Act Four

Scene One

Chapter 14

Private Ken Tiptoe found himself heading not for Barracks 12, but for the Kommandant's quarters. He'd reached the gate when a loud, "Halt!" sounded behind him. Tiptoe stopped abruptly as a guard, his rifle held ready, approached.

"Is you, Reverend," said the heavily accented voice.

Tiptoe looked at the guard; in the dim light, he could just make out the burn scars on the man's face. "Not Reverend, Corporal Nagel. Not yet."

Nagel grimaced. "Was are you doin'? Your barracks is sere." Nagel gestured with the rifle.

"Uh, the Kommandant wants to see me," he lied less than convincingly.

Nagel glanced at the building; the lights were on in the Kommandant's quarters. "I vill go vis you."

"That's not necessary," Tiptoe began.

"Ja, is," Nagel said firmly and gestured toward the porch.

With reluctance, Tiptoe walked into the small yard and up the porch stairs. Nagel gestured for him to knock, and, with a silent sigh, he did. When the door didn't open immediately, he turned to Nagel. "I guess the Kommandant changed his . . . "

The door opened.

"Yes?" Klink demanded.

"Entschuldigen Sie, Herr Kommandant," Nagel said. "I bring reverend prisoner like you say."

Klink looked at Tiptoe for a long unblinking moment. "Danke, Corporal. You have done well." And Klink, to Tiptoe's surprise, stepped aside to let him in.

Nervous now, Tiptoe stepped inside the lit quarters and pulled off his cap; he, like most of the prisoners, had never been here before. He heard the door close behind him.

"Now," said the barely accented voice behind him, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you in the cooler."

Breathing a silent prayer, Tiptoe turned around, thinking and discarding half a dozen stories. He finally settled for the truth. "I heard Colonel Hogan was sick, and I thought I'd offer my services."

Klink looked blank. "Services?"

"Yes, sir. I thought I'd pray with him."

"I'm afraid that Colonel Hogan is asleep, so — "

"That's okay, sir," Tiptoe interrupted. "He doesn't need to be awake. I can pray for both of us."

Klink stared at him for so long that Tiptoe started to squirm under that steady look. He also found himself wondering what Klink was thinking.

"He's in the guestroom," Klink finally said. "Down at the end of the hall."

"Uh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Tiptoe said.

"Try not to wake him, if you please."

"Yes, sir."

Tiptoe walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Hogan, flushed and clearly feverish, lay on the bed, covered with a thick comforter and several blankets. Water bottles were placed against his body. Hogan was moaning slightly when Tiptoe walked over to the bed and knelt beside it. His head bowed, his hands clasped, and he began to pray.

...

" . . . In Christ's name, amen."

Tiptoe looked for a long moment at Hogan, felt movement behind him and stood.

Klink walked over to the bed and laid a hand on Hogan's forehead.

"How is he, sir?"

"I think the fever's gone down a little," Klink said. "He seemsless flushed."

"That's good, sir. Well, I'll get back to my barracks now."

"No," Klink said to his surprise. "I would like to talk to you."

"Sir?" Tiptoe followed Klink out into the living room.

"Have a seat, Private Tiptoe."

"Sir, I shouldn't really be here . . . "

"You should have thought of that before you lied to Nagel," Klink said dryly.

"I, uh . . . "

"Sit down, private."

"Uh, yes, sir." Tiptoe sat on the very edge of a chair.

Klink glanced at him and went over to the sideboard. "Would you like a drink, private?"

Tiptoe's brows rose, as did his voice. "Sir??"

"Brandy?"

Tiptoe cleared his throat. "Sir, I don't think . . . "

Klink poured brandy into two glasses and brought a glass over to Tiptoe, who took it as if he'd been handed a rattlesnake.

Klink smiled faintly and sat down on the sofa across from Tiptoe. "I've always been sorry we couldn't get a chaplain in the camp. But POW chaplains are rare, and this camp was far too small to warrant one. However, except for the occasional visits of Monsignor Geisler, you seem to have filled that role."

"I tried to do my best, sir," Tiptoe said, balancing the brandy on his knee. What am I doing here? "I'm not ordained or . . ."

