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  I gulped and looked from Karl to Josef.

  “Do you really think they will hang us, Hans?” asked Heinrich.

  I shrugged. “I do not know.” I contemplated this for a long moment, and then said, “Would you, if you knew what was done in our camps?”

  Everyone fell silent after that comment.

  After looking around furtively, Josef whispered, “You must be very careful with what you say around some of the older guards, my friends. Remember, they are very committed to the Fatherland and to the Fuehrer. Being captured is a blow to their pride and they look down at any of us who were just, um, there?”

  “But the war is over, or nearly so. What good does it do to continue to support the party?” I asked, befuddled. That some men would like to continue to obliterate Jews was something that had not occurred to me.

  Josef leaned forward again and spoke slowly, “There is a faction, at least in our camp, who took an oath to continue to uphold the Reich after the war is over. These men swore that they would infiltrate the postwar government, if the Allies even let us form a government, and keep the spirit of the Third Reich alive.”

  Karl just shook his head, “But to what end? They have rid Germany of the Jews, the Gypsies, the homosexuals. Who is left to attract their anger?”

  Josef just shrugged, “Do not worry. They will find some new group to blame for all our troubles. If it could only be the Gestapo or the SS or even the military.”

  I sighed. Would this foolishness never stop? Millions and millions dead from this insane war and some want it to continue. I have to get away from this place, away from Germany. I looked at the tall fence and the guards patrolling the perimeter. Impossible. I guess that is why none of our prisoners have escaped.

  Oh Herschel, where are you now? If they are going to hang me soon, now is when I need you most.

  Chapter 14 - Herschel’s Story

  I opened my eyes and looked up at raw wood rafters. Was I still at Kefferstadt? My head ached and the rafters blurred. I tried moving my extremities. My left toes were all right, but my leg wouldn’t bend. All my fingers wiggled and my arm muscles tensed but my right arm ached. What had happened? Where was I?

  A face hove into view. A woman looked at me and smiled. “Finally awake, sleepyhead?” she asked in curiously accented German.

  “What happened? Who are you?”

  She smiled warmly. “I am Sofie, a nurse here. And you are going to be up in no time.” She patted my hand and sat on the edge of the narrow bed. Her fine brow furrowed, and I saw small flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.

  “What happened to me, Miss Sophie?”

  “You knocked a grenade out of a crazy man’s hand. Unfortunately, you were too close to it when it exploded.”

  “What is the extent of my injuries? Will I be disabled?” I was in a panic. Sixteen years old and my life was over.

  “Oh, nein,” she chuckled. “You are a strong young man and will heal rapidly, and of course, we need the bed for much more seriously injured patients, yes?”

  “But my leg. I cannot bend it. Is it broken?” I tried again to flex the knee. I could feel it, but it wouldn’t bend. I tried again, this time harder. A jolt of pain shot up to my hip.

  “No, not broken. It was dislocated and you have a bad gash on it. We have sewn up the cut and strapped your leg to a board to give it a rest. In two or three days you will be hobbling around on it. I have asked some men nurses to carry you to a tent in the nearby camp. I will look in on you, and we will send you some food each day until you are able to come to the mess tent by yourself.” She patted my hand and said, “You are in a hospital, just down the road from the camps. The American military moved us into an empty warehouse building until we can get one built in the camp.”

  Sofie touched my leg through the sheet and smiled again, “You know, you are something of a hero, young man. If the German soldier had made it through our gate and detonated the grenade, we would all most likely be dead. For all of us I would like to say thank you, young Herschel.”

  “You know my name, Sofie? How?”

  “In your trousers was a scrap of paper from an American doctor asking other American soldiers to assist you.” She frowned and gripped my hand. “You were in Kefferstadt. We heard of it. I am so sorry. Why did you come here? So far.”

  Ach, I have to tell another lie. I befoul myself. “I hoped my brother Hans would be here.” Why did I say Hans and not Isaac? Isaac, my real brother, I had not heard of or seen for more than three years. I had trouble picturing his face, but Hans’ face I knew, I saw clearly. His close cut straw colored hair, blue eyes and funny nose with the small bump on it. Just a boy like myself really and not far, just across the roadway. How was I to get him free?

