don't need to tell you the trouble you've caused. But you should appreciate how fortunate you are that I found you before these men could hand you over to the military police."
Martin had no idea why this was a "fortunate" circumstance. He had faced the captain's ire before - he didn't like it then, when he had committed a minor transgression; he was sure he wouldn't like it now after stealing the car and the silver. He began to wish the Military Police would arrive soon.
The coal stove used to heat the tiny building gave off little warmth, heating the shelter only a few degrees more than the outside temperature. If the sweat forming on the boy's brow was any indication, Dietrich assumed he was obtaining the desired response from Mueller.
"You can relax," he assured the boy, "I'm not going to press charges." As he glanced out of the corner of his eye, Hans noticed Martin's shoulders slacken. "I will, however, ask the MPs to take you back to my house. Your mother can deal with you until I get back. I'm sure she will not be as lenient with you as I have been."
Addressing Corporal Lambert, who seemed to be in charge, Dietrich asked that Martin be returned to Luckenwalde, at his address. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to leave.
"Hold on a second," Lambert instructed the little entourage. "I have orders from Berlin to detain this kid." He reached across the desk and picked up a piece of official looking paper. "From a 'Sergeant Sam Troy' out of Major Armstrong's office."
"Troy's a friend of mine," Sam Troy said, thinking fast to avoid revealing their true identities. "He won't have any problem with sending the kid home."
"Sergeant Troy might not," the corporal argued sarcastically, wishing civilians wouldn't take it upon themselves to make military decisions. "But I'm not going to take any chances crossing Major Armstrong."
Dietrich resolutely walked back to face Corporal Lambert. "Then I suggest you call Major Armstrong," he tersely directed the guard. "Tell him Hans Bauer found his car, I'm not pressing charges, and I'm asking to send the boy home."
"I can't call Berlin!" the corporal protested.
"Then what will happen to this young man?" Dietrich asked as if he were concerned with the boy's welfare. "I'm not pressing charges, so he can't be arrested. You won't call Berlin to verify my story. . ."
Any hope Martin Mueller had of finding his lost father was rapidly disappearing; he was being abandoned by the only person who could facilitate his planned rescue. In one last effort to salvage his mission, Martin practically hurled himself at Dietrich. "Take me with you!" he pleaded, grabbing the sleeve of the captain's overcoat.
"What's he saying?" one of the soldiers asked.
"He wants to go with us," Dietrich interpreted for the Americans, allowing the boy to cling to him.
"His papers are okay," Lambert mused, not suspecting Martin's travel permit was counterfeit. He looked to both Troy and Dietrich. "It's your call," he advised the two men.
Troy was trapped in a seemingly impossible dilemma. Whatever decision he made now would impact on their mission, and he could not see any positive outcome. They couldn't leave Mueller to find his own way back; according to what Dietrich had told him, the odds of the boy returning home without getting into further trouble were slim. Troy also suspected that Martin's ardent desire to accompany Dietrich and the Rat Patrol meant he knew enough about their project to be dangerous. Even if they insisted that Corporal Lambert phone Major Armstrong, they still ran the risk of exposing their plan.
Troy looked suspiciously at Dietrich. The look of total acquiescence on the captain's face meant he knew that Troy's conclusion had already been reached - he had known it all along. The sergeant then looked at the apathetic soldiers - they only wanted to get this settled and get on with their other responsibilities. Martin Mueller looked strangely contrite and intimidating at the same time.
"We'll take him with us," Troy snapped angrily, throwing Dietrich a look that indicated how much he disliked being forced into the decision. He then turned his attention to Corporal Lambert. "I'll make sure he gets home safely," he growled.
The corporal was only too happy to be rid of his unwanted charge. If the American knew Sergeant Troy, as he said he did, Lambert decided to allow him to explain the circumstances to the sergeant. The kid certainly was familiar with Herr Bauer, and he was obviously desperate to get out of Germany. Judging from his own experience in this foreign land, Lambert really couldn't blame him.
