do you really think the Germans will come here? We haven’t done anything to harm them.”
“Neither did we. Neither did Norway or Denmark. For that matter, my father was even wounded in the German army in the Great War. We’ve been living in Germany for hundreds of years. What did any of us do to deserve this?”
“Pauli, I feel like such a fool. I’ve always believed people were essentially civilized, and that if you treated them decently they’d behave the same way. Even with the Nazis and Hitler, I thought they were just an aberration, something caused by an unjust peace treaty. I thought the invasion of Poland was the worst thing that would happen, and even then I thought that it could be justified in some measure because they intended to absorb the Danzig Germans. But now, Denmark and Norway. What could they have possibly done? What does this mean for us? They really might try to enslave us all. Is this possible?”
Pauli gave her a look of resigned finality. “Oh, it’s not only possible, it’s happening. Europe’s going into a dark age; but my family’s not going to be a part of it. We sail at eleven tomorrow.”
* * *
Kaldenkirchen, 9 May 1940
IT WAS MUCH TOO WET for the beginning of May. By late afternoon, the rain had picked up in intensity and was drumming on the roof of the 1935 Opel Olympia. The car had been parked for the last three hours in front of a grubby and shuttered electrical repair shop in the German village of Kaldenkirchen near the Dutch border. Major der Schutzpolizei Reinhold Neumann was sprawled in the back seat watching the puddles grow on the far side of the cobblestoned street. It was still much too cold for this time of the year, but that wasn’t what was troubling him. Neumann had to remain stuffed into the back seat of this cramped car until they were called forward sometime after first light tomorrow when the invasion of Holland began. It was chilly and damp, and to save fuel they were forbidden to run their engines. To make things worse, he was getting a cold. His throat was sore and his head ached.
Neumann would have gone back to bed if he could have gotten away with it, but by early afternoon the army’s Feldgendarmerie had placed all units of the 26th Infantry Division into their pre-invasion Order of March. Patrolling the flanks of the columns were grim-looking helmeted military police with rifles.
Neumann thought the army’s nickname for the MPs, “Chain Dogs,” was appropriate. Around their necks they wore a distinctive brass neck plate. And come to think of it, Neumann had never seen one of these men smile. Not once. They served their purpose, though. They kept curious onlookers away and ensured that no German soldier strayed from his allotted spot in the assembly area. Besides, Neumann knew he couldn’t go back to bed anyway; the hotel that he had been billeted in the previous night was now out of bounds. If he was caught there he’d probably be summarily shot for desertion.
Down the street, the enormous smiling figure of his driver, Rottenführer Dieter Schmidt, lumbered towards him. Schmidt was a tall, gangly, fresh-faced Austrian in his late twenties. Before being transferred to the Ordnungspolizei and then into the Schutzpolizei, Schmidt had been the senior member of a two-man detachment in a small Tyrolean village. He was rustic to his roots. He even told Neumann that before he was transferred to the larger police force he did his rounds on a bicycle. When he transferred to the SS, some clown must have acknowledged his supervisory status and made him a noncommissioned officer. Neumann wondered how he was ever posted into his unit as a driver.
Neumann smirked at the thought of this monster of a man struggling up and down hills on a small bicycle, keeping order amongst the cowherds and pig farmers. What were they thinking, posting mild-mannered men like this into the SS? Schmidt was the kind of yokel who gave Austrians a bad name in the new German security apparatus. Neumann regarded him as far too rustic for the kind of hard police work National Socialism demanded – much better to have cold-blooded men from the cities about you rather than farmers’ sons who longed for the smell of cow shit and an evening’s yodelling.
Schmidt fumbled along cheerfully, juggling a green wine bottle, two loaves of bread, and a large paper bag in his arms. Neumann had let him go forward within the vehicle column to see what kind of luck he might have scrounging food to supplement their army hard rations. He had obviously been successful.
Holding the bag under his chin, Schmidt tugged open the car’s back door. Neumann made no effort to help him. The junior policeman was dripping wet but smiling. “Herr Major, some things to make the night pass a little more quickly. I bought them from an old man who lives in that apartment building by the traffic circle.” He was excited and obviously pleased with himself. “The signals troop leader a few blocks farther up says he’s seen the first motorized infantry battalion leave the assembly area. They passed not twenty minutes ago. It’s really going to happen.”
“Get in the front and close the door. Of course it’s happening; you think we’re here for the fun of it?”
Schmidt shrugged, climbed in behind the driver’s seat, and gently closed the door.
Neumann shifted in his seat. “Let’s see what you managed to find. Did you think to get us glasses?”
Schmidt rummaged in his coat pocket and triumphantly produced two small tumblers. “Yes sir! And some pork pâté!”
Neumann grunted. “Good. Pour me some wine and pass me some of that bread and pâté.” Neumann sniffed and made a face. “Schmidt, did anyone ever speak to you about that cologne or aftershave, or whatever it is you’re wearing? It’s revolting. Don’t wear it again. You smell like a Hamburg pimp.”
“Yes, Herr Major.” Schmidt paused for several seconds. “It was a gift from my wife. But you know, I’ve never smelled a Hamburg pimp before.” Schmidt turned away and sipped his wine and then busied himself breaking the crusty loaf.
Neither man spoke and the implied rebuke hung in the air between them. Neumann could punish Schmidt for that kind of insolence. He didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. That’s what discipline was. On the other hand, Neumann thought, someone quick witted and resourceful like Schmidt could be useful, especially in Holland. Who knew what waited for them there. It would probably be advantageous to have him onside. It wasn’t that long ago he had been walking a patrol beat himself. Still, it burned to be made an ass of by his driver, especially when Schmidt was being gracious and Neumann knew he had behaved like a swine.
For a brief moment Neumann debated with himself whether to say something now or jolly Schmidt along later. He could teach him a lesson by letting him sweat it out for a while, worrying that there would be some kind of reprisal for his impudence; then again, maybe it might be the wiser just to brush it off now.
“Schmidt, I’m going to stretch my legs for a few minutes.” Neumann grabbed his hat, opened the door, and stared down the street. “And Schmidt, thanks for the food. How much do I owe you for my share? You know, I have a terrible headache.”
Schmidt beamed. “Not to worry at all, sir. Four marks, and we’ll say we’re even.”
Neumann gave him a mirthless smile and stared at him for a second. Schmidt couldn’t have paid more than a mark fifty for the lot.
Outside, Neumann stood up and stretched. Nothing had gone right today. He reached back into the car and grabbed his Tyrolean hat, the expensive one with the grouse feathers and boar bristle plume. He liked that hat. It was a hat that made a statement. When dressed in civilian clothes, most Gestapo officers wore a green leather trench coat and a dark, wide-brimmed fedora, pulled down low over their eyes. Neumann thought they were imitating the gangsters in American movies. This hat was clearly Austrian and Neumann privately resented it that so many
