Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [179]
“You look wonderful,” his mother wept.
Gerd smiled. “If you must be a prisoner, by all means be a prisoner of the Amis. What has happened to our home? Was it bombed?”
“The Amis took it, but let’s not talk of that now.”
The meal was edible, enough to fill Gerd’s stomach. They listened to his adventures.
He admitted he was lucky. His antiaircraft bunker on the coast of Normandy received a near hit by the British naval bombardment.
“I was unconscious for three days. When I woke up I was on an American hospital ship in the prisoners’ ward.”
The rest of the story was internment in a camp in Maryland, the most decent food he had eaten since he left home, work on a road gang, schooling, and good entertainment.
“It is a small miracle, but here we are all together again.”
Well, not quite all. Gerd inquired after old friends. They were dead, badly butchered, or missing in Russia. “I am sorry to hear about Dietrich Rascher. He was a fine fellow.”
Ernestine paled. Gerd was pleased that she still mourned Dietrich. That was good after all the things he heard about German girls these days.
“You might as well know,” his father said, “your Uncle Wolfgang was involved in the plot against Hitler and hanged.”
Gerd took the news with no show of emotion. “Sooner or later he had to go that way.”
And then they settled and Gerd recounted it all from the beginning. He told of the battles in North Africa when they were winning and the collapse of the Low Countries and France before that. His hands drew images of the brilliant strategy, the hordes of panzers, the fury of the Luftwaffe. Ernestine watched her father’s eyes light as he talked of the parade through the Arch of Triumph in Paris. It was a way he had not looked since before Stalingrad.
She felt herself sinking. After the first warmth of greeting, Gerd seemed distant, and his voice was filled with cynicism and arrogance.
“Your Uncle Ulrich is here in Berlin.”
“So, he is still alive. I hardly remember him.”
“He has been very good to us,” Ernestine said quickly.
“And why not? He made us live with his shame for years.”
“Things are different now. Uncle Ulrich is an important man.”
“Strange,” Gerd said, “we decent Germans end up living like this, or worse, like those poor devils down on the street. And the traitors are given our country.”
Bruno listened to his son with a warm glow. It was music he had not heard for so long.
The next day was Sunday, but father and mother had to work. Hilde excused herself on the pretense that she had an unbreakable date with a girl friend.
Ernestine and Gerd walked. The air was nippy. There was a terrifying feeling that the winter might be severe. Autumn’s eternal gray brought the sky down to the tops of the dilapidated buildings. They walked until they found their old street in Dahlem and stood before their former home.
“Who lives there?”
“Four American officers.”
“Well, it is better than Russians. We will get it back sooner than you think.”
“Don’t torture yourself, Gerd. Let’s get out of here.”
They were swallowed by the Grunewald, where the paths were filled with bright, shedding leaves. For a moment the misery of Berlin was hidden.
They turned toward the Kummer See, one of the smaller lakes. Gerd whistled, “Raise the Banner,” the SA marching song, known as “Horst Wessel.”
“You must not whistle that song,” Ernestine said shakily. “It is forbidden.”
“Forbidden? Your own music, forbidden?”
“Please, Gerd, they are very strict.”
They came to the edge of the lake and sat on a boulder. “Remember the encampments, Erna? Hitler Youth. The air was filled with such music then.”
“All during the bombings I came here and sat by the lake,” she said. “Dietrich and I sailed here. Gerd ... those days are gone.”
“Hail the conquering hero,” he said with acid in his voice. “What a damned mess this place is. But don’t fret, Erna. We will have those days again and the next time we won’t make the same errors.”
“There won’t be any next time, Gerd.”
“Of course there will.