At the same time, the corporal felt this was one of those decisions that he would later regret making, but he wanted to get the situation settled. Shrugging his shoulders, he consented to their agreement. "Take him. It'll be one less Jerry to worry about," Lambert agreed, feeling there was little else left to do with the boy. "I just hope I can explain all of this to Berlin," he muttered.
"Don't worry," Troy assured him, "I'll take full responsibility for this."
Lambert snorted. Shaking his head, he glanced at Troy. "You're a braver man than I am."
"You don't know the half of it," Troy replied disgustedly.
Troy encouraged Corporal Lambert to allow the MPs to take the car back to headquarters in Berlin. Having collected Martin's personal items, the two men left the compound with the Mueller boy in tow. When they were out of earshot of the sentries, Troy turned and grabbed the boy by the arm.
Caught off guard, but cautiously defiant, Martin tried to squirm out of Troy's grasp. Unable to shake the American, he desperately looked to Dietrich for protection.
Troy spun the young man around and pinned him against the car. "You're only here because I don't know what else to do with you," he began his lecture, seething with anger and frustration. "So we have to get a few things straight." He stood nose-to-nose with the boy, as he continued his tirade. "One, you are not part of this operation. I don't care how much you think you know, but I guarantee it's just enough to get you and the rest of us killed. Therefore, you will not participate, in any way, in this mission."
Troy took a moment to make sure what he was saying made an impression on Martin. The look of indifference on the boy's face made him uneasy. "Two," he pressed on, "you will do as I say. No questions asked. You will not take orders from Captain Dietrich or anyone else in this group and you will not go off half-cocked on some adventure of your own." He paused, then asked, "Do you understand?"
Martin nodded his head once. He understood only a little of what the sergeant was ranting about, and he cared even less. He knew full well he was unwanted, but remained determined to carry out his own agenda.
"Three," Troy continued seriously, "we are not here to find your father." Martin tried to respond, but Troy cut him off. "There's no debate. I will not risk the lives of my men and Captain Dietrich to go off on some foolhardy escapade just to satisfy some wild notion you have that your father is still alive."
Dietrich had remained silent throughout Troy's invective, but when he saw the look of pain that crossed Martin's face, he felt he had to intercede on the boy's behalf. "Sergeant," he said with restrained irritation, only to be ignored.
"More than 250 lives depend on the successful completion-"
"Sergeant!" Dietrich loudly demanded Troy's attention. "I think he understands the seriousness of our mission," he announced, while watching Martin for a reaction. "Don't you, Martin?" Satisfied when Mueller nodded his head, he continued, "Good. And you understand that finding your father is not part of this mission." The captain's comment was more a statement of fact than a question.
Martin glanced from Dietrich to Troy and realized he was outnumbered in this matter. He miserably nodded his head in agreement, unable to offer any resistance in his current predicament.
Giving Dietrich a look that registered his indignation at the interruption, Troy reluctantly released Martin. At least the captain had been able to elicit a response from the kid. "Get in the car," he tersely ordered the two Germans. "We're already an hour behind schedule."
Troy glanced over his shoulder to Moffitt and Tully, who had remained in their car during the interlude and nodded his head that he and Hitch were ready to get started.
Moffitt immediately picked up on the gesture and ordered Tully to start the car.
Having received permission to move on, Tully wondered aloud, "Now, what do you think that was all about?"
Moffitt threw his partner a knowing glance. "With those two?" he asked, referring to Troy and Dietrich, "one can never tell, can one?"
Tully laughed under his breath at the unspoken implication. "No," he replied, amused by the Moffitt's very proper English, "one can't!" Without looking back, he gunned the engine to catch up with Troy and Hitch.
Within minutes, after clearing the final checkpoint at the German/Polish border, Dietrich, Martin, and the Rat Patrol were safely in the Polish countryside. The sun was beginning to set in the west, and there was nothing but darkness looming on the eastern horizon. The heavy clouds had finally given way, releasing snow like rose petals that softly fluttered to earth, collecting along the roads and in the fields. Hours later, as they drove deeper into Poland, the snow that had started as a gentle flurry, developed into a steady downpour, forcing the two sedans to slow considerably as they maneuvered over the treacherous terrain.
