Raising his arm, Judge followed the sergeant’s gaze to the flank of his bicep. He was being checked for the blood group tattoo given to members of the SS. All down the cabin, Germans stood in similar poses, an unintentional parody of the Hitler Gruss.
He was the enemy.
“You’re clear.” The sergeant stamped the form again, then handed it to Judge. “Take this to the next car. Give it to the doc. Schnell! Schnell!”
Judge picked up his shirt and made his way to the second railway car. A sign above the transom read, “Medical Examinations. Please remove your clothing.” Some wiseacre had drawn a line through the word “examination” and written “experiments” below it. Judge scooted down the passageway, taking his place at the end of a line ten deep. He removed his trousers, shirt and undergarments, rolled them into a tight bundle and tucked them under his arm. A quarter of an hour passed and the line didn’t budge. More and more men filled the passageway. The space grew cramped, the smell rank and overwhelming. Momentarily, there was a commotion at the rear of the wagon. A voice yelled from behind him, “Move it! Coming through! Doc’s here.” A paunchy corporal snapping a leather riding quirt to his thigh passed by. He walked slowly, prodding the naked men in their genitals with the tip of the quirt, gifting each with a rude remark. “I seen bigger balls on a Chihuahua. That bratwurst or a knockwurst? Can’t tell the difference myself. Would you look at that cannon cleaner? Heil Hitler, indeed!” Spotting the disgust darkening Judge’s face, he flicked the quirt at his rear, raising a florid welt. “Probably like that, don’t you?”
Judge felt his every muscle tense as a prelude to snatching the quirt and shoving it down the obnoxious corporal’s throat. Yet even as his neck flushed and he rolled forward on the balls of his feet, another emotion eased his rage tempering it as a dash of bitters softens gin — and he realized he wasn’t angry at all, but ashamed.
A firm hand squeezed his shoulder. “Calm down,” whispered the soldier behind him. “Your persilchein will do a lot more good than beating up that prick.”
Judge turned, saying only, “Ja. Danke.”
He was the enemy.
Just then, the doctor arrived. He was a German, like Hansen from Camp 8. A local recruited to do the American’s work. Soon after, the line began to move.
The examination took less than two minutes. A peek at his throat and ears. A stethoscope to his chest. “Breathe deeply. Again.” And a few questions. “History of tuberculosis? Gonorrhea? Syphilis?”
Judge answered no to all of the above.
“Fine, then,” the doctor said, giving him a wink to go along with the red stamp on his papers. “Off to the front with you.”
“Sit down, Dietrich. My name is Schumacher. You look surprised to see a countryman in an American uniform. Don’t be, there are a lot of us.”
Judge was in car number three. An interview, he’d been told. Nothing more. Schumacher carried the easy authority of an officer born to the caste. Forty with black eyes, black hair and a face that looked like it had been stamped from pig iron. A colonel in the Signal Corps if you believed his rank and insignia. Judge knew better. Counter-intelligence was more like it. A Nazi hunter.
“You state here that you served in the Wehrmacht for six years, first with the Third Panzer corps, General von Seydlitz commanding, then the Sixth Army under von Paulus.”
“76th Infantry division.” Judge shifted in his seat, a witness giving false testimony. His war record mirrored that of Ingrid’s oldest brother, Heinz, killed at Kharkov in forty-three. She’d told him all she knew, then grilled him on the facts for an hour. If any questions arose about what he’d done after Kharkov, he was prepared to say he had deserted.
“I take it then you spent some time in Stalingrad.”
Judge said “yes”, and explained that he’d been wounded and airlifted to the rear before the encirclement. It was a safe enough lie. Few men had made it out of Stalingrad alive.
Schumacher looked impressed. “Lucky sod.”
Judge nodded, then asked, “May I be so bold, Colonel, to inquire where you served?” He wanted Schumacher to do the talking.
“With Rommel in Africa. I was picked up at El Alamein. It was a short war, I’m afraid. I’ve been in the States for the last three years. Kansas. A marvelous place. Wide open spaces.”
“Ah, America,” Judge replied. “The Yankees. Mickey Mouse. Perhaps one day I shall go.”
“Perhaps.” Schumacher picked up Judge’s personnel sheet and studied it. “We’ve checked your name, Dietrich, against our books for those wanted for automatic arrest or intelligence interest. A lot of Karl Dietrichs on the list, but none listed with the Sixth Army. We’re looking for SS primarily. Frankly, you look the type. Sly. Too smart for his own good. Sure you weren’t one of Himmler’s bootlickers?”
“No, sir.”
“Sind-sie Kamerade?”
“No sir.”
Schumacher sighed and gave a begrudging smile. “I’ve been told to accept you at your word. Prisons are too full as it is, you understand.” He picked up a rubber stamp and held it poised above the sheet. A “B” meant automatic discharge and a persilschein. Anything else meant transfer to a detention facility until more evidence could be dug up, either for or against. It was the risk Judge had to take to procure a ticket to Berlin. Suddenly, Schumacher dropped the stamp on the desk. “One question, Dietrich: your accent. I can’t quite place it.”
Judge had his answer ready. “Berlin, sir.”
“Ah, Berlin.” Schumacher said it with satisfaction, as if his dilemma were solved. But then he inquired further, “Where exactly?”
“Weissensee.” The district where Judge’s mother had grown up.
“Wannsee?”
Maybe Schumacher had lost part of his hearing. Or maybe he knew better. Judge sat up straighter, speaking louder to drive the anxiety from his voice. “No sir. Weissensee. In the northern part of town.”
Schumacher leaned across the desk, his black eyes boring down on Judge. “You mean eastern, Dietrich.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“These days Wiessensee is in the eastern sector of Berlin. Naturally, you’re aware that residents returning to the Soviet zone are subject to internment and interview before being granted a return visa? I hear it’s a long wait. Two months or so.”
“Wannsee,” Judge blurted. “Near the lake. It’s very beautiful.”
“Ah, Wannsee. I thought that’s what you said.”
Schumacher picked up the stamp and with a mighty fist, pummeled the sheet. Judge dared a glance. A red “B” graced the bottom of the page.
He had filled out his P-4 form, listing his name, his relatives and his home address — all wonderfully fictitious. He had sat through a lecture on the proper manner for Germans to address American soldiers — it could be summarized in one word, “don’t!” — and a film narrated by Jimmy Stewart extolling the virtues of democracy. He’d sworn that he had never been a member of the Nazi party. He’d been handed a freshly typed document proclaiming him free of all ties to the German army and the National Socialist Workers’ party and eligible for any and all types of employment. His very own persilschein. He could use the same document to apply for a passport, a birth certificate, even a driver’s license. He’d been given ten marks, a new pair of shoes (Florsheims!), and a paper bag crammed with tinned meats, bread, chocolate and cigarettes. Most importantly, though, he’d received a ticket authorizing him to travel to Berlin on the next available transport.
Three hours after stepping inside the first railway car of Voluntary Separation Center 3, Frankfurt, Karl Dietrich was free to go.