Chapter 14
As the three men continued their walk around the camp, Brückner noticed Hans and Martin nervously looking over their shoulders, keenly aware of the guards' presence. "You needn't worry about the guards," he advised. "They hold officers in awe," he explained, shrugging wearily. "I don't claim to understand why-"
"You are the ranking officer," Martin innocently chimed in. "You deserve their respect."
Major Brückner abruptly came to a halt. He looked quizzically at Martin, wondering if the boy actually believed what he said. Realizing the teen was serious, Brückner decided to correct the misconception.
"No one deserves respect," he said tersely, "respect is earned."
"But you are their superior," Martin argued.
The major suddenly became agitated by Martin's naïve insistence. "There are no 'superiors,' here," he spat angrily. "There is only 'them' and 'us'. . . and survival." Brückner glanced at Dietrich as if to question the advisability of associating with such a young man, then turned on his heels and began walking back towards his barracks.
The look of warning that Dietrich flashed Martin was enough to convince the young man not to argue his point. Hesitating long enough to take a quick look at the remainder of the camp, he hurried to catch up to the two officers as they entered the building where they had first met.
"As I was saying," Brückner said, attempting to make his point, "the Russians have a sort of reverence for officers, whether or not they are the enemy. Their respect for my title allows me some latitude in dealing with my men as well as the guards." Removing the dog-eared book from the bed, he waved it at Dietrich as evidence of his prestige, then gently deposited it beneath his mattress for safekeeping. "I am able to secure a few amenities for the men, from time to time."
"If the Russians hold officers in such esteem, why aren't they given their own quarters?" Martin asked curtly. He inspected the major's cot, situated underneath the window at one end of the barracks, wedged between two sets of bunk beds.
Annoyed by Martin's continued antagonism, Dietrich grabbed him with one hand and held him at arms' length. "We had an agreement," he vehemently reminded the boy. "Have you forgotten your pledge already?"
Major Brückner looked on the scene with interest. It was apparent that Martin was something of a discipline problem, and that Hans had come to the end of his patience with the boy. Why Hans had chosen his accomplice so poorly remained a mystery. Hans seemed like a capable fellow, but his qualifications to lead such a mission were not entirely clear either. Deciding there were too many questions that remained unanswered, and it was imperative to the rescue mission that he be told the truth, the major demanded an explanation.
"I think I've seen enough," Brückner admonished the two adversaries. He waited as Hans released Martin, but continued before either could offer an apology. "I have no idea why you've allowed this young man to accompany you, but it's obvious to me that he has no military experience, and you have doubts about his reliability." Brückner looked at Martin, his expression severe. "As do I."
"Sir, I can explain," Dietrich interjected.
"Good!" Looking again at Dietrich, the major raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Because I will not hand over my men to two unproven strangers, no matter if you plan to liberate this camp or not."
Brückner paused to watch Hans. The young man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels. The major thought he could hear a slight wheeze as Hans released his breath. "It's also apparent that you are not merely a concerned civilian who's decided to risk his life freeing his fellow countrymen," he continued more calmly. "I want to know who you are, and just why I should trust you with the lives of my men. And I want to know now."
Dietrich had hoped to avoid revealing his identity. If any of them were caught and their identities discovered, the political ramifications would be far-reaching. However, it was the personal repercussions that gave him reason to pause. The thought of inadvertently involving Ilsa in this drama was abhorrent. In the final analysis, though, he doubted Martin would be able to maintain any secrecy once he found his father, and it was unreasonable to expect Major Brückner to give up control to him based on his word alone. The time had come for the total truth, despite his misgivings.
"My name is Hauptmann Hans Dietrich," the captain began slowly. "Among other things, I was a Panzer commander for a few years in North Africa." The major seemed to accept of his explanation, and Dietrich decided not to elucidate on his career in the desert. "I was contacted by the Allies and asked to take part in the liberation of this camp," he continued, supposing that the same questions he had had initially were now going through the major's mind. "Apparently they thought it would be easier for a German officer to interact with the POWs," he concluded, simplifying the facts.