Frozen precipitation began to collect on the windshield, streaking the glass with snow and ice. Dietrich listened to the monotonous slapping of the wipers as they worked fiercely to clear the window. The sound only served to accentuate the cold silence inside the car. Dietrich had nothing to say to Troy - he had his reasons for acting as he did. It's a private matter, he thought, and he didn't feel he had to explain anything to the sergeant.
Troy was angry at Dietrich for placing him in an uncomfortable position, and he was angry at himself for allowing the captain to do so. The sergeant consoled himself by concentrating on the reprimand he would issue to Dietrich when they were alone.
Martin had decided not to speak to anyone. He didn't know what the captain's motives were when Dietrich refused to press charges, and he was able to convince himself he didn't care. Although he was temporarily in the custody of the Americans, technically, he was free. As far as Martin Mueller was concerned, this trip was just a another step towards finding his father, and he would do everything in his power to use it to his advantage.
Fifteen kilometers outside of Bydgoszcz, Hitch turned off the poorly maintained main road to a snow-covered path that eventually led to a rather large farmhouse. Dietrich wiped away the condensation on the back window and peered out into the dark night. The thick clouds obscured the stars and moon; the only light was from the car's headlights, which reflected off the white snow. Even after his eyes adjusted to the blackness outside, Dietrich could not detect any landmarks that might reveal where they were.
As they slowly approached the house, it appeared one room in the back was dimly lit. Smoke rose softly from the chimneys at either end of the house, stubbornly threading its tendrils heavenward against the driving snow. As they parked the cars behind the house, Troy turned to face both Dietrich and
Mueller. "We'll be staying here overnight," he explained flatly, unable to read Dietrich's reaction. What he had to say next would require a little diplomacy. "The people who live in this house played a large part in the Polish resistance," he warned the two men. "I'd suggest you say as little as possible, and keep the German to yourself." Troy looked directly at Dietrich, adding, "And let me do the talking, this time."
"Certainly," the captain replied, seemingly undisturbed by Troy's revelation.
Content with the man's apparent cooperation, Troy turned around and got out of the car. Before going to the back door, he dipped his head back inside the front of the car. "And make sure your 'friend' does the same," he added caustically, referring to Martin.
Speaking to Hitch, who remained behind the steering wheel, Troy instructed the corporal to remain in the car until he had a chance to make sure the arrangements still were feasible.
Twenty minutes later, without the engine running, the temperature inside the car had dropped dramatically. Martin blew into his cupped hands, then wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. He muttered a complaint in German, which drew a sharp response from Dietrich.
"May I remind you, Martin," he snapped in English, "that if it weren't for fortuitous circumstances, you'd be spending the night in a jail cell rather than sitting in the back seat of a cold car, a free man. I suggest you make the best of this."
Martin looked at Dietrich for a moment, somberly replied, "Yes, sir," then continued in his efforts to keep himself warm. Captain Dietrich was right, of course, but he didn't like the feeling of being indebted to anyone, much less an American sergeant.
Martin's non-contentious capitulation surprised Dietrich. It felt entirely unnatural not to be engaged in another argument with the boy. Hans was able to dwell momentarily on the boy's unusual reaction before he noticed Troy returning from the house. The sergeant stopped first to speak with Moffitt, then made his way back to their car.
"Their English isn't very good," Troy said by way of explanation, as he climbed into the front seat. "It took me a while to explain why we had another passenger," he addressed Hitchcock, but nodded toward the back seat. "They understand that you're German," he said as he turned halfway around in the front seat. Still not facing Dietrich directly, he continued, "I don't think they're real happy about it, but they're willing to cooperate since this is an Allied operation."
"What are their names?" Dietrich asked, distracted by the anticipated hostility he and Martin might face.
