Summer of My German Soldier (12 page)

Charlene shook her head in disbelief. “The commandant just fell for the oldest newspaper trick in the world.”

The first barrack on the left was indistinguishable from all the others spread around the compound, with their painted white walls. We came to a stop directly in front of a sign which stated:
RESERVED FOR GENERAL STAFF.

A soldier wearing two chevrons on his sleeve approached. “You’re the reporter?”

As we followed a few steps behind him, Charlene handed me some sheets of yellow paper and a thick, eraserless pencil. “You really want to be a reporter, then we’ll let this be your
first assignment. Write down everything that you consider pertinent to the fact that a prisoner has escaped.”

The name on the door read:
MAJOR ROBERT E. L. WROPER, COMMANDING.
I wrote that down. He rose from his desk as we entered. “Yes, happy to see you. Please come right in, Miss Maudlee.”

“Madlee,” corrected Charlene as she shook his extended hand. She introduced me as her friend, Patty Bergen, “who has the aptitude to become a good reporter.”

“Major, what I came here to find out,” said Charlene, “is how was it possible for a prisoner to escape this camp?”

He pushed some imaginary strands of hair across a hairless dome. “We’re real proud of our security system here, Miss Madlee. We follow the same master plan for security as eighty similar camps across this country—the alarm system, the many security checks, the K-9 Corps of trained Dobermans. Even the exact amount of voltage per square foot of area is written out. And I’m here to see that the orders are carried out according to the master plan.” Major Wroper unrolled a blueprint of the camp.

While my writing hand was cramping from the race to get it all down, Charlene seemed to be working at a more leisurely pace. I began to worry that maybe I was doing it all wrong.

Charlene lit her own cigarette with a small gold lighter and blew smoke in the general direction of the officer. “Then, Major Wroper, how is it possible that a prisoner did, in fact, escape?”

“That has not as yet been fully determined. We are not in charge of the investigation, that comes under the jurisdiction of the FBI. But you should know that nothing is 100 per
cent foolproof. There’s been no prison built that somebody hasn’t escaped from.”

Major Wroper’s statement seemed persuasive. I looked at Charlene to see if she too was impressed. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs forward. “But, Major, is it usual to escape without even leaving a clue?”

His eyelids lowered. “Who told you that nonsense?”

“Oh, then there were clues?” Charlene’s voice was positively sunny.

“As I’ve tried to indicate to you, the FBI is in charge of the investigation and—”.

“Is it true,” interrupted Charlene, “that the dogs were unable to pick up a scent anywhere? Not even from the prisoner’s own bed?”

“Young lady, I’d like to cooperate with the press, but I will have to ask you not to write anything that would make us look foolish. I can’t have shame brought down on the heads of the loyal men in my command.”

Charlene lifted an eyebrow. “Let me assure you, Major, that it is not my intention to bring ridicule upon you or your men. All I want is the information so that I can bring back a story that will make my editor happy.”

The officer sighed like a great weariness had overtaken him. “Very well.” He picked up an index card and read, “The escapee’s name is Frederick Anton Reiker. Serial number GL 1877. Rank: Private, German Army. Height: 5 ft. 10
¹
/
₂
inches. Weight: 165 pounds. Age: 22. Born: Göttingen, Germany. Prison Record: Co-operative. Health: In May Reiker was hospitalized in the prison infirmary for appendicitis.” He pitched the card across his desk. “At exactly four fifty yesterday afternoon the prisoners of Barrack 314,
having eaten their evening meal, filed out of mess hall. A few minutes later Reiker was sitting on his bunk with another prisoner named Blinkoff. Reiker was reading his palm. At five seventeen roll call Reiker was reported missing.

“A general alarm was sounded and the camp dogs were immediately taken to Reiker’s bunk, but they were unable to get his scent. This was due without doubt to the fact that Reiker had had three other prisoners sitting on his bed for palm readings. The dogs were hopelessly confused. A search was made for Reiker’s clothing and personal effects, but nothing was located.”

Major Wroper rotated his swivel chair toward the window. His eyes seemed to scan the grounds for the prisoner who, like a pair of reading glasses, would turn out to be only temporarily misplaced.

It was Charlene who broke the spell. “Major, did Frederick Reiker escape prison to join forces with the eight saboteurs?”

