What's in a Name

Chapter 2

Can We At Least Keep Our Phone Number?

"Do they realize what a problem this is?" Klink rubbed his hands together as he paced absentmindedly across the room. "There are signs, stationery, business cards, forms. Not to mention the maps. Can you imagine how many maps are out there? No you probably couldn't. And the Red Cross must be notified."

"But Kommandant, we only have a few prisoners. And since you have been here, there haven't been any escapes," Schultz added in an attempt to butter up his boss.

Klink puffed up. "Yes, you're right. There have not been any escapes. As I said, we need to notify the Red Cross. We do everything by the book here at Stalag 13. Geneva Convention and all."

"Abssssoooolllutely!"

"Get me the head of supply for this sector, and get me someone from the POW office in Berlin," Klink told Schultz.

Once Schultz was connected to the appropriate department, Klink got on the phone. After going up the supply chain, he was told in no uncertain terms that there was a war on, and that it wasn't their fault that his camp had been numbered incorrectly. When told of the threat on Klink's life (Klink didn't believe for a second Gratz's words that he would forget about the camp and the Kommandant) should the error not be rectified, the man on the other end of the phone broke down in hysterical laughter, and then hung up the line. Klink wisely decided that it would be more expedient to use his considerable influence in the town, pad his books, and get the necessary items himself. How he would get the maps reprinted, the official number changed, and the Red Cross notified was a matter for another time, as his calls and inquiries to the department in charge of POW's were not returned. The man who had assigned him to this backwater camp, Colonel Burkhalter - rumored to be in Poland – was unreachable.

Several days later, Klink assigned Schultz to supply detail. The sergeant huffed and puffed as he maneuvered his way through the streets of the bustling town center. His mission: find a cut-rate printing company that was willing to redesign and print new stationery, forms, and business cards for the camp. After that, he needed to locate a cut-rate sign maker to do the same. He left town hours later, having taken the time to enjoy a late lunch at one of the many fine restaurants in the area. Finally, his appetite sated and his thirst quenched, Schultz returned to the Stalag and made his report to the Kommandant.

Several days earlier, Klink had hired a skilled secretary he found through a contact; the dog handler. Both the Kommandant and Schultz had a hard time keeping their eyes off the pretty girl. She, in turn, was not as innocent as she appeared; being used to the attention, and also hiding an extreme dislike for the war, Hitler, and Fascism. She hoped that her new job would allow her to gather important information that she would later turn over to members of the Underground. Meanwhile, she felt that the Kommandant, a veteran of the Great War, was not too dangerous, and Schultz had already confessed to her that he was a Social Democrat and a former owner of a very large toy factory. Helga sorted through the samples and price sheets that Schultz had dumped on Klink's desk.

"Did I tell you to bring back prices for wedding invitations? Who is getting married?" Klink asked Schultz in a tone that would prove to be quite annoying, and common.

"They insisted, Kommandant."

"The prices are quite expensive Herr Kommandant. Are you sure we can afford this?" Helga asked as she looked through the brochures and price lists.

"Let me worry about the figures, my dear." But Klink was also surprised at the cost. With the war, certain services and supplies were at a premium. However, these fees amounted to highway robbery.

"Schultz, there is only one company represented here."

"I'm sorry Herr Kommandant. But, Hamelburg, which is verrrryyy nice, is small. Two of the shops were shuttered." Schultz tsked in sympathy. "And the other one was too busy printing propaganda. I mean informational flyers and posters," Schultz corrected himself quickly in fear that he would be arrested for speaking the truth. "And this shop is the only one left in town that can make signs."

Helga looked up at the two men, her eyes mesmerizing in their beauty. "Would you like me to go down there, Kommandant? Perhaps I can speak to them and work out a deal?"

"No, no." That was the last thing Klink wanted. He was not supposed to hire a civilian secretary, and a female at that. But he needed help. After all, there was filing to do, and he didn't trust Schultz, the dummkopf, to put things in alphabetical order, much less be able to take dictation. Helga, he had already discovered, was a whiz at shorthand, and a fast typist. The woman was a prime multitasker, and Klink was blessed to have her. He needed letters typed immediately. After all, he had many people to notify of his new assignment and promotion. Although his rank remained the same, it was an honor to have been appointed to oversee dangerous prisoners, or so he told himself, and command and get into shape the lackluster specimens assigned to guard these prisoners. Although he had planned on recruiting a civilian, out of curiosity, he had checked the turnaround time for the clerk Gratz had promised to send over, and he was sure he couldn't wait that long. After all, a man of his stature deserved, no…required…a secretary.

"Whatever you say, Kommandant." Helga replied. At the same time, she was thinking if the clerical error could be a catalyst for bigger and better things? Surely there was some way she could use this to her advantage, and the advantage of Hitler's opponents. She wasn't sure how. But, if she had her way, the chaos that may ensue from this one mistake would have repercussions far removed from misplaced mail and phone calls.

"I will go and make inquiries. Schultz, bring me my staff car."