  Sofie nodded, her lower lip between her teeth. “Perhaps. The camp grows bigger every day. There are more than one thousand here now and more are arriving. When you are better, go see Maria at the registration tent. She will have a list of guests.”

  “Guests?” I snickered. Sounds like the camps. “Are there more of the prisoners coming here?”

  “Yes,” she replied with a sigh. “We never expected so many. The Americans are raising tents, and then will be building barracks as quickly as possible. They are gathering the former prisoners, those who wish, of course, from all over this part of Germany and Austria.”

  “Gut. So, many have survived? How is that possible? Do they know how many were executed?”

  Sofie hung her head and I could see tears slide down her weary face. In an almost inaudible voice, she whispered, “Millions. The last I heard was more than five million.”

  “Mein Got, so many.” I was quiet for a long minute.

  “So there were several camps?” I was curious. I thought perhaps that the main camp at Dachau and our camp were the only ones.

  She laid a hand on my arm gently. “Reports are still coming in but we have had reports of more that ten thousand camps all over Germany, Poland and, in fact, all of the occupied countries.” She shook her head wearily, “I fear they will find more. You know how precise and accurate we Germans are.”

  “Am I the last Jew in Germany?” I asked in a small voice.

  “Nein, Herschel. There are many survivors here. I am so ashamed of my countrymen.”

  “Then you are Deutsch? From where?” I was curious about this woman. She was older than me, but only maybe ten years. Her hair was a dull blonde. She was strongly built, like my mother. She wore a wrinkled khaki blouse and a dark skirt and no jewelry that I could see.

  “I moved to America with my parents when I was a girl. My father was in the export business. I worked for the American Red Cross and when I heard about,” here she hesitated, searching for the correct word, “the atrocities, I insisted on coming back to help.”

  Alone? No family? “A husband?” I asked quietly.

  She wiped a hand across her eyes, smearing the tears. “My husband is dead,” she said. “He was a sailor. His ship was torpedoed. One year ago.” Abruptly she stood and searched her pockets for a handkerchief. “I will look in on you tomorrow, Herschel.” With that, she spun on her heel and left me.

  The war. This war. Everyone has a story. Everyone is surrounded by tragedy and death. And it was all due to that damn fool, the Fuehrer, Adolph Hitler. I lay back and pulled the blanket over my head.

  From the next bed came a voice, “Go on, hide under there. I will guard you."

  I jerked the cover down and sat up, furious, “And who are you, swine, to listen in to my conversation?”

  He grinned and replied, “I am Mendel.”

  “Mendel? Mendel what? What is your family name?”

  He kept grinning, though it was more forced now. “No family. All gone. My new last name is Israel, for that is where I am going. To Israel, Canaan, Palestine, call it what you will. As soon as I am able.” He flung back the blanket and pointed to his leg, or where his left leg used to be. It was gone from just above the knee. A clean bandage covered the st
ump.

  “I will walk soon. They told me the people here will make me a new leg. I will become a pirate perhaps?” And he lay back laughing.

  When he stopped, I asked, “Where did you lose the leg, Mendel? In one of the camps?”

  “No,” he replied. “In the forest, fighting the Nazis. I was shot, and the wound became infected. The Amis came, and I was sent here. So, I am Mendel and you are Herschel, eh? The hero?” He laughed his infectious laugh again. “The war is nearly over, Herschel. Why don’t you come to Israel with me? We can both be heroes!”

  Just what I wanted to be, a hero. “No, Mendel, not quite yet. I am searching for my brother, Hans. Perhaps when I find him, we will both go to Israel.” I lay back wondering how I would free Hans.

  Mendel turned on his side toward me and spoke, “We will build a great nation in Palestine, Herschel. Someday I will be the president or Prime Minister or Fuehrer or whatever they will call him. Maybe king?”

  Now I laughed, “Yes, King Mendel the First. And I will be Prince Herschel!” This game playing, though fun, was tiring. I gave Mendel a wave and drifted off to sleep.