"I'm glad you're not, private," Klink said slowly. "If you were, I might hesitate to talk to you. But you have no bothersome vows, such as the seal of confession, to worry about."

"Sir, I may not be a priest or such, but I still . . ."

"I'm not going to ask you to betray a confidence, private," Klink said. "But," he leaned forward, "I need to know what the prisoners think about the last few days."

"Think, sir?" Tiptoe felt like there was a gaping chasm opening before him.

"Or perhaps I should be asking what you think you know."

The chasm got deeper. "I don't know anything, sir." For once, Tiptoe's glib tongue failed him. "Nobody knows . . ."

"Some do, private," Klink said softly. "Some know quite a bit. Some have guessed quite a bit. I think you fall into that category. When men can't figure something out, when they get confused, they'll turn to someone who might help them sort things out. A priest, a minister, or, in this case, an unofficial minister. You. The last few days have been difficult. Things have happened, things were seen, that would require an explanation. I believe you're smart enough to put it all together."

"Maybe, sir," Tiptoe said cautiously. "But I shouldn't be talking to you. Colonel Hogan — "

"Is ill at the moment, and even if he weren't, I'd still be talking to you. Not his men or the officers."

"Why, sir?"

Klink smiled faintly. "Because you're not an officer and you're not one of Hogan's men."

"Sir?"

Klink settled back against the cushions. "If I were running an army, the last thing I'd do is make a chaplain an officer," he said. "Many men aren't comfortable speaking to officers, even if one is there to help them. In this camp, Hogan and his men are off-limits; they're far too busy for one thing. The other officers, well, as I said many men aren't comfortable with officers. Which means they talk to each other or they talk to someone like you, who does have the training to help them, yet is on their level."

"I see what you mean, sir."

"Good. Now, what do you know or what do you guess about the past three days?"

"I, uh . . . " Then he shrugged mentally; he could only die once — he hoped. "Lt. Miller's detail came back with a stranger, one that you gave a name to. You lied, sir. I think most of the men know that."

"Do they know why?" Klink asked in a low voice.

"Some of them think you did it to keep from getting into trouble. What I mean is," he added as Klink raised a brow, "you'd told that SS captain that you could identify every man in the detail. So, you'd have to lie if you couldn't."

Klink shook his head.

"But," Tiptoe continued, "I don't think that's the general opinion. They're not sure why you lied, but . . . "

"But?" Klink said as Tiptoe hesitated.

Tiptoe shook his head. "I'm not going to guess, sir. In fact, I'm not sure why you lied either. I don't think you knew who he was when you said his name was Wagner."

"I didn't," Klink admitted to Tiptoe's surprise.

"Then why did you lie?"

Klink smiled faintly. "Because Schiff did."

"Sir?"

"I guessed Schiff was lying when he gave that vague description of the escaping prisoner. I knew he was when he didn't look for a tattoo on the men's arms."

"Tattoo?"

Klink nodded. "Binyamin has a number tattooed on his arm; it wouldn't have been hard to identify him."

"Binyamin — that's his name?"

"You didn't know?"

"No, sir; he didn't tell me his real name when I talked to him. So you knew you had nothing to lose by identifying him as Wagner since Schiff didn't care either."

Klink nodded.

"But what if someone was looking for him?"

"The risk should have been negligible. Between Schiff's report and mine, no one should have bothered to come back looking for an escaped slave worker."

"But that SS colonel did."

"The only reason he did," Klink said softly, "was because Hogan waylaid the trucks carrying the women and children."

Tiptoe sat stock-still. Despite his guesses, he hadn't expected Klink . . .

"And the only reason Danziger cared about those trucks," Klink continued in that same soft voice, "was because of the items hidden in them. Binyamin didn't make the connection until I told him about Danziger's reaction to the missing trucks. That's when he realized what else the trucks were carrying."

Since he had nothing to lose, Tiptoe asked carefully, "Would youhave approved the mission if you had known what was in the trucks, sir?"

