Armageddon - Leon Uris

Later she drove to Schwabenwald and began to nose around the cottages of the SS officers now under Polish guard. This did not pose much of a problem. The nice lady bribed them with cigarettes with ridiculous ease and was soon inside the cottage of Klaus and Emma Stoll poking through everything—closets, drawers, desks, under beds.

In the dining room she was attracted to a rough-hewn old Bavarian china closet containing Emma Stoll’s Rosenthal set and a set of silverware with intricately carved bone handles. She had found her key!

Later she went to the cathedral to interview former Schwabenwald inmates. She primed them to speak of the thousands of rumors one hears in such a place. Cornelia Hollingshead got some facts, some half truths told by sick, impassioned, hate-filled people, added rumors, and concocted a story that was the topper to the whole sordid concentration-camp chapter. Cornelia Hollingshead indeed, was not outdone by anyone! She wrote:

Frau Emma Stoll gave special orders to the SS guards in the extermination center to be on the lookout for particular types of Slavic and Jewish skulls.

It has been substantiated by irrefutable sources that Emma Stoll personally went to the bone-crushing machines to inspect new batches of skulls daily. She hand-picked the most suitable samples.

These skulls were used to carve the handles on her silverware ...

Before Cornelia Hollingshead’s story could be confirmed, denied, or investigated it was accepted by a world now ready to believe anything coming out of Germany’s horror camps.

Dull, stupid Emma Stoll had gained eternal infamy as the queen of ghouls. Emma Stoll’s name would become symbolic of the universal monster. Indeed! Human skulls for silverware handles! Belatedly, the world cried for her head to roll!

The big American was passed by the guards to the south-bank mansion occupied by the commander of Pilot Team G-5. He used the front door knocker. Alfred Oberdorfer opened it in behalf of his new master.

“Sir?” inquired the servant

“Spraechen sie English?”

“Nein, bitte.”

The big American grunted and continued the conversation in a sort of German. “Tell Major O’Sullivan that Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury has arrived from places beyond the horizon with a duffel bag filled with scotch, dirty laundry, and cigarettes for the black market.”

Good butler Oberdorfer was puzzled. “A moment, please,” he said, bowed, and then walked to Sean’s study and knocked. “There is an American outside, sir, speaking of dirty laundry and whiskey. His name is Goodfellow.”

“Big Nellie!”

Alfred Oberdorfer watched the two men embrace and pound each other’s backs. “You ugly son of a bitch!”

Alfred was disgusted. The Americans were strange people. In the old days such displays never took place in these halls. Things were proper when Herr Schoof was the master. God be hopeful Herr Schoof will return someday.

“Some layout you’ve got here lad.”

“Joint belonged to the publisher of the newspaper. One of Von Romstein’s relatives. Heidi!”

Alfred’s wife answered the call in a trot, tying on her maid’s apron as she ran. She bowed.

“Get these bags up to one of the guest rooms. See to it Herr Bradbury’s clothes are all in order by tomorrow ... and make us some dinner.”

The husband and wife reacted to the terse commands, struggling with Big Nellie’s bottle-loaded officer’s bags.

During the dinner he related to Sean his adventures with Patton’s Third Army when it broke into Czechoslovakia. “Patton almost broke down and cried when they ordered him back. He was dying to take Prague. When he finished crying he started cursing. He went on for an hour without repeating himself. I think we should have let him take Prague ...”

As he spoke he saw signs of fatigue in Sean. Sean’s mind seemed to react slowly, spending words as though he had to think them over three or four times before they took hold.

Something else seemed to be missing from Sean too. Tim had been the wild one, Sean was even keeled, had a quality of gentleness. He watched the near brutal harshness with which he ordered his servants about; the phone calls were taken with crackling anger; his expression of hatred of Germans was barely disguised. And, the whiskey hit Sean too fast.

“Been rough?” Big Nellie asked.

“Only on my soul,” Sean answered. “I’m sorry. After sixteen hours in the boiler factory I’ve got to drink it under. The commander drinks alone and spills his guts to no one.”

“Hi ho the dairio, the commander drinks alone.”

“How in the hell could they do it!”

“Schwabenwald, Dachau, Buchenwald? I hear they’ve found some in Poland that make these look like resorts.”

“So I get potted at night. General Hansen told me once about the beauty of military government. To most soldiers the enemy is an abstract thing, unseen, unheard. Neither Tim nor Liam ever saw him face to face or knew the hand of the man who killed them. Maybe the general was right. Maybe it is too much for me to live among my brothers’ murderers. I swear I’ve tried to be fair!”

“Sean, I saw General Hansen before I came here. He’s got it clear up to his eyeballs. Without his pilot team ...”

“I know. Thank God I’ve got Ulrich Falkenstein. Trouble is, there aren’t many Falkensteins in Germany.”

“And your team?”

“When we were in England looking at maps, talking in abstract problems, planning like a bunch of advertising executives, Rombaden was a kind of game. In France it was a blast. We came as liberators. Maurice Duquesne spoke the language. No problem. But now ... I’m forced to fight my own people ... and to live alone ... and defend Germans. And what’s more I miss Nan Milford. I’m sick for missing her. I’ve been at the point of begging back a dozen times.”

“You’ll get turned down, Sean. Spare yourself that.”

Sean nodded and croaked, “I know.” He drank long and hard from his glass, and made another drink as his servants cleared the table. Sean looked at them with anger.

“Look at these two krauts, Nellie. Steady folks. Been here for years. Wie lange haben sie hier gearbitet?”

“Zwei und zwangig jahre.”

“Twenty-two years, Nellie. Hasn’t got a mean bone in his body. These two got a dachshund. They treat that little dog like it was a baby. Alfred and Heidi wouldn’t think of eating until they go through the left-overs and pick out the best for their dog. And man, you ought to see them with their grandchildren. Sentimental, loving. Germans wouldn’t go hurting little kids, would they Alfred?”

The butler, not understanding, merely bowed.

“Schwabenwald war schlecht, nicht wahr?”

Alfred clasped his hands together and wrung them in horror in agreement that the concentration camp was a terrible place. The wife became uneasy at Sean’s whiskey-inspired prodding.

Nellie watched the scene with fascination.

“Their cottage out back got a hit. Busted down the wall on one side. You should see these two on their off hours. He drags rubble from across the river to patch up the wall and momma here is getting all the window boxes painted and planted and neat. Petunias and pansies.”

The table was cleared. The servants stood at attention.

“Yes sir, a kindly folk. Love their dogs, love their kids and gardens. Love their forests and poetry and music. They told me so, themselves. Lost one of their sons on the Russian front. They told me something else too. They told me people shouldn’t kill each other. How about it, Alfred. People shouldn’t kill people’s brothers, should they?”

The bewildered man shrugged.

“Whiskey, ice, soda and raus,” Sean snapped. “The former occupant, Herr Schoof, published the newspaper. Nazi ... but a special sort of Nazi. The party was full of thugs and bums so they liked to get rich elite boys like Schoof. He’s locked up in Schwabenwald, indignant as hell. He was truly anti-Nazi. He told me so. Nobody knows nothing. I’ve got two hundred SS guards from Schwabenwald who didn’t even know there was an extermination center there. How about that? Tomorrow,” Sean continued, filling Nellie’s glass, “I’ll give you the commander’s personal tour of Schwabenwald.”