"Josef and Stasia Rybicki," Troy answered quickly. "There's a couple of kids, but I didn't get their names."
Dietrich shrugged indifferently. With any luck, they wouldn't be here long enough for the children's identification to matter.
"Do they know what's up?" Hitch asked, referring to the true nature of their plan.
"No," Troy answered, "and they don't need to know." Although he was sure the family was trustworthy, the fewer people who knew about this assignment, the better the odds were they would not be found out. "Grab your things," he ordered the rest of the men, "and get some sleep, 'cause we're getting an early start tomorrow."
Dietrich walked slowly to the old farmhouse. He had no desire to put himself in the direct line of fire of a couple of Polish patriots. The swift German occupation of Poland had met with great, but futile, resistance. The destruction of Poland had been massive; the continued Nazi presence oppressive. It seemed to Hans that the Poles, constantly caught in a tug-of-war between Russia and the rest of Europe, found even greater strength and pride through the constant turmoil.
Having spent the greater part of the war in the African desert, Dietrich had heard little of the war in Europe except through official communiqués, which he didn't always trust. The destruction he found in his own country was staggering; he wondered if other occupied nations would understand the common bond he felt with them.
Dietrich knocked the snow off his boots in the mud room, then followed Troy and the others into the immaculate kitchen. The house smelled of warm bread and hot coffee, and a tray of cheese and fruit was on the table. At once he felt comfortable, yet equally out of place in a home where he knew he was not wanted.
Josef Rybicki was a small, thin man with graying hair, dressed in an undershirt and an old pair of corduroy trousers held up by suspenders. He had a round, rugged face that looked older than it should have. He removed his glasses and shook hands with the Americans as they introduced themselves, a welcoming smile on his face. The smile disappeared when he was introduced to Dietrich and Mueller. The Pole put his glasses on again to examine the two Germans closely.
Hans grew distinctly uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny. It would take little more than this man's word to have Hans arrested simply because he might suspect the captain of some sort of war crime. While Dietrich tried to hide his uneasiness, he could sense Martin chaffing at the inspection. Unnoticed, Hans unobtrusively placed his hand on the boy's slack forearm. If Martin had any plans to challenge Rybicki's examination, Dietrich hoped his hand would act as a warning not to overreact.
The inspection resulted in a nod of the head, which was more of an obligatory acknowledgment than a half-hearted welcome. Rybicki turned to address the Rat Patrol. "Please," he indicated the food on the table, "there is for you to eat."
Hitch and Tully immediately thanked their host and, removing their hats, availed themselves of Rybicki's hospitality. Martin was about to follow their lead, when Dietrich's hand restrained him. He glowered in the captain's direction when Dietrich asked to be shown to their rooms.
"Of course," Rybicki replied, indifferent to Dietrich's request.
Josef started to lead the two up the back steps to their rooms on the second floor when he was stopped by his wife. The couple argued quietly at first, then vehemently, over the husband's lack of consideration when it came to feeding the two Germans. Stasia waved in the direction of Hans and Martin, then looked back at the kitchen table, as she continued to shower her husband with invectives. Josef strongly stated his case, winning in the end, as his wife threw up her hands in disgust and stalked away. Unshaken, he looked back to Dietrich and Martin, and nodded for them to follow him up the stairs.
Hans and Martin followed Josef to their room at the end of the hall. "There is only one room," the older man explained without apology. "We did not know there would be two of you." Rybicki opened the door to the room, and walked away leaving the two Germans to their own devices.
Hans felt along the wall, but was unable to find a light switch before Martin discovered an oil lamp on the bedside table. He quickly lit the wick and, replacing the glass shade, held out the lamp to illuminate their surroundings. The room was large, cold, and austere. A single bed was centered between two windows on one wall; the adjacent wall held an empty fireplace. The bare floor creaked under their feet as they entered and closed the door behind them. After setting his suitcase on the floor, Hans checked the water in the pitcher on the dry sink.
"Ice cold," he sighed, then turned to look at the bed.