Klink didn't answer. He smiled faintly, stood and walked over to the sideboard, pouring himself another drink. Klink turned and looked at Tiptoe, who was still seated and wondering if he dared continue with the questions.

Tiptoe looked up and met Klink's gaze steadily. "Most of the guys don't know about the trucks' hijacking. But they have heard about the bridge blowing up and that Hogan was hurt. Is that what you were curious about, sir?"

Klink shook his head. "I'm more interested in the later incident at the bridge."

"Well, sir, the official story is that Danziger was killed by an assassin, and that's the story that's been making the rounds of the camp."

"And the men who were there? Especially the six who didn't know what was going on?"

"They're . . . surprised, sir."

Klink looked at the glass in his hand. "Are they talking about their surprise?"

"It's still early, sir," Tiptoe said slowly. "They're sort of turning it over in their heads, trying to figure it out."

"And talking to each other no doubt."

"I . . . Yes, sir. And they're not exactly quiet about it. What I don't understand is why you or Colonel Hogan didn't order them to keep quiet?"

"Would it have worked?"

"Yes, I guess . . . But . . . maybe . . ."

"Or maybe not."

"Or maybe not." He looked at Klink and asked bluntly, "Sir, why did you kill Danziger? Why not have someone else kill him? I mean, the night before you arranged . . ." He broke off as Klink looked at him. "I guess I should shut up."

Klink smiled faintly and walked back to the sofa. "There is one omnipotent being in the universe, and contrary to the mythology, I am not He. The sharpshooters I know are not in the neighborhood, and I didn't know that Danziger would come here until two hours before he showed up. Even if a sharpshooter were available, he or she might decide to kill anyone in an officer's uniform. It would be very awkward if I were to wind up dead because of a mistake. And . . . " He stopped and took a sip of his brandy.

"And, sir?"

Klink looked at Tiptoe soberly. "I don't take lives lightly, private. I've seen too much death. And I've seen too much anonymous killing, whether it's by bombs falling from 30,000 feet or a machine-gun capable of taking out dozens. If I have no choice but to kill in cold blood, I won't do it anonymously or unexpectedly."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"There's a story I heard long ago about Thomas More, St. Thomas More," Klink said slowly. "He abhorred swearing and using the name of God or Jesus or the Virgin Mary in vain. In his view, a person who cursed was damned if that person died cursing. Of course, his friends and acquaintances thought him odd, saying that they would never do such a thing when they were dying. Then a man he knew was thrown by his horse while riding. And the man's dying words were a curse against God." Klink looked at Tiptoe. "Everyone," he said softly, "should know his moment of death, private. I have enough sins to answer for. Condemning a soul to eternal damnation because of something I had the power to change is not one of them."

Tiptoe looked at him steadily for long, slow minutes as Klink sipped his brandy.

"Are you praying for me, private?" Klink finally asked softly.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Thank you."

"Sir," Tiptoe asked after a few more silent minutes, "why are you telling me these things?"

"Because I made a mistake a few months ago," Klink said quietly. "And I need your help as well as Colonel Hogan's, and Schultz's, and Captain Gruber's to rectify it. Or soften it."

"Mistake, sir?"

Klink nodded. "You talked to Binyamin?"

Tiptoe blinked. "Yes, sir."

"What did he say?"

"Not much, sir. Just that you used to know each other and you thought he'd died. He was very discreet, sir."

"He didn't tell you about the concentration camps?"

"Just that he'd been to several with that SS colonel and that he'd escaped on his way to one."

"And what do you know about the camps?"

"Very little, sir. Prisons for enemies of the Nazis and slave labor?"

Klink nodded. "Yes, and no." He stood and walked over to the window. "Concentration camps have existed from the beginning of the Third Reich," he said, staring out at the darkness. "Starting with Dachau. Communists, socialists, and other so-called enemies of the state, including religious leaders, were imprisoned. Then the net grew bigger. Those the Nazis deemed inferior, mentally or physically, were rounded up. Then Gypsies. Jews beginning in 1935 were singled out as a whole race, eventually deprived of homes, businesses, rights, access to transportation, schools, hospitals, shops, occupations, pets — the places and comforts of everyday life. Those prohibitions extended not merely to practicing Jews, but also to those who had Jewish grandparents. Hundreds of thousands of Jews and others were forced out of Germany. Most of those who stayed were eventually rounded up and put into ghettoes where people lived in crowded inhuman conditions. With the invasions — Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, the Low Countries, France, and finally the Soviet Union — more people were taken. Jews, of course, and Gypsies. But also soldiers, political prisoners, clergy, ordinary people who dared to defy the Nazis — all were put into concentration camps, slave camps, where overwork, deprivation and starvation took care of many of them.

