Julius’s tears spilled down.
Elsie gripped the cold ground, steadying herself. Her vision tunneled as if the universe were imploding.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” Kremer released Julius and thrust him down beside Elsie. “You bring me the Jew, and I’ll let the whoreson live. Of course, I can’t offer the same to you, fräulein, but I will promise to make your sentence quick.”
Julius lay heavy against Elsie’s side, a soggy, catatonic rag doll. Was his life worth Tobias’s? Was hers? Tobias had done nothing but trust and love her. He didn’t deserve to be handed over like currency in some immoral purchase. But surrendering her family? She couldn’t live or die with that kind of guilt. She believed in the afterlife and had no wish to meet God with either burden.
Elsie closed her eyes; starbursts flamed behind her lids. The nightmare was so close to ending. The Americans and Russians were said to be camped in the pastureland outside town. Better to die by their hands than to make this choice.
“What’s it to be?” asked Kremer.
Thoughts seesawed, cutting her mind in two. She couldn’t think her way to a solution. Logic had no power here. She could only hope for divine guidance and pray it was enough to absolve her. Slowly, she stood.
“I’ll bring him to you.” Her voice warbled like a sickly finch. “But you must let me go alone. He won’t come out if I’m not alone.”
The guards looked to Kremer.
He sucked his teeth. “You have five minutes, and then I’ll shoot your nephew, find the Jew myself, and shoot him, too. I’ll shoot you last, so you can watch the rest bleed.”
Chapter Thirty
THE ROAD BETWEEN
TEGERNSEE AND GARMISCH, GERMANY
APRIL 29, 1945
Josef Hub was a shadow of the officer he’d been. The march from Dachau to Tegernsee had not gone well for the prisoners or the SS. He saw things in the daylight that shook his soul, and his migraines worsened. Sometime during the three—day journey, he’d stopped sleeping and eating; instead, he injected himself with methamphetamines as often as possible. Near Percha, he took a wool coat off the back of an elderly German sheepherder. It hung over his bones like a great bearskin, and he felt as beastly as he looked. He hadn’t shaved or bathed in weeks. His reddish-blond beard concealed his features. Swollen eyes and tremors made most turn away, and he found an anonymous freedom in his degradation.
The handful of travelers he encountered moved to the opposite side of the road on his approach. As well they should, he thought to himself, if they knew what I’ve done. Most of the pilgrims were Aryan families, women carrying babies, children in wool socks with cheesecloth sacks on the end of sticks, fathers armed with rakes and scythes for protection. Was this what Germany had come to: a land of wanderers?
No matter where these people ventured, they would always be German. He would always be German. So where did you go when your home was no longer safe—when the world stopped making sense? At what point was the decision made to go or to stay?
For Josef, it came when he watched a young Jewish prisoner drag her dead mother for over a mile. The old woman’s legs, blue and frozen stiff, left a trail like ski tracks in the mud. When a guard commanded the daughter to drop the body, she refused, and he shot her where she stood; her blood splattered thick against her mother’s rimy cheeks.
Then, Josef had turned his horse around, abandoning the Jews and his post, and dared anyone to shoot him in the back as he went. Galloping away, he prayed someone actually would. His horse succumbed to exhaustion halfway to Garmisch. He left it spent and dying on the side of the road and began to walk, still hearing the trailing footsteps of Jewish prisoners behind him. When he walked faster, the cadence increased. He broke into a run but they caught up. “Murderer, traitor!” They beat against his back. He fell then, tripping over the picked carcass of a vulture; its skinny head screwed sideways in the mud. Pulling his gun from beneath the bearskin, he fired a shot straight up.
“Go away!” he shouted.
But when he looked, there was no one. The long road stretched empty to the horizon. The only sound was the bitter wind whistling past his ears. A finch flittered against it, then caught the current up into the brindled sky. The pain of his head anchored him to the ground. He lay beside the dead animal, watching the maggots gorge themselves on its innards, smelling the rot of flesh, and seeing again the mass graves at KZ Dachau.
In all his years as an SS officer, he’d never personally taken the life of anyone after Peter Abend, but he’d been there. He’d seen death all around and ordered it into action under the guise of duty. He was steeped in their blood, more guilty than the simple soldier with a bullet. He closed his eyes, but the assembly of corpses only sharpened in his mind.
He was convinced the vengeful ghosts would stay on German ground. If only he could leave, he could be free of them and all the horrors of this war. Günther Kremer and his Garmisch comrades had an escape route. A ship bound for Venezuela awaited them in Brunsbüttel. He had to get there. But he needed payment—gold and jewels stockpiled and hidden in his Garmisch apartment. He’d collect those and Elsie. They could start anew in South America. She would help him find happiness. Faithful and true, she would help absolve him.
With that in mind, he gritted his teeth and peeled himself up from the dirt. In the distance, the chimney stacks of Garmisch plumed gray ash. He knew one of them was the Schmidt Bäckerei.
Chapter Thirty-one
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
APRIL 29, 1945
Elsie took the stairs one at the time, each step an insurmountable climb. She imagined this was how the road to Calvary felt. She prayed for some kind of salvation, but unlike Christ, she wasn’t endowed with supernatural powers over hell. Three days dead, and she’d smell like worm rot.
She didn’t need to turn around; Kremer’s stare burned into her back.
The bedroom door was ajar, something rammed behind it. Her overturned nightstand barred the way. She pushed through and went to the wall, smoothing her palm along the long plank.
“Tobias,” she called.
Though there was not the slightest flutter, she could sense the warmth of his breath like a single flame in a church cloister.
She leaned her cheek to the coarse wood. “You must come out.” She knew he was leaning back against her—a finger width between them.
The plank scraped open half an inch. “Are they gone?”
The warmth evaporated into the upturned room, and a chill settled in Elsie. Her bones seemed to rattle against it, and she wrapped her arms about herself.
Tobias crawled from his refuge. “What did they want?”
Elsie pulled him to her breast. “Hear me, Tobias,” she whispered. “There are men waiting to take you.” He flinched. “I’m sorry.” Her knees shook, and she swayed unsteadily.
Tobias tightened his grip, holding her back. “Don’t be sad,” he comforted. “I’ll get to see my family.”
“Forgive me,” begged Elsie. “Please, forgive me.”
She pulled his stocking cap off and kissed the top of his head. Before she could place it back, the door slammed open; the nightstand splintered; boots pounded into the room. She closed her eyes and didn’t open them as Tobias was silently yanked from her arms.
“ ‘And so the choice must be again, but the last choice is still the same,’ ” she recited. Her palms remained warm from him. She clasped them together tight and hugged them to her chest. “ ‘And God has taken a flower of gold and broken it.’ ” She leaned her forehead to the wall, moored to Tobias’s hiding place.