“I have no reason to believe that.”

“What I would like to do now, with your permission, is to speak with some of the people who knew Reiker.”

“Oh. Yes, indeed,” he said, pressing a button. The door opened and the corporal appeared as quickly as a genie. Major Wroper explained Charlene’s request and told the soldier to offer, “all assistance.”

We followed the corporal into the outer office where he began making phone calls. A clock gave the time at five minutes till two. If only I could get some word to Anton. Let him know. He must be hungry and worried.

The corporal hit the receiver back onto the hook. “I’m sorry. It looks like everybody’s out on work detail.”

“Then take me over to your infirmary,” said Charlene.
Inside the infirmary, the smell was all soap and Lysol. The corporal led us past a ward with two dozen white-sheeted beds, but only five or six patients. At the end of the hall he opened the door where a sign read:
CAPT. GERALD S. ROBINSON
.

A crew-cut soldier with a single chevron sat in a cluttered outer office two-finger typing. Captain Robinson, a small fastidious man, stood up behind a large untidy desk when we entered. “Interesting,” he said, giving Charlene a smile. “The FBI hasn’t yet been around to interview me and I may have known Anton Reiker as well as any American in this camp.”

“Lucky I found you, Doctor, or should I call you by your military title?”

“Oh, you probably should, but don’t.”

“Dr. Robinson, would you say that the escapee was a tough kind of a prisoner?”

He selected a pipe with a curved stem from a rack of six. “I’d say so, but not in the conventional sense. It seems to me that Reiker has a toughness of mind. In medicine when a person is in constant contact with a disease and yet is able to resist catching it himself, then he would be considered to have great resiliency or, in street parlance, toughness.” The doctor looked at Charlene. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes!” I said with a suddenness that surprised me. “His mind was strong and clear, and he didn’t believe what the Nazis wanted him to believe!”

“More or less,” said the doctor.

“Then in your opinion,” said Charlene, “he didn’t escape
for the purposes of joining forces with the eight U-boat saboteurs?”

“Oh, I suspect he wanted his freedom and nothing more.”

“But, Dr. Robinson, isn’t it a distinct possibility that Reiker was merely faking an attitude that he could later use to advantage?”

He took a long puff from his pipe. “It is possible, but I doubt it. Some of our prisoners, mostly former members of the S.S., are truly fanatical men. They’re arrogant and they don’t care who knows it. Reiker wasn’t cut from that mold. He was a scholar, interested in books and ideas. And, perhaps more important, he was a loner.”

“This is very interesting, but could you give me a concrete example of something that the prisoner said or did that gives you this impression?”

Dr. Robinson leaned deep into his chair. “I can’t honestly remember specifically anything that he said, only—”

Charlene’s body pitched forward. “Only what?”

“It was only that he seemed like a decent man.”

Before the prison gate stood the same obedient sentry. His eyes swept over the blue sedan before calling, “Proceed, ma’am,” as Charlene blasted off, leaving behind a trail of raised dust.

Charlene didn’t say anything, and I was grateful for the chance to remember the doctor’s words. It was then that I experienced the last of my fear taking flight. Nestling down in its place came exultation. At this moment on a dusty back road within smelling distance of McDonald’s dairy barn I felt the greatest joy I had ever known.

10. A Person of Value

C
HARLENE IDLED THE MOTOR
in front of the store. “Nice having you with me today. Would you like me to send you an autographed copy of the story?”

“Yes, thanks very much.”

“And if I can ever help you in any way—”

“Well, maybe I could write you a letter?” Why would she want to hear from me? “You wouldn’t have to answer, well, I mean, unless you have the time.”

“Tell you what, next time you’re planning a visit to your grandparents, write me. I’ll show you around the paper; it should be very interesting for a girl who has the aptitude to become a reporter.”

A reporter? Was it true that just a couple of hours ago I thought about becoming a reporter? Then the word journalist had had a ring to it, but now it’s gone. A journalist’s life might be fun but fun, like champagne bubbles, can’t completely fill you up. Anyway there was something else I’d rather do with my life.

I wanted to run the two blocks home but I remembered Anton’s advice to do what I’ve always done and to go where I’ve always gone. “Be visible,” he had said, “highly visible.” I walked visibly into the store. He might like a couple of Hershey bars for dessert.