Klink left his office in the capable hands of Fraulein Helga, while he and Schultz drove back into town. They pulled up directly in front of the printing company, and Klink marched in while Schultz waited in the car. The Kommandant, now the highest ranking officer in Hamelburg, held his head high, and in the haughtiest voice he could muster, asked the clerk behind the counter, "I would like to speak to the owner of this establishment."

The clerk, an older gentleman, showed no hint of surprise at the aristocratic colonel, his monocle and swagger cane. Klink peeked past the clerk and into the small back room. There was no sign of any work being done, or printing presses for that matter.

"This is a printing establishment, isn't it?" Klink asked as the clerk slowly put his cigarette out in the ashtray on top of the counter.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you the owner?"

"No, sir," came the bored reply.

Impatiently stomping his foot, Klink asked. "Do you know who I am?"

The clerk squinted at Klink's uniform. "An Oberst?"

Aggravated, Klink answered. "I am Kommandant Klink from the prisoner of war camp outside of town, and I venture a guess that I'm the highest ranking officer in this district."

"I guess that would be true," the clerk said as he rubbed his chin. "Well, Oberst, is there something I can help you with? The proprietor is at the plant. We only handle the orders and smaller deliveries here."

"Thank you. Yes. I may have need of a very large printing job. New stationery, calling cards, signs. Possibly more. You sent my aide back with an estimate, but sadly, it is much too high. With the war effort, you know, money is tight. So if you would please let me know how I can get in touch with Herr… what is the proprietor's name?"

"Bitmann."

"Very good. Herr Bittman. What is his number?"

The clerk gave Klink a blank stare. "He's quite busy, Oberst. I doubt you will reach him on the phone."

"Perhaps I can ask the Gestapo to get in touch with Herr Bittman?" Klink asked, although he knew that he would do no such thing.

The clerk did not take the bait. He took a piece of notepaper and scrawled down an address. "Oberst Klink, you might do better if you paid Herr Bittmann a personal visit. Shall I call over for you and let him know he should expect you?" The clerk smiled.

"Yes. Thank you. I shall do that." Klink, feeling satisfied at the progress he had made, clicked his heels, and gave the clerk a slight bow. "Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler," the clerk repeated. He watched the Oberst leave, and then picked up the phone. "Herr Bittman. It is Kurt down at the shop. The Kommandant from the POW camp outside of town was here. Ja. Well, I don't think he was pleased at the prices I gave his aide. He is on the way over. Nein. He did not frighten me at all. Danke."

Klink was in such a hurry, he forgot to wait for Schultz to hurry around and open the rear door to the staff car. Fortunately for Schultz, Klink did not notice that the sergeant was sleeping on the job. "We are going to the actual printing plant, Schultz. Here is the address." Klink passed over the paper.

Schultz took a map out of the glove box and traced the route. "I'm happy you made progress, Kommandant," he said as he pulled the car away from the curb.

"Rank has its privileges, Schultz, and it also open doors."

Schultz rolled his eyes at the remark. "I've never been to a printing plant before, Kommandant."

"Neither have I. I feel we will get the appropriate service from the owner. You need to speak to the man at the top. Remember that, Schultz."

"Yes, I will," the sergeant replied. Schultz left the downtown area, and turned north. After several kilometers, and two checkpoints, he turned east. A small industrial building could be seen a short distance away. "That must be the place," Schultz said.

"Obviously," Klink replied. "Drop me off in the front and then park the car."

"You don't wish me to come in with you?" Schultz asked, disappointed.

"No need. Wait in the car, and study the map."

Schultz watched Klink entered the building and rested his head on the rear of the driver's seat, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, he began to snore.

Klink walked into a small lobby and stood in front of the closed window, which he tapped. The receptionist looked up and slid open the glass. "Good afternoon. I am Oberst Klink of Stalag 13. Herr Bittman is expecting me." Klink removed his gloves and waited.

"I will announce you, Herr Kommandant." The receptionist offered Klink a smile, and then pushed a button on the intercom. "Herr Bittman will see you now," she announced a few moments later.

Klink was escorted on to the floor of the busy plant. Workers were scurrying back and forth, the presses were humming and Klink could not hear himself think. The noise seemed to not bother his escort; a man in his 60's who introduced himself as one of the foremen, Johann Bittman, cousin to the owner. He carefully led the Kommandant around the perimeter, keeping his guest away from dangerous areas.

"It's very busy in here," Klink yelled as he took in the sights and sounds.

"What?"

"I said, it's very busy. Business is good?"

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Earplugs," replied the escort. "This way." He deftly stepped away from an operating forklift carrying reams and reams of paper. Another pallet nearby held pamphlets and posters, neatly tied up with string. A quick glance told Klink all he needed to know. The writing and pictures were all from Goebbels' department in Berlin. "Don't lag behind," Bittman warned." We've had no injuries yet this month. Don't want you to be the first. This way, please."

Bittman stopped outside an office. On the door was a nameplate identifying the occupant as the owner of the plant, Kurt Bittman. Klink looked through the large plate glass window that ran alongside the outer wall, giving the owner an unencumbered view of the plant floor. His escort knocked and then opened the door.

"Come in, Kommandant Kink."