No matter what the Allies' reasons were for freeing these soldiers, there was no need to bring up the role Ernst Mueller played in all of this. He had no idea if the major was aware of Mueller's traitorous career and he did not wish to complicate matters with accusations that would cause dissension.
Major Brückner nodded knowingly as he sat on the edge of his cot. His suspicions about Hans were confirmed. There was something unmistakable about him that marked him as a soldier and an officer. Captain Dietrich quietly exuded a sense of service and reponsibility, an air of determination tempered with humility - attributes that were only learned in battle. The major had no doubt the Allies had picked the right man.
Still, the question of his companion remained puzzling. "Why bring the boy?"
Dietrich walked the few steps to the bunk beds and, grasping the wooden frame behind him, leaned against the footboard. "Martin is here only by a series of circumstances that no one could have foreseen," he began, barely masking his displeasure. Explaining Martin's presence, without giving away his familial connection was going to require some creativity. "Martin is on a quest of sorts. He was stopped at the German/Polish border and we happened to be passing by on our trip-"
"I am here to find my father," Martin interrupted, defying Dietrich's dictum. He wasn't ashamed of the truth, regardless of his father's guilt or innocence. Ignoring the flash of anger in Herr Hauptmann's eyes, Martin decided to explain his presence to Major Brückner.
"What is your name?" Brückner asked when Martin finished his story.
"Martin Mueller," the teen answered proudly.
Brückner immediately straightened, recognition distorting his facial features. His eyes scanned Martin briefly, quickly appraising the boy before him. "No doubt you are your father's son," he said simply and disdainfully. There was no question that the major knew of Ernst Mueller's reputation.
Dietrich was already in Martin's path as the boy angrily made an attempt to leave the barracks. "Where do you think you're going?" The captain's question wasn't at all rhetorical. Martin literally had no place to run to.
"You heard what he said!" Martin exclaimed, hurt and indignant.
Clutching Martin by his arms, Hans attempted to reason with him. "Yes, I did, but it's nothing you don't already know." When Martin tried to shake off Dietrich's grasp, his hold became tighter. "Think about it, Martin, and accept the truth for what it is." Hans gazed at Martin in complete sincerity. "You have come a long way to find your father and, against all odds, you've succeeded."
Martin stopped squirming.
"Don't allow your misplaced pride to ruin everything now. You will meet your father, I promise, Martin. But you have to have patience. You have to allow us to do what's necessary for the rest of these men."
Calmer now, Martin looked back over his shoulder at the major, who had risen from the cot. Perhaps he had deserved Brückner's contentious remark. His father was a traitor, a troublemaker. He knew it - no matter how much it hurt to acknowledge it. Perhaps he was more like his father than he dared to admit.
Swallowing his pride, Martin turned to apologize to the major. "I am sorry," he said, bravely admitting his fault.
Dietrich visibly relaxed as Major Brückner accepted Martin's apology. For the time being, at least, one more crisis had been averted. Martin's capitulation would make working with the major much easier, and Hans had to admit that, on some level, he was actually proud of the boy's repentance. Maybe there was yet some hope for him.
"I suppose I should just learn to keep quiet," Martin admitted despondently.
"No," Dietrich answered, managing a wan smile. The last thing his country needed was another generation of citizens who were afraid to speak their minds. "You just have to learn to pick your battles." When he could no longer hide his relief, Hans added a well-intentioned suggestion, "And never start a fight when you're already outnumbered."
When Major Brückner laughed, expressing his agreement, Dietrich assumed the volatile situation had been defused. He turned his attention back to the major. "You said you had a plan," he reminded, attempting to bring a little order to their conversation.
Brückner nodded and indicated that Hans and Martin should seat themselves on the beds across from his. He began to pace in a small circle in front of his bed, a learned maneuver developed after years of living in a confined space. "Since I am the commanding officer, I am allowed to meet with my subordinate officers once a week," he explained. "The meetings are basically to keep track of the men, their health and welfare, ecetera."