My father’s voice caught me. “What are you doing wandering around? I want you to go right home and stay there. There’s a criminal loose!”

“Yes, sir, I know. It is all right if I fool around the yard?”

“Well, stay in the yard where Ruth can keep an eye on you. And, under no circumstances, go farther than the garage.”

“Oh no, sir, no farther.”

The tub water was only lukewarm against my foot as it gushed from the “hot” faucet, and after a minute it became uncomfortably cool. As I dried myself I wondered if I would ever trade this body of sharp, thin lines for something more gentle, more womanly. “Ruth,” I called out from the bathroom, “do you have something for me to eat? I’m starved!”

“Since when you begin asking for food? And taking baths without being told?”

“Since always,” I said, buttoning up a fresh white shirt.

Ruth shook her head. “When God went and parted the Red Sea for the Israelites that was a miracle too.”

The brown paper bag felt heavy between my teeth as I climbed up the stairs ribs. A scent of salami liberally seasoned with pepper and garlic assaulted my nose and started up a series of small sneezes. As I sneezed only an arm’s length from the door, I became frightened that he would be frightened. But before I could call his name, his hand reached down and touched mine.

“Gesundheit!”
he said, and smiled as though I was somebody special.

“I brought you lunch and some fresh clothes,” I said, surprised at my matter-of-fact tone.

As Anton measured the Palm Beach trousers against his waist I reached back into the sack and touched cardboard. The box was cocoa-brown, and the cover came embossed with three golden acorns, the symbol of Oak Hall, the finest men’s store in all of Memphis. Inside was the shirt, the Father’s Day present. Not the Father’s Day of a few weeks ago, but of a year before that.

I remember how important it had seemed then to give something special, something of value. At first my mother and I went to Goldsmith’s, Memphis’ largest store, and we found this perfectly nice sport shirt that she tried to talk me into buying. “And you’ll have two whole dollars left over from your birthday money to buy something nice for yourself,” she told me. When I said I wanted to walk over to Oak Hall to see their shirts, she got all worked up. “It’s
just plain stupid to pay two dollars more for a label. You got so much money you can throw it away? Don’t you know labels are worn inside the collar where nobody can see them?”

But because my determination outdetermined her determination, she told me to go by myself. I was to meet her back in Goldsmith’s in exactly one hour on the fourth floor, better dresses. One whole hour of my very own. Freedom, freedom. I felt happy and practically grown-up. So I took the scenic side trip up in the elevator to the seventh floor book department.

Over a table, a sign decorated with a painted Teddy bear said
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
Some were books that I had long ago passed through.
A Treasury of Mother Goose
and Beatrix Potter’s
The Tale of Peter Rabbit.
Then there were the Bobbsey Twins and
Winnie-the-Pooh.
On the next table were stacks of the Hardy Boys and good old Nancy Drew. Her father is a hot-shot lawyer, but it takes Nancy to solve all the mysteries.

It was in the adult section that I found the books I wanted to take home.
The Best Stories of Guy de Maupassant
and another collection by O. Henry. Goldsmith’s had some good books, beautiful books, and five dollars would buy two or three.

When I glanced up I saw a saleslady starting towards me, and I knew if she just said, “May I help you?” I’d buy de Maupassant and O. Henry. But instead I turned and half-walking, half-running made it back into the elevator with integrity and five dollars still intact.

Inconspicuously printed on the store window in gold Gothic letters were the words,
OAK HALL SINCE
1887 and just
underneath, three golden acorns. Inside the heavy brass door a middle-aged manikin posed majestically with riding stick. He wore a deep-blue shirt with a Paisley ascot at his neck.

A carefully attired salesman who, like the acorns, must have been with Oak Hall since 1887, took out stacks of size fifteen sport shirts from behind a sliding glass door. Many of the shirts were marked five and six dollars and some cost as much as ten dollars. One was the exact shirt worn by the manikin. The buttons were pearl, but dyed in perfect matching blue. My hand glided across the fabric, which had the smoothness of marble. The label read,
FINE EGYPTIAN COTTON.
It was a shirt for presidents and premiers, princes and polo players.