  When next I woke, an elderly rail-thin man was sitting by my bed. He wore a patchwork skullcap and had the beginnings of a scraggly gray beard. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and recognized him from my camp. He was the other Rabbi. I tried to remember his name. I used to just call him ‘Rabbi’. He was from Warsaw, I think.

  “Horowitz,” he said. “And you are Herschel. How are you feeling, young man?”

  My brow must have been furrowed or he could read my mind. “They tell me I’m going to be all right, Reb Horowitz. And how are you?”

  “Gut, gut. Clean clothes. Plenty to eat,” he fingered his clean shirt and smiled a weary smile. “Not much kosher, but…?” He shrugged as if it were not important. “Soon you will be moved to a tent where I am in residence. I assured the lovely Sofie that I would look after you until you were walking again. Is that all right with you, young man?”

  I shrugged and assured him that this was fine with me. I gestured to Mendel who was now fast asleep, “Can we bring Mendel too?”

  The Rabbi shrugged, “I have no issue with that. If they will let him go, he is welcome.”

  Later, when she next came to check on me, I told Sofie our decision and she agreed.

  Three days later I was discharged from this crude hospital, and two men helped me to the Reb’s tent. Sofie carried my meager belongings. I felt my waist and the bandana with the gems was still tied there. The Reb had set up my cot on one side with a makeshift table beside it. I was still weary so I lay down after drinking a cup of cold water that the Rabbi had left for me.

  The next day Mendel was brought to the tent and his cot placed next to mine. We were of an age, and Reb Horowitz had his own corner.

  In a few days, under the Reb’s attentive care, I began to walk, stiffly at first, then more sure of myself. Then we helped Mendel out of bed and, with a crutch the Reb acquired, we got him onto his foot. Awkward at first, soon Mendel was hopping around the camp, making friends, renewing acquaintances, trading anything and everything he could get his hands on. The lad was a natural businessman. Not only would he be King Mendel, he would probably own Palestine.

  The following week, I went to see Miss Maria in the tent that housed the camp office. “Hello, I am a friend of Sofie, the nurse.”

  She rolled her large brown eyes and said, “Of course. Sofie has many friends. Now, what do you want?” Miss Maria was a strong woman, slightly heavy, with short dark brown hair and soft, round cheeks. I guessed she was only in her early twenties.

  “Sofie said you keep the roster of guests. I am looking for my brothers Isaac and Hans.”

  She sat back in her battered chair and eyed me, “Isaac? Hans? My dear boy, I need much more than that to go on. Do you know how many Isaacs come here? It seems like every other man who comes through that gate is named Isaac. Can you do any better than that? Last name, please?”

  I had to think for a minute. Last name? I hadn’t used it in so long I almost forgot it. Maybe I should use a name like Israel, like Mendel. But no, my brother Hans has a last name. “It is Rothberg. Hans Rothberg. Isaac too.”

  Maria turned to large cabinet with many wooden drawers. She rifled one expertly, then another. Finally she turned and said, “I’m afraid not, young man. No Hans or Isaac Rothberg has come through our gate. At least,” she amended, “not yet.” Regarding me over a pair of half glasses with a weary eye, Maria asked, “What tent number are you in? If either Rothberg shows up, I will send him there.”

  I told her and walked dispiritedly back to my tent. Mendel and Reb Horowitz looked up expectantly as I shuffled in. I just shook my head. Not yet, but soon.

  Chapter 15 - Hans’ Story

  Karl, Josef, Heinrich and I arranged with a senior guard to have us put in the same tent. He was indifferent. After we were directed to our quarters, we moved our meager belongings into it.

  As a cruel joke, we were each issued two sets of the striped trousers and tops that our former prisoners had worn in the camps. The Nazi guards refused to wear these garments. Later the Sergeant Major we had seen, a man we learned was named Muller, called on us to bring out the striped uniforms. In front of the American Colonel who was in charge of the camp, some of the prisoners piled the hated stripes into a clear spot and set them afire.