"That would be perfect!" Dietrich observed. "You can inform them of the rescue mission and-"
"The only problem is we have already met this week." Brückner stopped pacing to look at Dietrich. "It will be difficult to convince the commandant that we need to meet again. He's a suspicious bastard; there are always guards and an interpreter who report back to him."
"Can he be bribed?" Dietrich asked.
Brückner laughed under his breath. "Everyone around here can be bribed," he stated matter-of-factly. "The problem is, we have very little to bargain with."
"Wait!" Martin said excitedly, "I have something." Standing, he searched one trouser pocket, then the other. Finally, he triumphantly produced a pocket watch and handed it to Major Brückner. "My father gave it to me," he said, staring at the watch in the major's hand.
Dietrich could hear the emotion behind the young man's words. "Martin, don't give away something so special just because-"
"This has nothing to do with what my father is, or how I feel about him," Martin assured both the major and the captain. "He would want it to be put to good use, as I do." He sighed reflectively. "Besides, I want my father, not his watch."
Brückner glanced at the watch, then at Martin. "This," he said, indicating the watch, "just might be what we need."
Dietrich watched Martin. The conviction in his eyes a testimony to his commitment. "Thank you," he said, genuinely grateful. He hoped that this time Martin's commitment would last. Nodding his head in agreement, Dietrich asked, "What about the guards? Do they understand German?"
"No," the major replied. "Just a little English as far as I can tell."
"And the interpreter?"
Brückner sighed. "Jaroslaw Znosko, a rather miserable fellow. He's a displaced Pole who is rather fluent. He smokes too much and reeks of alcohol. He hates the Russians as much as he hates us, I think, but the money supports his filthy habits. He's even more amenable to a bribe than the C.O."
"Hmm. . ." Dietrich took a deep breath that was intended to clear his mind, but only made him wince at a dull ache in the left side of his back, just below his ribs. As the pain subsided, he looked up to see that the major, too, had noticed his reaction. Choosing not to comment on his state of health, he evaded the puzzled expression on Brückner's face by reaching into his tunic pocket for the cigarettes Troy had given him that morning. "It's doubtful we'd have anything he'd want, and he probably can't be trusted, anyway."
"How long will it take to explain the mission to your officers?" Martin asked thoughtfully as he watched the captain light the cigarette.
"Five or ten minutes," Brückner guessed. "Why?"
"Even you know I'm a troublemaker," Martin grinned smugly. "If the captain will allow me to borrow his cigarettes and lighter, I think I can keep the Pole distracted long enough for you to report to your men."
"You know, Martin," the major conceded, finally sitting on his bed. "I think I was wrong about you."
"No sir," the teen disagreed, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You were exactly right."
Their strategy was set. Major Brückner would arrange to meet with the camp commandant that evening and ask to schedule a meeting with the other German officers the next day. As soon as the meeting place and time was established, it would fall to Martin to distract the Polish interpreter long enough for Brückner and Dietrich to relate the escape plan. The whole scheme depended on the commandant's approval, and the major was certain the watch would guarantee his request. There was little else to do now, but wait.
Dietrich straightened from the hunched position he had assumed on the cot. There was little clearance between the beds, stacked three high, and his bent posture did not help his breathing. When he could no longer ignore the swelling spasm in his chest, he finally stood upright, giving into a fit of coughing.
Not entirely surprised by the captain's sudden seizure, Major Brückner looked on in apprehension and concern. He had suspected Dietrich's health was not what it should be, and this spell of coughing only proved him correct. But the major was more concerned about the welfare of his own men. He did not want to put their lives in the hands of a man incapable of leading the mission.
"You are ill," Brückner observed, somewhat accusatorily.
"I've had a touch of influenza," Hans replied, trying not to sound defensive at the same accusation he had heard from Sargeant Troy.
"And now it's settled in your lungs."
"Yes," Dietrich answered, breathing heavily. There was little sense in denying it. His thoughts were slowly clouding from the fever that had returned with a vengeance; the sweat beading on his upper lip was not from what little heat was given off from the coal stove on the other side of the building.