"As the Nazis advanced east, the killings began in earnest. They were called Einsatzgruppen — killing units. They 'cleansed' villages, towns, cities of Jews and other undesirables."

Cleansed? A fist of pure dread squeezed Tiptoe's insides as he listened.

"However," Klink continued, "most people don't take to murder easily. Not even the Einsatzgruppen. For one thing, if you turn men into savage killers, it becomes increasingly difficult to control them. A more efficient, less personal method of killing was found — the extermination camps."

Ashen, Tiptoe stood, staring at Klink. "Extermination . . . extermination camps?" he whispered.

Klink nodded. "Beginning in late 1941," he said softly. "Though it didn't become a 'Final Solution' until January 1942. Officially ending November of last year. But by then, millions of people, young, old, sick or well, of every nationality and religion, had died in the gas chambers."

Tiptoe's forgotten glass slipped from his numb fingers to the floor, the brandy staining the rug.

"There were six extermination camps," Klink continued in that surreal soft voice. "Chelmno, Belzec, Sobibor, Treblinka, Auschwitz and Majdanek, all in Poland. The first four were solely extermination camps, using gas chambers for the killings; they alone accounted for two million deaths. The other two camps had multiple uses — murders of those deemed unfit to live went on in one section, forced labor in other sections. Majdanek was also a Soviet POW camp.(1)

"The concentration camp system continued to grow. Some were transit camps for those on the way to the killing centers. The rest became forced labor camps for the war effort where millions died from starvation, disease, exhaustion, or executions if they grew troublesome or were unable to work. God alone knows how many have died. Now, thousands die on the death marches."

"Death marches?" Tiptoe managed to whisper.

"As the Allies advance, the camps have been and are being evacuated. Starving, exhausted prisoners are marched to other camps without provisions under brutal conditions. Many do not survive the journey. Binyamin and the ones with him were lucky; there was transportation for them. Most likely because Danziger wanted to get his ill-gotten goods away." Klink shook his head, as if trying to make the nightmare disappear. He looked at Tiptoe's pasty white face. "And that is the true horror of the Third Reich, private. The cold-blooded murder of millions of people. Millions whose only crime was that their lives were an affront to the 'Master Race'."

Tiptoe's legs gave out and he sank down into the chair. He was shaking uncontrollably; he felt sick, faint.

Klink hurried over. He forced the glass of brandy he held to Tiptoe's lips. "Drink it. Now!"

The fiery liquid poured into Tiptoe's mouth, and he choked, coughing, his eyes watering. The faintness receded, though the sick feeling remained.

Klink stepped away from Tiptoe, watching him trying to absorb what he'd heard.

Long, slow minutes passed as Tiptoe sat there, horror-struck, his tearing eyes fastened on his tightly clenched hands.

Finally, he looked at Klink. "Does . . . does Colonel Hogan know?"

Klink nodded. "He found out before he came here; Binyamin told him."

"What about . . . Does the rest of the world?"

"There have been stories about the deaths of Jews and others for several years in British and American newspapers and radio.(2) President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill also have mentioned the camps and the deaths in radio talks over the years. But for most, the news of the camps was of less importance than war news. And most people could not or would not believe how horrific the camps were. Now that the camps are being liberated, the truth will finally be exposed and believed. In time, the whole world will know and believe. And," his voice dropped, "they will never forgive us."

Klink turned away, but not before Tiptoe saw the pain on his face.

Tiptoe stood unsteadily and walked closer to Klink. "What do you want me to do, Kommandant?" he asked hesitantly.