  There were no officers in our camp. The Sergeant Major had appointed himself as our commandant, backed up by several older sergeants, two from the SS still in their black uniforms. Many of us needed new uniforms or some sort of clean clothing. As I have said before, my shirt and trousers were from the sorting bins at the camp, but I still possessed a uniform jacket. It was torn and worn through in several places.

  “Hans, where can we get some clean clothes?” Asked Karl

  “I believe you mean other than those striped uniforms?” I replied.

  “Yes, of course.” I thought for a moment, and then said, “You fellows wait here. I will go speak to one of the guards.” After I left the tent and started toward the gate, I heard hammering and sawing. This was a new sound so I walked toward it.

  Some American soldiers and civilians were constructing a building near the gate. It was going to be large, I noted, and beside it was a lorry with a huge stack of boards that filled the back. I saw a short, dark haired corporal looking about, so I pulled a board off the stack and walked over to him with it on my shoulder.

  He smiled and said something in American that I didn’t understand.

  I grinned back at him and set it where he indicated. Then I watched as he hammered it into place. Before he finished, I hoisted two more onto my shoulder and brought them to him.

  The Corporal stopped and tucked his hammer into his belt. After helping me put the boards down, he pointed a thumb to his chest and said, “Pistolli. Rocco Pistolli.”

  I copied him and said, “Rothberg. Hans Rothberg.” We shook hands. I was amazed. I was seventeen years old, a former guard at a death camp, and this American soldier, this Rocco Pistolli, a sworn enemy, had just smiled and shaken my hand.

  “Hello, Hans Rothberg,” he said looking into my eyes.

  “Hello, Rocco Pistolli,” I replied. I resumed pulling planks off the truck and helped Corporal Pistolli hold them high on the wall while he hammered them in place. The day grew warmer, and I removed my jacket. I saw the Corporal looking at what was left of it.

  A shrug and more boards. As we worked, he spoke in American. I didn’t understand, but he pointed frequently and named the hammer, nails, lumber, and then some clothing items. I learned fast and repeated the words back to him. He corrected me until I spoke them properly. There were other men working but not nearby.

  At noon, Corporal Pistolli put up his hammer and nails and signaled to me to join him. We walked to the gate, but the tall guard wouldn’t allow me through. The corporal argued with him but to no avail. Pistolli turned to me motioning toward his mouth and said a new word,
“food.”

  I nodded vigorously and fingered my clothes. He looked me up and down. Then made a motion over his shoulder, and stalked through the gate.

  I walked back to the diminished truckload of lumber and sat on the tailgate. My stomach ached and my back was weary. But the day was warm and I quickly fell asleep.

  A foot nudged me awake. It was the corporal. A delicious smell wafted from a sack in his hand. We sat on the back of the truck sharing a warm loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese and a large piece of hard sausage. It was delicious. I thanked him several times. “Danke, danke.” He schooled me in the American words, “Thank you.”

  In another bag were a pair of olive green trousers and a wool shirt. He said something again in American and pushed the clothes toward me. Again I thanked him. We sat eating the last of the bread.

  Corporal Pistolli asked me several questions. I couldn’t understand him, but I knew they were questions by the inflection in his voice. I smiled and shook my head.

  He held up his palm toward me. He poked himself in the chest and said, “Pistolli?”

  What was he trying to say? I already knew his name. “Ya,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Yes,” he corrected me.

  I frowned. Then it dawned on me what he was trying to do. He was trying to teach me American English. That was why he had been teaching me the words for the tools we’d been using. I concentrated carefully. I wanted to learn English. No, I wanted to learn American English. I saw it now. If I lived, if they didn’t hang me, if I could somehow get away, I wanted to get to America. “Yes,” I repeated. “Yes!”

  For the next several days, I assisted Corporal Pistolli in building. He continued pointing to various things and naming them. Soon I learned a few verbs and we were able to have a stilted but two-way conversation. He told me that he came from a place called Philadelphia, which was in another place called Pennsylvania. When I frowned, he drew a squiggly line in the dirt, which, after a few minutes, it dawned on me that this was intended to be a map.