But he didn’t seek out the Russians. They were after him, the Russians. Because of the Himmler thing. They had learned about it. How? Well, the Russians had their ways. Now they were combing the city for him. When they found him, they would arrest him and try him for cowardice. He would be found guilty and then they would shoot him. He would suffer a long time before he died.
A part of him always knew that his fears were groundless. This part of him, the mocking part, would stand aside as he cowered in some bombed-out ruin and with biting logic explain all about the irrationality of his fears. Finally, the fears began to go away and depression set in. The mocking part of him was not nearly so adept at dealing with depression. About all that this mocking self could tell him was that he was slightly mad. But then, he already knew that.
Sometimes, however, the depression would immobilize him for days at a time. He would sit, virtually motionless in whatever ruins he happened to find himself in, with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped tightly around them. During these times he would neither sleep nor drink nor eat.
It got better in early June after he killed the rat. He killed it with a stone, skinned it, cooked it, and ate it. For nearly a week after that he lived on rats. They gave him enough strength to go poking about in the destroyed building in which he found himself. In a heap of rubble that once had been a bathroom he discovered a piece of broken mirror and looked at his reflection for the first time in more than a month. He started laughing. It went on for a long time, the laughter, and although at the end it may have turned into a kind of hysteria, when it was all over he felt better. Much better.
In fact, he felt so much better that he dug around in the rubble of what had been the bathroom and found a straight razor, a brush, and a cracked, gilt-embossed shaving mug with just a bit of soap left in its bottom. He walked three blocks to the nearest water, brought back a large tin of it, and shaved off his beard, cutting himself only twice in the process.
He didn’t eat rats after that. Instead, he stole food when he could, and when he wasn’t doing that he wandered aimlessly about Berlin. After a week or so of this he no longer even trembled at the sight of a Russian soldier, although somewhere far deep inside he remained totally convinced that each Russian soldier had orders to arrest him on sight. When his mocking self told him, for at least the hundredth time, that this was madness, he would reply, sometimes aloud, “Well, it just possibly could be true.”
On July 2, 1945, he noticed a group of gawkers standing at a corner, so he joined them, as he nearly always did. The object of the gawkers’ curiosity was a jeep. In it were two American soldiers, obviously lost. They were the first American soldiers that the gawkers had seen, and they belonged to the Second Armored Division, which had finally entered Berlin that morning.
One of the soldiers was a big man of about thirty with flaming red hair. He wore a carefully trimmed pirate’s beard and the stripes of a master sergeant. Next to him, behind the wheel, was another sergeant, a three-striper with smart, bitter eyes and a mouth that snapped open and shut like a purse.
The red-haired Master Sergeant was examining a map. The other Sergeant was smoking a cigarette. He flicked the butt away and watched idly as the gawkers scrambled for it.
“I told you that was the wrong fuckin’ turn,” he said to the Master Sergeant.
“Ask them,” the Master Sergeant said.
“Ask ’em what?”
“Ask if any of these good burghers speak English.”
The three-striper stood up in the jeep. “Any of you fuckers speak English?”
It could have been because he was bored, or because he was curious, or simply that he had never spoken to an American soldier, but Kurt Oppenheimer found himself saying, “I speak English.”
“Git over here, boy,” the three-striper said.
Oppenheimer moved over to the jeep. The man with the red beard examined him with greenish-blue eyes that seemed to be filled with a private kind of laughter.
“We are, I’m afraid, a trifle lost.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Do you know Berlin?”
“Fairly well.”
“We are trying to get to Dahlem.”
“You’re going in the opposite direction.”
“I told you we took the wrong fuckin’ turn,” the three-striper said.
“You speak very good English,” the red-bearded Sergeant said.
“Thank you.”
“Doesn’t he speak good English?” the red-bearded man said to the Sergeant behind the wheel.
“Like a fuckin’ Limey.”
“We’re going to need someone.”
The three-striper nodded glumly. “Might as well be him.” He stared at Oppenheimer. “Whadda they call you, boy — Hans or Fritz?”
“Hans, I think,” Kurt Oppenheimer said.
“Git in the jeep, Hans; you’re hired.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Sergeant Sherrod,” the red-bearded man said. “My associate here, Pecos Bill—”
“My name ain’t Pecos Bill. I wish to fuck you’d quit callin’ me Pecos Bill. My name is James Robert Packer from Abilene, Texas, and my friends, which you’re gittin’ to be not one of, call me either Jim or J.R. — I don’t give a shit which, as long as it’s not Jim Bob or Jimmy Bobby; but you can even call me that, long as you quit callin’ me Pecos Bill.”
“You through?”
“I’m through.”
“Good.” Sergeant Sherrod turned back to Oppenheimer. “Pecos Bill here and I are in need of a guide, interpreter, and dog robber. Are you familiar with the expression dog robber?”
“No.”
“It means factotum.”
“Servant.”
“Not quite,” Sergeant Sherrod said, “but close. Americans don’t have servants. They have hired hands, the girl who lives in, mother’s helpers, and maids, but seldom servants. The British have servants; the Americans have help. A subtle distinction which I think we need explore no further, at least for the moment.”
“Oh, Lordy, how long’s this shit gonna go on?” Sergeant Packer asked nobody in particular.
“You were never a Nazi, were you, Hans?” Before Oppenheimer could reply, Sergeant Sherrod continued. “An idle question, I realize, but in recent months Pecos Bill here and I have inquired of perhaps three hundred citizens of the Reich whether they were ever members of the Nazi Party, and to a man, they have declared that they were not. This leads one to the interesting question of who’s been minding the store these past few years.”
“I am a Jew,” Oppenheimer said.
Sergeant Sherrod grinned. “Another rare species. If you agree to work for us, Hans, you’ll be paid in cigarettes. You can fatten yourself up on U.S. Army rations, and we can probably scrounge you some different clothes, which although not stylish, will be somewhat better than the rags and tatters that you’re now wearing. Well, sir, what do you say?”
“You’re quite serious, aren’t you?” Oppenheimer said.
“Totally.”
“I accept.”
“Git in, boy,” Sergeant Packer said.
The gawkers watched glumly as Oppenheimer climbed into the back of the jeep. As they drove off, the red-bearded Master Sergeant turned and offered Oppenheimer a Pall Mall. It was with a luxurious sense of well-being that Oppenheimer accepted a light and drew the smoke down into his lungs.
“How much are American cigarettes bringing on the black market, Hans?” Sergeant Sherrod asked.