Page 24 of Hell to Pay
The Army’s come up with a new tactic that beats shooting everything we see, though. First, we hit the Krauts with artillery. One of the prisoners we captured—and we’ve captured plenty; Hitler may be telling them to fight to the death, but seems they’ve got ideas of their own, and who can blame them? Anyway, this guy told us—well, he told me, as it turns out I’m the only one around who speaks good enough German to talk to them—that our artillery was so terrible, it took the heart right out of them. They didn’t want to fire, he says, and expose their position. And after we pound them with that artillery? Instead of more shells, we load leaflets into the guns and fire those, telling the German troops that they’re stuck and plain out of luck, but that if they give up, we’ll treat them OK. It works, too, probably because, if we’re hungry and cold, they’re worse.
I don’t guess I’m the same guy who walked onto that troopship, but I’m doing my best not to be a worse one. That’s about all I can do. I can tell you, though, that the guys we capture are surprised to be treated as well as they are. Makes you wonder how our POWs are doing under the Nazis’ tender mercies. Some of them, it seems, don’t even make it to camp, but are shot where they stand. There’s a thought to harden your heart. And if you wonder how I know, there’s something even better for getting at the truth than translating when a guy knows you’re doing it, and that’s hanging aroundlistening to the POWs talk among themselves. I’m a little bit of a secret weapon, I guess. I might not be the best marksman, but my ears work fine.
Oh, and they’ve gone and made me a sergeant. Before you get too proud about it, remember that we’ve lost a lot of men, and somebody needs to train those grass-green boys who are fresh off the boat. I guess we looked that confused and scared too when we got here, but it’s hard to remember now.
Losing the light, so I’ll send love to Mom and sign off as
Your son,
Joe
Even I, it seemed, was finally getting the message.
6 February 1945
All the cinemas have been shut down for lack of coal, though the Sarrasani Circus is somehow still allowed to operate. I’d like to go, as it’s the last entertainment to be had—the Semper Opera, too, is closed—but Mother says there are too many rough types there now, because it’s a favorite of soldiers on leave. I wonder how she knows these things; she’s certainly never been.
Father says the issue with the cinemas and the opera isn’t really about the coal, although the shortages are worse even than last month, and food, too, has become scarce. My birthday torte on Christmas seems like a long time ago. Other than the preserves, we haven’t had any sugar since, and Herr Kolbe’s brother hasn’t delivered any smuggled milk or butter or eggs to us for over a week. It isn’t the fuel shortage stopping him, as he’s still using his team ofhorses to pull the wagon, and the Wehrmacht won’t requisition them—food is too precious for that. Horses may be more work than trucks, but at least they don’t require petrol! We’re hoping that nothing has happened to Karl Kolbe, but the Russians were reported to be in Danzig over a week ago, and who knows where they may be now? The rumor at school says that they’ve reached the outskirts of Berlin, but surely that can’t be true.
Frau Schultz has to queue for hours at the shops now, and sometimes brings home little more than carrots, cabbage, the occasional onion, and, always, potatoes. We are eating a great deal of potato soup. With a little bacon, it isn’t so bad, although rather monotonous. We still have most of our last bag of good flour, so our bread is better than others are getting, anyway. Frau Heffinger says that she never intended to be a baker, so I’ve taken over that chore. I find the kneading quite soothing. Perhaps I was born to be a Hausfrau and not a princess! Mother will have something to say about that.
Oh, the cinemas and the opera. Father says it isn’t the coal, but the talk. The authorities don’t want people gathering and talking, he thinks, in places where they can’t easily be overheard. I don’t much fancy bellowing out my opinion of Hitler in the midst of a love scene, though! I can’t imagine who would, so I think it really is the coal.
No more air-raids. We had two more alerts last week, but we didn’t even go down to the cellars, as there was no sound of planes. I do think we are going to be lucky here in Dresden. Paris was never bombed, after all, and surely Dresden is as beautiful.
Joe was advancing again, too.
February 12, 1945
Dear Dad:
Just a quick note to tell you that they’ll be moving us out again soon, so if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry too much. It’s mighty hard to write a good letter from a foxhole!
At the moment, we’re not allowed to do much but patrol, but we’re sure doing that and, after our rest, itching for more. Hiram Cassidy, a jokester from Nevada, says, “What’s the beef with us actually firing a gun now and then? We could have them halfway to Berlin if we could just keep going.” We’re hearing that the Germans have mined the roads from here to Doomsday, though, as they get driven back, so maybe we should be happy to have stayed where we are. Somehow it doesn’t work like that, though. There’s a job to do here, and we’d just as soon go on and get it done so everybody can go home.
(Don’t worry about the mines. I’m still carrying that radio, and no kind of scout. It won’t be me up there in front. I wish I weren’t quite so relieved about that.)
Got to go—it’s our turn for the showers, and I’m not going to pass up that chance! But tell Mom—DON’T WORRY. I’m pretty sure I’m bulletproof by this point.
Joe
For me, the war had finally come home. I turned the page of the diary with a reluctant hand. I didn’t want to read it, but I had to.
13 February 1945
I can hardly write this. I can’t believe it, but it’s true. Father has been summoned by the Gestapo.
He and Mother called me into his dressing-room just as I was getting ready for bed. Now I know the reason the wireless is in such an awkward place: they’ve been listening to it. Oh, not to Goebbels, which is allowed, of course, but to other, forbidden stations: to the news from the BBC, for one thing, which is a hanging offense. And they’ve been communicating in other ways, too, I think. Dangerous ways.
Father said to me, first, “I won’t tell you too much. What you don’t know, you can’t say. This is to protect you. But you deserve to know this much, in case I don’t come back.”
When he said it, I started to cry. He didn’t comfort me as he would normally do. He looked at me sternly instead and said, “You must be strong now. You must be grown up.” So I dried my tears and stifled my sobs, and he told me.
The Gestapo want to question him about his role in the conspiracy to kill Hitler last summer, he thinks. But that makes no sense, and I said so. I told him, “But they know who did that. They know, and all the men involved have been shot or hanged.”
“Yes,” Father said, “and their families sent to concentration camps. But they think I may have helped. I haven’t been very friendly to the regime, you see. Not flying the swastika over the palace was noticed, naturally, and some of my friends have been taken up as well. They say that others have informed against me, but that’s an old Gestapo trick. Still, there’s no doubt we’ve been friends in the past, and that’s enough.”
“But you didn’tdoanything,” I cried.