"This place is a shit hole," Martin complained bitterly as he dropped his belongings in a heap just inside the door.
"Watch your language," Dietrich dispassionately ordered. "What did you expect?" he asked as he surveyed his surroundings.
Under the circumstances, they were lucky not to be sleeping in the car. The war had taught him to make the best of a bad situation; he had seen far worse than this. He noted there were several blankets and two sheets stacked on top of the bare mattress; sorting through the bedding, he kept the sheets for himself and gave the blankets to Martin.
"I didn't expect to be treated like a dog!" Martin argued, as he held out his arms to take the bedding from the captain. "And I'm starving!" he exclaimed, pointedly protesting not being permitted to eat.
"You'll eat tomorrow," Hans assured Martin. "There's no sense over-stepping our unenthusiastic reception. Besides," he reminded Martin, "it could be worse." Before Martin could respond, Dietrich answered, "You could be in jail."
Martin stared at Hans agape. "You're not going to allow me to forget that, are you?" he asked indignantly.
Dietrich spread the sheet out over the bed and drew it taut. "Probably not," he answered, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he admired his handiwork. He turned toward Martin, who stood in
the middle of the room, blankets in hand. "I suggest you find a warm spot on the floor for those," he added, indicating the covers in Martin's arms, "unless you plan to stand there all night."
Martin was about to reply when a soft knock sounded on their door. Crossing the room, Dietrich opened the door to find Stasia Rybicki holding a covered tray, accompanied by a young boy carrying a few logs of firewood.
"I am bothering you?" she asked in disjointed English.
"No," Dietrich replied pleasantly. He stepped aside to allow the two to enter. "Please, come in."
Martin's eyes lit up when he noticed the food in the woman's hands. Perhaps things weren't as bad as he imagined.
"My husband," Stasia began hesitantly, "he can be. . ." She searched for the right word, ". . . unkind." She apparently was accustomed to apologizing for Josef. "I did not want you to sleep without something." She removed the cloth to reveal a few slices of warm bread, as well as cheese and some fruit.
Hauptmann Dietrich gave her his most charming smile. "You are very generous," he replied warmly.
Stasia looked thoughtfully at Dietrich as she studied his face. "I do not know what you and the others are doing," she said honestly, "but I know you are good men." She placed the tray in his hands. "Polish . . . American . . . German," she shrugged, "it does not matter." She sighed softly and placed a patient hand on his arm. Instructing her son to place the wood in the fire place, she smiled regretfully, "It is very cold here."
Dietrich shook his head in disagreement. "It is much warmer now," he assured her. Seven months ago they would have been enemies; tonight they stood together in common understanding. "Dziekuje1," Dietrich replied, genuinely grateful for the woman's concern. He handed the tray to Martin.
"Prosze2," Stasia responded cheerfully, delighted that her guest was courteous enough to speak her own language. But her delight soon turned to consternation, as she remembered the heated argument he had witnessed in the kitchen. "Do you speak Polish?" she asked warily.
Dietrich realized she feared he understood the many slurs her husband had used against the Germans while the couple had argued downstairs. "Only a little," he lied. He had been called a great many names in a multitude of languages. What Josef Rybicki thought of him and his race mattered very little now.
A look of relief passed over Stasia's face. "Well, I shall leave you alone," she said, satisfied that no harm had been done. With her hand on the doorknob, she called her son to leave.
"Dobranoc3," Dietrich said as he held the door for Stasia and her son.
Stasia smiled warmly at Dietrich and then at Martin, who was too busy eating to notice her leaving. "Dobranoc," she replied sweetly and closed the door behind her.
Dietrich disgustedly glanced at Martin. The boy apparently had no manners, and deserved to be reprimanded, but he was too exhausted to participate in the inevitable argument that would follow. Instead, he pulled off his boots and laid on the bed, his back to Martin. The small fire was enough to take the chill out of the room and, pulling his coat over him, he drifted off to sleep.
1 Thank you.
2 You're welcome.
3 Good night.
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