She hugged me then with all of her strength, and she swayed beneath me and used her folded legs to help me, and she kissed my mouth and my cheeks and my ears, and as I lost control and the room swayed and a profound joy and dizziness overtook my body, she whispered hoarsely, “Yes, Shtefan. Yes.”
And it seemed that the explosive release that then coursed through my entire being was matched only by her happiness that, somehow, she had managed to find one good thing about this war...
IN SEPTEMBER OF 1943, my master became a hero.
It was in the autumn of that year that we made our pilgrimage to Berchtesgaden, during which my commander was dubiously blessed by the personal, though quite absentminded, bestowment of the Knight’s Cross by the Führer himself. The summer months had been deceptively languid, while interspersed with four more lightning raids into Pantelleria, Palermo, the Italian Alps and Corfu, where Himmel’s reckless courage seemed only to blossom further. The men of the Commando whispered that he would surely be rewarded very soon.
Yet given the dismissive and disappointing nature of this coronation of the nation’s bravest men, I felt a certain sorrow for Colonel Himmel, that he should give so much of himself and receive barely a nod in return, despite the medal itself. Yet in viewing the graceful manner in which the commander absorbed this reality of state, I realized that he, most certainly like all the officers present, had long ago accepted the fact that his courage was simply an integral part of his makeup. He most probably knew, already as a child, that he would accomplish great deeds of daring, and the trappings that would someday result were to be thought of as no more than diplomas. Medals were merely signatures upon the histories of dutiful deeds, which would have transpired with or without them.
And so, with the black Maltese medal and ribbon draped about his collar, Himmel withdrew from this elaborate and melancholy ceremony as quickly as protocol would allow. Edward and I had to fairly chase after him as he fled the Schloss and quick-marched down along the curving entrance drive, slapping his leather gloves into his palm and smacking his jackboots on the cracked concrete. He reached the staff car, hopped into the compartment without opening the door, turned and raised his arms high.
“Schnell! Back to work!” he yelled, and I thought that his grin was twisted up at its edges by force of will. It was difficult even for a man such as Himmel to accept the clay feet of his mentors.
We drove now to Bad Tölz, that quaint Bavarian town astride the Isar, where the Waffen SS held its headquarters and central barracks. In preparation for some special assignments, the unit had been relocated to this hub of commando activity, awaiting further glories. The trip from Berchtesgaden, while less than 150 kilometers, began after midnight and required considerable maneuvering over pocked peasant roads. I sat next to Edward, with the commander perched in his proper place behind me, and after an hour I began to nod off despite the trundling of the wheels over deep ruts. Himmel swatted me on the back of my cap.
“You shall not sleep, my corporal, while your commander plots!”
I snapped my head up, rubbed my eyes and saluted smartly without turning. I was also grinning, as was Edward, and I knew my master was doing the same. This had become rather a joke between us, for our strange trio had traveled thousands of kilometers together, and our humors had found a way to intersect despite the ranks.
Our quarters in Bad Tölz were not inside the SS buildings nearby the ancient spa, for our unit’s tasks were considered exceptionally secret even within this environment. Unfortunately, this meant that the Commando temporarily resided in a row of giant field tents, and although these were outfitted with iron woodstoves and sufficient bedding upon our canvas cots, the now constant rains chilled us from our boots to our bones. To a man, myself included, we were anxious to receive a new assignment and an improved residential position, even if that meant a shattered bunker at some remote and thunderous front.
As we finally approached the encampment this night, it was clear that something strange was afoot. Rising from the eastern valleys along the curving cattle road, there was a strange glow in the sky above the camp, and as we neared it an enormous bonfire appeared amid the horseshoe arrangement of tents. Torches had been fired up and staked about the perimeter, and all three of us sat up in our seats as we squinted at an honor guard comprised of the men.
They embraced the final roadway entrance to the camp, standing stiffly at attention in two long rows, face-to-face. Their jackboots and black helmets were polished, their buckles sparkling and bayonets held high to form a nuptial canopy. I could see the corpse of a fat wild boar being turned on a spit above a crackling fire, and a large plotting table had been laid out with bowls of fruits, piles of cakes and kegs of beer.
If Hitler himself had casually dismissed the courageous exploits of my master, Himmel’s men had not. The Colonel raised a fist and whispered something, and Edward stopped the car. The commander slowly disembarked, smoothing his tunic and setting his SS officer’s Death’s Head cap as he would hardly do for any officer of the General Staff. He carefully pulled his gloves onto his hands, and I swear I saw him swallow hard as he began to march toward his men, and they began to sing the Horst Wessel song with enormous and fervent power, their voices echoing off the surrounding hills.
Edward and I slid out from the staff car, looked at each other, and fell into pace behind our master, though at a respectful distance. He marched crisply up along the access road, approaching his roaring honor guard, and the sight of these warriors under a black sky tinged with fire would have imbued even Leni Riefenstahl with a chill. Before Himmel reached the mouth of this canopy of bayonets, a ginger-haired lieutenant named Schneller stamped up to his side, saluted smartly and spun to escort the Colonel through the steel cordon. Simultaneously, at the far side of the tunnel of troops, Captain Friedrich mounted an ammunition crate. In one hand he clutched a large SS banner mounted on a makeshift flagpole. With the other, he snapped and unfurled a small scroll.
The men finished their chorus. Himmel stopped before Friedrich, clasped his gloved hands behind his back and looked up at the captain. Friedrich began his recitation, and from my position well back of the ceremony, the scene was reminiscent of a wedding, contrived by Dante.
“A Colonel by rank, a King by courage,
A Shepherd to wolves, an Angel of warriors,
Lead us forth into temptations, of blood and fire,
Have no doubts of our duty, sacrifice or desire,
Be there medals or none, until death’s final knell,
We shall follow you, Commander, to the bowels of Hell.”
I raised an eyebrow. Clearly, the captain was a crude poet, yet the men thrice shouted, “To hell!” in thunderous unison as Friedrich stepped off his perch and presented Himmel with a perfectly polished Prussian cavalry sword. He also handed him the scrolled recitation, signed by each of the unit and now bound by Schneller with a crimson ribbon, and all three men saluted each other and clicked their boot heels.
Himmel turned to his complement of commandos. I could see, even at a distance, that his smile quivered a bit, and his one eye shone as if he had imbibed a liter of alcohol. It seemed that he wished to speak, but he could not manage it, and so instead he thrust the cavalry sword high into the air and the men shouted and cheered and surrounded him, each clasping his hand and gesturing at his Knight’s Cross. Lieutenant Gans, who had a scar across his full lips that foiled every smile, grinned as I’d never seen, and the giant Sergeant Meyer’s soft brown eyes and baby face glowed with admiration. They then raised the Colonel upon their shoulders, like the captain of a champion soccer team, and carried him to the table of food and