Read Brothers Beyond Blood Online

Authors: Don Kafrissen

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Historical, #Jewish, #World Literature, #Historical Fiction

Brothers Beyond Blood (8 page)

BOOK: Brothers Beyond Blood
9.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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.

He pointed and said, “New York?”

Everyone had heard of the big city of New York, just like everyone has heard of Berlin.

Then he moved the stick down a bit and said, “Philadelphia.”

We sat with our backs against the wall we’d built and I drew an outline of Germany and pointed to my hometown, just outside Dresden.

Soon he brought two more changes of clothes, which I shared with my comrades, Karl, Helmut and Heinrich. We continued constructing the building, assisted by several more American soldiers and a few civilians.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16 - Herschel’s Story

 

The days went by. I walked, feeling stronger each time. Most days Reb Horowitz accompanied me. At first we spoke of our families and then of our schooling, carefully avoiding the topic of our camp. I hadn’t known him well, just when he secretly said prayers or when it was his turn to help me pile the corpses on the trolley to take them to the pits. When no guards were about, he said the Hebrew prayer for the dead over the bodies. When guards were about, he silently moved his lips.

While we walked, he told me his story and I told him mine.

After a week, King Mendel started walking with us, haltingly at first but stronger by the day. He refused any and all help. One of the American doctors had procured an artificial leg for him and helped to fit it. After several adjustments Mendel was left to fend for himself. “No more crutches,” he insisted

One day we came upon a pair of men digging a large hole. I stepped forward and asked in German what they were digging for.

A thin, bald man said, “A latrine, son.” He stood up, hand against his lower back and eyed me, “Seems to me a strong lad like you could maybe help us?”

I looked at my tent mates and the Reb and Mendel nodded, and then walked off. I jumped into the hole and seized the shovel. Beside me a short, thickly muscled man, several years older than me with a shock of red hair and a bristly mustache just nodded toward the opposite corner. I took up the shovel and began to dig. I felt strong and soon developed a rhythm. The hole grew deeper and the dirt piles once knee-high outside were now chest-high.

“Ease up, lad. The wagon comes.”

I jumped up and held out a hand for my shorter companion. He grasped my wrist and hauled himself up. A slab-sided wagon driven by an American soldier and hauled by two dispirited nags stopped by the hole.

“Well? What are you waiting for? You didn’t dig that dirt out of the ground to save it, did you?” laughed the driver. He jumped from the seat and grasped one of the shovels. “Here, I’ll show you how us Nebraska farm boys do it!” And he started to shovel our piles. He worked steadily and without a wasted motion.

Even though I had been shoveling for more than an hour, I stood beside him and matched him stroke for stroke. Soon it became a contest, with our companions cheering for one or the other of us. We looked at each other occasionally and grinned. It only served to spur us on. Finally the wagon was full. We collapsed with laughter and fell to the ground.

“You are a pretty fine shoveller, young man,” he panted, handing me a jug of water he retrieved from the footwell of the wagon.

I drank thirstily and said, “You are not very bad yourself, old fellow.” And we fell to laughing again.

“You speak pretty good English, sonny boy. Are you an American?”

I chuckled, “Oh, no, sir. I just have learned some English in my school years ago.”

“Well, you are the first one I’ve met in this Godforsaken country who speaks good old English,” he said.

“Where do you take this dirt, sir?” I queried the exhausted soldier.

His face lost its humor, “To the Nazi camp.” And he pointed toward the other side of the road.

I thought for a minute.
This might be my only chance to get inside there.
“May I come with you, sir? Perhaps I can help.”

“Help? How could you help?”

I shrugged. “Well, sir, I speak some English as well as German, and,” I reminded him, “I am a fine shoveller.”

The soldier barked a laugh and held out a hand, “Canfield, Harry Canfield.”

“Herschel Rothberg, sir, at your calling.” We clasped hands and shook once.

Harry Canfield struggled to his feet and helped me up, “Sure, lad, come on, but you won’t have to shovel this dirt over there. Those Nazi bastards will empty the wagon.”