Brückner's misgivings had increased twofold. He preferred to think that the captain would not have attempted this mission if he thought he could not uphold his role in the rescue plan. But the major had witnessed stronger men who had failed simply because they refused to accept their limitations. He had to wonder if Deitrich was one of those men.
Hans understood the major's position. "I would not be here if I did not think I could finish my assignment," he assured Brückner, attempting to impart his self-confidence to the officer.
Martin watched as the major sat on his cot again. He stared at the floor, apparently pondering the advisability of putting so much trust in an ailing captain and his juvenile companion. Feeling as if he had to defend the captain's integrity, Martin decided to voice his own observation. "Hauptmann Dietrich is being honest, Major." He earnestly looked at Hans, knowing the impact his next words would have on the captain. "He has always been truthful with me."
Martin's candid disclosure was not so much a surprise as it was a revelation. It took a moment for Dietrich to consider the implications of the confession. The boy had finally forgiven Hans for telling the truth about his father, and had inadvertently admitted that the man he respected and admired was, indeed,
a traitor. It was a significant, if painful moment in Martin Mueller's life and Dietrich was honored that he had chosen this particular time to express his true feelings. It was probably the most courageous act the boy had ever performed, and Hans felt a sense of sadness that only he and Martin were privy to it.
The captain was a man of his word, Brückner was sure of that. But being true to one's character was difficult when the body could not comply with the mind. "I don't doubt that you are well-intentioned," he announced at last. "In light of everything you have told me, I have little choice but to trust you." Rising from the cot, he solemnly promised, "My officers and I will do everything we can to help." Looking first at Martin and then at Dietrich, he added gravely, "Please don't give me reason to regret it."
The sound of a creaking door shifted everyone's attention to an unexpected intruder. In the dim lighting, he appeared to be a young man, probably not much older than Martin. Tall, but slight of build, Dietrich thought he should've been dancing in a smoky Hamburg nightclub, not stuck in a prisoner of war camp in the middle of a barren seaport.
"Come in, Private," Brückner invited the young man inside.
Dietrich noticed the young man barely cleared the doorway, as he awkwardly stepped inside and saluted. "Lunch, sir," he announced the mid-day meal while studying the two men with Major Brückner. They were new, he was sure of that, and from the grim look on the major's face he guessed they were trouble.
"Thank you, Private," the major said, dismissing the young soldier, "I'll be along shortly."
Snapping another salute, the young man glanced again at Martin and Hans, then disappeared into the noonday outside the barracks.
"It appears that you two will be the main topic of conversation in the barracks tonight," the major said, commenting on the inspection Hans and Martin had just received. He noted the worry that creased Dietrich's brow. "Don't worry, Captain. The new of your arrival won't go any further than the men. No matter how curious they are about you, they won't betray you."
Dietrich glanced dubiously at the major. "I too was a prisoner of war, Major," he explained. "I know how news spreads among the men, and I know what happens when it reaches the wrong ears."
Major Brückner suddenly became defensive. "Are you saying that my men can't be trusted?"
"No, sir," Dietrich answered decisively. "I'm saying your men are in a desperate situation, and desperation distorts judgement."
"The guards don't allow us to talk to each other during meals," Brückner advised Hans and Martin, as they followed the major to the prisoners' mess hall. "I suppose they are afraid that we will conjure up some sort of magical escape plan while we're all together in one place." The major laughed sadly at the Russians' irrational fears.
Unarmed, with half of the men undernourished and ill, Major Brückner's troops certainly didn't present any threat to their captors. He only hoped they still had enough fight left to take advantage of the escape when the time came.
Dietrich acknowledged the major's advice with a simple nod. He didn't particularly care that he would be unable to talk with anyone. The less the men knew about him and Martin, the better off they would be. He was, in fact, quite happy not to face the inevitable questions. He needed this time to think, to quietly examine the faces of those whose lives were in his hands.
The idea occurred to Dietrich that Martin might be interested in one face in particular. As they approached the building where the meals were served, Hans abruptly pulled Martin aside. "Your father is probably inside," he calmly warned the young man. "Martin, I don't have to remind you how important it is that you do not cause a scene. Especially not in front of the guards."