"I don't know. In this . . . " Klink shook his head. "I asked London not to tell Hogan. For purely personal and selfish reasons," he admitted softly.

Tiptoe nodded, remembering how tense the camp had been after Martinelli's death. And Hogan's reaction to the death of that one man.

"And since then," Klink continued, and shrugged, "the time never seemed right. That was my mistake. I couldn't find the words or the time, and now time is at a premium." He looked at Tiptoe. "That is why I am asking for your help. How do I inform the prisoners of the evil carried out by some Germans? How do I keep them from turning on my men?"

"I . . . I don't know, sir," Tiptoe said. "I . . . " He took a deep breath."Whenever I don't know what to do, sir, I pray. God will provide an answer. He always does."

Klink smiled faintly. "Yes, He does." The smile turned grim. "But I've discovered over the past years that I don't always appreciate the answer He provides."

And Tiptoe couldn't answer.

"Forgive me, private," Klink said softly. "I had no right to burden you with this."

Tiptoe shook his head slowly. "No, I'm glad I know before the others learn about it. I think, maybe . . . " He took a deep breath. "I need to pray about this, Kommandant. After I do, then maybe I can be of some help."

"Thank you."

"Then, I'll . . . " He took a step and kicked the glass still lying on the rug. "Oh. Sorry, sir." Tiptoe bent and picked up the glass. "I guess I, uh . . . "

Klink shook his head and took the glass from him. "Good night, private."

"Uh, good night, sir."

With an awkward smile, Tiptoe left.

Ken Tiptoe walked across the compound to Barracks 12, his shock turning into anger — blind, searing anger. An anger that surprised and frightened him. And luckily for him, and anyone else, none of the guards challenged him on the way back to his barracks.

When he got there, as he expected, the lights were out and he heard the familiar sleeping sounds of the barracks. He walked into his room at the end of the barracks. For the first time, the mild surprise he'd always felt at being assigned a private room didn't come. It should have, he told himself. He was a private; he shouldn't have his own room. Only the officers and barracks leaders rated one. But Hogan had assigned it to Tiptoe when he'd lost the space he'd been using for counseling sessions in the conversion of available space into living quarters for the new men.

He felt — he didn't know how he felt. He'd promised the Kommandant he would pray. He knew that he should pray, but the words refused to come.

A sudden fit of rage struck, and Tiptoe threw his Bible on the rough table he used as a desk. Bigelow, a carpenter, had made it for him, he remembered dully, for help he'd provided. Help, what help? How can I help anyone with this?

Not bothering to get undressed, he crawled into his bunk. He was tired. The increasing number of prisoners since last year had kept him busy. Especially that last batch of prisoners, over three hundred evacuees from other prison camps — men who were ill, emaciated, lice-ridden, even dying. Normally, he had no trouble falling asleep.

But tonight, sleep wouldn't come. Tiptoe was haunted by visions conjured up by the Kommandant's words. Visions of people — women, children, normal people — rounded up like animals, crowded into ghettoes, their lives, their livelihoods, disrupted, ruined. Then, stripped of everything, led into gas chambers where they . . .

His hands covered his face to shut out the sight. But he couldn't. Any more than he could shut out the other sights — people worked until they died, or worked until they dropped and murdered as they lay there. Or marched as those three hundred had been marched, in rags, with no provisions, no comfort, marched until they died or were killed when they couldn't move. Or . . .

Why, God? Why?

Troubled, Tiptoe got out of bed, lit a candle, poured water from a pitcher into the basin and splashed water on his face. He straightened, drying his face with a rough towel. Despite the dimness, his eyes met the eyes in the mirror and his thoughts were drawn back to a time shortly after he'd arrived at Stalag 13.