"Klink. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Herr Bittman."

"Sit down." Bittman pointed to an office chair placed in front of his desk. Thank you Johann." His cousin nodded, clicked his heels and disappeared from the office, closing the door behind him.

"I would prefer to stand, sir. You see I'm…"

"Suit yourself. Cigar?"

"No. I'm now the highest ranking officer… are you sure it's safe to smoke those in a printing plant?"

"Can't on the floor." Bittman lit the tip and took a few puffs." He admired the cigar for a moment, and then put it in the ashtray on his desk. "Cuban," he admitted with no fear whatsoever. "Pays to get the best. I've had them for years."

"Well, I can see business is quite good," Klink stated. "Herr Bittman, I can promise you more business, now and in the future. You see, I run the Luft Stalag outside of town and I…"

"You require new stationery, business cards, signage and other assorted accoutrements to run a respectable but unfortunately mismarked and misnamed prisoner of war camp," Bittman interrupted. "That is correct, is it not?"

"Yes, sir. You are most correct." Klink now felt more optimistic, as obviously, this Herr Bittman seemed to understand what it took to run a proper POW establishment, not to mention satisfying other officers so that certain threats would be forgotten. "We do have a minor problem." Klink held back a nervous giggle. "Which you seem to be aware of."

"Word gets around town. Besides, your sergeant explained all to my shopkeeper. I am told that you cannot meet my prices?"

"That is also correct, sir. My budget can't absorb the quoted price. Since I am the highest-ranking Luftwaffe officer," Klink said quickly so as to not be interrupted and to make a point, "in this sector, and this POW camp will be one of the larger employers of young, fine, physical specimens of the glorious Third Reich…most local, I will remind you, I believe we can come to some agreement. Something mutually beneficial." Klink grinned, and approached the desk.

Bittman picked up the cigar, leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on his desk. "A mutually beneficial agreement?"

"That is correct," Klink answered eagerly.

"And if I supply you with the stationery, etcetera, what of the remainder of the issue? The mislabeled maps, and so forth."

"I…uh…I will deal with that later," Klink said with a bit of hesitation and irritation. Is this man working for someone else? "With these changes, at least those visiting will know exactly where they are, and where they've been."

"Including the prisoners?" Bittman removed his legs from the desk and sat up straight. He stood up and walked around the desk, picking up a file before standing directly in front of Klink.

"Well, of course. They will eventually be able to say that Luft Stalag 6 is the toughest prison camp in all of Germany. Do you know that since I've been assigned there, we have not had one successful escape?" Klink said.

"So I have heard. Well, Kommandant. Here is our estimate for your work." He opened the file, and glanced at the contents. "The answer is no."

"No, what?" Klink, his heart sinking, asked.

"I cannot meet your demands. These prices are my final offer. I have too much state business and I cannot afford to stop my presses to print up stationery, signs and business cards for a small inconsequential POW camp. Besides, how long do you actually think your camp will be in business? I'm sure the war will be over shortly, surrender will be signed and the prisoners will be, well whatever you do with prisoners after their country surrenders. That's not my concern. My concern is complying with Herr Goebbels' orders. You do understand, don't you, Kink? I suggest you contact the real Stalag 13. Perhaps they have the incorrect stationery and signs, which would be the correct ones for you?" Bittman broke out in laughter.

"I don't find this at all funny," Klink sneered, although his response came out more like a whine. "I will see myself out, Herr Bittman."

"Very well, sir. Please do not hesitate to call again. Perhaps in the future, we may be able to assist you. Meanwhile, I would suggest you try Düsseldorf." Bittman held out his hand, which Klink ignored. "And don't forget to stay on the perimeter of the floor," he yelled to the Kommandant as Klink headed back towards the reception area.

Klink was too angry to wallow in his misery. I am a respected Oberst. A decorated veteran of the Great War, and now a Kommandant, and this is the respect I get. He stormed out of the plant, and quickly strode to the car. His mood got darker as his driver did not immediately get out of the car to open the door for his commanding officer. Instead, Klink pulled on the handle of the passenger door and found it was locked. He began banging on the door. "Schuuulllltz!"

Schultz was startled out of a wonderful dream that involved toys, workbenches, and chocolate fountains. He hit his head on the roof of the car, and then panicked as he realized what he had done. First he unlocked the passenger door from the inside, and then groveled. "I'm so sorry, Kommandant. I did not see you or hear you," he apologized as he scurried around the car and opened the door.

"Never mind. Just drive me back to camp."

"I take it you were unsuccessful."

"Yes, Schultz. The man was an ingrate. He should have been honored to have me come in personally and ask him to handle our important project. But, no. He was disrespectful. Too busy printing up pamphlets from Goebbels' office."

"Oh, but Kommandant. Prices are very high right now, and I'm sure there will be a shortage of paper and ink. Besides, if Herr Goebbels wants something printed, don't you think that should be the first project on the list? When I got an order from my biggest customer…"

"Oh, shut up, Schultz. I'm not interested in your civilian life. Just drive."

Some bigshot, Schultz thought as he turned the car and headed back to camp.