Retaining his composure, Martin didn't try to break free from Dietrich's grasp. It was only natural that the captain would be concerned about his reaction to finally being with his father. "You don't need to worry," he stated confidently. "I swear I will not do anything to compromise our mission, or ourselves."
Hans was, once again, taken back by Martin's new deportment. It was the first time he had ever heard him speak in terms of the collective effort instead of his own agenda. It was also the first time Hans
felt he could believe what the boy said was true. He studied Martin's face for a moment. When he was sure that he was sincere, Dietrich allowed himself a slight smile.
"Good," he said, finally. Hans let go of Martin's arm, then followed the young man and Major Brückner inside the long building.
The heavy odor of fish assaulted their senses when the three men stepped inside. Whatever their noonday meal consisted of, it was obviously of the seafood variety. The mess hall was only minimally brighter inside than the barracks, and Dietrich was able to discern the established mealtime routine. Two long tables were set against the short, northern wall of the building. Whatever was being served was being dished out of huge pots on the tables. A line wove around the long wall of the building as the men queued-up to receive their portion. Except for the occasional clatter of metal plates and utentsils, the building was absolutely quiet.
It wasn't as if they needed to communicate verbally. The men who didn't observe the arrival of two newcomers were silently informed by those who did. Through a series of nudging elbows and nodding heads, Hans and Martin became the focal point of the assembled prisoners. Distracted by the hope of catching a glimpse of his father, Martin remained oblivious to the attention he was receiving. Studying each man in line, Martin tried to be methodical in his approach to finding his father. In his eagerness, he eventually lost track of the countless faces, and resorted, instead, to scanning the sea of men seated at the tables in front of him.
As the line inched slowly forward, Dietrich deliberately returned the inquiring stares of those with whom he made eye contact. He had hoped to maintain a low-profile, but it was obvious that news of their arrival would was no longer a secret. No matter what Major Brückner believed, his men were no different from other POWs whose world had been reduced to a microcosm within the barbed wire fence that held them.
Most of the men stared at the strangers for only a moment, then went about their mealtime routine. Standing on the opposite side of the hall, apparently waiting for a vacancy, one man in particular seemed more concerned with the new arrivals than the rest. As Dietrich's eyes adjusted to the reduced lighting, the soldier's features came into better focus and he immediately knew why the man seemed more interested than the others. Of average build and height, blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, he was almost the mirror image of Martin Mueller.
Ernst Mueller froze when he locked gazes with Dietrich and he thought his heart stopped when he finally saw his son standing in front of the new prisoner. The tray in his hands fell to the floor with a loud clatter, momentarily capturing the attention of those around him. In a panic, Mueller left the fallen tray behind and swiftly moved through the building, towards the only door to the outside.
Dietrich hesitated only a moment before deciding to go after the man. Staring off in the other direction, Martin had not witnessed what had passed between the captain and his father, and Hans quickly decided his ignorance in the matter was better left undisturbed. Surely Mueller had identified his own son. And since he had chosen to abruptly leave without even a gesture of recognition suggested that there was more to this father/son relationship than Dietrich understood.
Suspecting he would be followed, Ernst Mueller took one look back before pushing his way through the crowd at the door. Finally outside, he began to run.
As Martin looked on in wonder, Dietrich offered a hasty apology to Major Brückner, stepped out of line, and hurriedly followed the elder Mueller. Martin's father was already halfway across the compound when Hans was at last able to reach the outside. Racing to catch up with him, Dietrich caught a glimpse of Mueller ducking around the corner of one of the guards' barracks, then lost sight of him altogether.
Mueller had not gone far though, for as Dietrich caught up with him, they were both immediately grabbed by two guards who had approached them from the opposite direction.
The two Russians weren't particularly interested in why the Germans were chasing each other - they only knew that they were impeding their own progress. As they shoved Dietrich and Mueller against the side of the building, the guard holding Mueller recognized Dietrich from their encounter earlier that morning. When he muttered something about "that one" being contagious, his partner quickly released the captain, and both took a cautious step backwards. After admonishing the two prisoners in a rough concoction of Russian and English, they hastily left to continue their rounds.
