Page 90 of Hell to Pay
Their clothes. The military ones tend to be wearing an odd mixture of badly fitting clothes, probably given to them by some kindhearted civilian. And underneath that? They never think to get rid of their Army underwear. Sure enough, you tell them to remove their shirt, and there it is: that gray woolen Army-issue undershirt. As soon as you see that, you’ve got them.
We got General Schörner the other day, the commander of Nazi forces in Czechoslovakia. The word is that he had any soldier found behind the front lines court-martialed and hanged. Here’s the kicker—he showed up here after he’d deserted and flown to Austria! Then he tried to get through us dressed as an enlisted man.
These Counter-Intelligence guys are good, but I flagged him myself. It was the look in his eyes. German civilians (except the high-ranking Nazis) and regular soldiers aren’t arrogant anymore. What really cooked his goose, though, was that those regular soldiers ratted him out. Serves him right. We gave him back to the Soviets, and he was mighty unhappy to go. I don’t guess they’ll be showing him a good time.
The POW camps are huge, as you can imagine—all the regular soldiers we find get sent there, and German officers are put in charge of them—with Army guards, of course. I’m glad we’re not assigned to guard them in camp. What am I afraid of? That I’d be too sympathetic, once I realized that they’re mostly just ordinarymen and boys drafted to fight? Or, which might be worse, that I wouldn’t have any sympathy at all? I can’t even tell you.
OK, Dad, I have something to say now that you’re not going to like, the real reason for this letter. We heard today that we’re going to be training in Japanese tactics, and get some extra physical conditioning, too. I’m sure you can guess why.
Some pretty glum faces at that news. On the one hand, we know the guys in the Pacific have been through hell, maybe even worse than here. On the other hand—boy, do we not want to have to do all this again. Simple as that. Since it’s not up to us, though, there’s no choice but to buckle down and help finish the job.
I sure would’ve liked to see that girl again, though. Daisy. I had some kind of idea that I’d get leave, once they started mustering us out, and get back there, and—what? Say thanks, I guess. Give the kids some more chocolate. I know that doesn’t make sense, but I can’t explain it. She’s a pretty girl, sure—a very pretty girl—but there are lots of pretty German girls. Marlene Dietrich isn’t the only one! No, it was the way she talked to me. She’s sort of a lively person, and self-possessed at the same time, like she knows who she is, if that makes sense. Bright as can be, and funny, too, and not afraid to boss me around and tell it like it is. Hard to faze that girl, I think, because from what the other fellows tell me, she walked a mighty long way to get me help, and she had to be scared. And, of course, dragging me into the house in the first place.
I don’t know—I was half out of my mind some of the time, sure, but still—I liked her better than I guess I’ve liked any girl, even Rachel. I think Rachel hoped I’d propose before I left home, but I wasn’t even nineteen, and facing—I didn’t even know what. Rachel’s a great girl, and I’ve known her and her folks half my life, but Daisy was something else. That’s the best I can do. She was something else.
It's strange to care so much about that. I guess war does tend to change the way you think. In any case, like I said—what would I have done if I’dbeen able to see her again? I’d probably just feel worse, especially if she quite rightly told me to get lost! We’re the enemy over here still—conquerors, not liberators. Maybe the Germans will change their minds about that once they’ve had a few years to think about the road they were heading down, but right now? Nope.
I don’t know why I went into all that. Probably trying not to think about Japan. But as we all know now—I’m bullet-resistant. I’ll be coming home. Count on it.
Love to Mom, and to you. Keep writing back, please—I can use the lift.
Joe
40
SCRAMBLING
I expected Ashleigh to be gone, off to Prague to find a more promising source of bite-sized history lessons, so I was surprised when I came down to breakfast and found her sitting with Ben, both of them staring at her laptop.
I took my own seat, unfolded my napkin ostentatiously and placed it in my lap, and said, “Another unusual sight in Germany—computers on restaurant tables.”
“Yes,” Ashleigh said, not a bit deterred—although Ben, I noticed, was putting his own napkin in his lap—“but how are we supposed to tell you about the reaction your story got without examples?”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to know,” Alix said. She really is quite protective; it’s good to see it, even if I don’t need it.
“At least let her get her coffee first,” Sebastian said.
I received it, and placed my order—I could never grow tired ofBrötchen,butter, cheese, boiled eggs, and today, even strawberries, small and bursting with flavor rather than overlarge and disappointing. Then I said, “Tell me about this reaction.”
“Well,”Ashleigh announced dramatically, “I haven’t put upthe non-tiara-finding yet—I haven’t had time, for one thing; there’s so much to produce, and I want to drag it out while I still have viewership—every little bit counts! But Ididshare the other footage I took. I figured, when you started talking about concentration camps and so forth, that the TV station might not air it—especially now that we haven’t found the tiara!—so I recorded it myself, and Ben and I put it up last night in two parts. First the part where you hold up the stars and trash the Germans for killing the Jews, and then your husband’s letter. That one was easier—I found some footage of the concentration camps and put that in there while you’re reading the letter in a voiceover. It’s pretty terrible stuff.Verydramatic. Nobody can look away.” She sounded half-moved and half-cheerful about that; such must be the documentary maker’s life.
“Why wouldn’t I want to know about that?” I asked. “That it got a reaction? That was my purpose, after all.”
“But what reaction?” Ashleigh said. “What were you expecting?”
Ben burst in, then. “She means you got pretty trashed in the comments. Mainly, people say thattheydidn’t do it, and they don’t appreciate being blamed for it. It’s like—'My grandfather fought in the war, but he never did anything to the Jews, he just did what he was told the same way her husband did, so where does she get off?’ And, ‘My parents lived through the war, and they swear they had no idea about the extermination camps. They just thought the Jews had been resettled, and were probably better off than they were here! The Jews wouldn’t have been bombed, while my parents lost their home and almost all their possessions.’ And like that.”
“Are the comments in English, then?” I asked.
“A mixture,” Ben said. “AI translation. But hey—somepeople say that you’re right. Especially people from othercountries.Mostespecially people from England and France and the Netherlands and?—”
“And Poland,” Ashleigh said. “Boy, do they hate the Nazis. Other people—well, some Germans, especially the ultra-right ones, from what I can see—are calling you a traitor for how you took in an enemy soldier and are dumping on Germany now. They say it’s easy for you to say, being a princess and then running off to America while real Germans stayed here and starved. It’s great, really. Controversy drives clicks. People love to fight on the internet.”