“What is it to be used for, sir?”

“I think they’re going to be using it to level a building site. I heard talk that they’re building a big courtroom and are going to put the former guards on trial.” He motioned me up to the seat and climbed in beside me. Clucking at the horses, he snapped the reins and off we went, slowly but toward the gate, the slow hoofbeats muffled in the dusty road.

As we passed my tent I saw Mendel and the Rabbi seated on boxes outside. They rose as the wagon passed. Mendel started to raise a hand but the Rabbi restrained him. I just nodded at them. I think the Rabbi guessed where we were heading and why. He must have known of my relationship with Hans. Most of the prisoners from Kefferstadt did.

At the gate to the Nazi camp, the guards questioned Private Canfield, asked who I was and where we were going. He replied that I was just a civilian helper. They let us in and locked the gate behind us. Two guards followed behind.

All about were men in Nazi uniforms. My stomach tightened. Though I was now a free man, the sight of those arrogant, terrible men still made me fear for my life. We came to the building site and stopped at one end. Men were waiting. I climbed down with Private Harry and sat in the shade. Two Nazi privates climbed into the wagon and slowly started slinging shovels full of the black dirt into a depression near the rear of the partially completed building.

Though I kept my head down, I looked at each prisoner carefully. No Hans. I stood and stretched. As I started toward the opposite end of the building, Private Canfield shouted, “Stay close, Herschel. Don’t leave my sight.”

I smiled and waved, “I will not go far, sir.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets and strolled on. As I came to a doorway, a man came out and nearly bumped into me. I instinctively reached my hands out and gripped his arms. It was Hans.

His eyes grew wide and he gasped, “Herschel!” What…?”

“Shhh,” I whispered, shoving him roughly back into the doorway. Inside the room, we hugged each other briefly. After these months and the long rides, now I had found him, my friend, my brother.

“Where are you now, Herschel? How did you find me?” Tears were streaming down his face as he clutched my arms. “They mean to hang us.” He hung his head down, not looking me in the eye.

“Then we have to get you out of here.”

“Escape?” He asked.

“Yes.” I gripped his upper arms again. “I’ve been thinking about this day. You have to get out with as many of the other guards as you can. They will cause a diversion. When they run away, you must run for our camp.”

“Your camp? Then you are at the DP camp across the road?”

“Yes. I am in a tent with two friends, a one-legged boy named Mendel and Reb Horowitz from Kefferstadt. Can you get out of here?”

“I do not know. I will try. When?”

I thought. “Two nights. It is a quarter moon and will be dark. Come to the fence on the west side of our camp about one hundred meters from the corner by the street. I’ll be waiting there near midnight.”

“Yes,” he said again. “I will be there.” Then Hans pushed me hard out through the door.

I stumbled out the door and would have fallen, but Private Canfield caught me. He glared at Hans and then helped me back to the wagon.

I heard Hans curse me in German. I almost laughed, covering it with a cough. Canfield helped me up into the now empty wagon.

“I told you to stay where I could see you. Do you know what these Nazis did for the last few years? They were guards at the death camps.” He went on without waiting for an answer from me. “The rumor mill says that this building is going to be a courtroom. That end,” he pointed to where we had dropped the dirt,” is where we will hang the lot of them.”

“Yes, I understand, sir. I am sorry.” The wagon was empty now and the two American guards with weapons stood beside it.

Private Harry motioned the horses and wagon forward and I sat quietly, my demeanor peaceful but my mind going a million kilometers per hour. How was I to get Hans out? Even more important, how was I to pass him off as my brother?

All I could do is wait by the fence and hope he would be able to come.

 

BOOK: Brothers Beyond Blood
9.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Where She Belongs by Johnnie Alexander
Chancy (1968) by L'amour, Louis
Out of the Storm by Kevin V. Symmons
Angel's Advocate by Stanton, Mary
The Paris Affair by Lea, Kristi
Outbreak: Boston by Van Dusen, Robert