As he rested against the side of the barracks, Dietrich's breathing undulated somewhere between a shallow gasp for air and a ragged cough. When the guards had moved far enough out of sight, Mueller took the opportunity to catch his pursuer by the lapels of his tunic and hold him against the wall.
"Who are you?" he demanded, pinning the captain against the building.
Dietrich's head snapped back from the force of Mueller's effort. He closed his eyes against the warmth of the man's breath in his face. When he finally regained his breath, he purposefully grabbed Mueller's wrists to wrest his hands from his collar.
"I don't owe you any explanations," Dietrich growled, straightening his jacket.
"Then why are you following me?" Mueller demanded.
"Because I know who you are," Dietrich unhesitatingly answered.
Mueller hesitated. If this stranger knew his identity, then he also knew he was Martin's father. "Why is my son here?" he asked, not bothering to continue the charade.
"Why didn't you ask him?" Dietrich jerked his head back towards the mess hall. "He's come a long way to find you."
Ernst Mueller took a moment to consider the implications of the newcomer's allegation. His "death" had been arranged. The Allies had seen to it that all the proper notifications were made. The Werhmarcht would have notified his family. He couldn't begin to fathom why Martin could not accept the prevarication, nor how his son had come to be in a POW camp in Lithuania. And at this moment, little of that mattered.
"I don't owe you any explanations, either," Ernst hissed as he turned to walk away.
Dietrich reached out in time to grab Mueller's arm and turn him around. "No," he agreed angrily, "you don't owe me anything. But you owe that boy something."
"You say you know who I am," Mueller sneered. "Then you should also know that I am not a popular man around here. It's better that he not associate with me."
Dietrich stared at Mueller in disbelief, wondering how the man could dismiss his son so lightly. "Martin doesn't care what you are, he only cares who you are."
"He wouldn't like me either way."
Dietrich thought he caught a glimpse of remorse in the elder man's eye. "Let him be the judge of that," he suggested kindly.
A clamor arose behind him and Dietrich turned to find Martin jogging toward him with Major Brückner following closely behind. When Martin suddenly stopped, Hans knew the boy recognized his father. Dietrich turned to find Ernst Mueller fleeing through the maze of buildings; he made no attempt to stop him. Instead, he stepped into Martin's path in order to prevent the boy from running after his father.
"What are you doing?" Martin screamed when Dietrich caught him by both arms and stopped him in his pursuit. "That was my father!"
"I know," Dietrich replied as calmly as the situation allowed.
Martin continued to struggle against Dietrich's hold. "Then let me go!" he pleaded.
"Martin-" How did one tell a child that his parent did not want to see him, Dietrich wondered. "Martin, please-"
"What?" the boy demanded. Beginning to suspect the truth, his lower lip trembled and tears began to well in his eyes.
"Let him go," Dietrich advised the distraught young man.
Tears streamed down his face as he stared at the captain. "Why?" he asked, bewildered by the assault of emotions. After a moment he voiced the words Hans was not able to speak in a plaintive whisper. "He doesn't want to see me."
Hans bowed his head. He had no words to comfort his friend. Martin offered little resistance as he gently wrapped his arms around him, holding the boy as his body shook with cries of confusion and sorrow.
Denial played havoc with his emotions even as the cruel realization gripped Martin's heart like a vice. This was impossible, he argued with himself. He had been right. His father was alive. He had come all this way, had risked his life and freedom to prove his point and to bring his father home. This
was not how it was supposed to end. The pain of rejection numbed his heart and mind, his world
crumbling before him. Even his ever-active imagination could not explain his father's indifference.
For the first time since he had received the news of his father's fabricated death, Martin felt the emptiness of abandonment. As Herr Dietrich's arms enfolded him, he desperately grasped for what comfort he could find from the only adult he still felt he could trust.
At Brückner's suggestion, Dietrich was finally able to persuade Martin to return with him to the major's barracks. The throng of curious onlookers was quickly dispersed by the guards, and on the major's authority, Dietrich and Martin were allowed to pass without interference.