In terms of experience, Tiptoe had been, as they said in his native Tennessee, a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, just graduated from the seminary when he was drafted. He'd been in the camp only a couple of months when the first crisis occurred. An RAF private named Henderson had received news that the daughter born after his capture had died in an air raid on London. Frightened of what the despondent man might do, his barracks leader had gone to Colonel Hogan and Tiptoe. Since no other place was then available, Tiptoe had spent the night in Hogan's quarters, counseling Henderson and helping him work through his pain.(3)

Tiptoe never forgot the look he saw in Hogan's eyes that night. First, compassion and concern for a man in his command, then anger. An anger that scared Tiptoe, for it was a dark, menacing anger that if left unchecked threatened to choke everything good in Hogan. For two years, that anger had lain dormant — until Martinelli. Martinelli's death at the hands of the SS had unleashed the anger that Tiptoe had seen smoldering in Hogan's eyes years before. The compassionate man Tiptoe had known was gone. Every suppressed hurt or wrong, real or imagined, Hogan had experienced was focused on one person — Kommandant Klink. That anger had led to Klink's arrest by the Gestapo. Though Klink had been cleared, the resulting enmity between the two men had left many in the camp wondering if their private war would leave any survivors. Yet the anger, the demon, had not destroyed the good man within Hogan. Somehow, in a way Tiptoe suspected nobody would ever know, Hogan had buried his demon during a cave-in the week before Christmas and made his peace with Klink.

Hogan's experience had proven that no man was immune to the effect of evil in the world. But it also gave Tiptoe hope. The demon didn't have to be in control; he could be defeated. Tiptoe looked his demon in the eye and turned to the One that could give him victory.

Lord, help me! The words formed in Tiptoe's mind, the same words he had prayed a short time ago for Colonel Hogan. In these troubled times, it's a comfort to know that you're in control.

But, God, millions in the past two years. Millions died for no reason, except they were hated. If you are really in control, how could that happen?

Tiptoe retrieved his Bible from the table, and pulled the candle closer. The Bible opened to the book of Job, and he began reading.

"In the land of Uz there lived a man whose name was Job."(4) A great man, a God-fearing man, a man who had everything. Then, in a test of Satan's, Job lost everything — his children, his wealth.

But Satan wasn't finished with Job, as he told God, "'Stretch out your hand and strike his flesh and bones, and he will surely curse you to your face.' And Job was afflicted with painful sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head."(5)

Tiptoe read and reread the book of Job during that long night, trying to understand, looking for something that would make sense.

Suddenly Tiptoe realized something he'd never noticed before — Satan was never able to do more than God allowed him to do. Okay, God is in control. But why would he let millions of innocent people be killed for no reason?

"If it were his intention and he withdrew his spirit and breath, all mankind would perish together and man would return to the dust."(6)

If God abandons man, then man dies? Is that what happened — God abandoned us? Or . . .

He stared at the page, the words blurring together. Or had man done that himself? Had man abandoned God? Or had man decided he was God? Wasn't that what the Nazis were doing? Deciding they were God, deciding who would live or die? Maybe God permitted the evil that man created to remind the world what happens when humanity decides it doesn't need God.

Tiptoe sighed deeply. He didn't understand why Job had to suffer. He didn't understand why Henderson's daughter had to die. He didn't, couldn't, understand the senseless murder of millions of people.But it didn't matter.

Lord, I come to you, hurt and anguished over the loss of so many of your children. But I can't be more hurt and anguished than you are when your children destroy each other. God, I don't understand; I'll probably never understand. But I know you love us.

Forgive me for the hate I have in my heart toward those who committed those terrible deeds. Take away the hate and help me to love as you love. Lord, there is no way to hear the truth about the deaths and not be affected by them. But show me a way to tell the truth to this camp without spreading more hate. In Christ's name, amen.

1 The history of the Holocaust as given by Klink was drawn mainly from Halevy Yechiam's Historical Atlas of the Holocaust, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Macmillan Publishing USA, 1996. The Atlas gives an overall history of the Holocaust and the countries involved and then gives a description (including maps) and brief history of each concentration camp.

2 Breitman, Richard. Official Secrets: What the Nazis Planned, What the British and Americans Knew.

3 L. Cash. New Beginnings.

4 Job 1:1 New International Version. It wasn't available in 1945 and Tiptoe would have used the King James Version. However, since there are non-native English speakers among the readers, I decided to use the modern translation, as the King James Version may not be completely understandable to them.

5 Job 2:5-7 New International Version

6 Job 34:14-15 New International Version