Seated on a vacant bed, his hands clasped in front of him, Martin blindly stared at the floor, seemingly oblivious to Hans seated next to him. Dietrich had had a great deal of experience counseling young men in his command. From the loss of family to the unfaithfulness of girlfriends left behind, he thought he had dealt with every conceivable scenario - until now.
Ernst Mueller's behavior was beyond his understanding. Even if the man was ashamed of his past, even if his present situation was precarious, he did, at least, owe Martin some semblance of recognition - some gratitude for his efforts to rescue him. Mueller's reaction to the arrival of his son had been unexpected as well as unwelcome, throwing Martin into despair, and their mission into jeopardy. While Hans sympathized with the young man's turmoil, the liberation of the camp had to be his priority. Without Martin's help, the odds of a successful rescue were growing increasingly smaller.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a tin cup full of hot soup suddenly appeared in front of Dietrich. "I thought he could use something hot." A young man, several years older than Martin, held out the proffered cup.
Gratefully accepting the soup, Hans asked, "How-?"
The young man casually shrugged. "I smuggled it out of the mess hall. It's not difficult," he explained, opening his jacket to reveal his hiding place. Casting a concerned glance at Martin, he added, "I wish it could be more."
Dietrich passed the cup to Martin who dispassionately gazed at the liquid as it sloshed from side-to-side in the mug. Rising from the bed, the captain held out his hand in order to thank the soldier, as well as to make the necessary introductions. "Thank you, uh. . ." Dietrich searched for some sort of identification, but found none.
"Rundstedt," he replied. "Obergefreiter Wilhem Rundstedt," he grinned as they shook hands, "but my friends call me Willie."
"Thank you, Willie," Dietrich graciously smiled in return. Willie was of average build and height, but he had a kind, gentle face set off by eyes that radiated an innate intelligence. "My name is Hans." Then, indicating the teen, he added "This is Martin."
Willie expertly appraised the two strangers. "No last names, then?" he asked. When he didn't receive an answer, he shook his head knowingly. "That's fine. I don't have a good memory for names." Turning to walk away, Willie took a few steps then turned back to face the captain. "I'm sure you're here for a reason," he added as an afterthought. "I want you to know that I'm here to help."
As Willie went back to his work detail, Dietrich sat again on the cot next to Martin. He was assured of at least one collaborator, he thought contentedly. Willie's pledge of support slightly eased Dietrich's fears - if the young corporal's insight was any indication of the remaining men, gaining everyone's trust might not be as difficult as he had imagined.
Obtaining the cooperation of the prisoners was only half of the battle, though. The other half was to get the word out without alerting their Russian captors. Major Brückner was already meeting with the camp commander to arrange a conference with his officers. The only questionable player was Martin. Dietrich watched as the despondent young man sipped at the contents of the tin mug. "I'm glad to see you're eating." But his support seemed to fall on deaf ears. Martin's non-response emphasized the air of uneasiness circulating between the two of them. Hans knew what Martin wanted to hear: That his father's
conduct had been some sort of well-rehearsed farce designed to divert suspicion away from his son; that he would arrive at any minute and explain his behavior; that he would embrace Martin as his son, as any proud father would.
But Dietrich wasn't sure any of Martin's expectations would be met, and he refused to offer the boy any false hopes.
"He won't come, will he?" Martin's voice broke as he finally spoke his fear.
"No," Dietrich answered quietly, "he won't." He had little choice but to be honest with the boy.
"He doesn't want me here." Martin's voice was haunted, forlorn. "He doesn't love me," he observed in a barely audible whimper.
Martin's anguish was almost palpable, and Dietrich's only recourse was to draw on his limited experience as a father. "Don't judge him too harshly," he suggested, even though he too doubted the elder Mueller's motives. "Perhaps he's ashamed of what he is. Perhaps he's afraid you won't love him."
A tear traced a path down Martin's cheek as he finally turned to look at Dietrich. "He's my father," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, "doesn't he know-?" Martin shook his head in confusion. How could his father not understand that the past was gone, that Hauptmann Dietrich was right, it was time for everyone to move forward?
Placing his arm around Martin's shoulder, Hans could only offer his reassurance. "You're a strong, brave young man," he candidly replied. "How could your father not love you? Give him time, Martin. He will eventually realize it."
Somewhat placated, Martin laughed a little as he drained the last of the soup. "It must've been quite a shock for him - to see me here." Satisfied that time was, indeed, what his father required, he allowed himself a faint smile. "I'm not ready to give up quite yet," he announced, desperately holding to the last shred of hope.
Dietrich also could not keep from smiling. The boy had an indomitable spirit. "I didn't think you would," he answered, shaking his head in wonder.
Having convinced Martin to lie down and rest, Hans covered him as he slept. The ragged wool blanket wouldn't offer much warmth, and the straw mattress missed fitting on the bed by about three inches all around. Still, it was better than nothing and Dietrich guessed it was a vast improvement on what Martin had slept in the night before.
Hans picked up the empty tin mug from the floor. As he straightened his back, he felt a distinctive snap in his spine, and every muscle protested the strain of the day. He was already exhausted and the day was only a little more than half-gone. Absently wiping his forehead with his hand, he found he was sweating again. His dry mouth and roiling stomach were nagging reminders that he had gone without food and water for too long.
The sound of the door creaking open abruptly caught him off guard. Not wishing to risk an encounter with any of the guards, Dietrich quickly dove under the bed where Martin was sleeping. His heart beat rapidly, increasing his respiration rate, which induced another fit of coughing. His whole body convulsed as laid on the cold concrete floor and fought to remain silent.
Dietrich was able to detect a pair of feet as they moved easily around the barracks. It appeared that there was only one man and from the obvious disrepair of the intruder's boots, he guessed him to be a fellow POW.
"Hauptmann Dietrich?" Major Brückner called out quietly, trying not to disturb Martin.
Relieved to hear the major's familiar voice, Dietrich momentarily rested his head on his arms, then slid out from under the bed. Sitting on the floor, he wearily leaned against the wooden wall for support and uneasily waited while the latest episode of coughing passed.
Setting the tray he carried on the bed, Major Brückner perched on the edge of his cot, unable to aid the captain. When the coughing had abated, he indicated the covered tray and anxiously asked if Dietrich was able to eat.
Breathing heavily, Hans raised his head, closed his eyes and nodded. The idea of eating wasn't particularly attractive at the moment, but neither was the thought of dehydration and starvation. As the major handed him a cup of hot tea, Hans hesitantly examined the white ceramic mug as if it were an apparition.
"Well, it's not Dresden," Brückner observed good-naturedly, "but it does keep the tea warm."
Dietrich took a cautious sip, testing the temperature of the tea, then, in a hoarse whisper wondered, "How-?"
"The commandant's cook is a local townswoman of German heritage," he explained, removing the towel covering a freshly prepared plate of food. "She has been very kind to me in the past." Brückner handed the plate to Hans. "I asked her for a little something before I met with the commandant-"
"What did he say?" Dietrich asked, setting the cup aside as he accepted the plate. Even in the dimly lit barracks he could see the glint of satisfaction that played in the major's eyes. "You did it, didn't you?" he asked, eager for affirmation of his supposition.
A conspiratorial smile tugged at the corners of the major's mouth. "It's all set for ten o'clock tomorrow morning."
As he allowed his head to fall back against the wall, Hans released a sigh of relief. The watch had, apparently, done the trick. All that was left was to convince the junior officers of his integrity . . . as long as Martin could distract the interpreter.
From his position on the floor, Dietrich looked up to watch the young man as he slept. Martin was smart, tough and resourceful, but he was also young, unrealistic and easily wounded. He had come a long way and had, essentially, completed his intended objective. But his dedication to his own agenda had sprung from his ability to remain focused. Now, distressed by the afternoon's events, Dietrich wondered if Martin had the mental toughness required to stay focused; to remain committed. He had sworn a vow of loyalty, but that was before his dream of reconciliation with his father never materialized. Now, he had to stay focused on a new goal, and it was Dietrich's responsibility to be sure that he did.
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